Tampa Burn (21 page)

The main difference between a submachine gun and an automatic rifle is that a sub gun fires pistol ammunition. These days, the most common caliber is 9 mm.

I'd been right when I guessed they'd be carrying something similar. So why hadn't I followed my instincts?

Good men I once trained with had an axiom that offered advice to anyone charged with making a battle plan: Keep it simple, stupid.

KISS is a handy acronym.

I hadn't trusted my own instincts, which is stupid. Worse, I hadn't kept my trap sufficiently simple.

Now, though, I felt like things were back on track . . . if I could keep from getting shot.

I was behind the men, walking the center of the trail, making no effort to hide or move quietly. The last thing I wanted was to startle them. When humans are startled, various muscles in our bodies contract involuntarily. The trigger finger is among them.

So, when I was within thirty yards or so and they still hadn't noticed me, I called out, “Hey, guys? Hello.
Hello?
”

All three whirled to face me, shotgun and Uzi at shoulder level—I recognized the sub gun now—both men leaning toward me ready to shoot while their taller companion surprised me by using his momentum to throw himself into the bushes, out of sight. He apparently assumed I had a weapon and was diving for cover.

It seemed a cowardly reaction. Let the others stand in the open while he hid.

Still, I was looking down two gun barrels. I had both hands high, calling to them, “Don't shoot, guys!
E-e-e-asy. Easy,
for Christ's sake! I don't have a gun, a knife . . . I don't have
anything.
”

I kept the tone timid, talking like I was a typical suburban citizen, harmless, friendly, but nervous facing men with weapons. Which I
was
. I'm often told I look like a professor at some small Midwestern college. I was trying very hard to match my tone to that nonthreatening image now.

Because they kept their weapons trained on me, I continued babbling, “Seriously, I don't know what you guys are doing . . . not that I
care
what you're doing. It's none of my business. Or—hey—maybe I'm
trespassing.
If I am, I didn't see any signs or anything.
Honest.
I was just out for a little hike. Fellas, could you
please
not point those guns at me?”

Very slowly they lowered their weapons, looking at me full-faced now over the barrels. Both men could have been sculpted out of the same stocky Latino tree. The stunted oak variety. They were a foot shorter than I. Their faces, shoulders, and thighs were proportionally wide, tannin-dark, so they had the collective structural grace of twin butcher's blocks.

Each had a mustache, too. Could have been fraternal twins. But their clothes set them apart. One wore a white straw Panama hat and a silken shirt that had a metallic sheen in strobing neon pinks and blues. The other preferred black. A guayabera shirt, black slacks, and shiny white shoes.

They might have been dressed for a night of salsa dancing—or running a string of prostitutes. Stylish in a gaudy ethnic way that is sexually emblematic. Striking colors compete for sexual attention.

I watched White Panama exchange looks with White Shoes, both of them now swinging weapons between the rental car and me. For all they knew, Tattoo and Tomlinson were hiding inside the car, part of a trap. They also shifted glances toward the bushes where their companion was keeping his head low. But he was also moving, I noted, maybe trying to get a look at me from cover.

The impression: Two bodyguards were seeking guidance from their boss man. A boss who either lacked courage or had good reason to fear an attack.

White Panama motioned with the Uzi and said to me in broken English, “Put your hands on your hair. Make it so your back turn to see my face in this way.”

I heard “
see mi fees theeze way,
” as he gave me a rotating demonstration with his index finger.

I folded my hands atop my head and turned my back to them as White Shoes asked in slightly better English, “Are your friends still in the car today? Where is
Generalissimo
Balserio's wife, Pilar? What have you done with the wife?”

Pilar and Balserio's marriage had been annulled years ago. That he still referred to her as Balserio's wife told me something. Suggested they were allied with the General, and probably the original plan to kidnap Lake. In the video, Masked Man had also referred to Pilar as Balserio's wife.

