Prologue
Turbo, Colombia, 1988
The day was stagnant hot; the white sand and shell road reflected the
sun, and his eyes squinted behind sunglasses as he walked along a quiet,
surfside street in Turbo, Colombia. Augustine "Sonny" Kalup
didn't look much like what you would think a DEA agent should look like.
Oh, he was a tall, handsome, and tough Irishman, but he didn't have
the overall bearing one would expect from a government agent. He was
more than a little rough around the edges, ala Bogart, and had the look
and carriage of a man who had been through a lot of tough times. He
was about to go through another.
His internal system was on high alert as he headed for the bar, just
a block away from where he had parked his car. The air filled his nostrils
with the odor of dead and rotting fish that washed ashore in the flotsam.
He paused on the empty street outside the sun darkened wood building,
capped with a corrugated metal roof. He glanced about, pushed the sunglasses
to the top of his head, and entered the shadowy, plank-floored, dockside
bar bearing only partially blinking neon letters advertising Cerveza
Fria. The tavern, Mundo de Sueños, was perched on stilts over
rainbow-colored oil-slick water. The name meant "Dreamworld",
but it looked more like a nightmare. The home-made liquor sold there
out of bottles bearing soiled Seagram labels was consumed by the many
nefarious looking characters that frequented the place. Most of them
were common seamen, drinking up their wages before heading back out
into the darkness beyond the shoreline.
During his time in Colombia, his work had taken him to this place on
only one other occasion, and the man he was there to meet never showed.
Sonny walked slowly to a table at the rear of the bar, noted the slope
in the floor, and sat with his back to the wall. He was waiting for
a man known to him only as Fernando, a young, lower echelon, but up-and-coming
member of the Ochoa Cartel. Fernando had been told that Sonny was an
American looking for a major connection in Colombia, from whom he could
buy large quantities of cocaine for re-sale in the United States.
Peeking at his watch, Sonny noted that the time for his meeting had
passed by ten minutes. He casually scanned the room from one side to
the other, and then back again, looking for a sign of the man he was
to meet. All he saw were rough looking men bearing scars and tattoos,
and staring ominously at the "gringo." Sonny sat in his chair,
elbows resting on the arms, with the fingers of both hands laced at
his chest, and in a show of bravado, returned their menacing glares.
To act any less unconcerned would have invited a more physical confrontation.
An old panhandler, who had been eyeing Sonny since he entered the bar,
moved over to him, and with his hand out, asked for enough to buy a
drink. Sonny obliged. Without an expression of gratitude, the old man
moved over to put the money on the bar. Grabbing the glass, he took
a quick gulp, then skulked off in a corner of the bar to finish it,
his boney knees visible through his ragged trousers.
A waitress, tattooed from shoulders to wrists, ambled over to Sonny's
table, and in a grating, tobacco-roughened voice, asked, "Que quieres?"
"Tequila."
She brought the shot glass of clear liquid. Sonny lifted the drink to
his lips and placed it back on the table. Knowing it was nothing more
than a glass of whatever panther-piss that was being passed off for
tequila that day, he only feigned taking a drink.
He looked up from the table and saw two men entering the bar, one fitting
the description he had of Fernando. The man was a somewhat taller than
the average Colombian, about six feet, and slim, with sloping shoulders,
small suspicious eyes, and a humorless expression. The other man was
shorter, and much bulkier. They walked to his table.
"May we sit down, señor," Fernando asked in Spanish.
Sonny nodded, motioning to the other chairs at the table.
"I am Fernando," the man said, without offering his hand.
"Terry Nance," Sony answered, using his undercover name.
"You are well?" Fernando asked.
"I am; and you?"
"Bastante bien, gracias," Fernando said. "If you prefer,
I will speak English."
Sonny shrugged and shook his head. He was fluent in Spanish.
Fernando nodded, and continued in Spanish. "I am sorry to be late,"
he said.
"It's of no consequence," Sonny answered in Spanish. He wondered
why a Colombian would apologize for being late. In Colombia it was a
common occurrence. In all of his time there, Sonny didn't remember ever
seeing a clock in a public place. Time meant little to the average Colombian.
