‘Maybe I’m both.’ Rickard gave a subtle dip of his head, inviting Guarapo to follow his gaze. The tip of Rickard’s ceramic knife was a mere hair’s breadth from the self-styled soldier’s groin. ‘Do you still want to contest which of us has the biggest
cojones
, Sugar?’
‘
Coño!
’ Guarapo swore. Then his self-satisfied grin wavered and he edged slowly away.
‘I didn’t think so.’ Rickard turned away from him and continued walking. Behind him he could hear the muttered curses of all four men. Then Guarapo swore savagely – something about shitting in Rickard’s milk – and all four of them hurried to surround him again. This time they all moved off, and Guarapo attempted to regain some of his composure in front of his men by edging ahead so it looked like he was leading. Rickard allowed him the illusion.
There had been no real threat of violence during their exchange; Rickard knew that he had been undergoing a test. One that he’d passed. If he had backed down it was probable that Alvaro Silva had ordered Guarapo and his men to gun him down where he stood. Test number two would come soon.
On the approach to the ranch house, some care had been taken to mow the lawn and a path of white gravel had been laid all the way to the front door. It was an attempt at giving the place an illusion of respectability, but it was purely masculine; no hint of a woman’s touch could be discerned in the sterile flower beds or the hangings in the windows. It did not look like Alvaro Silva had lived here very long and Rickard guessed that the warlord had taken ownership following a bribe from an official or having extorted it from its previous owner. Maybe said owner was in one of those flower beds he’d passed.
The door opened and they were met by a tall, muscular man wearing khaki fatigues. His blond hair had been recently cut into a flat-top, as angular as his Teutonic features. Rickard took the man to be of northern European stock even before he invited them inside in a gruff German accent. A mercenary – not unlike Rickard – he’d been drafted as extra muscle for Silva’s campaign to capitalise on the collapse of the AUC. One of many, Rickard assumed, judging by the other pale faces he’d noted out in the woods.
The German led Rickard inside. Of the original group only Guarapo followed. The others went off, pulling out packs of cigarettes and searching for matches.
As he walked, Rickard judged the man walking ahead of him. The German had that straight-backed stance of someone indoctrinated by military training, but he also walked with the free and easy grace of the most dangerous of killers. A man cut from the same ream as Rickard and Joe Hunter. Special Forces undoubtedly; maybe even from GSG 9 –
Grenzschutzgruppe
9 – the famed counter-terrorism unit of the German Federal Police or from KSK –
Kommando Spezialkräfte
– the army equivalent. With men of the German’s ilk already on Silva’s books, he wondered if the warlord was as eager to engage Rickard’s services as he’d made out when they talked on the phone. Maybe he should kill the German now and ensure there was a vacancy open for him.
He let the thought go in the next instant. He was waved into a large room that once had been a family living room. Now it was purely utilitarian, a work space. A desk was situated centrally, a leather office chair behind it. Other chairs, wooden with straight backs, were ranged round the wall. In each and every one of those chairs sat men who regarded Rickard with mean eyes. They all wore clothing reminiscent of paramilitary groups the world over: green or khaki fatigues, berets pushed into their shoulder epaulettes. Sidearms strapped to their hips. The man sitting in the leather chair was distinguished by his maroon belt and the tassels drooping from his shoulders.
Alvaro Silva stood up. He was a man of medium height and build, a slightly protruding belly pushing at the fabric of his dress shirt. He looked mildly amused as he extended his hand across his desk to welcome Rickard to his war counsel. He looked like a genial old man playing at soldiers; however Rickard knew that Silva was anything but.
Silva had a good grasp of the English language and spoke with barely a trace of accent. ‘I am pleased that you could join us, Mr Rickard. I trust that your journey here went without incident?’ His eyes flicked past Rickard and came to rest on Guarapo, who had stationed himself beside the doorway.
‘Your men were pleasant company on the ride over. They made me very welcome.’ Rickard didn’t bother looking at Guarapo, but knew he probably hadn’t earned himself any less enmity from the rough-faced man.
‘Good. Good.’ Silva indicated a chair that one of his men placed alongside the desk. ‘Please be seated, Mr Rickard. We have much to plan and much to do. But first! There
was
something you promised me . . .?’
The second test. Rickard placed down his bag of equipment. He sat, placing his forearms on his thighs and peered across at the men ranged round the room. ‘Yes, Señor Silva, there was. So . . . which of these men is the DAS commander?’
Directly opposite him, a moustachioed man jerked at his words. He looked at Rickard and then swung his disbelieving gaze on to Alvaro Silva. The man’s face began to elongate in realisation of his fate, a mix of hurt and resolution.
From the front of his jacket Rickard pulled out a Glock 17 and fired a single round between the eyes of Jorge Gutierrez.
There was a stunned silence. It was broken moments later by Alvaro Silva’s slow handclap, which was joined by the others in the room, growing in volume and enthusiasm with each beat.
Rickard slipped the Glock 17 back inside his jacket as the man who had acted as intermediary between him and his original employer slumped down in his chair.
‘I think that amply proves whose side I’m on now.’
Silva smiled in his genial old man way. ‘Gutierrez has been playing both sides, going between me and my competitor, Cesar Calle, taking money from the two of us. It’s right that you killed the traitor for me. I’m only sorry that you didn’t make it last a little longer.’
‘It’s like you said earlier, Señor Silva, we have much to plan and much to do. Wasting time on that two-faced dog would be counterproductive.’
Silva indicated Guarapo. ‘Take him out of here before he stinks up the place. Make sure that he disappears, Guarapo. He is DAS after all and will be missed.’