I replied, “I'm alone. I don't know anything about a wife.
Whose
wife?”

“Don't lie to us, mister. You lie, I shoot you here. Let the crocodiles eat your heart. Are your people in the car? Tell us something for my second question!”

“There's no one in the car. I'll show you myself. You can follow me and I'll prove it.”

“Then where is the giant man? The giant with the painted tattoos on his body? If he's hiding in the trees, we shoot you first if he comes out.”

I wasn't surprised they were nervous about Tattoo. But why didn't they know he was a hired go-between? That suggested they
weren't
involved with the kidnappers. Which meant they weren't allied with Balserio.

Now nothing made sense.

Before I could answer, though, a third voice commanded me in articulate English, “Shut up. Quiet! I want to get a better look at him. You.
Yankee.
Do what I say: Turn toward us a half-turn—keep your hands where they are. Don't look at me! Turn
now.
”

Tall Man was giving orders from his hiding place.

I turned until I heard, “That's far enough. Stop there.”

Then, after a studied pause, I listened to him whisper in guttural Spanish, “It
is
you, you Yankee filth . . . you
sewage,
” before saying to me in a louder voice, “Turn your back to us again. Now!”

I thought to myself,
Uh-oh, big trouble.

 

TROUBLE,
no doubt about it. Serious trouble . . .

For one thing, he hadn't bothered to speak to me in English. He knew enough to realize it wasn't necessary. Something else: His voice touched a long-ago memory. It took a moment for my brain to match the voice with a name. When I recognized who it was, I didn't want to believe it. But there was no doubt.

I thought,
What the hell is
he
doing here?

Tall Man and I had met only twice, but I'd heard his voice many times. During the Revolution in Masagua, I'd heard him give impassioned speeches over jungle radios, and from the balcony of the presidential palace. I'd listened to his voice enough to know there was no mistake.

Now I heard the voice say, “Keep your weapons pointed at this lying son-of-a-bitch. If he moves, if he raises a hand, shoot his kneecaps off. But make goddamn certain you don't hit
me,
you fools.”

There was a rustling from behind, then the sound of a big man walking toward me through the brush.

I wanted to throw myself to the ground, tumble, and come up running. Take my chances with the shotgun and the Uzi rather than stand there and let him put a knife or bullet in me from behind. He was certainly capable of murdering me like that. In fact, shooting someone in the back was exactly the man's style.

So I gambled. I kept my hands on my head, but turned toward the three men, a confident smile on my face, and said as if surprised, “My God. Is it really you? General
Jorge Balserio
? Why didn't you
say
so. We haven't talked since the Revolution. You look
great.
”

Like we were old long-lost friends.

The expressions of momentary confusion on the faces of the bodyguards were encouraging. But they weren't bewildered enough for me to attempt to run. And Balserio was still striding hard toward me, his eyes glassy, fists clenched.

“Dr. Marion Ford, you . . . you shit pile. I swore I'd find you one day—now I have. You cheating, sneaking whore of a man. You
screwed my wife.
You
touched
my woman. Now you're going to pay!”

I was looking at the bodyguards, trying to read them, hoping I could risk dropping my hands to defend myself. But then Balserio squelched that possibility, repeating, “Idiots! I tell you again: Move closer with your guns so you won't hit me. If this pig touches me, shoot his feet, his knees, but don't kill him yet. That's an
order.
”

He was banking out around me to give his bodyguards a cleaner angle of fire. I turned at the same pace, continuing to face him. The guards were moving toward me, too. White Shoes, I noted, had pulled a little semiautomatic handgun from somewhere, choosing to use it rather than risk hitting his boss with shotgun pellets.

Balserio's face was flushed a monoxide purple, his expression demented. He was digging in the pocket of his slacks. I watched him pull out a bone-handled knife. He snapped the blade open, still striding toward me, eyes still blazing. Jesus, now he was
grinning,
a coyote sort of leer on his aristocratic face.