They did what they did, and it took as long as it took.
"That is kind of you señor. You are an American."
"Yes, is that a problem?" Sonny asked coldly.
"Which part of the States do you come from?" Fernando asked.
"What difference does it make where I'm from; do you want to do
some business or not?"
"You are not very polite, señor," Fernando said.
"Oh yeah; well I'm sorry, but whoever the asshole was who decided
to put a metal roof on this oven, he's ruined my day. So, if you don't
mind, can we just get to business?"
Fernando cocked his head to one side. "I see. It will be as you
wish. I'm told you are interested in purchasing some merchandise for
transport back to Florida."
"That's correct."
At that moment the waitress returned, and asked if anyone wanted to
order. Fernando, irritated at Sonny's attitude, turned to the waitress
and waving her off, gruffly said, "Nada. Vaya!"
Then, turning his attention back to Sonny, he said, "It's odd that
you haven't stated that you wanted a high quality product."
Sonny raised his half-lidded eyes to Fernando. "This is Colombia,
señor; I assume all your stuff is high quality."
Fernando showed a wry smile. "How much are you willing to pay?"
he asked.
"How much are you asking?"
Fernando scanned Sonny for a moment, then replied, "More than you
can afford, I'm afraid."
Sonny, his look turning hard, and his eyes fixed coldly on Fernando,
replied, "Don't worry about what I can afford; how much?"
Fernando smiled. "Ten thousand a kilo,"
Sonny wasn't sure what these guys were up to, but he knew he was getting
jerked around. The price they were asking was a joke. He feigned a laugh.
"You want ten grand a key for delivery in Florida?" he asked,
his tone growing angry.
"That is the price, but for delivery here, not in the Unites States."
"If this is a joke, it's not funny."
"I do not joke about my business," Fernando replied.
Sonny scanned both men, his eyes narrowing with contempt. "I don't
need this horseshit. You know the going rate is seven thousand a key
delivered in Florida. I'll give you four thousand a key, or seven a
key delivered in Florida. Take it or leave it."
"How much did you bring with you?" Fernando asked.
"Don't worry about it; I have enough." Sonny was becoming
seriously irritated, and his nerve meter was going up.
The man who came in with Fernando moved his hands under the table.
Sonny shot an angry glance at the man "Get your fuckin' hands back
up on the table where I can see 'em," he growled.
Fernando jumped out of his seat and pulled an automatic hand gun from
his belt. "No, you get your hands up, Agent Kalup," he shouted,
pointing the weapon at Sonny. At that same time, the other man pushed
his chair back and brought up a .45 from under the table. Sonny flipped
the table up, deflecting the man's arm and pulled a 9mm Glock from his
belt. In one motion, he moved quickly to his left out of Fernando's
way and fired twice through the bottom of the table, hitting the other
man in the throat. The dying man fell back against another table and
onto the floor, firing his weapon in the air. Sonny turned to face Fernando,
who had begun to fire. Before Sonny could get another shot off, he felt
a painful sting in his right side. Fernando's bullet had hit him. Sonny
returned fire and hit Fernando in the leg. The Colombian grabbed his
leg and limped back from the table. He fired a second time, hitting
Sonny in the upper chest, spinning him around, and splattering blood
on to the rear wall. Sonny turned back, slapping his left hand over
his chest wound, and fired again, but he missed his target. Fernando
turned and hobbled out of the bar.
Sonny pushed the overturned table out of his way. The pain of the bloody
wound in his chest was quickly draining his strength as he followed
in pursuit. He grimaced and staggered to the door, leaving a trail of
blood along the way. He could barely stand as he pushed the door open
and went outside. He saw Fernando jump into the front seat of a dark
car. Then his eyes fell upon a man pointing a large gun out of the rear
window at him. "Puta madre," the man yelled as he fired.
