Drug Lord- Part II Read online

  Chapter 7

  The guide who barely spoke English stepped forward. Before Ken could stop him, before he could really understand what was going on, the man brought his machete down in a long, sweeping arc. At its zenith, the sunlight reflected off the blade, making it look like some sort of holy beacon.

  But rarely had something holy done so much damage. The blade cut deep into the thug’s shoulder, nearly severing his arm holding the gun. He cried out and the scientist, sensing, but not seeing, a change, pulled free of his grasp.

  And Ken squeezed the trigger.

  The top half of the thug’s head became the same color as his red bandanna. Brain and blood and bone matter splattered the guide’s face, sending him stumbling backwards. He dropped the machete and desperately tried to claw the organic matter from his nose and mouth.

  This all happened so quickly that Weathers hadn’t even turned around yet, which was for the best.

  “More movement from inside the church,” he said.

  “And we got another bogey down over here,” Ken shot back.

  A moment later, he felt Weathers tense against his back.

  “Don't shoot, don't shoot!” he heard someone shout in a Spanish accent.

  Ken quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw a well-built, shirtless man step out of the bamboo structure.

  The scene was so strange that Ken's eyes lingered for a second longer than they should have. When he turned back, someone else was emerging, this time sprinting hard to the left.

  “How many are there?” Ken grumbled, leveling his gun again. But before he could line the blur up, it was gone.

  He debated just firing at the disturbed area anyway, but then thought better of it; with his luck, he would've probably taken out all the RAND scientists. He also considered running after the figure, but that would leave Weathers exposed. In the end, he didn't have to do anything; less than a minute later, the man reappeared.

  Only he wasn't alone this time. In his arms was a thrashing boy of about six or seven years of age, shouting something in Spanish.

  It was déjà vu; only this time a boy was held hostage instead of a scientist.

  Gritting his teeth, Ken tried to focus on the thug, but the boy kept bucking, making it impossible. During one such violent movement, Ken noticed several unnatural bulges from the pockets of the kid’s simple drawstring pants.

  The nuts… he was the one who threw the nuts.

  “Let him go,” the Spanish man who had just exited the church shouted from behind him. “Let him go!”

  The man gripping the boy by the waist was taller than the one who’d grabbed the scientist, and his bandanna was black instead of red, but his eyes… they had the same eyes.

  They were the eyes of a cold-blooded killer.

  And Ken wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.

  “Let him go!” the Spanish man continued to holler.

  “Gun down!” the thug shouted back.

  Goddamn it, just keep still, Ken tried to will the boy. Unlike the scientist, the boy was much shorter than his captor. If he could just stop moving for one second, Ken might have been able to take him out.

  But the boy was terrified, and Ken didn’t blame him. His legs shot out in front of him, and when the thug readjusted his grip on the boy’s waist, several nuts spilled from his pockets. Most stayed near their feet, but one of them rolled right up to Ken.

  Knowing that this stalemate could only go on for so long, Ken tried to meet the boy’s eyes. And then, by some miracle, they did meet, if only for a moment.

  “It’s now or never,” Ken whispered, hoping that when he kicked the nut, the boy would understand what he meant to do.

  After connecting with the toe of his boot, the green oblong shape skipped across the gravel. Just when it hit a stone and took a hard right, the boy leaned over to try and grab it.

  That’s when Ken once again filled the air with the sound of gunfire.

  Chapter 8

  “Stay there!” Weathers shouted. “Stay the fuck there!”

  But it was clear by the sound of feet striking the gravel that the man from the church wasn’t going to listen. As if on cue, the boy pulled himself free of the now dead thug and started running towards Ken, himself.

  Unsure of whether they had finally taken out all the threats, Ken kept his gun aimed at the bushes. Just before the boy reached him, the second guide stepped into the clearing along with the five other surveyors. One of them caught a glimpse of all the dead bodies, the carnage, and immediately buckled at the waist and started to vomit. The others covered their eyes like schoolchildren.

  “That's all of them,” the first guide, the one who had nearly chopped red bandanna’s arm off, said.

  Ken nodded, but he didn’t let his guard down.

  “Bogey approaching,” Weathers barked over his shoulder.

  But Ken was fairly certain at this point that the shirtless man who had exited the church wasn't a bogey; he was just a father who was grateful that his kid had been saved.

  “Let him get to his son,” Ken said.

  Weathers grunted an affirmative, and then he dropped to a knee. Clearly, the bullet he’d taken had done more damage than he was letting on.

  Ken would tend to him in a moment, but first, he had to be absolutely certain that nobody was going to pop out of the jungle. But before he could scan the entire perimeter of the clearing, the boy reached him. And, instead of running by him, he surprised Ken by leaping into his arms.

  Ken fell backward with the awkward embrace, knocking Weathers to the ground in the process.

  “Thank you,” the boy said as he hugged Ken. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Ken nodded as he waited for the boy’s father to peel his son off him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, rising to his feet and dusting his clothes. The boy’s father reiterated the thanks, to which Ken grunted.

  “Is that all of them?” he asked, indicating the six downed men with a wave of his hand.

