Ready to Kill (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

El Jefe’s enforcer lived a double life. The residents of Santavilla knew him only by his nickname, Franco, short for
el francotirador
: the sniper. Last night, he’d been the white-shirted man with the bullhorn—Macanas’s enforcer—but none of them knew he was also Macanas’s feared hit man.

During the briefing this morning, Macanas had been furious about Franco’s report of Pastor Tobias’s defiance, but even more furious about Tobias’s parting comment. Macanas now saw Tobias as more than just a small-town troublemaker. So here Franco was, returning to Santavilla for the second time in as many days. Over the past few months, Tobias had become increasingly critical of Macanas’s mining operations. The man had actually tried to start a labor union. The audacity was laughable. A labor union? After a few outspoken miners’ houses mysteriously burned to the ground, all talk of forming a labor union had ended. The sad thing was, the townsfolk didn’t appreciate what El Jefe gave them. Without his protection, they’d be subject to constant marauding by rival criminal gangs. At least El Jefe paid a fair wage. Other mine owners were far less generous.

Franco kept himself in top physical shape, a necessity in his profession. At age forty-seven, he possessed better stamina than most men half his age. He had some gray invading, but for the most part, his hair remained black, nearly the same color as his eyes. Having never known his parents, he didn’t know which side of the equation his super dark irises came from, but he liked the hard look they gave him. At five foot seven, he stood at average height, but that was his only average trait. He spoke three languages and possessed extensive computer skills. In addition to being an expert in both surveillance and countersurveillance, he could make and disarm bombs and reload ammunition. His hand-to-hand combat skills were also finely honed.

The Range Rover hit another deep pothole, and Franco’s head nearly hit the side window. He inwardly cursed and remained silent. Walking would be preferable. And faster. Voicing his displeasure to his driver would accomplish nothing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a FOMAV work crew out here grading the road. The Range Rover was an exquisite vehicle, but its state-of-the-art suspension system was no match for this road’s ruined surface. He made a mental note to organize a few Saturday work crews and get the worst of these potholes filled. Two or three days ought to do it. Besides, it’s not like these people had anything better to do. When they weren’t working the mines, most of them sat around smoking marijuana, drinking moonshine, and watching the trees grow.

One kilometer shy of the town, Franco ordered the driver to stop. The two white shirts in front remained silent and didn’t turn around. Fear had an undermining effect on the soul. Both of them knew they could be in Franco’s crosshairs one day. It didn’t take a major screwup to fall out of Macanas’s favor. The boss wasn’t unfair to his men, but these two clowns already owned two strikes and needed to be on their best behavior.

Wearing a woodland combat uniform, Franco exited the SUV, donned his backpack, and slung his Remington 700 over his shoulder. There were much more modern sniper rifles available with all kinds of bells and whistles, but he knew this weapon inside and out. He’d recently read an article in a gun magazine about an expensive optical system that could track a target after its laser acquired it. He didn’t begrudge leaps in technology; he just preferred the old-fashioned way. There was no substitute for hand-eye coordination and the skill of nailing a wind correction.

Franco slipped into the thick undergrowth lining the road and waited for the SUV to continue on its way. Before beginning his ascent of the steep mountainside, he held perfectly still for several minutes, listening for anything other than the sounds of the forest.

He looked at his watch and logged the time at 1650 hours. His ride would return at exactly 1900 hours. He preferred shooting in the early morning or late afternoon because he liked the sun low and behind him.

In another five hundred meters, he’d intersect an ancient trail. Local folklore said the trail dated back to the Mayans, but Franco didn’t put much weight on native legends. From there, he’d head north toward his shooting position overlooking Santavilla. He had plenty of time—the church meeting didn’t adjourn for another hour—so he felt no need to hurry.

Franco didn’t know why he felt so comfortable in the jungle, only that he always had. As a child, he’d sneaked out of the orphanage and explored this damp and mysterious world more times than he could remember, and it had never ceased to amaze him. Perhaps it was the rule of opposites. These mountains were teeming with life, something he lacked in his soul. He had no illusions about who he was—Macanas’s chief of security—and he never second-guessed his role as an enforcer.

Keeping his senses on high alert, Franco continued his hike up the mountain. He stopped every hundred meters or so and inhaled deeply, smelling for tobacco or marijuana.

Even though it was early in November at the end of the rainy season, the leading edge of a thunderstorm loomed on the western horizon. He thought it unlikely anyone would be up here, but he didn’t rule it out. Assumption led to mistakes, and mistakes weren’t tolerated. A happy boss was a generous boss, and he intended to keep the money flowing.

Ten minutes later, Franco found the trail and followed it north. Making his way through the foliage, he sensed countless forest creatures tracking his progress—mostly birds and primates. Jaguars lived in these mountains, but they didn’t concern him. Snakes were a different matter, and there were many poisonous varieties up here.

