Survival (4 page)

The captain had explained the situation and issued instructions, and the men were ready to comply. The ship was equipped with long lines and an emergency gangplank that could be deployed for these types of rescue scenarios, and the crew stood at the windows, eyeing the sea while they awaited his orders.

The captain scanned the darkness with his binoculars and called out to Jorge. “There they are. See the lights? To starboard.”

Jorge grunted. “I see them.” He made a small adjustment of the wheel, inching the bow closer, and eased further back on the throttle. A ship of the
Seylene
’s displacement could take a mile or more to slow, and executing this sort of rescue was akin to an elephant dancing with a mouse. Everyone was keenly aware that the larger ship could crush the smaller like an empty soda can, so care was the order of the day rather than haste. The big vessel was now only making five knots, nearly stationary, and was rocking more with each sidelong roller that struck its hull.

The captain lit another cigarette, rationalizing that this was an emergency so arbitrary rules could be discarded, and radioed the fishing boat again. “
Tres Gatos
. We are a quarter mile from you. You should be able to see us now. Over.”

“Roger that. What do you want us to do? Over.”

“We’ll maneuver alongside your craft and throw you lines. Tie them off securely on your bow and stern, and we’ll lower a gangplank. Or if that doesn’t work, we’ll drop webbing you can climb. Is anyone injured? Over.”

“Negative. But the boat’s a goner. It’s sinking. Over.”

“How many are there of you? Over.”

“Four of us. Over.”

“Okay. Here we come. Watch for the lines. Over.”

The process took five minutes, both vessels pitching in the seas, the huge cargo vessel blocking the worst of the wind. Once the lines were tied off, the crew lowered the gangplank and the crew of the
Tres Gatos
scrabbled up seven stories to the main deck, the driving rain and wind lashing them as they struggled against gravity on the rolling seas. The smaller vessel, an old forty-something-foot sports fisher, banged against the side of the
Seylene
’s hull, and two crewmen untied the lines and set it adrift, there being no point in trying to tow a sinking boat. They watched as it drifted away, blown by the wind, destined for the watery deep as the storm had its way with the unlucky craft.

Five stories below the bridge a solitary figure watched the rescue from a watertight porthole, backlit by the dim glow of night lighting. When the last of the drenched fishermen had made it onto the
Seylene
, the figure withdrew to the depths of the superstructure as the rescued seamen followed the crew to the dining room and galley, their clothes soaked, blankets around their shoulders shielding them from the worst of the gale’s fury.

Chapter 5

Frontino, Colombia

A pall of gray smoke hung over the hills, the ugly byproduct of local farmers burning their fields in preparation for planting new crops. A split-axle bobtail truck groaned up a winding mountain road, sandwiched between two SUVs. Black fumes belched from its exhaust as its motor strained on the steep slope towards its eventual destination: the hacienda perched high on one of the peaks, overlooking the picturesque valley below – a secluded valley with incurious residents who worked the land owned by the occupant of the ranch home that crowned the mountain.

Situated on a coffee plantation that spanned eighty hectares, the compound was guarded by a group of tough-looking men carrying assault rifles. The only road onto the grounds was barred by a heavy iron gate affixed to a high concrete arch with ten-foot walls running the perimeter of the residential area. A guard in a tower inside the wall watched the approaching trucks through binoculars, an ex-military .50-caliber machine gun on a tripod for companionship beside him.

The security team heard the vehicles before they saw them, when the still of the tranquil valley was broken by the laboring of the engines negotiating the serpentine route on the final leg of the private road. The watchman raised a radio to his ear and barked into it. He cocked his head as he waited for a response and then called out to the guards manning the gate. A stocky man with the build of a brick strode to the barricade and raised it as the lead SUV neared, an M16 assault rifle slung across his back as he watched the vehicles close on his position.

The driver of the SUV gave him a wave that he returned, and then the vehicles were past him, headed for the main house, which was surrounded by smaller buildings – a casita for guests should the nine-bedroom sprawl prove inadequate, a six-car garage, a barn. The truck’s gears ground as its tires crunched on the gravel of the circular drive. A fountain bubbled in the middle of the centerpiece atop an elevated mound with stone steps leading to two curved stone benches that rested on the impeccably groomed landscaping.