Sonny was hit again, this time in his stomach, and he went down onto
the ground falling into the darkness of unconsciousness. Fernando got
back out of the car and was about to take another shot at Sonny when
two men, unknown to him, came running down the street from the opposite
direction. They were yelling and firing their weapons at him. Fernando
jumped back in the car and it sped away.
An old woman across the road, pushing a wooden cart, cast a disinterested
glance at the two men bending over Sonny, and paid no attention to the
car as it disappeared into a cloud of dust.
Chapter 1
Twelve years later, Tampa, Florida
At 7:00 on a clear evening, Richard Stanton, a detective with the Tampa,
Florida Police Department, sat in his office catching up on his report
writing, when his phone rang.
"Narcotics, Detective Stanton," he said.
"Yeah, Richie, this is Poker," the caller replied. It was
one of Stanton's informants.
"Poker, what's up?"
"I got somethin' for you if you want."
Stanton quickly grabbed a pen and turned a page in his notebook. "Go,"
he said.
"You know the old abandoned school house over on Homer Avenue in
Sage Hill?"
Stanton thought for a moment. "Yeah, I know the one you're talking
about. What about it?"
"Did you know there was a big time meth lab there?"
"No, I didn't. We know there's one somewhere in Sage, but so far
we can't get a fix on exactly where it is."
"Yeah, well now you know. It's been there for a little over a week
but they'll be moving it pretty soon."
Stanton made a note, and then asked, "You've been there?"
"Just once; last night."
"What's the deal?" Stanton asked.
"I'm kinda hurtin', Richie." Poker said in a depressed tone.
"What'll it take to get you better?"
"A couple hundred askin' too much?"
"Not if you can give me this lab, it isn't," Stanton said,
noting the amount.
"I just did."
Stanton smiled. "I need more info on the place," he said.
"I need to know how many guns; where in the building; all that."
"OK," Poker replied, and then began to provide the information.
Stanton interrupted. "I need you in here," he said. Poker
agreed, and arrangements were made to pick up the informant, and bring
him to the detective's office.
Forty-five minutes later, the two men arrived back at Stanton's office
to find Capt. Shenk, the commander of the S.W.A.T. team waiting for
them. Stanton had called him before leaving to pick up Poker. The Captain
asked Poker to draw a floor plan for the building.
"It'll be a little rough, but I can give you the general idea,"
Poker replied.
Once the drawing was complete, Shenk and Stanton studied it with an
eye to a take-down operation that evening. The building was 5 floors
high, with a door to the roof. There were several entrances, but Poker
told them only two of them were open; the others were nailed shut. Both
the main, and rear entrances were guarded, and there were several armed
look-outs on the roof. The lab was on the third floor, at the southeast
corner of the building. There were about 8 or 9 workers inside, with
several guards watching them. All together there were about 10 or 12
armed men inside, and on the roof. The main stairway was located in
the center of the building, and there was always a guard posted on the
third floor outside the lab.
Stanton gave Poker two hundred dollars and told him that, for his own
safety, he would have to remain in lock-up at the station until the
operation was completed. Poker understood and agreed.
An hour later, after meeting with the entire S.W.A.T. team, the plans
were solidified, and the operation was ready to go.
At 11:05 all members of the team were in place outside the abandoned
school house. Three snipers were on the roof of a six-story building
across the street, putting them one floor higher than the suspect look-outs.
The officers, using night-scopes, confirmed that there were seven lookouts
on the roof, all armed with automatic weapons; four spread out along
the front of the building and three in the back.
All members of the team were in radio contact with each other. Capt.
Shenk gave the order for the diversionary team to go, and a car roared
past the front of the school building, with a patrol car, siren blaring,
following closely behind. Half a block past the schoolhouse, another
police car blocked the street. As the diversion car approached, it careened
off the street and into the side of an abandoned building. One officer
on the roof across from the schoolhouse, radioed that all of the guards
had moved to the front of the building and were looking down on the
action. At that moment, Shenk gave the word for the rear entry team
to "go". As another police car rolled past the building with
its siren also going, the team crashed through the rear door, and immediately
took control of the surprised guard, putting him on the floor and cuffing
him. Moments later the rest of the team entered. One of the men instructed
the captured guard to call for the guard at the front entrance to come
to the back. The man did as he was instructed, and within a minute the
second guard was also in custody.