He followed the trail for another klick as it gradually dropped in elevation. In several areas, he had to make detours around fallen branches. Thirty meters short of his shooting position, he stopped and removed his backpack. Within seconds, he turned himself into a shaggy green mass. He’d made the ghillie suit himself, something he’d never share with his colleagues. As a child, he’d spent eight years in a sweatshop making clothing, work he’d detested with a passion. He never believed he’d use such a menial skill ever again, but life tended to be unpredictable.

Franco didn’t need the ghillie suit to conceal himself from anyone in the center of town, about nine hundred meters distant, but it offered an extra layer of stealth. Several months ago, he’d dug a small, level pad into the mountainside and covered the excavated area with a branch he’d cut from a madroño tree. He’d dug similar pads in other strategic locations in the mountains surrounding the town. It was always best to have multiple options.

Since he still had thirty minutes until the church meeting would end, he figured he ought to use the extra time to practice his low-crawl technique. After checking for ants, he dropped to his belly and inched forward along the trail, maintaining a pace of three meters per minute. It was painstakingly slow but an essential talent for jungle combat. When he reached the area directly above his shooting position, he slowly pivoted on his left hip and began a downhill crawl. The terrain wasn’t overly steep, but by going headfirst, he could control his speed more precisely. He eased the cut branch aside and checked for snakes, then, like oozing molasses, poured himself onto the excavated pad. Franco preferred shooting from a prone position, but the terrain dictated he use a sitting, cross-legged technique.

He maneuvered into position and pulled his coat out from under him. Unslinging his rifle, he checked its box magazine by pulling the bolt back halfway, careful not to eject the live round he kept in the chamber. All good. He closed the bolt and disengaged the safety with his thumb.

Although the clouds made the ambient light patchy, the sun hadn’t yet dropped below the mountains. Now it became a waiting game. He scoped the flag above the general store and estimated the wind at just under ten kilometers per hour from the northeast. Using an expensive range finder, he took a reading to the general store and dialed the elevation into his scope. Next, he added a small wind correction. He didn’t need much—the wind was coming from his one o’clock vector.

He returned his eye to the scope and began a series of slow deep breaths.

Inside the small brick church, Pastor Tobias finished his closing prayer and opened his eyes. The fear and uncertainty he saw in his congregation concerned him. News of Mateo’s punishment made everyone edgy; Mateo wasn’t the only miner who kept a personal stash of gold dust. Although the miners were allowed to pan gold for themselves on Sundays, technically the gold didn’t belong to them, and they were required to exchange it for cash at the end of the day. One thing was certain, at next Sunday’s cash-out, the payouts would be larger than normal. These people may be impoverished, but they weren’t stupid. Anyone who owned a secret stash of gold would add a little extra over the next few Sundays so it wouldn’t look like they’d been hoarding.

Poverty in the village created a vicious circle Tobias knew all too well. The poorer these people became, the more desperate for menial work they became, which only made them poorer. In remote areas like Santavilla, public schools, hospitals, and fire and police stations didn’t exist. There was no infrastructure to create a better way of life. Their lives were mundane at best, downright dreary at worst. Most of them toiled seven days a week—they had to. Seventy-five córdobas a day—about four US dollars—didn’t go far.

Perhaps that’s why Tobias had chosen this town. If he couldn’t help them financially, at least he could help them spiritually and educate them on the dangers of working with mercury.

Mrs. Perez approached him. She and her husband owned the general store near Mateo’s house. “Bless you, Pastor Tobias. I heard about last night. Will Mateo be okay?”

“If he doesn’t get an infection, he should be all right, but he’ll be disfigured for the rest of his life.”

“My husband and I have some money for him. It isn’t much.” She handed Tobias five hundred córdobas.

“That’s quite generous. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I keep telling everyone to wear rubber gloves, but only a few of the ore workers are buying them even though we’re selling them at cost.”

“We can only make people aware of the danger. We can’t force them to do anything.”

“I wish I could give them away for free.”

“You do plenty. Please don’t feel guilty.”

He thanked Mrs. Perez again for the donation, gave her a hug, and left the church.

The sound of a diesel engine broke the town’s silence. The work bus had arrived with the first load of miners.

Franco focused on the bus as it entered the far end of town. When it stopped in front of the general store, he moved his scope to the south and spotted Antonia leaving the church. “What are
you
doing there?” he whispered.

He watched Mateo’s daughter walk up the street toward the bus. He couldn’t see her facial expression, but her body language seemed stiff. She didn’t move with the confidence he usually saw in her stride. She kept glancing nervously back toward the church. Seeing her father punished last night had angered her—that much was clear. But rules were rules, and he intended to question her about her father’s secret stash of gold.

Franco trained his crosshairs on Tobias as he walked toward the bus.

He subconsciously checked the safety with his thumb and continued his deep breaths. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his body. He loved the feeling and wished he could experience it more often. Perhaps he would. Antonia had some explaining to do.

Franco swung his scope to the flag above the general store. Watching its movement, he decided to add an additional half minute of angle to his wind correction. He returned the crosshairs to his target, blew half a breath out, and began a controlled pull of the trigger.