Running from the Devil (27 page)

“Most of it’s ours. We sell it to Colombia and they steal it.”

“In Arkansas we call that free enterprise.”

They reached the pickup location just as the first helicopter came into view. It touched down and took on the injured soldiers. The old man and several women followed. The pilot waved several more on. The second copter landed and loaded more passengers. This pilot took on extras as well.

Then the third touched down. It was the pilot from Arkansas.

“Come on in! We’re short on birds, so I’m gonna fly heavy. You got six enemy copters coming your way, each packed to the brim with guerrillas, drug guys, and I don’t know who all.”

“How far?”

“Thirty minutes away, no more.” The pilot watched as the passengers packed into the helicopter. “Where the hell you get all these people?”

“The guerrillas walked them right to us,” Miguel said.

“I can’t fit you all.”

“Take the civilians. I’ll take care of myself.”

“That’s a death wish.”

“You got any better ideas?” Miguel said.

The pilot shook his head. “No, but I do hate to leave you here, and that’s for sure.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Miguel said, with more confidence then he felt. The copter soon was filled to the brim and beyond. Miguel watched as Boris got his turn to load. Kohl waved him into the copter.

The dog refused to move. He swung his head back and looked at Miguel.

“Come on, Boris, up,” Kohl said.

Boris sat down.

Kohl put his hands in the air.

Miguel walked over and waved at Boris. “Come on, get in the copter, Boris.” He patted the copter’s doorway. “Up.”

Boris whined.

“He doesn’t want to go either, sir,” Kohl said.

“I can see that. Boris. Up. Now,” Miguel said.

Boris lay down.

“Now, that’s a well-trained dog,” the pilot yelled over the rotor noise.

Miguel gave up. “Put the other shepherd in the copter.” Miguel stepped away to allow Natasha to load. Boris followed Miguel, his tail wagging behind him like a flag.

Miguel, Kohl, and Sumner were left.

“Room for one more.” The pilot yelled over the noise of his rotors.

The men all looked at one another.

“You’re the civilian, Sumner. Get on,” Miguel said.

Sumner shook his head. “I don’t leave without Caldridge. I’m going back in to find her.”

Miguel eyed Sumner. He had no real authority over the man, and he knew it. He sighed and turned to Kohl.

“I ain’t leaving without her, either,” Kohl said.

“I’m giving you a direct order, Private,” Miguel said.

“Sir, I gotta stay!”

Miguel pointed to the open field. Kohl turned to look, and Miguel punched him in the head. Kohl dropped like a stone. Sumner looked as surprised as hell.

“Put him in,” Miguel said.

Sumner shook with laughter as he grabbed the unconscious Kohl under the arms. Miguel took the legs, and they heaved him into the copter.

“When we get there you want him sent to the brig for insubordination?” the pilot asked.

Miguel shook his head. “That was a heat seizure you saw. I never touched him and there was no insubordination.”

The pilot grinned. “Got it.” He reached back into the copter and grabbed a small pack. “Woman named Stromeyer from Darkview said to tell you that Banner is out of communication. And she sent you this.” He threw field rations to Miguel, and more to Sumner. “And this is from me.” The pilot handed him a pocket cigar humidor. “They ain’t Cuban, but they’re great. There’s one in there for him, too.”

Miguel nodded to the pilot. “Thanks.”

The pilot got a grim look on his face. He saluted both men before returning to the controls. The helicopter rose slowly into the air and flew away.

46

BANNER SAT IN A GRIMY ROADSIDE BAR IN A PARAMILITARY-CONTROLLED town near the border of Venezuela. He drank sips of coffee so thick that the grounds formed a silt pile at the bottom. They slid into his mouth. He swallowed without blinking and scratched absentmindedly at his day’s growth of beard.

He’d taken steps to alter his looks. His hair was dyed black and he wore dark contact lenses to dim his blue eyes. The measures were only half successful. Two women who loitered at the bar had already marked him as a wealthy outsider. They’d approached him, twining their arms around his neck, telling him how handsome he was, and whispering the things they would do to him. For a price, of course. Their bodies were warm and full and he’d enjoyed the brief contact. He’d thanked them for the offer, bought them both coffees, and sent them on their way.

