The Grace Bay Agreement Page 23

  Jesse was once a member of Seventh Group, the detachment of Green Berets dedicated to Latin America. After working in Honduras and San Salvador, the Unit invited him to try out. Most of the soldiers in the Unit specialized in intelligence gathering, especially signal intercept and radio direction finding. But Jesse was a “door buster.” His specialty was breaking into a building and capturing a High Value Target unharmed while killing the body guards. He was one of the best, and he knew it.

  In the Unit, he never knew what assignment he might draw. Just this morning, he bought these ten motorcycles for this tracking operation. Now, he found himself as the lead tracker.

  Man, I wish I had a weapon, he thought. This is crazy to be out in the streets of a major drug hub naked, without even a handgun. He remembered growing up in East L.A. in the early ‘90s. He started carrying a pistol when he was twelve. And few were the days he didn’t go armed with a concealed .45 auto, a knife, or both.

  “It isn’t an easy thing to track a guy to a hide out,” he mumbled aloud. His team sergeant always jumped him about talking to himself when he was stressed. “We’re all set up, but if there happens to be more than one delivery this afternoon, we could find ourselves following the wrong guy. Couldn’t put anyone in customs to track the cigars or in the shop. We’d just tip off the target. So we play this one on the fly as best we can.” He smiled as he spotted his prey.

  A young boy on a ratty motorcycle pulled up onto the sidewalk. An aluminum box measuring about eighteen inches on each side perched on a rack above the back fender. The logo “Pizza 1969” was painted on both sides.

  “Look alive, boys. Whisky Five, do you have that courier on the motorbike?” Jesse said into his lapel mike.

  “Affirmative.” The three man team called Whisky Five sat in a second story room across the street that they rented for the afternoon. Amazing what access you can buy for a few hundred dollars.

  “Okay, I see him getting a package and an address slip or maybe a receipt. I think this is our guy.” Jesse knew they were studying the package through some powerful binoculars.

  The young man came outside and opened the cargo box on the back of his moto. He put on his helmet and kick started the bike.

  “Whiskey One, this is Whiskey Five. We got a glimpse inside the bag. It is a box of cigars.”

  “All stations, this is Whisky One. We have our target. I’ll take the first turn. I want two paralleling on either side.”

  As the courier pulled out, Jesse saw that the courier rode an old Yamaha 125. At least Jesse didn’t have to worry about being outrun. They weaved through traffic, and the surveillance team started the dance. One team member would follow for a while, and then turn off to become an outrider on a parallel street. The chatter on the radio net kept everyone aware of the target’s direction, northwest into the mountains.

  Jesse’s turn came up again as the courier turned away from the city and onto the main highway. No way to follow without being seen. No parallels either. Time to pull out the big gun. Jesse stopped on the side of the road and let Puma 22 take a turn.

  “Puma 22, this is Whiskey One.” He looked up to see if he could spot the surveillance plane circling overhead.

  “Whiskey One, Puma 22, go.”

  “This highway is too open for us to follow. Do you still have the subject?”

  “Oh, yeah. We got him.”

  “Roger. Then we’re going to lay back a couple of miles. If you need us, we can zoom up and reacquire. Over.”

  “Good copy.”

  “Whiskey Team, this is Whiskey One, pull back two miles. Puma 22 will keep us updated on subject’s progress.” Each of the Whisky Team acknowledged in turn.

  *****

  Father Lazaro strolled out onto the veranda of the commandeered house and looked over the valley. Vallenato music, the Colombian country and western equivalent, pounded from the speakers inside. The low sun cast this house and the village below in shadow while giving the far mountain a magical yellow hue. The lights down along the river flickered like diamonds.

  He loved his country, so beautiful, yet so twisted and dangerous. People. People were the problem. God made this place like a paradise, and we have almost ruined it. Soon we will return to the poor the riches stolen by the elite. He recalled the Bible verse from Acts 4:32,

  “All the believers were one in heart and mind. No one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had.”

