Finest Hour (33 page)

“This wasn’t about coffee at all,” muttered Samantha.

Mateo looked back at her but said nothing.

The guard showed the package to Mr. Vega.

“Take it to the plane and make sure it’s still good,” he directed.

“Yes, sir.”

The guard turned and hurried off toward the Piper.

“Go on,” Mateo said, motioning to Samantha. “Get the next one.”

“But there are like fifty of those sacks. I can’t carry them all.”

Mateo’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t say things like that. You don’t want to make Mr. Vega angry. Now, go get the bags. When you get too tired, I’ll let you have a short rest.”

Staring into Mateo’s eyes, she realized that the situation was as beyond his control as it was hers. He was a man used to doing what he was told, no matter how awful the task.

“All right,” she said, nodding. “I’ll try.”

Tanner’s plan changed the moment he saw one of the guards running toward the Piper. The man’s face was pocked with acne scars, and he reminded him of Danny Trejo’s incarnation of Machete. He carried a small package in both hands, which Tanner assumed was some kind of illicit drug.

Even during his time of slumming it with the hippies, Tanner had managed to avoid the seductive call of drugs. He held no malice for the people who used drugs, as he considered them a crutch for those too weak to face a reality that could at times be pretty shitty. But this empathy in no way extended to the brutal pushers and drug lords who caused mothers all over the world to bury their children.

Machete’s path would take him directly in front of the fuel truck, affording Tanner an opportunity to intercept him. Taking the man out shouldn’t be too difficult, but doing so quietly was going to require a bit of luck.

Once again, Tanner laid his shotgun aside. If he didn’t use it soon, the damn thing was going to rust. He quickly surveyed the fuel truck to see if there was anything on board that might be used as a weapon. The only thing he found was a three-foot metal rod with two prongs on the end—obviously some sort of tool to open panels or turn valves. The prongs were dull, certainly not suited to poking someone, but the rod was heavy enough to be used as a cudgel.

He hefted the metal tool and squatted down at the corner of the truck. He could hear the steady pat of feet coming toward him. As they grew louder, he readied himself, playing out the swing like a batter awaiting a fastball. As soon as the man’s dark clothes came into view, Tanner stepped out and swung the rod with both hands.

The blow caught Machete in the mouth, shattering teeth and tearing deep wounds along both cheeks. As he stumbled back, Tanner grabbed his shirt and pulled him behind the truck. Machete’s hands came up defensively, but Tanner kept the rod pressed tightly against the back of his throat. Pinned against the driver-side door, the man gagged and flailed, dropping the block of drugs at their feet.

Tanner drove a knee up into his groin. Machete grunted, but the rod kept him from doubling over. A second knee sent his eyes rolling back into his head. He tried to collapse, but Tanner held him firmly in place, driving the knee up again. There was very little reaction to the third blow, a sure sign that the man was unconscious.

He lowered him to the ground, never once removing the rod from Machete’s mouth. The metal had ripped the sides of his cheeks all the way back to his molars, and blood now dribbled down his face and neck. Bloody bubbles pulsed from Machete’s nose, confirming what Tanner already suspected.

He wasn’t dead.

Not yet, anyway. While every life had value, he didn’t see it as an acceptable risk to leave an enemy still breathing.

“Better luck next time around,” he said, delivering a sharp karate chop to the man’s trachea. Machete jerked once, and that was it. No fanfare. No singing of angels. Just a slight gasp and then… nothing.

Tanner donned the guard’s vest and hat. The vest was a little tight and the hat a little loose, a fact that he was confident Samantha would not have let pass without some clever barb. He also picked up the Spectre submachine gun and the fallen package of black tar heroin. While he had no use for the drugs, it too was a part of the costume.

Once he was presentable, Tanner stepped out from behind the truck and raced for the Piper, mimicking Machete’s run and pace as best he could. He figured that the man had been out of sight for twenty seconds, long enough for someone to notice, but only if they were really paying attention.

To his relief, no one shouted or sprayed him with machine gun fire. The hard part was over. All he had to do now was figure out how to trade an airplane for a little girl.

As Samantha hauled the second bag up to the open cargo door, her shirt was damp with sweat.

“This would be a lot easier if I cut the bags open and brought you those little packages. It’s not like they’re a secret anymore.”

“What do you think, Mr. Vega?” he said, lowering the sack down to the remaining guard. “Should we have the girl cut out the packages? It might go a little quicker.”

He nodded. “Fine. But tell her if she doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to cut off her pretty little ears.”

“Yes, sir.” Mateo turned to Samantha. “You need to hurry.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said, turning around. “Mr. Vega doesn’t like to wait.”

Mateo grabbed her arm. “Are you stupid or something? Don’t you see how much danger you’re in?”

Samantha’s hand tightened on the knife in her pocket. She paused, looking out across the tarmac as a figure emerged from behind a fuel truck and ran toward the Piper. There was no mistaking his size or gait. Tanner Raines had entered the picture.