Knowing that the only armed guard who now stood in their way to the
upper floors was the one on the third floor, Capt. Shenk summoned a
sharpshooter to the bottom of the stairway. Another of the team dropped
a can on the floor. Immediately, the man guarding the stairway poked
his head over the railing and, with his weapon pointed down to the lower
floors, called down. At that instant the sharpshooter put a silenced
round into his forehead, and he fell quietly to the floor. All of this
was accomplished within a minute and a half of the initial entry into
the building.
Seconds later the entire team was on the third floor, four men poised
at the closed entrance to the lab, and six more wearing gas masks, stood
at the stairway awaiting orders to ascend to the upper floors.
On the signal they all moved, those at the lab door smashing through
and, waving their weapons, identified themselves as police officers.
They screamed instructions for everyone to hit the floor, hands out
to their sides. All those in the lab immediately did as they were instructed.
Shank received a call from one of his men on the roof across the street,
telling him that several of the roof-guards left the roof. Shank assumed
that they had heard the noise made while taking of the lab. He immediately
alerted his men and, at the same time, heard several men yelling down
for the guard who had been on the third floor. Shank signaled three
of his men up the staircase in a staggered formation. Slowly the men
ascended the stairs, their short-barreled automatic rifles at the ready.
Shank and the others followed behind. When they made the turn halfway
up the staircase, the officers threw tear gas canisters up to the fourth
floor. A second later, shots rang out from the stairwell leading to
the fifth floor. The fire-fight was on. Bits of plaster flew off the
wall, and the old carpet jumped on the stairs. One of the officers was
hit in the shoulder, just off the end of his flack jacket. He said he
could make it down by himself. The team returned fire and lobbed a smoke
bomb up in the direction of the fire, and inched their way forward.
Coughs, curses, and short bursts of automatic weapons fire lit up the
haze. At last, running, stumbling footsteps told of a hasty retreat.
As the resisting force withdrew back to the roof, the snipers across
the street poured fire into them. Two of the suspects immediately fell
dead. The others took cover between the air conditioning units. Once
again, an officer using a bullhorn informed the resisting force they
were surrounded, and to throw down their weapons. Flashes of light and
the pap, pap, pap of weapons fire came from the roof. The officers at
the doorway to the roof lobbed another smoke bomb toward the air conditioners,
and dashed for cover on the roof. For a full ten seconds they poured
fire into the area where the suspects were hiding. When they stopped
shooting, a silence hung over the scene.
"This is your last chance," screamed the voice on the bullhorn.
"Come out with your hands up, or die where you are."
The fight was over. Automatic weapons were thrown out from between the
units, and two men scrambled into the clear. Two others screamed that
they were wounded and couldn't move.
A moment later the smoke from the canisters cleared, and the team moved
forward to secure the area. Three of the suspects were dead; one was
wounded in the leg, another in the stomach. the others were not hit.
All of the weapons were collected and put in a pile, guarded by several
officers.
"We need some medics up here," Stanton said into his two way
radio. "And call for some ambulances. We have one wounded officer."
"You mean in addition to the one who came down by himself?"
"Roger that," Stanton answered.
"How about the suspects?"
Three dead, two wounded, one pretty badly, and two uninjured."
"How bad is the officer?" the uniformed Captain asked.
"He caught one in the calf," Stanton replied. "He'll
be alright, but he's bleeding pretty good. Officer Blount has put a
tourniquet on it and is bringing him down now, but we can't move the
wounded perps yet," he added.
"What about the perps who weren't hit?"
Stanton laughed. "Yeah, Lt. Shank has both of them on the wall.
There are several more already downstairs. We're going to need some
help getting the weapons down. There's a shit load of 'em."
"Any dope?
Shenk laughed. "Yeah, we got the whole lab, and just enough meth
to keep a platoon of your average Hollywood stars happy for about a
year."