  The shirtless man glanced at the corpses in succession, spending at least a few seconds on each of them before moving onto the next. He seemed unmoved by the sight of death.

  “Jes; that is all of them—for now.”

  With another nod, Ken shifted the shoulder strap so that the gun was aimed at the ground, then he turned to Weathers.

  “Hey, you—”

  Ken stopped when he saw that his friend hadn't yet risen back to his feet. In fact, at some point during the boy’s embrace, Weathers had fallen on his back and was now looking upward at the waning sun. His face had turned an ashen gray, and his breathing was coming in rapid, wet bursts.

  “Fuck,” Ken swore, immediately dropping to his knees beside his partner.

  It took him only a moment to find the wound: A single bullet hole about three inches below his left pectoral. Deep crimson stained his camouflage shirt and Ken first gently probed the entry wound before snaking his hand behind his friend’s back.

  His heart sank when he didn't find an exit hole.

  Weathers inhaled deeply, his large chest inflating. As he did, Ken heard and felt a sizzle from the orifice in his chest. Bubbles had formed on his torn shirt.

  His lung was indeed punctured. And, judging from the amount of blood still pumping from the wound, other organs had also been clipped.

  Desperate now, Ken looked up at the guides.

  “We need medical,” he said. The guide with his face covered in blood shook his head. Ken swore, then turned to the shirtless man who was still holding his son tightly. “Please, you need to help us; do you have any medical supplies in the church?”

  Chapter 9

  Ken grunted as he dragged Weathers across the gravel and then up the small steps of the church. The man’s lips had started to take on a bluish hue, and his breaths were accompanied by a hiccup now with almost every inhale.

  He should have cleared the church first, but Weathers was running out of time. When Ken finally made it ins
ide, what he saw nearly took his breath away. The church wasn’t empty, far from it. But it wasn’t filled with gang bangers, either.

  Inside, were three women, another child, and more heroin than he could ever imagine. The interior of the church itself reeked of vinegar so strongly that Ken’s eyes started to water almost immediately. The fumes were strong and likely caustic to a man with a lung injury, but he had to get Weathers out of the sun. Fighting his gag reflex, he yanked Weathers through the doorway.

  The women in the church were all huddled to one side, scared, but evidently not dangerous. Ken got the feeling that these people weren’t here on their own accord, and that the severed head on the spike was a reminder of what might happen to them if they attempted to leave.

  “Hospital,” he said. “Please, we need to get this man to a hospital.”

  The closest woman, apparently not understanding, simply shook her head, but another, this one much older than the rest, strode forward. She began rustling through a pile of papers, before coming up with a bag emblazoned with a red cross on it.

  As soon as he saw the small dimensions of the bag, Ken felt whatever fleeting hope he had left eke from his pores. In truth, he didn't know what he was expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be inside a six-by-eight-inch satchel.

  Nothing in there would fix a punctured lung.

  Shaking his head, Ken rose to his feet and pulled the satellite phone from his hip. The woman opened the bag and started to tend to Weathers as Ken dialed Sgt. Loomis’ number. When he saw that there was no signal, he made his way outside, inhaling deeply.

  He managed to snag one bar and then redialed Loomis. The phone rang once, and then a male voice answered. Ken promptly gave his call sign and waited to be transferred.

  “Cpl. Smith, this better be an emergency, because—”

  “Weathers has been shot,” Ken interrupted. With his free hand, he started to massage his temples. He couldn't believe how badly things had turned, and so quickly. In Iran, they’d been expecting this sort of thing, had prepared for it. But not here. Not while doing a stupid goddamn survey.

  I should've stayed on the path, I should've stayed behind the guides like they’d said.

  “Weathers has been shot, and it’s bad. I need immediate evac.” Ken pulled the phone away from his ear and read the coordinates from the dot matrix display. “It’s gotta be quick.”

  When Sgt. Loomis didn't immediately respond, Ken confirmed that he still had a signal.

  “Did you hear me? Weathers is hurt—bullet in the lung, he's not gonna make it much longer. We need immediate evac.”

  The man on the other end of the line uttered a heavy sigh, and Ken dreaded what was coming next.

  “That's a negative, Cpl. Smith; the closest evac is in Ecuador. You’re gonna have to hold tight for the night.

  Ken glanced back into the church and saw that even with the woman tending to his wounds, Weathers’ body had started to tremble.

  The night? He’s not going to make it through the hour.

  “No… no, not the night. Weathers isn’t gonna make it ‘til sundown.”

  “Do your best to make him comfortable, then,” Loomis said, his voice flat.

  Ken squeezed his temples. He couldn't believe it, he couldn’t believe that he’d convinced Weathers to come here.

  He couldn’t believe that he brought his best friend here to die.

  “I can have evac there for you at 0600 hours. Nothing earlier.” There was a short pause before Loomis offered, “I'm sorry.”

  Ken just shook his head. No amount of arguing would change the sergeant’s mind at this point.

  “Understood,” Ken said softly, before signing off. He tucked the phone back onto his belt and then made his way back into the church, Sgt. Loomis’ words echoing in his mind.