During the Revolution, Balserio had been the subject of whispered rumors. His temper tantrums were legendary. The bloody atrocities supposedly sparked by them were infamous. Twice, there'd been formal inquiries from investigators with the International Human Rights Commission.

In Central America, giving people nicknames is a cultural pastime. One of his was the Crazy Machete.

I'd had an affair with Balserio's wife. Now here he was, coming at me, waving a knife in his left fist. All those years of hating me seemed to be shunted into that stainless-steel blade, and it glittered like a laser. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

I went from feeling shock to a strange, energized numbness. It was as if electricity had immobilized my nervous system. No weapon scares me more than a sharp steel blade. Fight someone who's armed with a knife, and even if you manage to win, you're almost sure to come away with ruined hands, holes in your skin, damaged tendons.

Years ago, they taught us the techniques, how to survive that kind of attack by using rubber knives and a multitude of scenarios. Made us train for hours. I'd never been in a position desperate enough to need the training, thank God, but I'd seen men who'd actually fought and survived knife fights.

The memory sickened me.

But now I either had to run and risk being shot—or wait meekly while this crazy man started hacking away.

I'd called 911 twice.
Where were the cops?

Desperate to buy time, I said in Spanish so his bodyguards would understand, “General—stop right where you are or you're not going to get the half-million dollars. I don't have it here. But I'll take you to it. Put that knife away, I'll cooperate. You and your two men, you can have it all—”

But the Crazy Machete had snapped.

“Screw your money! Do you think we came to find Pilar because of money? I
have
all the money I need, you worm!”

They weren't after the money? Then why follow Pilar? Survival, though. That's all I could think about. If I survived, maybe I'd get the chance to find out.

He was nearly within arm's reach now. I was backing away, hands still on my head, eyes focused on the knife that he was now passing between his left hand and his right.

Was that supposed to confuse me? The knife always ended up in his left hand. When he made a move, I knew it would be with his left.

And he soon would.

Balserio was working himself into it—he
was
going to kill me, that was clear. He was ranting as he began to circle. Ranting that I'd been naked with his wife, that I'd humiliated him. Ranting that I was finally going to get what I deserved. There was only
one
punishment that fit my crime.

“It's something we do to pigs,” he said. “You're a pig, and now I'll make you a sow.”

Castration.

Was he serious?

Oh yeah—I could see it behind his eyes: something freaky in there fired by hatred. And ready to do it
right now
as he extended the knife blade slowly toward my chest, getting ready to charge me—I could see that, too; could read it in his muscle tension, face, and forearms.

I had to do something. The bodyguards had their guns aimed. I knew I'd
rather
be shot than stand there and let him stab me, but . . .

I risked backing away faster as Balserio continued his purge, taunting me, “I'll do the same thing to that bastard son of yours, too, when I get the chance. He's next. On the day he was born, I should have had him drowned like the mongrel he is—”

That did it. Suddenly, I was moving, no longer in doubt.

I stopped backpedaling and dropped my hands. Surprised, Balserio froze for just an instant. In that instant, I lunged toward him, shooting in low on one knee, trusting instinct and muscle memory . . . just letting it happen . . . and I caught his left wrist clean with my right hand as he tried to drive the blade into my face.

I was already snapping his wrist and palm skyward as I stood, locking my fingers on his left elbow, which added lift and leverage. I could have broken his arm without much effort, which made it easy to spin Balserio so that his body shielded mine from the guards.

The bodyguards were shouting for him to duck, to get down, and I expected to hear gunfire. Instead, all I heard was Balserio's whistling scream of pain as I brought his left arm up behind him, then grabbed a handful of his hair for additional torque.

“He's
hurting
me. Fire!”

I'd hoped he'd managed to hold on to the knife. I had a vague notion that if I took the knife from him, then held the blade to their boss man's throat, maybe I could bully the bodyguards into dropping their weapons.