Chapter 2
The hallway lights flickered as DEA Agent Tracy McBain unlocked her
office door and stepped inside the large room. The grandfather clock,
in a darkened corner of the room, began chiming softly. It was nine
o'clock in the evening. Hard wind and rain were pounding against the
windows. Lightening illuminated the room like flash bulbs going off
at a news conference, followed seconds later by a vibrating and rumbling
thunder.
Tracy switched on the lights and, removing her raincoat, glanced in
the mirror hanging on the wall beside the brass coat rack. "Oh
brother," she whispered to the mirror. The 35-year old was blind
to the beauty that was hidden beneath the tired looking eyes and drawn
features that stared back at her. She wondered, as she touched her hair,
whether the long hours at the office, and in the field, were taking
their toll? Or, maybe it was the beginning of the inevitable transformation
to middle age, she thought.
She shook the coat and hung it on the rack, and then walked lazily toward
her desk and sat down. She hit the message button on the answering machine.
It beeped, and regurgitated mundane messages as she looked around the
room and sighed at the bulging stacks of files piled neatly on her credenza;
all demanding attention. She switched on the desk lamp and leaned back
in the comfort of her office chair. The flower patterned material which
covered the other chairs in the office, and the plants, and wall-paintings
placed around the room, all added warmth to the otherwise bland room.
She particularly prized a single; small print of "Luncheon in the
Garden", a famous Monet that was left to her from the estate of
her beloved grandpapa.
The clean desk top was a testament to Tracy's methodical efficiency,
and her line of defense against the unrelenting paper work that kept
calling her name. She picked up one of her files and began reading.
Some time later, her office phone rang. She picked up.
"Yes?"
A husky male voice, revealing a fairly heavy Spanish accent, spoke in
English, "Good evening, Bonita." "Bonita" was his
code name for Tracy. "This is Enrique." It was Enrique Chavez,
one of Tracy's informants. "I have confirmation on that shipment
we discussed last week."
"Enrique, how are you?" she returned.
"Hungry, Bonita. I am very hungry."
"From Colombia, to somewhere on the Florida coast, you said, correct?"
Receiving an affirmative reply, she asked, "Do you know for certain
now that it's cocaine?"
"I'm not saying that," he answered. "No one told me exactly
what the cargo is, but I will get a thousand dollars for one night of
work to unload the plane somewhere close to Fort Myers, and they don't
pay that much money for unloading marijuana, so I think it is cocaina.
That is my thinking."
"Yes, yes. Go on."
"Do we still have a deal, Bonita?"
"You have my personal assurances, Enrique. If the information proves
reliable, you'll be generously rewarded by the government, but you understand,
no seizure, no money."
"Si Bonita, entiendo." He understood. He said it wouldn't
be long, and that he would give Tracy a call when he was told of the
exact date and time. "I am going to need a car, but not one of
those shinny new ones. I would like to have an old one, one that is
not so new; one with many dents. Comprendes señorita?"
"Yes; I'll take care of it. Anything else?"
"No."
"I'll expect your call, then."
The informant hung up.
Tracy sat back in the chair, spun around, and looked out the window
at the storm. After a few minutes of deep thought, she turned back to
the desk. Thoughts of the conversation with Enrique filled her mind.
She opened a drawer, and pulled out the file containing the information
Enrique had already given her on the case. She wanted to refresh herself
as to the existing details, and add the ones she had just received.
She wanted no flaws in her game plan, and no interruptions to her thoughts.
Several days earlier, Tracy had called the Washington, DC headquarters
of the DEA, asking for Agent Roger Nydes. He wasn't there, and she left
a message. The next day Nydes, who was the leader of a special assault
team, called back. He assured her that his team was at her disposal
to go anywhere in the world to assist in this or any large-scale take-down
operations. All he needed, he said, was information about where and
when the operation was to go down. Then, he gave her a phone number
where he could be reached at any time, night or day.
Pouring over the file, she soon became deeply engrossed, losing all
sense of time.
