The Geronimo Breach (8 page)

At nine forty-five, Carmen came downstairs and escorted Ernesto up to her third floor office. She explained that the trip across the border that night was a go, and that it was time to settle the tab before they went any further. Ernesto fished out a wad of cash from his backpack and carefully counted out forty-five hundred dollars. Carmen, satisfied after confirming the count, excused herself for a few moments and slipped into the attached sitting room.

Ernesto stuffed the remainder of the money into the hygiene kit at the bottom of his backpack, scuffing his knuckles on the video camera in the process. He extracted the cursed device, having largely forgotten about it other than as the source of his current misery. Although he’d never used one before, he figured it couldn’t be too difficult to operate. He punched at the buttons and fiddled with the controls until the unit beeped. A small screen popped out of the right side and flickered to life. Ernesto vaguely hoped it would be a sex tape, but with the way his luck was running it was more likely footage of the villa owner’s colonoscopy.

Carmen closed the concrete-encased floor safe, securing the handle and spinning the dial. She sealed Al’s payment in a plain white envelope, and kissed it, leaving a scarlet lipstick print on the white paper.

She inspected herself in the full-length mirror attached to the door that connected her office, and nodded, satisfied with her choice of outfits. She leaned a few inches from the glass surface and patted at her carefully applied makeup with a tissue, then brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. There were many more hours to go this evening and she prided herself on being a consummate mistress of ceremonies. It wouldn’t do to appear fatigued – her clientele expected a departure from dull reality when they passed through her doors and she was one of the top representatives of the dream. Even though she wasn’t on the menu, she still needed to look like a tempting dessert. After all, this was show biz, and you always wanted to look your best for the audience.

Carmen heard a muffled knock on the door of the other room, and glanced at her diamond-encrusted Piaget. Ten p.m. on the dot. At least Al was on his game tonight – regardless of her constant doubts about him he’d always been reliable. At least so far. He had his problems, but then again so did everyone. She had a soft spot for the poor sot, so as long as he could keep it together she’d throw him a bone now and then. It was convenient to have one’s own State Department official to run errands, and he was cheap, so the relationship worked for them both.

“Coming,
Amor
. Let yourself in. Don’t be shy, I won’t bite,” she teased as she entered her office.

Al closed the office door behind him and gave Carmen a courtesy hug and peck on the cheek. He plopped down in the chair next to Ernesto and put his satchel on Carmen’s desk, then swiveled and extended his hand to the cook.

“
Hola, amigo
. I’m Alberto, and I’ll be your pilot on this short flight,” he proclaimed in Gringo-accented, but understandable Spanish. A lingering odor of alcohol hung in the air; the residue of Al’s fortification at home before the long night ahead.

“
Con mucho gusto
,” Ernesto replied, barely acknowledging him – he was white as a sheet and sweating in spite of the powerful air conditioning. Fumbling to zip his tightly-clutched bag, he grabbed Al’s outstretched hand.

Al gave Carmen a worried look. What was this guy on? Was he a nutcase? Dangerous? Carmen threw them both a 100,000 kilowatt smile and acted like everything was normal. Maybe Ernesto had the jitters now that it was time to actually go? She’d seen that before – the client got cold feet once he’d had enough time to imagine all the ways things could go horribly wrong in his escape. It was her job to calm nerves and break things down in a comprehensible, organized manner, so the cook not only understood they’d done this many times before, but that he was in safe and competent hands.

“Boys, here’s how this’ll work. Al will drive down to southern Panama tonight. That will take around six hours, assuming numerous police checkpoints and occasional washouts from rain damage. Once you’re at your destination, he’ll escort you to the meeting spot on the outskirts of the jungle, where my guide will be waiting. Ernesto, you’ll go with the guide, who’ll take you across the mountains to the other side of the border. From there, he’ll explain how to get to Medellin, from which point you’re on your own.” Carmen paused. “You’re not to give the guide any money – that’s already taken care of. And you must do everything he says, exactly as he instructs. Your safety and survival depend on it. He’s the only thing between you and death, so pay attention, and don’t question.”

