Caribbean's Keeper (19 page)

He thought briefly about the old man’s words back in Nicaragua.

Las drogas.
The drugs.

Cole was part of it now. He’d seen the war on drugs from both ends. It was a nasty business, but so too was life. Cole shook the thoughts from his head and stared out at the rolling blue sea in front of him.

g

Hours passed before they rounded the same jetty Cole had driven through nearly two days before. The engines slowed and the boat settled on the calmer waters inside the sea wall. The heat from the sun grew with each passing minute. Without a breeze on the open sea, it was uncomfortably hot once again. The old boat motored up to the small bay from where Cole had left and a panga approached with a few men speaking back and forth with Cole’s two crew. They spoke quickly and excitedly before hopping over to the panga. Cole stuck his head inside the cabin once more and called out his thanks to the unseen Captain. He hopped over to the panga and they motored in to the beach, where David was waiting with another van. Shaking hands with Cole, David hurried them over to the van and Cole climbed in. It was the first time he’d felt air conditioning in two days, and it felt great.

From there, the drive back to Panama City was uneventful. Traffic built along the way as Panamanians went about their midday business, but Cole enjoyed the ride. At one point, he pulled the Glock from the small of his back and dropped the magazine out before racking the slide and clearing the chamber. He did it quickly without looking and put the magazine and gun back in the small duffel bag with the rest of his gear. The grittiness of it still bothered him, as did its general lack of cleanliness.

Cole asked David, “Can you get me some motor oil and some rags so I can clean this damn thing?”

David looked down at the gun then back at Cole. “What’s wrong with it? You didn’t shoot it, did you?”

Cole shook his head, “No, but it’s filthy. I could use a good holster as well.”

David nodded, answering, “Yeah, sure. I’ll get you some stuff tonight.”

Cole knew it was his military upbringing that wouldn’t let the gun’s condition slide. He wondered if that discipline would be with him for the rest of his life. It had been over six months now since he’d left
Delaney
, but ever since he’d first fired a gun, it had been drilled into him to keep his weapon clean. He let it go for the time being as the van meandered its way back into downtown Panama City.

As the van pulled up to the hotel, David patted Cole on the shoulder as they stepped out. “Nice job my friend. Now you enjoy yourself for a few days and get your strength back.”

Cole took the bag and his jacket through the lobby, over to the elevators and up to his room. It had been made up since he’d left, and the air conditioning was turned up too much for Cole’s taste. He set the thermostat back to the upper 60s and grabbed a Miller High Life from the refrigerator. Opening it on the edge of the windowsill, he took a long sip and looked down at the street below, then took the beer with him into the shower. He turned the water on hot and stood there for some time as it washed two days of salt out of his hair and off his skin. Fatigue and hunger hit him as he finished the beer and dried off.

Not long after, Cole heard a knock at the door. A bellman had a small paper bag in his hand and gave it to Cole, saying something about David. Cole nodded and the bellman walked away without another word. Closing the door and walking back to the small couch in his room, Cole set the bag down on the coffee table and opened it up. There was a small unmarked plastic bottle of some type of oil, a rag, some cotton patches, and a cleaning brush. Also in the bag was a generic tan leather holster with belt clips. David had kept his word.

Cole cracked another bottle open and set about cleaning his gun. He opened up the duffel bag and took out the Glock and magazines. He first emptied the magazines, all seven of them, and stripped them apart. Two had rusted springs inside and Cole set them aside as no good. The remaining five he cleaned with the rags and oil, giving the springs and innards a good thorough wipedown. Out of High Life, he switched to Panama, a beer he thought not as good as the Miller, but a close second after a few sips. With a bit of a buzz as he took a long sip of his third beer on an empty stomach, he sorted through the ammo. It was .40 caliber and of mixed headstamps, meaning someone had loaded the magazines from various places. Two of the magazines had hollow-point rounds, and the rest were standard ball ammo. Most of it looked to be in good enough shape and Cole loaded the five good magazines again and set them aside.

