Redemption (18 page)

“They went after the bastards!” shouted Gonzo.

“Crazy shitfucking lunatics,” he hurled. “Gonzo! Mike! Find them and try to make sure they live. As for us, we’re gone.”

Gonzo and Mike followed Namara and Guerra through the door. A screech of tires heralded the ambassador’s fleeing vehicle.

The moment Guerra and Namara had entered through the door leading them to the roof of the four-story apartment, the wooden door flew into splinters under a rain of bullets. Namara and Guerra dodged the projectiles and flattened themselves on their stomachs, shooting at the traffickers. They had mounted the stairs with no resistance, but the two traffickers were waiting on the roof, sheltered by a huge metal vent. They were open targets on the roof. They tried the impossible to stay alive by pure virtue of their training. They were in the worst possible position and only their training gave them the slightest chance of survival.

“Advance and don’t let up!” Guerra ordered.

They stood and began to march at a steady pace toward the traffickers. They wanted to get as close as possible to be able to hit them. Namara fired on them with automatic fire that forced them to stay barricaded. Meanwhile, Guerra followed without firing. They heard bullets whistling past them, despite their efforts. They were dipped in sweat, droplets collecting on their sunglasses. A huge orange sun burned in the sky with a heat that beat on their noses. Namara and Guerra marched to find wiping an intense enemy fire. The little parabolic antennas hooked to the eaves of the roof shattered into a thousand pieces under the impact. The antenna shards flew in the air to land in the streets, four stories down. Namara was half-out of ammo.

“Reload!” he shouted.

Guerra immediately took over while Namara reloaded. They advanced in a regulated step and coordinated without ever stopping, spotting more and more traffickers.

“I’m going to try to circle them when I’m out. You, continue to fire on them and advance, but ease up so you can last longer. I’m going to get these bastards,” he shouted, turning his fire toward the barricade-vent.

“Understood!”

Guerra got to the end of his load.

“Now!”  He ran at full speed to the right of the vent to gain the most ground.

Namara continued to advance alone, firing sole bullets, forcing them to stay behind the barricade watching in his direction, and not at Guerra, who was reloading his MP5 on the run. When he was sufficiently cleared, he swept a semi-circle around the roof when he had a good sight of the two traffickers. They were still firing on Namara, ignoring Guerra to their left who aimed his firearm about twenty-five metres away. Guerra switched to automatic mode and advanced quickly and decidedly to get the most possible targets. At about ten metres, he hit the traffickers with all his weapon’s fury. They spasmed like marionettes under the impact. They fell to the ground, dead.

“Clear!”

“Got it,” cried Namara, who ran up to join him.

“There, you pieces of shit,” he shouted, satisfied with himself.

Namara was dripping in sweat and felt over himself, incredulous that he hadn’t been hit.

“Whew! That’s what I call adrenaline,” said Guerra, pumped from the intensity.

“We were shaken that time,” said Namara, panting.

“Absolutely!”

Namara began to laugh, shaking his head at seeing Guerra’s enthusiasm like a child in an amusement park.

“That’s fucked up, but we got them good!”

“And how!” Guerra retorted. “But let's roll now before we have more company. Namara, snap a few pictures of those two shitpile traffickers for Intelligence. We’ll ID them later. Let’s make the government’s day.”

Namara pulled out his camera and took a few pictures of what remained of the traffickers that had tried to kill them earlier. Gonzo and Mike arrived at that moment with their guns at their shoulders and saw the bodies on the ground.

“Ooh la la, great work, lads,” said Mike with a grin.

“Come on, let’s skedaddle before the cops get here,” said Namara.

They hid their MP5’s under their jackets and descended down another staircase than the one by which they’d arrived. They slipped quietly into the streets and melted into the crowd, disappearing into the streets of Bogotá.

CHAPTER 21

The soldiers of the antidrug unit were assembled in the hall at the camp. All were seated, waiting for Igor to speak. The latter broke the silence to announce what most were afraid of.

“Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the American and British governments have decided to disband this unit. Consequently, your assignations are finished as of now. You will be returned to your respective units and regiments. I know that for many, this will be a shock. I speak for both myself and your governments in thanking you deeply for the years of excellent work here. All have contributed to this unit’s exceptionality and I know, from personal experience, that you’ve accomplished in exploits that few would be capable of accomplishing. You are the beings that have had a mandate among the most difficult and complex. Know that because of your work, you have seriously harmed the cartels and indirectly saved thousands of innocent lives. Be proud of who you are, gentlemen. It was an honour and a privilege to have you under my tutelage!”

“If they’re so crazy about our work, why are we being dismantled?” called a soldier from the crowd.

“Ok, I will be honest with you guys, but it's off the record... the priorities are different at the moment and the war on drugs isn’t at the top, so they don't give a fuck about us, alright!? We were a tool to be used and they used us, period. Now, we are good for garbage, that's it! Moreover, because of what we do here, we can be embarrassing in the long run so we have to disappear. We are used to that anyway, aren't we !? The official word is that they’re going to analyse the fallout in the months to come and see how it went, but they decide that to maintain our unit sucks up to many resources. It is regrettable, and I am sorry for it, but we all know it's over.”

Everyone stayed silent in the hall, resigned. They knew that the unit had always been temporary and that, sooner or later, it was doomed to be dismantled. The day had come. Most knew that upon leaving, things would never be the same, and they wouldn’t see most of their colleagues again. They had created a world and a life that would now end.

“What are you going to do?” Namara whispered to Guerra.

“Dunno. No doubt they’ll reassign me to Hereford. They’ll put me in a team and send me on a mission, but let's be honest... I am fed up to be a tool so I dunno. And what about you?”

“No idea. Hey, why don’t you come with me!? We could start business together.”

Guerra smiled in resignation.

“I’m a soldier, mate. What would we do!? Owning a burger stand together!? And what kind of life we would have with it... working nine to five!? Having a house with a wife, kids and a dog!? Doing some gardening in our free time!?  Fuck that, mate! I am a nomad ! I'll become nuts ! You too by the way !”

Namara fell silent.

“Danny, get over here,” shouted Igor from the front of the room.

He rose from his chair to greet him.

“Quite a blow, eh?” he asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You could say that.”

“Don’t worry, you’re getting out quickly. I have another plan for you,” said Igor pointedly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, how would you feel about returning to New York? Interested?”

“It all depends... what are we talking about?.”

“Cleaning business. I have plenty of contracts and you’ll be better paid there than here.”

“Who’ll I be working for?”

“You would be a freelancer... that is to say... a subcontractor for the CIA with a non official cover. In fact, there will not be much of a difference, because the unit was already under their jurisdiction. You will do the same sort of work in New York City. However, you’ll have to change a few of your methods to be more discreet, if you know what I mean. Shall I say that the cleaning needs to be done as subtly as possible, because things, as you know, are different in North America. You’ll be a shadow and obviously, if you get caught, the agency would deny any association, and you’d be alone.”

“I’m starting to get used to that anyway.”

“I know. I will be your contact. You won’t have obligation to me. I would offer you the contracts and if you’re interested, you’ll do them. You succeed, you get paid. It’s that simple.”

“And for Guerra? ”

“Danny… James is British SAS. They would never let me take one of their best soldiers to work for the CIA.

“Who said that it would be an assignment!? What if he doesn't want to go back to Hereford?”

Igor sighed as though a huge weight had settled on his shoulders.

“In that case, I suppose I could do something… but it won’t be easy, and—”

“There is no pleasure in easiness, right!?”

“All right! Agreed! I’ll do something about it! Anything else, godammit!?”

“No! Thank you.”

“So, may we call it a mission accomplished?” he asked with a smile.

“It looks like that!”

The two men shook hands with mutual respect to conclude an agreement that was made years ago and that had changed Namara’s life forever. He returned to where James sat, lost in thought.

“Pack your bags, buddy, we’re going to New York!”

PART III--CHAPTER 22

Nobody can hurt me without my permission.
— Mohandas Gandhi

Year 2012, San Diego, California.

