The Assassin's Case (15 page)

They started running again and Tedesco removed a block of C-4 from his pack. “Last one.” He turned, flinging the block like a discus. It landed about half the distance to the soldiers’ position. Tedesco turned to run and pressed the detonator, aiming it back over his shoulder. Sand blasted into the sky in a plume of flame, providing a momentary barrier.

Arms pumping they reached the jungle’s edge, gunfire following them. Grant had serious doubts about their chances of survival.

“Take cover,” Tedesco yelled.

Grant moved behind the thin trunk of a palm tree and leaned against it. A little shelter was better than none. He dropped the empty assault rifle and ripped his SIG P229 from its holster.

Tedesco held the detonator. When the group came abreast of the yacht, he mashed the button. A boom cracked the air. The yacht and the quay disappeared in a ball of red and yellow flame. Heat washed over Grant’s face. Blazing bits of boat and chunks of dock splashed to the water and rained down on Cane’s men.

“That should give us a head start,” Tedesco said.

Night vision momentarily ruined by the blast, the two men stumbled up the slope, into the shelter of the jungle. 

EIGHTEEN

Wind whipping her hair, a knee propped on the boat’s passenger seat, Jaime stared toward shore. Her hands clutched the backrest, the leather wrinkled and puckered beneath her hands. The flare of the yacht’s incineration reflected a yellow glow on the bay. Flaming rain poured across the beach and the water.

              “He’s going to be fine.” Evans removed a hand from the steering wheel and patted her arm. “Now. Have a seat, and hold on.”

              Jaime stared for another moment before she plopped down in the seat. This is the way Grant would have wanted it anyway. The chance to die saving someone else. For some reason this made Jaime even more miserable than the thought of his death. The fact he would want to die … to leave her … again. As stupid and sophomoric as it was, the feelings she had for him, feelings she fought to stifle, had bloomed in full flower. Her emotional attachment to Grant survived sixteen years, and a brief yet tumultuous marriage. Her husband was a good man, movie star handsome to boot, but within a year the magic dissipated. He needed a wife, children, but to be honest she hadn’t been ready for it. Any of it. The bureau gave her the excuse to be an absentee wife. She volunteered for assignments that would keep her away from home. In his defense, he did his best, stuck with her. And he wasn’t stupid, he realized long before Jaime did that she didn’t want to be married. At least not to him. Though she dated some in the years since, there hadn’t been anyone special. But when she walked into Tedesco’s bar and saw Grant standing there. Well … her biological clock just counted down to zero.

              She swiped at a tear pooling in the corner of her eye before it could roll down her cheek. At least it was worth it. At the front of the boat Morgan clutched his grandchildren to his chest, one perched on each of his legs. His wife and daughter sat to either side of him. For the first time since Jaime met the man he didn’t look haunted. The gravity of his grief, which had seemed to tug on his skin, no longer weighed on him. Jaime studied each member of the family’s faces, lingering on the children. Those beautiful, innocent, children.

Yes. It was worth it.

              Tim Peterson had profusely thanked Jaime and then Evans when he jumped on board the boat.

              Tabitha had inquired after her guardian angel. Everyone assured her he would be fine. All part of the plan.

              As the boat reached top speed, skimming across the top of the moon soaked bay, Jaime turned one last time.

God. If you’re listening. Please take care of him.

* * * * *

Placing a hand on Tedesco’s shoulder, Grant held a finger to his lips to indicate the need for silence. The two of them had scrambled and clawed their way through dense jungle to the crest of the ridge surrounding the compound. Though they moved with as little noise as they could, the necessity of speed made soundless movement impossible. Every scuff of a boot on rock, each whisper of cloth scraping a branch, seemed to trumpet their location.

              Grant heard something. A faint sound he couldn’t quite make out that didn’t belong. He stopped. The jungle was alive with the trill of insects, the call of predatory birds.

              When the sound repeated he snapped his eyes in its direction, down the slope behind them. A boot scraping the ground. He couldn’t see anything but leaves, limbs, and shadows. Though the moon’s glow provided plenty of light, it seemed to deepen the shadows beneath the trees. As Grant stared, two of the shadows separated from a dense section of the forest, moving quickly through a patch of moonlight, to again meld into the deeper gloom.