Ten minutes later, his good friend Raul Perez sauntered into the bar. Perez nodded at the bartender, ordered an espresso, and took a seat at the bar stool next to Banner.

“Hello, amigo, you don’t like our girls?” Perez said.

Banner shrugged. “I like them just fine, but my interest is elsewhere.”

Perez gave him a shrewd look. “And how is Major Stromeyer?”

Banner eyed Perez over the rim of his coffee cup. “Still my employee.”

Perez chuckled. “And therefore untouchable. You know, for a covert operator, you sure do follow the rules.”

Banner smiled. “I’m a business owner now. I haven’t a choice. And you? How is your business? I brought you some medicine for the clinic.”

Perez rubbed his hands together. “IV bags? Needles?”

“And six boxes of vaccines.”

Perez slapped him on the back. “Excellent.” The bartender pushed an espresso cup in Perez’s direction. “Hey, Juan,” Perez said, “bring your little girl to the clinic tomorrow. Vaccines for everyone compliments of my friend here.”

Juan the bartender smiled but said nothing.

Perez downed the coffee in one gulp. “Come on, Banner. I have someone I think you should meet.”

Banner shoved some money under his saucer and stepped away from the bar. Juan reached over, picked up the coffee cup, and pushed the money back at him.

“Thank you for the vaccines, señor.”

Banner took the money and stuffed it in the tip jar. “For the niños.”

Juan nodded his thanks.

Perez drove his battered jeep down the dirt road to the outskirts of town. Educated at a medical school in Grenada before President Reagan decided to “free” it, he’d met Banner during the evacuation. Perez had practiced in hospitals in Miami before returning to this border town. He’d started his clinic to help the local people. Ten years ago, when a paramilitary group threatened to bomb the clinic unless he agreed to pay protection, he’d called Banner in a panic. Banner managed to convince the guerrillas that harassing the only doctor in town was a very bad idea. The convincing took a while. Every day for three straight weeks, Perez’s clinic treated the broken arms and noses of a stream of guerrillas. The same ones who had demanded protection from him were now forced to accept his care. He’d done it quietly and without question. At the end, the guerrillas not only viewed Perez as an untouchable entity but as a friend. Now they routinely brought their own families to him to treat.

The clinic consisted of a series of connected cinder-block buildings in an L shape. Paint peeled from the walls, and the last building’s second floor remained unfinished. Long pieces of rusted rebar jutted out from the roof.

“Still haven’t completed that wing?” Banner said.

Perez sighed. “Every time I try, something arises that requires the funds go elsewhere. Like the person I’m taking you to meet.”

Banner stepped into the cool hallway of the inpatient wing. It smelled like astringent antiseptic and ammonia. A ceiling fan with one broken blade turned slowly overhead. The piece creaked as it completed each turn. Perez waved Banner into a room on the right.

A large woman with tightly curled gray hair and tubes running out of her arm sat up in the room’s only bed. She looked to be in her late sixties. Her skin was gray, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. She wore a hospital gown that tied at the back. Banner could see the strings poking out from behind her neck. The gown had a bizarre, faded pattern of blue flowers intermixed with pictures of teddy bears. The bears wore little blue diapers. Banner gazed at it in fascination. Perez broke his reverie.

“I’ve brought someone for you to meet,” Perez said to the woman. He spoke in a hearty voice, his usual good humor moving up a notch.

“Does he have a cigarette for me?” the woman said, a sly look on her face.

Banner tore his eyes from the diapered bears and laughed.

Perez put on a frown. “Gladys, those are coffin nails.”

Gladys waved a hand in the air. “But it’s my coffin, now, isn’t it, Dr. Perez?” Perez shrugged, giving up.

Gladys peered at Banner. “I’m Gladys Sullivan.”

Banner reached out and shook her hand. “Edward Banner.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Gladys said.

Banner heard Perez suppress a laugh.

“Why do you ask?” Banner said.

“They look surreal. Like liquid tar.”

“I’m wearing colored contact lenses. But I’m surprised you’ve noticed. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“What’s their real color?” Gladys said.

“Blue.” Banner saw no reason to lie to the woman. He’d liked her on sight, and her request for a cigarette in spite of her obvious dire health condition indicated a woman who knew what she wanted.