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house. A dark-skinned man wearing white slacks and a white short-sleeved button up shirt came through the front door and moved down the stairs to where the vehicles waited. He pointed toward the barn at the edge of the complex and growled instructions.

The convoy inched along the drive toward the barn, where three men stood deep in conversation next to a chestnut mare. The tallest, an older man with ramrod posture and hair the color of brushed steel, looked over at the new arrivals before returning to his discussion. His companions, their jeans and flannel shirts a marked contrast to the older man’s cream slacks and burgundy silk shirt, bobbed their heads in agreement, and one led the horse to an adjacent pasture enclosed with rustic wooden fencing while the other disappeared into the barn.

The older man watched the mare’s gait as she pranced alongside her jogging escort, and his tanned face cracked with the beginning of a smile. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slid them on, and then turned from the pasture to regard the newcomers.

Four men descended from the two SUVs, shoulder holsters over their obviously expensive shirts. The truck driver killed the engine as they approached the older man and the area grew still, the only sounds the songs of birds in the tall trees that surrounded the clearing and the hum of a distant tractor somewhere in the valley.

“
Don
Mosises. We have taken care of the problem and brought the others, as you requested,” one of the four said.

“Good. Any complications?” Mosises asked, his rough voice the result of a lifelong addiction to Cuban cigars.

“No. Everything went as planned, other than losing a few soldiers,” the man reported with a shrug. “Nobody you knew.”

“So the cockroaches put up a fight, eh? Well, they’re gone now. Time to finish this so I can return to more pleasant pursuits.” Mosises motioned to the truck.

The driver hopped down from the cab and moved to the rear cargo door as Mosises and the four gunmen approached. With a grunt, the driver pulled up the rolling door, revealing a dark interior with five figures lying on the wooden truck bed, their hands tied behind their backs.

Mosises glanced at his men. “Get them out.”

The five captives were dragged from the truck and dumped unceremoniously on the gravel. Mosises paced nearby as he studied them with a scowl.

“So. You set up a deal to cut me out, eh? How did that work out for you? Your friends in San Cristóbal are now a stain in the mud, and any profit you made cost them their lives.” Mosises shook his head. “And soon, your lives as well.”

One of them spit at Mosises with a sneer, but didn’t speak. Mosises turned to his men.

“I see the farmers are burning their fields. It always makes me sad for some reason, but it’s regeneration. The cycle of life.” He regarded the captives a final time. “Take them away and light them up. I’m sick of looking at their ugly faces. When you’re done, bury them in a ditch down by the dump. I’ll be along shortly.”

The men dragged the captives behind the barn, where tires would be slid over the victims, doused with gasoline, and then lit. It would take several minutes for the tougher of them to die in excruciating pain.

The technique was infamous in Colombia and was referred to by the cartels as ‘lighting the torch.’ Of all the horrors perpetrated in the constant turf wars and rivalries, it was considered the worst way to go, and for good reason. One of Mosises men would film the spectacle with his phone: the footage would make it onto social media sites that featured such atrocities, where his enemies could see what they had to look forward to if he got his hands on them.

Mosises was a survivor who had gone through the ups and the downs of the Colombian cocaine business, from the giddy years when the Medellín and Cali cartels ruled the country to the current era, when the Colombians were largely only on the production end, relying on the Mexican cartels to transport the drugs north. He had carved out a niche where he commanded respect, with his own trafficking network that could get the powdered gold into Central America. There he supplied an eager affluent class in Panama and Costa Rica who consumed his product with an appetite he hadn’t seen since the Escobar heyday of the eighties.

He strode over to the wooden fence and leaned one arm on it, watching his mare run unbridled around the perimeter of the clearing, happy in her youth and momentary freedom. He smiled at her obvious enjoyment and was only pulled out of his reverie by a tortured scream from nearby as the first of the five brothers who had conspired to double-cross him discovered the purifying agony of the fire.