Two men.

Grant pointed to a game trail winding down the other side of the hill and away from their pursuers. Tedesco nodded his understanding.

They moved along the trail, dodging overhanging leaves and branches, the ground relatively clear of snags. Tedesco’s step was light for a large man. Grant realized it was a useful skill in his former trade, one which would allow him to sneak up on unsuspecting victims.

After traversing a small stream they arrived at the road. Kneeling near the tree line, Grant considered their next move. They couldn’t just walk along the highway. Headlights from an approaching vehicle forced them to lie on their stomachs. A black SUV rolled slowly by. It passed their position, went about a hundred yards, and turned around.

Grant whispered in Tedesco’s ear. “They’re looking for us. When they go back by, we’re going to sprint across the road.”

The SUV drove past. Grant waited just long enough for the glow of the taillights to fade from the pavement in front of them. He sprang from the ground and darted across the highway, Tedesco a step behind. As the vehicle turned to make another sweep they dove into the tangle of trees on the north side of the road.

Within a few yards of entering the cover of the trees the ground began to rise sharply, their path taking them into the foothills of the Sierra Madre’s. They climbed to a flat area on top of the hill.

Grant collapsed to the ground and leaned against a tree. “I need to catch my breath.”

Tedesco sank to the ground as well. “What’s our next move?” He asked.

“We need to figure out if we’ve lost them. If not … we’ll have to come up with something.” Grant removed his tattered shirt, used it to wipe his face, and tied it around his waist. He pulled back the sleeve of his black undershirt and examined the wound in his shoulder. A bloody furrow about two-inches long dissected his deltoid. The gash wasn’t very deep and had already coagulated. It would be stiff but not debilitating. He worked his arm in circles to loosen his muscles. “We’re probably six or seven miles from Puerto Vallarta. A couple from Mismaloya. We can’t just hike down the highway either.”

“Any ideas?”

“There’s a tourist spot just north of here. The set of the movie
Predator
. If we can survive the night, maybe we can get a bus or cab there in the morning. At least there will be people. Witnesses.”

“Have you been here before?” Tedesco said.

Grant shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got sort of a photographic memory when it comes to maps. I had plenty of time to study one on the plane. And I read some travel info.”

He forced himself up and scooted to the edge of the slope. Staring back toward the highway he saw two vehicles patrolling the road. He studied the forest beneath, listening for sounds of pursuit.

* * * * *

The two unlikely companions crept over root choked and winding trails in the dense mountainous jungle. Branches whipped their faces and bodies as they slogged through the undergrowth. Mosquitoes and biting flies, drawn by the sweaty heat of their bodies, swarmed them, buzzed in their ears, feasted on their exposed skin. Grant pushed past a tangle of low branches and stepped onto a wider and more defined trail. He raised a hand and Tedesco stopped. Grant panned the barrel of his pistol left and right. Sensing no danger, he waved Tedesco into the open, and they followed the path downhill.  

The trail ended, opening into a clearing by a wide stream. Grant leaned against a boulder, drained from the tortuous march. Moonbeams danced over the dark waters. Downstream the roar of cascading water indicated falls.

              Tedesco leaned against the bole of a towering tree, its tangled roots disappearing beneath the stream. Their pursuers were close, Grant had heard them earlier. Hiding in the dense undergrowth had been considered, but at least one of the men following them must be an experienced tracker to have been able to stay on their trail. In addition, they were undoubtedly equipped with night optics. Grant and Tedesco may have believed themselves hidden, but in fact may have become cowering targets.

              But, Grant had run far enough, and this stream provided an opportunity. Scanning the layout he formulated a plan. He pulled Tedesco in close. “They’re going to have to cross once they see that our trail ends here.” To demonstrate, Grant walked to the edge of the stream, his boots leaving clear tracks in the moist soil at its edge. He waved for Tedesco to follow.