Gladys gave a satisfied nod. “That’s better. I like it when a man tells the truth.” She gave him a critical look. “I have to say, each man I see on this journey is better looking than the last. You, mister, are a stunner.”

Banner didn’t know what to say. He was used to women flirting with him in the sideways manner women had, but rarely had a woman so blatantly placed her thoughts on the table. He did his best to ignore Perez, who grinned at him from the corner of the room.

“Thank you, Ms. Sullivan.” It was all Banner could think of to say. He didn’t think Perez had brought him to Ms. Sullivan so that they could have an extended discussion of his looks. To his relief, the doctor changed the subject.

“Gladys has a story to tell you, Banner.” Perez ambled to the door. “While she does, I’ll just arrange to unload the booty you brought.” He left Banner and Gladys staring at each other.

“I’m from Flight 689,” Gladys said.

Banner started. A chrome chair with a torn red vinyl seat cushion sat in the corner. He snagged it, placed it next to her bed, and sat down.

“Perez told me about you. He said you were working with the government on the hijacking.”

Banner nodded. “I am, in a manner of speaking. I’m here to collect a helicopter.”

Gladys heaved a relieved sigh. “I think I’m the last person to see Emma Caldridge. She saved my life. And I’d like you to save hers,” she said.

An hour later, Banner stood next to Perez’s jeep. “Will she live?”

Perez rocked his hand back and forth. “Hard to say. She needs a triple bypass and to stop smoking. She also needs helicopter transport to a major city. I had one lined up through a relief organization, but she ceded her spot to a child with meningitis. Now she has to wait at least three more weeks.”

“If it hasn’t happened by the time I get back, I’ll try to arrange transport.”

“What’d she say?” Perez said.

“She rode with a band of cartel flunkies out of the hijack area. While on the ride, she saw a caravan of trucks carrying what sounds like Dragunov semiautomatic rifles with telescopic sights.”

Perez gave a low whistle. “Cartels arming for a fight?”

Banner shook his head. “Apparently not. She said they were headed to the ocean to be smuggled into Miami. She said some American businessmen were assisting in the transport. She knew this because she’d seen them earlier at a checkpoint location.” He yanked open the jeep’s door. “But that whole story isn’t what worries me. What worries me is that these gunrunning Americans were focused on finding one particular passenger.”

“What’s so special about this passenger? Didn’t most die in the crash? And the rest taken hostage?”

Banner nodded. “The only people that know this passenger is alive are with the Department of Defense. Looks like our hijacking friends have some help from the inside the States.”

Perez’s mouth dropped open.

47

EMMA RAN INTO THE SMALL PRISON HUT AND STUMBLED OVER Maria, who was hovering just inside the doorway. Vivian crouched at the edge of the pit, staring downward. Alvarado hung there, his body impaled on the sticks. One went straight through him and came out his back. His arms were stuck out at ninety-degree angles from his body. He looked like he’d been crucified. Blood was everywhere.

“Did you push him?” Emma said.

Vivian shook her head. “No. He slipped when he reached the edge and fell straight forward.”

“I know he deserved it, but it looks awful.”

“He would come here every week and taunt me. He called me Rodrigo’s ‘ace in the hole’ and then he’d laugh. Once he took one of the men, brought him to the edge of the hole, and shot him in the head. The body fell on me and he made me carry it out and bury it. I hated him.”

Maria said something in Spanish.

“Maria says that God let him fall.”

“Maria has much more faith in God’s sense of fair play than I do,” Emma said.

All three women were silent, staring at the body.

Maria spoke up. She chattered at Vivian and waved her arms around in the air.

“Maria says we must move the body. She says the children should not know what occurred here.”

Emma nodded, but she shivered. All three women fell silent again. They stared at the dead man.

“Let’s go,” Emma said.

They lowered the ladder down the hole. Maria handed Emma one end of a rope. Emma grimaced as she wrapped the rope around Alvarado’s chest and tied it into a slipknot. She climbed out and waved to Vivian.

They heaved on the rope. The body slid off the sticks and slammed into the side of the hole with a sickening thud. They walked back, dragging it up onto the ground.

“Now we bury him,” Emma said.

Two hours later, they stood in the jungle and patted dirt over the grave site. Maria held a burning torch. No one said anything. Emma thought it was the worst moment of her life so far.