Kamilia walked with a regular step in the fine white sand of Pacific Beach where she had just finished teaching her outdoor evening aerobics class. She had let herself be distracted by a few students who had fired a few questions concerning their own training. The moment she'd left, it was completely dark. The weather was clear and hot. A refreshing ocean breeze washed over the shore and ruffled the palm trees, sending a relaxing ambiance over the deserted beach. The noise of the waves prevented her from noticing the two black silhouettes following her down the beach several minutes hence. When she finally sensed them behind her it was too late. They hit her in the back of the head and she pitched forward, senseless, onto the sand. Confused but conscious, she looked up at the two men, who sniggered with anticipation.

“Hey pretty. Aren't you scared to walk around at night all alone?” said one of them, undoing his pants.

“Don't worry, we're going to have a bit of fun with you and if you're nice, we won't even kill you,” said the other, sliding something out of his pocket.

Kamilia knew that he was flashing a knife when she saw the reflection of the blade shine intermittently through the darkness. She quietly felt for her own training knife that was always concealed on her. She hid the blade along her thigh and began to steady herself on the ground to get herself out of there. With a blast, she sprang up from a kneeling position to launch herself at the guy with the knife. Her blade lodged itself into his femoral artery on his left thigh, loosing a spurt of blood.

She withdrew the knife with a jerk, then drew it back and lunged for the brachial artery of his left arm to the kill him in going for the right side of his neck, slicing the carotid. The goon collapsed to the ground, bleeding out. Her fatal technique took a few seconds to execute in the dark. Her training let her spot the exact placement of important blood vessels on her attacker and this, even in darkness. She immediately turned on the one remaining rapist and jumped up to deal him a blow to the neck at full force that threw him flat on his back. Once he'd fallen on the ground, she left him no time to try anything. She grabbed his head in her hands and jerked it around, breaking the neck, killing him instantly. She fell to her knees, regathered her thoughts, still disoriented from that hit to her head.

“Cowards!” she screamed, enraged, sliding her knife back into her pocket and her athletic bag over her shoulder.

Unfortunately for the rapists, the tiny beauty they'd watched as she taught her class wasn't only a keen instructor and an easy prey as they'd thought. Kamilia Stone was an expert of the Thai boxing discipline known as Muay Thai, which used principally the knees and elbows as striking points. Beyond her exemplary physical form due to her aerobics training, she specialized in Filipino knife combat. She had mastered these two styles and too bad for her attackers, they had tested her at their own expense that night. All like her attackers had remarked, she left nobody who saw her indifferent. Kamilia was a woman of small size and great beauty. Her long brown hair descended to the small of her back. Her skin rocked a California tan, popping out her brown eyes. Her athletic ability, her amble bosom, her sensual curves, her soft lips and her unforgettable face turned heads of any man and riled jealousy in any woman that saw her. She had tattooed her two arms. They were her work of art, composed of brilliant colours. Several motifs comprised the mural: there were inscriptions and flowers across a Japanese-styled wave. On the other, two little skull-and-crossbones surrounded by colour and design. By far, her arms resembled a work of abstract art, but the more one examined, the more one found the distinct motifs entangled. The goal of the tattoos wasn't to attract attention, but to materialize her life's tragedies and stories. Each design represented an ordeal in her life, as though written in a diary, except words were pictures and the page was her body.

In reality, tattoos let her purge her suffering, in a way. She didn't think a lot about the attention she got on the street. She was too concerned with managing her restaurant-bar in the Gaslamp of San Diego, training in martial arts and teaching aerobics. She owned a condo west of downtown with an incredible ocean view. She kept herself busy, no doubt, no keep from cracking. It was this way in which she succeeded in overcoming her inner demons that had thrived since her childhood and still today on the eve of her thirties. Born in San Diego, she had grown up in the neighborhood of Point Loma. She was an only child to a violent alcoholic of a father who beat her mother when he drank. So many times, she'd seen him beat her in front of her eyes and the police called in to stop him. The constant violence became normal for the kid when poverty added itself to her life.