Al had heard all this a dozen times before, with some minor variations. Sometimes it was a trip to a deserted port town for a boat trip down the coast, sometimes to an airstrip near the border for a treetop flight into Colombia, and sometimes a hike, like tonight. It depended on the budget. Al intuited this was the bargain-basement tour, not the high-rollers’ trip.

Ernesto nodded.

Carmen fleshed out the details and answered his questions before handing Al the cash-stuffed envelope, which he pocketed instantly. Glancing at Ernesto, Al opened his bag and withdrew the paperwork he’d created earlier. It was time to fill in the blanks. Carmen excused herself, moving to her other room and leaving the two of them to complete the papers in peace while she used the facilities.

A black Chevy Suburban pulled to the curb thirty feet from Esperanza, and four men exited the vehicle. All were Gringos with telltale military haircuts and athletic postures. They looked as though they were in uniform, in spite of their dark, nondescript civilian clothing. The lead man checked the screen of his iPhone and motioned in the direction of the brothel to the others – that was the place. The last man out of the truck took a bottle from his windbreaker and swigged from it, spitting out the fluid and placing the bottle in the gutter, well behind the vehicle.

The group moved silently up the dark, empty sidewalk, compact submachine-guns at the ready. Nobody spoke. The street was empty but for them, and the surrounding buildings were starkly uninhabited. Parts of the neighborhood had been undergoing renovation by entrepreneurial investors intent on retransforming the old colonial buildings into their bygone glory or converting them into stylish condos. But this far out on the fringe the homes remained deserted, other than occasional construction crews during the day. That would inevitably change, but tonight, Carmen’s place projected the only sign of life on the street – now slick from a late-Spring cloudburst a few minutes earlier.

Checking the illuminated screen one last time, the leader made an abrupt gesture with his hand and two of the men positioned themselves out of sight on either side of Esperanza’s entrance. One of the men lifted the battered iron ring attached to the center of the ancient wooden door and rapped. After a few moments a small wooden hatch opened at eye level and a man’s face filled the space. Music drifted from behind him, along with occasional laughter and celebratory shouts.

“
Que Ondas?”
asked the doorman.

“Dude, I told you this was the place,” the leader blurted to his companion in English, before switching to broken Spanish and addressing the face in the door. “Uh, a friend at our hotel said this was a good place to have some adult fun?” he slurred. The sour stink of hard liquor fumed on his breath.

“What hotel?” the doorman asked, switching to English.

“Hey, he speaks English!” the leader said. “The Intercontinental Hotel,
amigo
.”

Ever suspicious, the doorman scrutinized them, then the little hatch closed and the scarred wooden slab swung open.

The leader stepped into the doorway and rabbit punched the doorman in the throat. He hit the ground like a wet sack of cement, emitting a low groan from his crushed larynx. Brandishing their guns, the group moved stealthily through the empty foyer and around the corner into the bar. Don Tomas’ two security men, who were dutifully on guard in the lounge, registered the motion at the entryway, and seeing the Gringos’ weapons, immediately pulled their Glocks and rapid-fired at the gunmen. The hail of rounds caught the intruders off-guard. One of the Gringos died instantly as a slug obliterated his jaw. A second collapsed screaming as several bullets shattered his legs. The Colombians tipped over their marble tables for cover and continued shooting into the foyer.

The pandemonium of women’s panicked shrieks mingled with the concussive detonations of close-quarter gunfire as the remaining occupants scrambled for safety while hell was breaking loose. Machine-gun rounds peppered the wall behind the Colombians as they continued to blast away at the figures in the entryway.

On the second floor, Don Tomas pulled his pants on and drew his Glock from his jacket, ignoring the cringing girl on the bed clutching the covers to her chest. He pressed his ear to the door, and after confirming the hall was empty, padded silently on bare feet to the stairway. He peered downstairs. Don Tomas had survived many ambushes primarily due to his belief that when bullets started flying, the safe tactic was to shoot anything that moved and figure out who was who later. He had no idea why his Panamanian partners would want to eliminate him, but ruthless cunning had kept him alive when most of his peers were history, and this was just the latest betrayal in his brutal life.