He went onto the gun itself. It was a Glock 23, more or less the standard for federal law enforcement agencies in the states. Cole had never shot that particular model, but every Glock was alike. He locked the slide back and checked that it was indeed empty before letting the slide forward and pulling the trigger again. Pulling the slide back again just a bit, he pushed the slide lock down and removed the slide and barrel. They were filthy inside and out. He took another sip from his beer before removing the guide rod and barrel from the slide.

With nothing but time on his hands, Cole slowly and methodically went about his cleaning. He let the oil sit for some time in the barrel and worked the brush back and forth inside and out until he felt the heat generated by friction against the barrel. He repeated the same step several times to remove all the deposits and ran a rag through it each time. On the outside of the barrel and the slide, he oiled and wiped clean every surface. With his fingers and the back end of the cleaning rod, he was able to remove the firing pin assembly and did the same with it. He looked at the various pieces strewn about the table and felt confident the gun was up to standard. He quickly reassembled it, pulling the trigger once the slide was back on. It felt smooth again as he racked the slide several times and walked over to the window. Aiming at the lamp in the corner, he pulled the trigger and saw the front sight twitch just a bit to the left when he squeezed.

Adjusting his grip, he racked the slide and squeezed the trigger again. He took a long breath, holding the gun in his hands, and looked down at the street below. He was in no mood to be social and it was just past 10 p.m. when he loaded a magazine back in the gun, racked it to load one in the chamber and ejected the magazine to top it back off before reinserting. If he had it, he might as well keep it at the ready. Setting it on the nightstand next to his bed, Cole finished off his beer and flipped the lights off. He was exhausted but spent some time contemplating his situation. He was thousands of miles from home, had no trusted friends to fall back on, and now was a certified drug runner. There was no going back from this point. He doubted his choices for some time, but ultimately pushed them aside, convincing himself he had no other options, and soon fell asleep.

g

Cole didn’t hear from David for several days. After he woke each morning, he would sip coffee at a shop across the street and then spend the middle part of the day in the hotel gym or pool. At night he’d have a few drinks with the girls working at Habana’s. He took a liking to one in particular, Maria, who seemed sweet and would chat with him in broken English for long stretches. From Colombia, she was in Panama to make money and one day hoped to bring it back to her family. Maria had propositioned Cole early on for the
full sexo
, but he had dismissed her with a smile and they had developed a mutual understanding of each other since then. She would giggle when he wore his cowboy hat and spoke to her with an exaggerated southern accent. He watched with curiosity and a bit of jealousy when someone picked her up. She was slender and his height, always wearing some tight dress and walking like a woman. It played on his emotions, and he enjoyed their time together.

When David finally did catch up with him days later, he told Cole of another run the next day. Feeling the same butterflies in his stomach, Cole fought them back with his own reassurance that he knew what he was doing this time. His first run gave him experience and confidence, much like his first run in Key West.

The following day, the same pattern played out as the first run. By the time he was underway late in the afternoon, he felt quite good as they motored along leisurely waiting for the sun to go down. And when nighttime took hold, Cole pushed the throttles and spun the panga due north. The first surge of power that lifted the boat was his favorite part of the trip. It turned into an easy run with no aircraft or ships in his way. The weather was the same and he tied up the next morning with a boat full of kilos of cocaine that much closer to their North American destination. He lounged in the same hammock the following day, caught a different fishing boat back the following evening, and once again made it back to the Marriott tired, but feeling a sense of accomplishment.

Two months went by with the same routine. At times, Cole made one run every week, sometimes two. David was apologetic when he went back to back, but Cole didn’t mind at all. He viewed it as a job, not unlike any other and he felt that his hard work would pay off in more ways than one.

David had given Cole a debit card from a local bank along with a PIN to access it. It was an easier way to get paid than cash. David smiled when he handed it over and told Cole he had just under 100,000 dollars on it. Hard work had certainly paid off. With nothing of significance to spend it on, Cole tucked the card away in the safe in his room. If he kept at it, he could probably settle down well before any honest man’s retirement.