Mateo saw her staring out the door and turned to look.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, tugging her arm free. “And, yes, I understand the danger I’m in.” She squatted down and hurried back into the hold. When she was out of earshot, she whispered, “The question is, do you?”

When Tanner arrived at the Piper, he hurried up the steps and entered the cabin. Inside were three rows of leather bucket seats. The front row was for the pilot and co-pilot, and the other two rows faced one another in the fuselage. At the rear of the plane was a small cargo area, empty except for a box of food and a case of Bohemia Obscura beer. A tray had been pulled out between the passenger rows, and several glass ampules and wooden stir sticks sat upright in an acrylic stand.

Tanner picked up one of the ampules. The lower portion was filled with a clear liquid, and the top had a white plastic cap. He assumed that a small amount of heroin was stirred into the liquid, and then the ampule in the cap was broken to cause a chemical reaction. If it was the good stuff, it probably turned one color, and if not, it turned another. Drug lords were notoriously careful about ensuring the quality of their product.

He set the ampule and block of heroin on the tray and squeezed his way up into the cockpit. Despite his size, the seats were reasonably accommodating. He examined the controls, looking for an ignition key. There wasn’t one. There were plenty of buttons, gauges, and fancy computer screens, but nothing that looked like it could be easily removed.

Disabling the plane permanently would have been easy enough—a few bullets to the windshield or controls would do the trick. But if he did that, he’d have nothing to bargain with. His plan had hit its first snag.

Tanner stood up and made his way back to the passenger area, looking for anything that might prove vital to the Mexicans. The heroin was an obvious choice, but he doubted that a single block would be much of a bargaining chip. He looked out through one of the small windows and saw that the man in the pink shirt and his one remaining guard were now staring in his direction. Clearly, they were wondering what was taking so long.

It gave him an idea. Maybe good old-fashioned violence wasn’t off the table after all.

He stepped out onto the stairs and waved for the men to come to him. Before they could get a good look at him, he ducked back inside, settling into one of the plush leather seats to watch them. It took two full minutes for the man in the pink shirt to finally become frustrated enough that he sent his one remaining guard to check on what was causing the delay.

Tanner watched the man run toward the Piper, wondering what would be the best way to fight him. He had never fought inside an airplane but figured it lent itself to choking, biting, and maybe a little eye gouging thrown in for good measure.

He grinned. This would be his kind of fight.

As the guard approached, Tanner hopped up onto the seat and squatted, ready to explode into action as soon as he entered.

“
Que demonios estas haciendo
?” the guard said as he stomped his way up the stairs.

Tanner wasn’t sure of the exact translation but figured the gist of it was “What the hell is going on?”

His answer was quick in coming. As soon as the man cleared the doorway, he dove at him, sending both men bouncing off the seats and tumbling awkwardly to the floor. Unfortunately, Tanner landed on his back with the big Mexican on top of him—hardly the preferred position for any fight.

The guard was as merciless as the famous Lucha libre wrestler Gory Guerrero, raining down an endless barrage of fists. Many of them struck the floor and bulkhead, but a few landed solidly enough, leaving him with a swollen lip and fresh bruising to one eye.

He reached up and grabbed the guard around the neck, hoping to quell the onslaught. It helped, but only until Gory head-butted him. Skulls clacked, leaving both men dazed. Tanner swung a leg up and hooked it around Gory’s head, tipping him back and then crossing his other leg behind the first to set a triangle choke.

The big man continued to punch, and when that failed to break the lock, he used both hands to try to pry off the choke. Rather than fight back, Tanner tucked his chin and braced the choke, cranking the man’s ankle back to lock the other leg in place.

Gory’s face turned a hot shade of red as the choke cut off the flow of blood to his brain. He opened his mouth, twisted his head slightly, and bit Tanner’s thigh. It felt like part of his flesh was being pinched off, but Tanner clenched his teeth and refused to release the hold. Blood trickled down the inside of his leg as teeth broke flesh, but with every passing second, Gory’s bite grew less powerful.

It took a long agonizing minute before the man grew limp, his mouth dangling open with bloody saliva drooling out. Tanner relaxed his grip and jabbed a thumb into the man’s eye.

He didn’t move.

Confident that Gory wasn’t faking it, Tanner pushed him off and crawled onto the nearest seat, nursing his leg. While the bite wasn’t nearly as deep as the dog bites he had suffered weeks earlier, it seemed to hurt worse.

He leaned around and grabbed a bottle of Bohemia Obscura beer from the back of the plane. It was warm, but he touched it to his forehead for a moment anyway—a post-fight therapeutic gesture that had stood the test of time. He popped the cap and took a long swig. The dark brown liquid was sweet and smelled like malt, perfect for washing down a couple of enchiladas.

He poured some of the beer over the bite on his leg, hoping that it might kill the germs. It stung, and Tanner couldn’t help but bounce his leg up and down a few times.