  Make him comfortable.

  Ken dropped to his knees and squeezed his partner’s hand in his own. Weathers slowly turned his head to look at him, and what he saw in the man’s dark eyes brought tears to his own.

  It wasn’t disdain, nor was it even anger. It was something else.

  It was sheer futility. Utter helplessness.

  In the reflection of the man’s moist eyes, Ken could see the same expression on his own face.

  There was nothing at all he could do but make his friend comfortable.

  Ken wiped the tears from his cheeks and turned to the elderly woman.

  “Can you give him something?”

  The woman frowned, and Ken glanced deliberately over at the barrels of heroin.

  “Please.”

  The woman seemed to understand now, and she started to rise.

  Ken turned his attention back to Weathers and squeezed the man’s large hand tightly.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I'm sorry, man. There’s nothing… fuck, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Chapter 10

  Ken Smith packed chewing tobacco into his lip and stared out into the brush, his hand resting comfortably on the butt of his rifle.

  He'd been standing this way for pretty much the entire night. And now that he could sense the sun struggling to rise, to shed illumination on the dense foliage before him, Ken finally felt the familiar tug of fatigue.

  This wasn’t the first time that he’d gone an entire night without sleep. Back in Iran, he’d survived for nearly three whole days hopped up on chewing tobacco and coffee grinds. But this was different. In Iran, his best friend’s corpse wasn’t lying a couple dozen feet away.

  He’d cried on and off throughout the night. The feeling of knowing that his friend was gasping for breath and there was nothing he could do was indescribable.

  At least he hadn’t suffered; the old ladies in the church had seen to that.

  The guides had long since left, taking the RAND Scientists to their final village to complete the mission.

  Ken had watched them go.

  He had to stay with Weathers; it was the least he could do. Every once in a while, one of the members of the church, three generations of the same family who had been held captive, would bring him a cup of water.

  He was grateful.

  They’d also brought him food, but he’d declined.

  Someone cleared their throat, and Ken turned, surprised to find the man from the church at his side.

  “That was my father,” the man said in a thick accent. He raised a finger and pointed at the outline of the head on the spike. “We went as a family to visit a local farm one day; on the way home, a van pulled in front of our car and blocked our path. The door opened and men with guns got out. My father resisted, but they beat him severely. Before we knew what was happening, they threw us all in the van, brought us out here. That was more than three years ago.”

  Ken could barely believe his ears.

  “Three years?”

  The man nodded.

  “They kept telling us that all we had to do is make one more batch and then they would take us home. But after about six months, it became obvious that this wasn’t the case. My father tried to break away, promising to get us help. But they caught him; they caught him and did that. After, we didn’t think about running anymore. We just accepted that this is our life from now on.”

  Ken looked at the man, unsure of what was more shocking, the fact that they had been kidnapped over three years ago, or that he spoke so candidly about his father's murder and decapitation.

  “We just accepted it,” the man repeated, turning his eyes to the horizon.

  Ken spat brown tobacco juice on the gravel at his feet.

  “Well, you're free to go now,” he said absently.

  The man at his right didn't say anything for some time. Eventually, Ken looked over at him again, if for nothing else but to make sure he was still there.

  He was.

  “Where would we go?” the man asked. “We’ve been gone for three years. Our family and friends think that we’re dead. Our house has been sold, our jobs given to others. We go back, and
we have nothing. We go back, and we are as helpless as we were here before you came.”

  Ken thought about this for a moment. He thought about how horrible it must be to be taken from your home, to be transplanted here in the jungle with only the clothes on your back and instructions on how to manufacture heroin and cocaine and whatever else they might have cooked inside the tiny church.

  How helpless one must feel.

  Ken turned to look at the sign that marked the entrance to the church, the one with the Spanish text and the strange symbol of a snake devouring an eyeball on it.

  “Iglesia de Liberacion,” the man said, following his gaze.

  Ken raised an eyebrow and the man translated.

  “The Church of Liberation.”

  Ken couldn't help but think of how the man and his family felt staring at that sign for three full years.

  “They'll be back, you know,” the man said, his eyes returning to the horizon. “Where there are drugs, there’s power. And that draws the bad people.”

  “And what are you going to do?” Ken asked absently.

  The man moved his hand to the gun tucked into his belt, which he’d pried away from one of the dead thugs.

  “What I have to,” he said after a deep breath. “The question is, what are you going to do?”

  Chapter 11

  For the first time in as long as he could remember, Ken Smith wasn't sure what he was going to do. He was grieving, of that he was certain, as was the fact that he was going back to New York.

  Without his best friend, that is.

  He figured that Sgt. Loomis would give him some time off and then likely set him up with some cushy local gig.

  But what of Carl Weathers? He was destined to become a faceless tragedy that would quickly be pushed under the rug by the US military and the RAND Corporation. Sure, Ken could go to the press, tell them what had really happened here, that Weathers died protecting a half dozen scientists, but what would that serve?

  People wouldn’t look at Carl as a hero, but with scorn. A black smear on the U.S. Army, on peacekeeping efforts in general.