PROBLEMATIC
Chapter 18
oOoOo
With that unexpected sound of the gunshot, the old men who had been playing dominoes outside the bakery stopped immediately and fled. Miguel and Emilio, the two assistants who befriended us, dashed inside. As they entered, there was a second shot and we decided to enter. On my signal, Angel ran back to our hideout to retrieve Moose's pack with the substantial field medical kit, while Sly stayed by the door as Moose and I entered the scene, just as another gun shot was fired.
There, on the floor, bleeding from his thigh, was Juan Pedro Gonzales. The punk had shot him even though he was drunk and clumsy. The first shot had obviously missed, hitting one of the wooden displays, shattering it, with all the posters and flyers scattered around the floor near the entrance. The second shot, as Juan Pedro indicated, was in his thigh. The third was in the ceiling.
Holy shit! Revelation! Juan Pedro Gonzales. I knew him! I had sensed a connection when we first saw him from afar, limping around the cooperative, before we encountered him up close. With the military style numerical hand signals, when indicating the gun shots, I was positive he was a military man. He was one of ours. Despite his pain, he grinned at me as he recognised my sudden realisation. He just nodded, eye-pointing to the audience around us. Got it.
Camila rushed in, from inside the cooperative, with towels and water, immediately setting them beside Moose, while asking what else he would need. He used the towels to put pressure on the wound first. Getting up, she noticed all the gawkers, concerned yet curious, as well as worried. With firm commands, she then promptly ushered all the spectators out so that Moose could do his medic thing, while Sly monitored the door waiting for Angel.
The punk was wide-eyed, taking all this in, but suspicious. It was obvious that his thought processes were slow. We ignored him yet prepared for a blow up, even in his drunken state, he was only running on two cylinders. Thankfully Angel arrived with Moose's medic pack.
As expected, the punk started to rant, initially in garbled Spanish, slurring his words, then regressed into Spanglish, before switching to cursing in English. Idiot.
"I fucking know what you are. I can tell. You can't hurt me, you fuckers. I have protection. I know people in high places, very important influential people. Connections. I've got connections. I'm untouchable. What do they call it? Er…I have diplomatic immunity. Whatev! You'll be sorry. Suckers." Even his English was slurred. Hysteria bordering on arrogance. His cockiness would be short lived.
Sly and I kept a close eye on him, while Angel covered the door. Moose was trying to focus on the serious leg wound, with pressure, while checking his toes for any sensations after he bandaged his thigh. Compression. Reflexes. He elevated the leg and asked medical questions which Juan Pedro was able to answer readily.
We ignored the punk's ridiculous rantings, carrying on with our priority of helping a seriously wounded Juan Pedro. Mind you, we heard every single word. All the while we continued speaking in Spanish, focused on our task, glancing at one another with confused expressions, shrugging our shoulders as if we didn't understand his threats, and rolling our eyes. Stemming the blood flow was the main aim. Fuck. I hope he didn't hit an artery with that wild shot.
Miguel and Emilio held his weapon, a small calibre hand gun. Pfft, a pocket pistol. Then, suddenly, with a clumsy grab, the idiot punk grabbed for the weapon subsequently shooting himself in the foot. Sly swiftly grabbed the gun, looking at it in disgust. Emilio and Miguel looked apologetically at us. The punk, stricken, screamed when he saw his foot bleeding with a gaping hole just above his big toe. "Fuck! There's a fucking great big hole in my foot!" he shrieked in English. Obviously, the pain was bad, but in addition to the hole, and the sight of his own blood, it sent another wave of hysteria, and pallor. At that same moment, despite the dramatics around us, Moose, always the cool-headed one in a medical crisis, lifted the needle to check for air bubbles, tapping the barrel lightly. That was all it took for the punk, as he gasped with a squeak, before he collapsed in a faint, hitting his head against the wall. Timber! Halleluyah. The needle was, of course, a local anaesthetic for Juan Pedro. No matter. Problem solved, for the time being. Sly was staying close to the punk.
Peace at last. Moose instructed Camila to wrap a couple of towels firmly around the idiot punk's foot, who was now prone on the floor. Sly frisked him, finding his phone, and also removing a knife.
"I need to remove the bullet, sir," Moose said to Juan Pedro, still speaking Spanish. While Moose removed the soaked towels and bandages, the blood flow had slowed, which was a good sign. Another local and he proceeded to make an incision to dig the bullet out. Juan Pedro braced himself but barely grimaced. I decided to distract him with a bit of conversation.
