White Wolf McLeod Page 19

  Chino did not bother to learn the village’s name, if it had one. He probably would not find it on a map anyway, much less the runway. It was a mere mud hole in the jungle and probably temporary at that. It served merely as a way station between the runway and his true destination. Every day the villagers had to hack away at the encroaching vegetation in its relentless desire to reclaim the land. He looked around and saw that the village was comprised only of old men and old women, poor and destitute, living on whatever scraps and hand-me-downs their owner deigned to pass on to them. The absence of children and young people should have bothered him, he supposed. But, again, he did not know these people; they mattered little to him. They were the flotsam caught up in a war they had not started or much less wanted, the dregs of the masses whose superiors droned into their heads that a better life was ahead if they just toed the line and followed orders. They were usually rewarded with a grave not deep enough to keep the dogs away.

  “You’ll sleep in that hut,” the head monkey told the six Americans. “Don’t leave it!” he added menacingly, patting his automatic rifle. “It’ll get dark soon, and then we’ll be traveling. You’ll eat in about an hour. In the meantime, I suggest you get some rest. You’ll need it, cause you’ll be riding all night.”

  “What if we have to pee?” asked one of the captives.

  The ape sneered. “Then I suggest you do it in your pants,” he remarked as he stalked away, bellowing orders to those peasants unfortunate to be within his line of sight.

  The hut was small for three men much less six, and it smelled of dried sweat from previous occupants. Chino staked out a corner and marked his territory by throwing down his backpack and lying down, using it as a pillow.

  “Hey, man! Who died and made you king?” one of his former co-passengers challenged him.

  Chino pushed his hat up his brow and looked up at him with impassive eyes. “I did.” His tone and facial expression translated the rest of the message. He almost hoped that his challenger would make an issue. His nerves were beginning to rub raw, and a good trouncing would not only help him feel better but warn the others that they had better not mess with him or suffer dire consequences. But much to his disappointment, the man backed down and saw that his other companions had already staked out the better portions of the hut, which left him the middle where he would have to lie down with his legs stuck up in the air or sit down with his knees tucked up.

  Supper was a simple fare: a baked bean paste, tortillas, and boar meat that was not only tough but very fatty. Chino chowed down on the meal with relish. It had been a long time since he had a home-cooked meal jungle style. It was yet another reminder of the good ol’ days when he was hunting human prey and the bounty was good.

  Around ten o’clock, the apes were back, and they started rousting their charges. Chino sat up and set his hat, which had been covering his face, aright on his head. He stretched and stood up, snatching his backpack in one fluid motion. Having been the first one to enter the hut, he was now the last to exit and the last to climb back aboard the truck. He liked his new position better: it gave him more options should he need to react. He never liked the idea of waiting for the unexpected to happen but preferred to be more proactive by expecting the different forms of trouble that might arise.

  As the truck weaved in and out of the jungle along poorly maintained trails, he thought about how easy it would be for him to suddenly just slip over the back and disappear into the jungle. He knew he could survive, but then he would be betraying his mission. While a part of him wanted to jump, he knew that he was probably closer to the center of the case McLeod was trying to crack than anyone had come to date. The thought of contact was now out of the question; he just hoped that the boss would not be too angry with him for skipping out of the country without his knowing or approval. That last thought made him smile.

  McLeod had pretty much saved him from a short life of crime. He would have never gone to jail, preferring to take his own life, if necessary, along with as many as those foolish enough to attempt to take him. The Marshal saw something worth salvaging from the wreck of a soldier who had descended into a savage, man-killing machine when the rest of the world could only see him as human rubbish. Chino saw a kindred heart in the Indian. The one major difference between them was the high degree of control McLeod exercised over his emotions. Chino knew that the man had killed his share of people, but it never affected him the way violent death had affected other men. McLeod had become an anchor in his life, and he was able to pull himself out of the muck and turn himself around. But, boy, what a task master McLeod had been, and for a long time he could not even breathe without permission from the man who had saved him.

  The jungle never seemed to end and neither did the road. His back and rump were beginning to get saddle-sores from the punishment the bed of the truck meted out as it pummeled him with each jostle and bounce. He understood now why the head guard told them to rest before the journey. The long road finally ended around daybreak as they pulled into a fair-sized town. Chino recognized it as a center for the collection of the poppy’s fruit, the processing of it into cocaine, and the packaging of it into manageable bundles, which would eventually find their way to middle men, probably in the States.

  The driver stopped in front of an adobe villa that doubled as a barracks where all the men disembarked. “This will be your home for the next few weeks,” the head ape told them. “Go on inside. You’ll be assigned rooms. Put your belongings in your room and then meet me back here.”

  Chino led the parade into the villa. The interior was designed like a small, cheap hotel. He walked up to the desk, told the clerk his name, and received a key. The number “3” had been engraved on the large handle; yet, it was fading away from erosion by the frequency of use as well as abuse. He found the room, unlocked the door, and entered a tiny cubicle. There was just enough room for the cot, a small chest with two drawers, and a clothes rack for hanging up his jacket. He tossed his backpack on the cot and left the room, locking the door behind him. He glanced down the corridor and espied the community bathroom. He decided to check it out before returning to the truck and found it to contain one toilet and a tiled space for showering with no shower curtain. The toilet was stained and looked like it had not been cleaned since it had been installed a hundred years ago.