  To get back to that time of sharing, we must use some distasteful tools. Some people will have to die, some will be forced to share. But in the end, all will be worth it.

  When Don Humo decided to move his headquarters, Lazaro received a phone call from Don Humo’s maid. Father Lazaro paid her triple what she earned as maid so that he could get bits of timely info. The maid told him that Don Humo was packing for a long trip to the farm. So, Lazaro put a tail on Don Humo’s moving truck and followed it up to the house on the mountainside.

  A flash of light interrupted his thoughts and his dream of a socialist paradise. Father Lazaro looked up and saw a white aircraft circling at about five thousand feet. Fear coursed down his backbone. Lazaro ran back inside and shut off the music. “Where are the binoculars?” The partiers stared at him. “Where are the damn binoculars?” he shouted. Someone handed him a pair and he rushed outside.

  With the music silent, he could now hear the faint hum of the propellers. He scanned above hoping to get another glimpse of the plane. There, another flash as the low sun reflected off one of the plane’s windows. He got the image in the binoculars.

  The all-white airplane contrasted well against the dark blue of the evening sky. Father Lazaro could plainly see the two motors and long slender wings. As he watched it go around in slow circles, he called Alcatraz, his second in command.

  “What do you think?”

  Alcatraz took the glasses for a minute.

  “DEA,” he said with a flat tone.

  Lazaro cursed under his breath, then looked around to see if any of his men heard.

  “Can we move up the snatch?”

  “Father, don’t worry. The DEA always fly their camera aircraft over the target for several days before they send in the soldiers. They want to get lots of pictures and make sure about everything first. That’s how the drug guys get away all the time. Of course, the druggies leave enough equipment and poor quality cocaine around the lab to let the DEA think they scored a big victory.” Alcatraz smiled. Father Lazaro could not help smiling back.

  “Okay, then. We’re still on for 0600 tomorrow morning. We’ll go in at first light while Don Humo is in bed sleeping. Best chance of getting him with no gunfire.”

  As if on cue, the white plane turned south, toward Bogota or Cartagena.

  Lazaro walked over to the table and studied again the detailed drawing his recon team put together after this afternoon’s scouting mission. He noted the assault routes marked in red. Motioning with his hand, he called his four sub-commanders together for yet another briefing and rehearsal.

  “Wake up time 0400. We’ll leave the house at 0445. By 0545 each team will be in position, one team on each side of the house. I don’t expect Don Humo to be armed. I want him taken unharmed. Is that understood?” Father Lazaro paused and looked hard into the eyes of each man in turn.

  “Use your fists if necessary. If he is armed and shoots at you, shoot him in the legs. I must have him alive. Do you understand?” He could see waves of blood lust in the eyes of his underlings.

  They’re good men, he thought. But I must keep them under control.

  “I need to have Don Humo alive. He will transfer his holdings to our group to gain his freedom. He cannot give us anything if he is dead!”

  With this part of the plan exposed, the group nodded, chuckled, and exchanged greedy glances. They chattered about the possibility of bonuses, new weapons, and having the funds to expand their fight against capitalism.

  Like children, Lazaro thought. Contro
lled by fear, greed, and desire for revenge. I must teach them to be better men, better Catholics.

  Saturday

  0445

  18 December, 1999

  El Roble, Colombia

  Pete Dolan struggled to keep up with the soldiers. He caught glimpses of Don Humo’s house through breaks in the trees. Too many lights, he thought. Why keep so many lights on? The cluster of four houses at the end of the mountain lane provided Don Humo a great place to make his hide out. But why stick out from your neighbors by burning every outside light?

  Don Humo’s house sat the farthest back, with its rear deck extending over a cliff. That would give him a great view of the canyon and the river below, Pete thought. Must be nice to have that much money. He recognized the envy welling up and fought to keep his emotions from compromising his concentration.