Rickard had loaded his Glock with hollow-points. The bullet had punched through the policeman’s forehead and fragmented inside, pulping his brain, but there was no exit hole. A slow trickle of blood leaked down his face, following the contours of his large nose and pooling along the edge of his moustache. There wasn’t much threat of a mess from the wound, but the man had voided his bowel and a rank stench drifted from him.
Guarapo – obviously deeming the unsavoury task below him – called for help from some of his men outside. Two of those who had sneaked off for a smoke came in looking sheepish under the stares of their leaders, took Gutierrez by his elbows and knees and carted him away. Guarapo gave them explicit orders for his disposal, which earned a lazy smile from Silva.
When they were gone, Guarapo closed the door. He leaned against the door frame, watching Rickard with the same undisguised hatred as earlier. The big German took his post at the other side, but he merely looked aloof at the proceedings. Rickard ignored them both.
He twisted in his seat so that he could stare directly into the eyes of Silva. ‘I can give you Cesar Calle, but my terms remain the same as we discussed.’
Silva waved a hand at the circle of men. ‘They are all in agreement with me. Lead them to Calle and when he is dead you are welcome to take your prize.’
‘Calle is well protected, but I see you have massed your troops. I think they will be enough to keep his army busy while I see to him.’
‘I want him to die in pain, Señor Rickard. I want Calle to know what it is to think he can take what belongs to me.’
‘You will hear the screaming all the way from here.’
Rickard stood up and lifted his bag to his shoulder. To the assembled group of soldiers, he said, ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’
Rickard didn’t care about Cesar Calle. Like Jorge Gutierrez, he was simply a go-between for the one that had hired him to slay Joe Hunter and his team. He would kill Calle, but it wasn’t his priority. He wanted his prize: time with the one who thought that Rickard could be discarded like a soiled rag.
Chapter 32
‘Is there anything else you need?’
I shook my head at Hector Nunez, and touched the SIG where I’d stowed it in a quick-draw holster on my hip. ‘Got everything I need right here.’
He smiled tight-lipped, then nodded me over to the Cherokee. Rink and Harvey were already in the back and Charles in the driver’s post. The engine grumbled and a wisp of smoke rose slowly from the exhaust pipe. I climbed in, giving my friends a wink. We were about to get moving again after hours of inactivity I could have done without.
We had arrived at a staging base the evening before – an abandoned shack on the slope of a wooded hill. There we went through our plans for taking down Jorge Gutierrez and forcing the name of my real enemy from him. Normally I’m not one for intricate plans, but in the circumstances we had to be wary. Gutierrez was moving in dangerous circles. We were in a hurry to get started but there were things to do first. Top of the list came showering the sweat from my body. I’d acclimatised somewhat to the heat of Florida, so the temperature wasn’t an issue. But here in these high jungles the moisture in the air was so thick it was like a damp rag had been wrapped round my limbs. The shower turned out to be a stream trickling down the face of the hillside, but it did the job nicely. Lack of personal hygiene could kill a soldier as quickly as disease or infected wounds. More than once in my career I’d picked out a hidden ambush by the stench wafting off those waiting nervously in hiding.
Food and water were next on the agenda. I accepted both from Hector Nunez, but turned down the offer of a cigarette. It was a long time since I’d taken a hit of nicotine, and things were going to stay that way. The smell of smoke could give me away as easily as body odour. Nunez dragged on his hand-rolled cigarette, though, and I allowed him the comfort. There was a high probability that some – or all – of us would not be coming back from the raid we planned: a condemned man’s last wish shouldn’t be turned down.
But now we were in the jeep there’d be no more.
Charles took us back down the hill and on to a single-lane back road where he swung to the south. Somewhere ahead of us lay the house where Gutierrez was reportedly visiting regularly enough to cause suspicion with the CIA agents. Immediate intel said he wasn’t there now, but he was due a visit. Our plan was to infiltrate the surrounding countryside and wait for him. It sounds simple in the saying but can be quite different in the execution. Going for us was that we had Rink along for the ride. Rink has the ability to penetrate enemy lines with an ease verging on the supernatural.
Lower down the foothills we passed farmers toiling in fields, and we went through a few small villages where the signs were all in Spanish except for the obligatory Coca-Cola advertisements above café doors. I didn’t see a McDonald’s but if we looked hard enough I was pretty sure we’d find one.
Charles had studied maps the previous evening, so was ready for when a track edged up a hillside and disappeared though a canyon. He took the right turn and within minutes we were back in the wilderness. A river wound its way through the valley beyond, twisting and turning with the contours of the land. We abandoned the Cherokee where the trail ended and set off on foot, carrying our H&K MP5A5’s ready. Rink took point and I brought up the rear, with Harvey and the two Jungla troopers spread out between us.
The going was slow, the trees hemming us in, the rumble of the river making it difficult to hear anyone approaching. Everything was green and wet. Beneath the green the glistening darkness could have hidden an entire squadron of soldiers. It was some years since I’d engaged in jungle warfare, but the lessons had stayed with me. The trick is to look beyond the darkness, use your peripheral vision which is better at picking up movement than looking directly. And remember to check above regularly.
We walked for hours.
The terrain was constant, high valleys and trees, the river a grumbling companion. It was easy to be lulled into a sense of security by the tranquillity of the forest or by the river’s hypnotic music. But we were all on high alert. Without exception we were thrumming with anticipation. We were now within hailing distance of our enemies.
Hector Nunez called a halt and we huddled in a ring, each watching over our opposite’s shoulder for anyone moving in on us.