"Did you ever play Pacman, Juan? It was such a fun game when it first came out."
His eyes twinkled and he responded, "Yes, the last time I played was almost four years ago."
"I remember those ghosts, Inky, Pinky, Blinky and that orange one…" I responded, still speaking in Spanish.
"Got it!" Moose replied triumphantly, displaying the offending bullet between the long pronged bloodied tweezers. I gave him a small evidence bag to drop the bullet into while grinning at Juan Pedro. It was a small, low calibre bullet.
"I don't think there's any damage to your femur, and hopefully only tissue damage. You'll have to keep your leg elevated." Moose said, "But this injury will require surgery and you've lost a lot of blood." This was said while he sutured the incision. Another syringe with painkillers, which he explained to his patient, and a shot of antibiotics.
"Clyde," Juan chuckled, remembering my question, glad for the distraction, as Moose repadded and bandaged his thigh. That was confirmation with the counter check. "Yes, Clyde. Pacman is a great game."
Camila came back with a bag of ice which Moose wrapped around his thigh, over the bandages, with plastic wrap, having splinted the leg with one of the lightweight timber display shelves to restrict his movement and provide support. Javi appeared with a set of crutches returning with a grin on his face. They must have had cause to use them before.
"RICER: rest, ice, compression, elevation and referral. We need to get you to a hospital," Moose explained seriously.
Pacman! Four fucking years! Damn. No wonder I nearly didn't recognise him with his longer hair and that bearded visage. The limp was a good cover too. On which leg was he limping before? That could be troublesome for him if it's the other leg. Pacman was his nickname. He was deep undercover, for nearly four years. This Diego Garcia drug cartel was his mission, a splinter group from the original Garcia Cartel run by his Uncle Santiago. From our original intel, we knew things had changed. Damn. Pacman, aka Jason Packham, one of the elite from Delta Force. It was time to move out.
Juan Pedro instructed Emilio and Miguel to get the boat ready, while directing Javi to find his secondary safe which had his papers. He then explained the location of another repository with a hard drive, and yet another with a thumb drive cleverly hidden inside an Incan statuette. Camila knows Juan has to go with us. She explains to Javi, how together they will run the cooperative, with the able assistance of the two men, Emilio and Miguel. Her brother and nephews can run the farm. She messages them immediately explaining the emergency. She can help in the village here at the cooperative and be a huge support to their community.
At his command, Javi handed me the passport and the two e-drives. Knowing there would be photos, logs and detailed observations in there, he was clever to keep them all so well-hidden. He reassures Javi and encourages him to complete his online studies and maintain his training with Miguel and Emilio. Interesting.
After finishing with Juan Pedro, Moose went to check on the punk kid, putting on some new gloves. He checked his foot, then looked at his face, where blood was dripping from where he hit his head. "Uh oh." It wasn't a huge blood flow as would usually happen from a head injury. He checked his eyes, and felt around his neck and shook his head.
"No pulse. He's dead. Broken neck." He stood up, removing the gloves and looked at me expectantly. I nodded. Time to go.
In the meantime, Sly had easily unlocked the punk's phone and was scrolling through the messages and social posts.
"I can buy us some time while keeping the villagers safe. It seems the kid was on a scouting party, solo, trying to impress Garcia. He is American and his student ID confirms he went to Kansas University. His name is Viktor Jacob Santiago Richardson."
Message to Garcia – "Trash taken out. Off to city to celebrate. See you in a week or two." I nodded, grinning at Sly's astute thinking.
Now we have another problem.
Time to get out of Dodge. Grabbing the Sat phone from my pack, which Angel seemed to have retrieved, figuring we'd need to leave. I sent a coded text to forewarn our handler of an incoming message. All our packs were ready for a quick departure. We left no evidence of our presence.
I looked at Moose, glancing at the now dead punk. I had a feeling we had to discover about the connections he alleged. There really was only one solution. "Body bag?" He nodded. "Affirmative," as he removed one from his medical pack. Without a word, we placed him inside the body bag, zipping it up. Such a waste.
Using some of the longer timber shelves which were not damaged from the wild stray gun shot, Angel and Moose had made a makeshift backboard, so we could stretcher carry Juan Pedro to the boat to escape. Javi and Camila hugged him with quick, sad farewells, handing me his other things in a duffle bag.
"The less you walk on it for now the better," Moose commanded, brooking no argument from Juan Pedro who nodded reluctantly. We took the crutches with us.