Given the number of times rivals had tried to kill him, he always anticipated the worst – rule number one was to never allow yourself to be surprised. Whoever was coming for him had just made the worst mistake of their lives. Don Tomas didn’t back away from fights. On the contrary, if you decided to take him on, you were buying a one way ticket to hell.

He chambered a round and cautiously descended the stairs, a bead of sweat trickling down his bare chest, gun held with both hands in a military grip.

~

Carmen froze as she heard the unmistakable sound of gunshots from the ground floor. There had never been any trouble in her place but now it sounded like World War Three had kicked off downstairs. She ran to her monitor and flicked the mouse. A menu popped up with thumbnails numbered 1 through 25. She clicked on 2 and watched in numb horror as the close circuit cameras captured her lovingly restored cocktail lounge transformed into a battle zone.

“They’re shooting the place apart!” she gasped. “It’s those fucking dope dealers…”

Al stared at the screen in disbelief. Carnage reigned. Bodies littered what he could see of the area.

“Jesus, Carmen...” was all he could manage.

She clicked on number 25. The alley behind the building appeared on the screen. Devoid of activity.

“Al, quick, take Ernesto and go down the back way. End of the hall, then down the fire escape,” she ordered. Without waiting for a response, Carmen ran into the attached room and rooted around in a closet. She emerged clutching a 12-gauge pump shotgun with a pistol grip. “Get going. Now, Al! The deal hasn’t changed any. I can handle this.”

“Are you sure, Carmen? It looks pretty messed up...” Al grabbed his bag and hastily retrieved the papers from the desk.

More shots exploded from below. Don Tomas had joined the fray with his associates.

“Just go, Al. I’ll be fine.” Carmen threw open her office door, peeked around the door jamb in both directions to verify no intruders were on their floor, and ran towards the stairs.

Al watched her head disappear down the main stairway before calling to Ernesto, “
Vamanos
. Now.” He hurried to the window at the rear of the corridor and turned, looking for the cook. Ernesto popped out of the doorway a few seconds later and quickly joined Al, who was struggling to get the window open. Years of accumulated paint had sealed it shut. Together, they heaved on the window, forcing from it a creaking protestation until it opened with a sharp snap. Al climbed out onto the rickety metal platform and lumbered down the ladder to the second floor, where he kicked the ladder leading to the ground free. It slid downwards with a raucous screech. He jumped onto the pavement below and looked up. Ernesto was right behind him. The building was unusually quiet by now, the shooting apparently over.

They circled around to the main street near Esperanza’s front entrance, stopping close to the parked Suburban. Ernesto spotted the driver staring at them and nudged Al, who was squinting through the black of night at the intersection sign in the distance in order to get his bearings.

Al couldn’t make out the sign but recognized the blue-green building that stood at the mouth of the alley where he’d parked his car. He whispered to Ernesto while he furtively scanned the street to ensure no homicidal drug dealers were about start shooting it out again. When he was sure it was safe, he beckoned Ernesto to follow him to his waiting vehicle.

The driver of the Suburban watched as they rounded the corner, and was preparing to go after them when the passenger window exploded in a spray of glass. The door flew open and the team leader threw himself in headfirst, holding his bleeding abdomen to stem the flow of blood.

“Go, go, go! Get out of here. Now,” he screamed.

Panicked, the driver slammed the truck into gear and floored it, fishtailing as the rear window shattered from a burst of gunfire. More slugs thumped against the rear of the vehicle as they sped down the street.

“What the...” the driver yelled.

“Just keep moving. Get us back to base,” the leader moaned. He slumped into the seat, which was already soaked through with blood.

The driver veered around the same corner the pair of men had run down and saw nothing other than deserted buildings and a pair of street dogs nosing through a pile of trash.

He saw tail lights turn onto another street several blocks up, and then disappear.

The driver flipped open his cell phone and hit a speed dial number.