He varied his routes a bit, sometimes sticking closer to shore and occasionally venturing eastward, but none of the dozen or so trips were much different than his first. He had no other problems with aircraft. On three trips he’d seen lights on the horizon, but had altered his course each time to keep a healthy distance between them and hopefully stay under their radar, assuming they were even looking for him in the first place. The Caribbean was a big body of water and Cole knew he was a small target well-concealed under a blanket of darkness.

g

During his third month at the job, Cole was surprised one afternoon when the old man woke him up earlier than usual along with Diego and Hector. They all spoke quickly to each other and Cole only caught the word
problema
twice, but it was enough to tell him something wasn’t right. They all gathered their belongings and hurried down to the panga, tied off in the same spot as last time. This time however, the tarp was gone and two large packages were on Cole’s panga with another panga tied off to his. Three guys then spoke with Diego. Cole was picking up more and more Spanish, but they all spoke so quickly that he was unable to follow the conversation.

Diego then relayed the problem to Cole. Hector looked upset, but then again Hector always looked upset, so Cole wasn’t overly alarmed. This second panga was transporting a payment back to Panama when one of its engines had seized up. It was beyond repair and left them with one good engine. They had limped along at just under 15 knots since the night before and came in looking for help. The driver of the other panga handed Cole a satellite phone and said, “David,” just as Cole took it in his hands.

Cole held it up to his ear and said, “Hello.”

On the other end, David laid it out to Cole in a few short sentences. This was a large payment going south that needed to get to Panama quickly. The other crew, almost out of gas and time, had pulled into the same bay where Cole was resting since they knew it was friendly territory and could offer some assistance. David asked Cole if he could turn it around on his panga and get it the rest of the way to Panama.

Cole thought about it for a moment and replied, “It’s a bit early in the day to be making a run.”

David answered, “Yes, this is true, but money isn’t safe just sitting there—and frankly, neither are you, if word gets out.”

Cole processed David’s logic and it made sense. Drug cartels were cutthroat. So too were the petty criminals if they heard about a load of money just sitting on the bank of a quiet river. Cole thought about the old man’s dead son.
Was it an afternoon like this that had gotten out of control?

“All right, David. We’ll get going here soon.”

Cole motioned to his two crew with his fingers and said
vamanos,
with some reluctance this time. The panga needed gas and the old man went back and forth up the trail a few times with cans. Both Cole and his crew carried cans as well from a rusted tank behind the shack. It took them time, but they finally topped off both the plastic tanks on the panga and Cole fired up the engines. The old woman appeared with some tortillas wrapped in plastic and Cole smiled back at her with a heartfelt thanks. She didn’t make eye contact with him and Cole was certain she was happy to see them go. The old man passed them plastic gallon jugs of water, and with that, Cole spun the panga around in the narrow channel and set off.
      

As he motored out, Cole looked down at the two packages on the deck. Each was the size of a large backpack and wrapped in black plastic. Cole knew Diego and Hector well enough to recognize their uneasiness. The sun would not set for another few hours. If the other panga had run all day, they ran a good risk of being detected. And if detected, that meant the cavalry was probably out looking for them.

Cole didn’t wait to cross the reef. As soon as he passed the two spits of coral marking the entrance, Cole pushed the throttles up and they were off. Within minutes, it felt like just another run, headed south this time. Cole set his compass to run just a bit east of south, to parallel the coast all the way to the bay nearly 300 miles away. He pressed his back against the seat behind him and settled in for the long haul. As the hours passed and the sun dropped to the west, Cole fell into his usual rhythm.

When sunset neared, Cole passed the time by taking in the evening colors. But not more than a minute after the sun was gone, Diego pointed to a plane above them to the east. Cole saw it almost immediately against the twilight.
Damn it
. He was closer to land than usual and knew of nowhere in Costa Rica where he could put the panga ashore. Moreover, he knew that Costa Rica would let the plane within its airspace to chase a smuggler. The worst case was that the first crew had been spotted, and the focus of all the ships and aircraft in the Caribbean would be to reacquire and catch Cole with his cargo. That meant there was a good chance ships were nearby. And Cole knew that ships had guns.