              Grant waded toward the middle of the small river, the exposure making his skin crawl. He clutched the SIG, attempting to watch his surroundings and avoid the stones littering the bottom. He stopped in the knee deep water. When Tedesco caught up Grant leaned close and whispered so he could be heard over the gurgle of the stream. “You set up over there.” He pointed to a boulder on the opposite edge of the stream surrounded by leafy ferns. “I’m going to wait for them to come out. Try to get behind them. You cover me.”

              Tedesco stared at the gun in his hand as if it were a serpent, just waiting to sink its fangs into his fingers. He took a long slow breath before he finally nodded. “All right.”

              As the big man waded to the far side Grant turned back the way he came, heading for the tree Tedesco had leaned against. Tendrils from its massive and gnarled root ball stretched over the bank and into the stream, giving the impression of a giant hand reaching into the water. The river flowed beneath the roots, creating a nice, but quite spooky, hiding spot.

              Grant removed the shirt hanging from his waist and slid it on. His relatively white skin would glow against the black water. He reached down, scooped mud from the stream’s bottom, and smeared it over his face, ears, and neck. With the gallons of sweat pouring out of him, he was pretty sure most of his black face paint had worn away.

              He slipped his knife from the scabbard on his leg unwilling to face whatever may lurk beneath the roots unarmed. The spot seemed perfect for a copper-headed-water-rattler with a mutant Anaconda for a mother. Grant swallowed.
They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.
The blathering moron who pontificated this line of reasoning probably wasn’t about to enter a dark hole, in the water no less, at night, in a jungle known for a wide variety of snakes.

              Wielding the knife before him Grant waded beneath the morass of roots. Before he sat down he poked and slashed the waters around him with the knife.
Say hello to my leetle friend.

              Once he was satisfied no crawly creatures occupied the space, he slipped the knife into its sheath and sank beneath the water. He leaned his head against a massive root, settling down until only his nose and eyes were above the surface. The water cooled his skin, refreshing as it washed over his grime-tainted body.

              The holstered SIG should survive the dunking as long as it was wiped and cleaned as soon as possible. At least he hoped. It may be needed. Grant had his fill of killing, and it would suit him fine never to have to do it again, but if a choice had to be made between their lives and his … well there wasn’t really a choice.

              Within a matter of minutes Grant sensed a presence nearby, followed by a barely discernible squelch of mud beneath a boot. He concentrated on his peripheral vision, his focus toward the left where the trail entered the stream.

              Time slowed as he waited. Finally, a lone man, dressed head to toe in black, waded into the water. He held a sub-machine gun in front of him, it appeared to be an MP-5, his measured stride barely disturbing the water.

Grant sensed movement again to his left and realized the man’s partner had moved to shelter next to the massive root on the opposite side of Grant less than a foot away.

Smart move.

Unfortunately it shot his plan to hell. As should be expected. Here we go
agley
again.

The soldier in the stream stopped in the middle. He stood still, absolutely silent. Only his head moved as he searched. He reached to a device hanging by a strap around his neck and lifted it to his eyes. Night-vision binoculars. What were the chances the device had heat sensing capability? If Grant’s luck held, it was a guarantee. 

The man began to sweep the opposite bank with the binoculars. Grant had to make a play. Now.

He knew the soldier standing near him would be focused, gun ready, covering his partner the priority.

Gathering his legs beneath him, Grant slipped the Equatorian
from the sheath, and eased away from the root. Using his feet to steer, he allowed the gentle current to carry him around the root, angling to get behind the soldier. The tide carried Grant and the man’s back loomed large over him.

Grant dug his toes into the bottom and lunged forward. He grabbed the man’s forehead and pulled back sharply. Grant trapped the man’s head against a shoulder while placing the edge of the knife across his throat. Their faces inches apart, Grant whispered. “Move. Die.”

The soldier in the middle of the stream spun at the sound of splashing. He raised the MP-5 to his shoulder, aiming at Grant’s exposed head.

Come on Tedesco.

After what seemed an eternity Tedesco stepped around the boulder. “Don’t shoot. I’ve got a forty-five centered on the back of your head.”

              The man didn’t respond. He simply stared toward Grant, gun at his shoulder. A Mexican standoff. In Mexico no less. If he survived Grant might find the irony humorous.