  Just four hundred yards to go. The soldiers wouldn’t walk along the winding gravel road or up the footpath. No, they said it was better to go through the trees. How could it be better to hack away at vines and ferns instead of sneaking up the path? Well, they are the professionals, he consoled himself.

  They planned to bust down the door, throw in a couple of flash-bang grenades, then rush in and grab Don Humo in his bed. The surveillance plane claimed there was no sign of body guards. Still, the Army guys carried an assortment of arms, mostly submachine guns and shotguns.

  The team had to plan the mission using old topographical maps, since the surveillance photos had not made it from Bogota. But from radio conversations with the camera operators in the plane, they knew which house and where the escape routes could be. Pete would not be with the door busters. He would stay on the path below the house to warn if anyone came up the path and to block the way if Don Humo eluded the team.

  Rays of sun shot out from behind the mountains looming above the house causing Pete to glance at his watch. 0530. Wow, we’ve been humping up this hill for almost an hour. At least I can see a little bit now. The soldier in front of Pete turned and pointed to the path just off the left. Only six feet away, Pet could barely make it out through the foliage.

  “You stay here. We’ll be back for you.” Pete nodded. “If anyone comes up this path, shoot ‘em. The noise will bring us back for you.” He stopped and edged closer to the trail.

  Pete felt for his .45. Still in his holster. Funny that he could feel such comfort from a weapon, even after his love and best friend died from similar pistols. He thought about his day and two evenings with Lillian. How could he be so in love with a woman after just a few hours? Then the sight of Waldo bleeding out on the warehouse floor flooded into his brain. His anger flared and Pete felt his heart pound. The Agreement. He had signed the Agreement with Waldo, and now he was going to see justice carried out.

  “I’ll avenge you, Waldo,” he said. Pete leaned against the tree, planning how he would get alone with Ramon so that he could kill him.

  The sky grew yellow behind the east mountain, but the bit of jungle around Pete held onto the dimness. Pete noticed a flock of green parrots shooting down the valley toward their morning meal.

  ****

  Father Lazaro could see the front of Ramon’s home now. Just a few more feet. The majestic house perched on the mountainside caused raw envy to grip Lazaro’s brain. No man should have so much! He gritted his teeth at the injustice of the rich. Soon this house will belong to us!

  Automatic weapons opened fire just a few meters to his right. One of his men screamed and fell dead. Lazaro saw the row of three holes in his chest.

  He threw himself to the ground and scanned ahead, trying to find the guards doing the shooting. How did Ramon know we were coming?

  “DEA, DEA!” Lazaro’s men started calling out the warning. Now he could see the soldiers, obviously American by their equipment. All hope drained from Father Lazaro’s heart, and he cursed under his breath.

  “Fall back! Regroup at the house!” Lazaro saw two more of his men drop from the DEA men’s accurate fire. He took cover behind a tree. When he stuck his head out, bullets slammed into the tree next to his head and wood fragments cut his face. Panic took over and Father Lazaro turned and rushed blindly down the hill toward his rear guard.

  ****

  The gunfire jolted Ramon upright in his bed, ripping him out of his mistress’ arms. “Someone’s found me. I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  She was still groggy, but managed to kiss him. Ramon slipped on his gym clothes and running shoes, grabbed some cash and dashed out the back door. More shooting from the front.

  He ran out onto the deck and over to a couch on the left edge, close to the wall. Even in the dim light he found the hidden door in the back corner of the couch. He rolled the rope ladder out of its compartment and let it fall. He clambered down the twenty-five feet just as the firing stopped. He paused to catch his breath and take stock of the situation.

  Then he remembered to release the ladder. He found the switch on the wall and flipped it up. Disguised as a regular light switch, it triggered a solenoid that released the rope ladder from the top. The ladder fell and the spring-loaded door closed. At least it would take them a while to figure out which way he went.