Chapter 3
Some time later, Tracy was startled by the unexpected ring of another
call. As she lifted the receiver, the grandfather clock sounded a single
bong. Tracy glanced at it to see the hands straight up at midnight.
She was pleased to hear the voice of her friend, Detective Richard Stanton.
"Richard, how are you?" she asked warmly.
"You're sounding awfully chipper for the middle of the night,"
he joked.
"Not chipper, Richard; punchy is more like it," she returned.
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"I left a message at your office for you this afternoon, and later
I tried your cell, and then your apartment. You have no social life,
so where else would you be?"
"Yeah, thanks," Tracy replied with a sigh. "I didn't
get it on my message machine."
"I talked with your secretary."
Tracy quickly sorted through the pile of messages. "Oh, yes, here
it is. I'm sorry I haven't gotten back to you. So, what's going on?"
"We made a major bust last night over in Sage Hill; well, I guess
it's actually the night before last. Anyway, it's kept me going straight
through."
"OK, so?" Tracy replied.
"Well listen, I picked up a guy there who gave me some information
I thought you might be interested in."
"Information is my business, my friend. I'm all ears." She
said, quickly retrieving a sharp pencil and a note pad.
"Do you remember we talked about that tip you got from your informant
last week about a big load coming in by air?"
"I sure do. Why?"
"Did you ever get the details of it?"
"As a matter of fact, he just called me a little while ago. I know
it's going to go down somewhere near Fort Myers."
"Ah hah!"
"Oh, please, tell me you have something more. My informant says
he's not going to get the details until the last minute, and I need
as much lead time as I can get to coordinate everything."
"Did he give you a date for the delivery?"
"No, he doesn't know it yet."
"Well, I might have something for you," Richard declared,
sounding pleased with himself.
"Well, come on, Richard, what is it?"
Richard chuckled at her eagerness, then continued. "Now, I'm not
one hundred percent sure this is the same gig, but it sure sounds like
it. The mope I'm talking about is trying to make a deal, and told me
he had information about a big load flying into some airfield east of
Ft. Myers on the 23rd of this month. You said the load you're waiting
for was supposed to come in fairly soon. That's ten days away yet, but
this guy tells me that it was supposed to come in three days from now,
on the 16th but that things got delayed. Anyway, I figured it might
just be the same one you're talking about."
"Did he say how he knew this?" asked Tracy.
"Yeah. He said he was told he could make a thousand bucks for helping
to off-load the stuff if he was willing to go down there." Stanton
laughed, and added, "I asked him if he needed any help."
"Does he know where the airfield is?"
"He says he was given directions on how to get there. He was told
he should be there by eight in the evening, and he was given a name
of someone to contact there and a card showing that he was okay."
"Isn't it odd that they would give him directions that far in advance?"
Tracy asked.
"When they told him that, it was still supposed to be on the 16th."
"OK, eight O'clock; that's well after dark. That'll work well for
us. What directions?"
"From Ft. Myers, he's to go east on Route 78 to a little place
called Denaud. One mile east of there he is to turn onto a small dirt
road and follow it until he gets to the airfield, about three-quarters
of a mile away."
"Got it. Listen, Richard, I really appreciate this."
"I know."
Putting down the receiver, Tracy made a note that the first thing in
the morning she would call Chad Green, the Assistant US Attorney working
the case.
Immediately, she picked up the phone and called Agent Nydes, telling
him of her conversations with her informant and Detective Stanton.
"Once we get a confirmation on the time and location of the operation,
we can be prepared be in Fort Myers within a matter of hours. I already
have up-to-date topographical maps of every area in the world."
"I think I can confirm both the date, and the location, now,"
Tracy said, and relayed the information about the airfield near Denaud.
"The date is supposed to be on the 23rd of this month. If anything
changes, I'll contact you immediately, and I'll confirm all this information
again on the 21st."
"I'll need transportation from the airport in Ft. Meyers to the
location for up to fifty of my agents. I'll have some other needs also,
but I'll e-mail them to you tomorrow."