  Outside again, he found that he was the third to return. He took the time to look around the village to see what he had gotten himself into. It was a quiet place with few people on the streets. No building stood higher than two stories; all were made out of adobe and whitewashed and were fairly indistinguishable from their neighbors. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Colombian man wearing an oversized straw hat eyeballing the truck, but he had the uncanny feeling that he was watching him specifically. Since there was nothing that he could do about the surveillance, he decided to ignore the shadow, at least for the time being. After it was dark and most of the villagers were asleep, it might be a different matter.

  Finally, the other three workers straggled out to the truck, and the men were ordered to climb aboard again. The ride was not very long this time. They were taken to one of the expansive poppy fields just outside of town and were dropped off at a hut strategically located in the middle of the field. Inside the hut were bags of poppy seeds, and they started loading these onto the back of the truck. When they had finished, they were driven to another poppy field, and the same work was repeated. By noon, the truck was filled to capacity, and they returned to the village where they unloaded the bags in front of a long, one-story building.

  “All right. Good work!” the head monkey praised them. “We break for lunch. Then you’ll have a three-hour break to sleep and rest. Any questions?”

  “I have one,” a thin man in his early twenties sporting a blond mustache that was not cooperating in his attempts to turn it into a handlebar. “What’s the agenda for this afternoon and early evening?”

  “Why? You got a date?” was his answer
. “Let me tell you boys something. The women in this town are off limits. When we think you have deserved some female company, we’ll provide you with entertainment. There’ll be no booze, either. And if you want to sample any of our fine powder here, you’ll pay for it out of your wages. Any infraction of these rules I’ve just outlined, and you’ll never see the States again. Am I understood?”

  The men collectively muttered their understanding, but that did not mean they were happy about their current predicament. Chino merely accepted the situation in stride. He had suffered worse deprivation in situations where his very survival had been in doubt. At the moment, he was looking forward to sampling the village’s cuisine. Something about the jungle made his taste buds come alive.

  The Colombian sun rose high in the sky, and the temperatures soared above ninety degrees in the shade. The entire village came to a halt as every man, woman, and child took advantage of the siesta. Chino’s room felt like an oven, even with the small window head high wide open. He pulled off his shirt and pants and flopped down on the cot. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  The afternoon proved to be a little more interesting than the morning’s ride. They were taken to the edge of one of the poppy fields where a shooting range had been set up.

  “All right, listen up!” the head ape barked when the six initiates had lined up next to the truck. “Who’s had weapons experience?” All six men raised their hands. “Show offs, huh? Okay, who’s had automatic weapons experience?” This time Chino and the thin man raised their hands.

  “You,” the monkey pointed at the thin man. “Where did you learn?”

  “Army training school.”

  “And you,” he pointed at Chino. “Where did you learn?”

  “In jungles just like this one,” Chino smarted off.

  The gorilla picked up an AK-47 from out of a box behind him and tossed at Chino. He caught it deftly with his right hand and then cradled it with both hands. “Ever see one of those before?”

  “Yep. Used to take a lot of these off dead guys.”

  “All right, wise guy. Let’s see what you can do.” He threw Chino a clip. “Go over there and fire away at those targets. Maybe you’ll get lucky and hit something.”

  “How do you want me to fire?” Chino questioned.

  “Just load the damn thing and try to hit something down range!”

  Chino walked to a line that had been etched in the dirt to simulate a firing line and faced the far right target. Then he loaded the clip, armed the weapon, counted to five, and fired a burst of bullets. Then he rolled to his left and came up on one knee and fired at the second target. He rolled again and lay supine on the ground and fired at the third. Switching the weapon from his right trigger finger to his left, he rolled lengthwise until he was facing the fourth target and sent another series of bullets down range. Then he stood up, removed the clip and ejected the last remaining bullet left in the chamber and walked back to the head monkey. He handed the weapon back. “It needs to be sighted. About one click to the right.”

  The goon yanked the weapon out of Chino’s grasp and inspected it. “Get back in line!” He turned to one of his confederates. “Go see if he hit something!”

  Five minutes later, the second monkey returned. “Four kills,” he announced.

  “Impressive,” the head ape grunted. “Good. You’ve just been promoted to instructor. See if you can teach these greenhorns to hit something they are aiming at besides themselves.”

  While Chino began putting the other men through their paces, a large Colombian with a potbelly stepped out of a black car several yards away. He had been observing in the comfort of his air-conditioned vehicle from the vantage of the backseat. He motioned for the head monkey to come over and gave him several instructions. The ape nodded and returned to where Chino was giving his first lesson.

  “Someone wants to meet you,” the goon told him, meaning that he was to follow him immediately. Chino stopped in mid-sentence, put the weapon he had picked up back in the box, and meekly followed the boss man to the heavyset Colombian.

  “What’s your name?” the fat man asked in a commanding tone.

  “Jack Carlos,” Chino answered.