  He ran along a narrow dirt trail until it joined the main gravel path leading down to the river. He turned downhill, and found the way blocked by a man with a .45 auto. The man stood in a perfect turret stance with the .45 aimed at Ramon’s chest. No way around, so Ramon stopped.

  “I am Peter Dolan. You sent an assassin to kill me. Instead you killed my girlfriend and shot my friend. Then you killed my family.” The man talked like he had practiced that line a thousand times.

  For the first time, Ramon knew fear, the kind of terror that melts one’s joints. He fell to his knees. A tiny part of his brain screamed, “Be strong. Be a man!” But his body refused to obey.

  Ramon put his hands together as if praying. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t shoot. I have regretted those orders since the day I gave them.” Involuntary tears coursed down his cheeks.

  “I have gone to confession and asked forgiveness. Now I beg you to forgive me! I swear you can have anything of mine. Just spare my life.” The words poured out like wine. Just the right tempo and inflection. Ramon’s hope welled up.

  “Killing me will not bring your friends back. You are a good person. Have mercy.”

  “I have sworn to kill you. I have signed a solemn oath to avenge your murders.” Ramon noticed the gritted teeth and slow pace of the man’s speech. His hope fled, and Ramon knew he would die. He fell on his face and dug his fingernails in the gravel. Then Ramon felt the urine running down his legs.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he said over and over between his great sobs. “Please have mercy on me!” The silence fell on Ramon like a beating, and he shook with fear.

  In his peripheral vision, Ramon saw Pete lower his gun. Ramon raised his head and saw the look of disgust on Pete’s face. Pete shook his head, stepped to the side of the path, and waved his gun to Ramon to go on.

  Ramon jumped up and ran, half expecting a bullet between his shoulder blades. He fell twice as he sped down the trail towards the river.

  Saturday

  1735

  18 December, 1999

  La Escuela Abraham Lincoln

  Santa Marta

  Pete always hated debriefs. They served some purpose, but he thought it always hurt more than helped to pick apart an operation and talk about all the bad things. This debrief had gone on for over an hour. Rarely did a leader go over the good things.

  “One more time Jesse, what happened when your team got into position?” Phil asked.

  “Our point man saw three men coming up the mountain. They weren’t guards because they were coming from the wrong direction. From their uniforms and insignia, I think they were FARC.”

  “Impossible!” Renee Hedley-Fields said. Pete disliked her even more. Her beauty clashed with the ugliness of her personality.

  Jesse looked a Phil for support. “They were
FARC,” another soldier said from the back of the room.

  “Anyway, when they started shooting, we returned fire. We think we killed three, but their comrades hauled off the bodies. We entered the house ten minutes later and found one female. She gave no resistance. Said she had never heard of Ramon Menchaca. We have her in custody, but we can’t keep her. We have nothing to charge her with.

  “After searching the house, we found a rope ladder at the back of the house. We think Ramon escaped that way,” Jesse said.

  “And Mr. Dolan?” Phil glared over at Pete. “You claim you saw nothing?”

  “Nope. He must have slipped by me. You know it was still dark out there.”

  “No, Mr. Dolan, it was not still dark out there. I think you put your head down when you heard the shooting, and he got by while you were taking cover,” Phil said.

  “Perhaps.” Pete said as he tried hard to keep the smile off of his face.

  “You don’t understand the seriousness of this, Mr. Dolan!” Renee glared at him. “We gambled everything on that snatch. Now, the ambassador has given us 24 hours to get out of country. Ramon Menchaca is free and we are going home as failures.”

  Pete felt free of the obsession for revenge. But how could he explain his actions to his love, his wife and daughter, and most of all to Waldo?

  But Pete felt satisfied. He gave Ramon something worse than death. By humiliating Don Humo, Pete figured that he gave Ramon Menchaca a burden he would have to live with his whole life. The Great Don Humo fell on his face in front of me and peed his pants. He will never forget that deep down he’s a just coward and begged me for his life. Pete leaned back and tried to listen to the rest of the debrief.