Once the conversation ended, Tracy turned off the desk lamp, crossed
the room, put on her raincoat, and switched off the lights. She opened
the door, and then looked back across the room. A satisfied smile crossed
her face. The storm outside was breaking.
As she would soon learn, however, the one in her life was just about
to begin.
Chapter 4
Agent John Holt moved silently along the back streets of Medellin,
Colombia, heading for a midnight rendezvous with an informant; a Colombian,
named Hector Swarez. Though he was fluent in Spanish, he was otherwise
unable to pass for a Colombian, so as much as it was possible, he stayed
in the shadows of the dimly lit street.
Being an American in Colombia wasn't particularly dangerous, even in
Medellin, the birthplace of big time drug cartels. But, being an American
in places where tourists aren't found, especially at that time of night,
can be very dangerous. Yet, Holt had to venture into such "forbidden"
places from time-to-time in order to meet with people, whose presence
in plain sight with an American could have dire consequences. Hector
Swarez was one such person. Although he was paid well for the information
he passed on to DEA agents, discovery of his activity by the Cartel
would spell a certain and painful death.
As Holt carefully made his way, an arm reached out from the shadows
and pulled him into a doorway.
"Quiet, sen?or," Hector whispered, momentarily putting his
finger to his lips.
"Hector," Holt replied, also whispering. "You scared
the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry, sen?or, but I believe I am being watched."
"Watched?"
"Sí, so I must be very careful. I have some important information
for you that should be very valuable."
"What kind of information?"
"I have the name of the person in America who is responsible for
providing information about your agents here in Colombia."
"You're certain about this, Hector?"
"Sí sen?or; I am very certain."
"That indeed is important information, my friend."
"How important?"
"About five thousand dollars important," Holt said. To one
such as Hector, five thousand dollars was a fortune.
Hector agreed, and passed the information by handing Holt a piece of
paper with some writing on it.
"You'll be paid as soon as I can get the money, maybe a day or
two. And, thank you Hector, thank you very much."
With that Hector stepped out of the doorway, and disappeared down the
street.
Chapter 5
When Agent Holt reached his car, he flipped open his cell phone and
hit his boss' speed-dial number.
"Bill," he said, when a man answered. "John here; I just
left Hector Swarez. He gave me some very valuable information."
"What is it?"
"Not on the phone. What time will you be in the office tomorrow?"
"Regular time, why?"
"Go back to bed. I'm sorry to have awakened you. I'll tell you
all about it in the morning.
Chapter 6
Two blocks away from Hector's meeting with Holt, a car awaited and,
as Hector approached several minutes later, two large men got out of
the black sedan, and stepped in front of him. Hector stopped immediately,
and thought briefly about turning to run. Noticing that another man
had gotten out of the other side of the car and stepped behind him,
he decided against it.
"Hey, que? paso?" Hector asked.
"Get into the car," one of the two men in front of him said.
"I am on my way home. It is just down the street," Hector
replied, pointing nervously.
"Get into the fucking car," the man repeated loudly.
Believing he had no choice but to get in and hope for the best, Hector
complied. When the other three men got in, the car pulled away.
Minutes later they pulled into the large parking lot of a soccer stadium,
and Hector was forced out. Minutes later, the distant headlights of
another car came toward them. When it arrived, a man who Hector recognized
immediately, got out of the back seat and walked over to him.
"You have been a bad boy, Hector," the man said in a sing-song
voice.
"I don't understand what you mean, Patron," Hector replied.
The man shook his head lazily. "Aw Hector, don't try to bullshit
me. We know what you've been doing."
"Please, Patron, I don't know what you are talking about."
"Do you think me to be stupid?" the man asked.
"No Patron."
"Well, then, why do you act like you do?"
"Patron …"
The man, again shaking his head, interrupted him. "Hector, Hector,
have I not treated you well over the years?"
"Si´ Patron, but …"
"And haven't I given you more than enough to take care of your
family?"
"Si´ Patron."
"Then why do you betray me?"
"Patron, I …"
"Why do you betray me, you fucking dog?" the man shouted,
spraying Hector with his speech.