Mosises took a final look at his pride and joy, and then turned slowly and made his way to where inhuman shrieks rent the air as flesh sizzled off bone – a lesson to his adversaries and those who questioned his authority. He’d learned the hard way in countless fights that you never showed mercy – it would correctly be interpreted as weakness.

The only thing people respected was raw power, and Mosises understood that it was a good idea to demonstrate it from time to time. As he advanced in years, younger bucks – like the five Rolerno brothers who were now soaking in gasoline – sought to test him. It was inevitable, but they had underestimated his vitality in his winter years, and now were paying the ultimate price.

Another howl greeted him as a second victim ignited, and he withdrew a cigar from a case in his breast pocket and snipped the end off. He took his time lighting it, pausing as he did to eye the coil of oily black smoke rising from behind the barn.

The one thing he could never get used to was the smell. It stayed with you for days, he knew from experience. One of the negatives of being the dispenser of justice in a kingdom of his making.

Chapter 6

The
Seylene
’s powerful engines thrummed underfoot as the four rescued fishermen took seats in the large galley area while one of the crew made them coffee. The ship had resumed steaming toward Panama, still rocking slightly from the larger than normal beam seas.

The captain entered the galley and offered the fishermen a grim smile.

“Sorry about your boat. What happened?”

“Long-range trip. The storm caught us by surprise. We thought we could outrun it, but we had engine problems, and then one of our through-hulls gave in the big waves. We did the best we could, but the boat was too old, and with no power…” The fisherman didn’t need to finish the thought.

“You’re lucky we were in the neighborhood.” The captain looked around. “Let’s see if we can get you some dry clothes, at least.” He looked at his crew. “Gentlemen? Do I have any donations?” Several of the seamen bobbed their heads and moved to the galley door. The captain looked back to the fishermen. “If you’ll wait here, we’ll get you outfitted shortly.”

The fisherman watched the captain return to the bridge and gave the seaman across from him a wan smile.

“Thanks for helping us. That was pretty hairy,” Igor said.

“No problem,” the man replied.

“Where are you headed?” Igor asked, drying his hair with the corner of his blanket.

“California. But we detoured for Panama. Something about mechanical problems.”

“Well, that’s lucky. We’re based out of Panama.”

“Then it’s not a complete loss. You got a free ride to Balboa out of the deal.”

Igor offered another smile. He found smiling put people at ease, so he did so often, even when he was about to execute someone. It was a hard habit to break, but he saw no reason to. Sometimes it drove Fernanda crazy, but he figured that if you had to have annoying habits, smiling too much wasn’t a terrible one.

“Thanks for that.” Igor paused. “How many crew on the ship?”

“Sixteen.”

“Wow. That’s all for a ship this size? What is she? Eight hundred feet?”

“Almost a thousand.”

“No wonder we can hardly feel the storm,” Igor said. He accepted a cup of coffee and took a cautious sip. “Do you carry passengers or just cargo?”

“Depends. Sometimes we do. We’ve got a few on this trip.”

“Really? I always wondered why people would want to travel by container ship. I read about it somewhere a long time ago. Never got it.”

“It’s a different experience. Some people want to have a special trip they can tell their friends about. Something uncommon. How many people go from South America to North America on a cargo vessel? Not many,” the seaman explained.

“Where do they stay?”

“We have some nicer staterooms for paying passengers. Same level as the crew, but better digs,” the seaman said.

Igor yawned and glanced at his companions, who were watching him, waiting for his signal. Igor was about to give it when the two crewmen who had gone for clothes returned and handed out sweatpants and T-shirts. Igor’s men looked to him for guidance, and he stood and asked his new friend where he could change out of his wet clothes. The seaman pointed to a door.

“Head’s in there.”

“Be right back,” Igor said, and walked on squishing running shoes to the bathroom and went inside. He wasted no time changing, instead retrieving the Glock 19 he’d brought aboard and chambering a round. He caught a blur of reflection in the mirror and stopped to look at himself, smiling automatically.