  “That your real name?” The Colombian’s face wore an expression that said he already knew the answer.

  “No. It was given to me.” Chino felt a presence about the man, and he decided that lying was not in his best interest. “My real name is Jack Chino.”

  “Do you know who I am?” The man was obviously higher up the food chain than a lackey lieutenant, and he puffed himself up with much self-importance.

  “No. I don’t ask many questions. I do what I am told. If someone shares with me something important, I take it as a bonus.”

  “I’m Elian Alvarez. That mean anything to you?” The fat man was looking at him as if he were a dissected frog, trying to understand what made him tick.

  Chino stuck his chin up for a moment to indicate that he was thinking. “No.”

  The fat man waved his right hand to indicate the field around them. “I own all this and much more.”

  “Then I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’m glad to finally meet the man in charge.”

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?” Chino noted a hint of awe in the man’s voice.

  “I was a Green Beret,” he declared simply.

  “You ever been in Colombia before?” Now Chino felt he knew the direction where this conversation was headed.

  “No, sir. Nicaragua and Costa Rica? Yes. Colombia? No.”

  Alvarez studied Chino for several moments. “I am tempted to believe you might be a plant, Mr. Chino.”

  “Just Chino, please. It wasn’t my idea to come here. I pretty much have had my fill of jungles, if you want to know the truth. But, like I said, I just follow orders.”

  “Just the same, you’re just the kind of person the CIA would send down to infiltrate my organization,” he accused.

  “Then I’d be a dead one, sir,” Chino replied in a deadpanned voice. “It would be pretty stupid of me to show off my shooting skills just to get shot for being suspected of being a spy. I know the jungle. I’ve fought in the jungle, and I’ve killed a lot of men in the jungle. It was what I was taught to do, and when I had done my time, I split.”

  “Uh-huh.” Alvarez did not sound convinced. “We’ll be watching you, Chino. I hope for your sake you check out okay. You could be a real asset to our organization.” He returned to his car and told his driver to return him to his home.

  An hour before nightfall, Chino and the others were returned to their rooms. It had been a rather tiring day, and he was glad to be back. The head monkey had told them to be ready to rise at dawn. It seemed that he had barely put his head down when two men in masks were on top of him and pinning him to the cot. Before he could react, however, a needle was shoved into his arm, and his world turned black.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BACK AT THE OFFICE

  “TIM,” MCLEOD YELLED to him as he walked into his office area, “you have that information I asked you to get?” He had returned to work early the morning after he had arrived back in Washington, D.C.

  “Boss!” Tim exclaimed with both surprise and genuine pleasure. “Am I glad to see you! You still kicking ass?”

  McLeod brusquely waved the sentiment aside. “The information. Did you get it or not?”

  “Uh, I assigned it to Charlie. He’s got better contacts with the State Department than me. I think he’s ready to give you his report.”

  “I want a meeting in five minutes.”

  Tim watched McLeod’s retreating back. He could feel the Marshall’s ire ripple with each step as he strode towards his desk, and his curiosity heightened. Tim could not wait to hear what had happened in Lake Tahoe. He had tried to pump information from Mary, but she was as tight-lipped as a clam at harvesting time. He glanced down at the newspaper he had been perusing and reread the headline: “Lake Tahoe Detective Dead At Home: Foul Play S
uspected.” The article reported that the Detective had been surprised at his home by an unknown assailant or assailants, beaten badly, and then killed by having his throat cut. His wife found him late in the evening; he was wearing what in the business was called a “Columbian necktie,” meaning that his tongue had been pulled out through his neck and laid out on his chest. There were no clues as to the perpetrator or perpetrators at this time, although the authorities—Tim understood that to mean the FBI—suspected mob involvement. There was unspecified collaborating evidence in the Detective’s house that had tied him to the Seriglio family. Tim was beginning to suspect his boss’ hand in this, but, of course, he had no proof. Then, he gave himself a mental shrug: Why should I care about a crooked cop?

  McLeod appropriated the small conference room on the same floor and addressed his team of three. “All right. Give me what you got,” he demanded in a tired voice.

  Charlie set a thin briefcase on the conference table, removed a sheaf of papers, and set them down in front of his superior. “I had to call in a lot of markers, Chief, and needless to say, my contacts weren’t very enthusiastic about giving me this information.”

  “Screw your informants,” McLeod rejoined irritably. “Just get on with it.”

  Charlie appeared more subdued as he continued his report, as he was not accustomed to dealing with a moody McLeod. “Prescott made his bones by selling his soul to the Tanelli family about fifteen years ago. They set him up with a legitimate business, a financial institution, through which they laundered their ill-gotten money. About six years ago, he apparently switched sides and joined the Seriglio family, just as they were making the transition to Nevada.

  “If I were to inject an opinion, he was probably ordered to ‘defect’ by his controllers.” He waited for McLeod to comment, but since his boss declined, he continued. “With his power and influence, he helped promote Senator Laughlin’s meteoric rise to the Senate. He’s been rather useful in his current position as lobbyist, paying off aides and the like to help keep the heat off both the Tanelli and the Seriglio families.”