Hector fell to his knees. "Please, Patron," he said, making
the sign of the cross. He was crying.
"Hector, my friend, this is not going to end well for you. I can,
however, make this very easy and painless, but you must tell me the
truth. Otherwise, the end will come slowly and very painfully."
"I know nothing of what you speak, Patron," Hector said, hoping
his continued denials might save him, and knowing that to confess was
to die.
The man grabbed Hector by the collar, yanked him to his feet, threw
him up against the car and said in a low voice, "If you don't tell
me what I want to know, I will cut off your balls and feed them to you."
Then he pushed Hector down to the ground.
"Please, Patron, I don't understand," Hector said, tears rolling
down his cheeks.
"Your tears will not save you this time, Hector," the man
said, and he stepped back. Another man stepped forward, standing in
front of Hector. He pulled, and opened a very large, and very sharp
knife.
The next morning, Hector's body was found lying in a dried pool of blood
in the parking lot. He was dead and mutilated. His balls were found
in his mouth, his lips sewn shut.
Hector's days as an informant were over.
Chapter 7
Working as a DEA agent in Colombia is a very risky business. The danger
is lethal and constant, and many wonder how the agents handle the pressure.
Agent John Holt had been one of them for almost fifteen years. He could
have been transferred back to the United States any time he wanted,
but he felt he could contribute more there than in the states. The extra
pay he received working in Colombia didn't hurt, either.
On that sunny morning following his meeting with Hector Swarez, Holt
was several miles outside the Colombian City of Medellin, heading for
his office and his meeting with his boss, Agent Bill Martin. He was
anxious and excited about showing Holt what he had learned about the
attacks on their agents. Maybe this information would put an end to
the problem. He reminded himself that he would call his home in Ohio
that morning to wish his 12-year old daughter a happy birthday.
On a particularly barren stretch of road, he approached what appeared
to be an accident. Three vehicles; a truck, a large black car, and a
police van, were blocking the highway. Holt slowed to a stop, and recognized
one of the police officers as a man he had known as a friend for several
years.
"Eduardo, como esta'?" he greeted as Eduardo approached him.
Holt thought it odd that the normally friendly, and talkative Eduardo,
made no verbal reply as he simply nodded. "Is there a problem?"
Holt asked in Spanish.
"We will be only a minute, señor," Eduardo said, as
he stopped about ten feet from Holt's car.
"Eduardo, it is me, John Holt," Holt said. "Do you not
recognize me?" Suddenly, Holt saw another man, carrying a submachine
gun, step out from behind the police van. Then, another armed man appeared
from behind one of the cars. Holt looked back at Eduardo.
Eduardo glanced aside at one of the men. "Fernando," he said,
then he pointed at Holt.
Holt understood immediately. He was to be assassinated. They had chosen
Eduardo to approach him because Eduardo could identify him, and because
they knew he would not feel threatened by the appearance of his friend.
Holt slammed the car into reverse and stood on the accelerator. Another
car pulled onto the road behind him, blocking his escape. Holt continued
on, increasing his speed until he smashed into the car. He reached for
the pistol at his shoulder, pushed open his door, and rolled out of
his car. Regaining his feet, and holding his gun at the ready, he could
see that four more men had appeared. They had surrounded him, preventing
any escape on foot. As time slowed, turning seconds into what seemed
like hours, the men approached Holt's position, their guns pointed at
him. He was a dead man, and he knew it. He dropped to one knee and began
firing.
Bullets from every direction ripped into his body. Holt took careful
aim at Eduardo and, in quick succession, fired the last three shots
of his life. The last thing he saw before he died was Eduardo's lifeless
body dropping to the ground like a bag of rocks.
Buy
this book on Amazon.com for the Kindle - Only $4.99
Buy
this book on Barnes & Noble for the Nook - Only $4.99
Copyright © 2009 E. T. Lewis. All rights reserved, including the
right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part
of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information
storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic
or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet
or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal
and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions,
and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted
materials.
Return
to Top of Page.