I took out the Sat phone to call our handler with a short message: "Code Black. 4 OK plus 1. plus DB." (dead body)
Next, I messaged our trustworthy helicopter pilots, Charlie and Pedro, for an emergency extraction, giving coordinates of our direction.
Once we were on the fishing boat, under the cover of darkness, we proceeded north east, as suggested by Juan Pedro. He assured us that Miguel was an experienced boatman. As he steered through the small fishing fleet harbour to the bay, before reaching the open sea, the Caribbean, he followed the coast, using the GPS to navigate. If Juan Pedro trusted them, we had no other choice.
More than an hour later I gave the coordinates for a suitable landing site for the bird, close to where the boat was docked.
We heard the bird before we saw it, coming in low over the tree tops. Without stopping, we all quickly loaded on board. Miguel said they would do some night fishing to cover their departure, before shaking hands with all of us. It was a good night for prawning. (shrimps) He grinned at Emilio. They were very appreciative in their thanks to Juan Pedro, "Thank you, El Jaguar."
Ah, yes. Jaguars are known to hunt at night, mostly, recalling the earlier reference to jaguars in the village barrio some nights ago. He made his mark on these people, giving them protection, as well as support with the trade and the cooperative.
During the flight, heading to Aruba and then directly to Puerto Rico, Moose maintained checks on Juan Pedro's vitals. He set up a field transfusion, to make up for the substantial blood loss with Angel's blood a match. Juan was relieved to finally be able to speak in English, still slipping into Spanish out of habit. "It's so nice to hear American accents, the real kind. Better still, to be able to respond."
"You still sound Colombian, man," chuckled Angel as they were exchanging blood."
"Ranger, man. You are one lucky bastard. We were just refuelling in Fort Buchanan, in Puerto Rico. That's how we made such good time." He grinned with enthusiasm. Like Lester, Charlie had that infectious grin. I gave them the thumbs up, happy for the coincidence.
From Puerto Rico we headed north to Miami, after refuelling at Fort Buchanan. I messaged our handler with the details. He gave us priority clearance as a MEDEVAC, with a serious casualty on board, to the marine base. It was the logical place to land considering the connection to South America with the security and protocols set in place way back in 1977 with the Panama Treaty Implementation Plan.
As soon as we landed on the rooftop of the hospital, Moose and Sly leapt onto the helipad, guns drawn, just as Angel and I did from the cabin, until our handler gave the signal to stand down. He was waiting with two doctors, and three gurneys. Angel and I carefully assisted Pacman onto a waiting gurney, holding the IV fluids drip high, before hanging it onto the hook attached to the gurney. We'd wrapped him in a space blanket because he was going into shock, with a dose of denial. Securing him to the gurney was essential. While I quickly briefed General Harley, and the doctors on the nature of his wounds, Moose and Sly carried the DB by the side handles of the body bag, looped through the backboard grips, placing it onto another gurney, strapping it firmly in place. The dead weight of a dead body was obvious, even though the punk kid was not a heavyweight. Moose returned the backboard to the helicopter handing it up to Charlie.
The two doctors glanced curiously at the gurney, expecting another casualty, but when they realised that it was a body bag, they stayed with Pacman. Obviously, not an unfamiliar sight when military men may come back in a body bag. Sadly, they know it happens. They checked Pacman's vitals while the rest of the unloading was happening, covering him with another blanket while bodily shielding him from the rotor downwash. I rushed back to the helicopter, making sure no one moved off without us. Pacman gave a firm thumbs up to Charlie and Pedro, in thanks. Going down the elevator had to wait until we were by his side, still armed and ready as his protection detail.
Moose and Sly went back and unloaded all our gear onto the other gurney, with assistance from Charlie, while Pedro remained at the helm in the cockpit. I knuckle bumped the two of them and said we'd need them within a week, to be on standby for our second sortie into the Colombian jungle. They grinned like Cheshire cats. They love this type of mission, the danger and the subterfuge especially. They were adrenaline junkies. They were the best at what they do.
"We were pissed when our assignment was suddenly changed, and those other two clowns got to go. We knew it was your Alpha Team," Pedro said with obvious disappointment.
"Just as well. It was an ambush and we had to make an emergency jump just before they were shot down." I explained.
"Fuck man," gulped Pedro, "that's some bad shit."
"Yes. So many red flags. Gotta go. Thanks again."
The DB would be stored in the morgue, but presently he came with us as we escorted the gurneys inside. Even dead, he was vital evidence in our case against the traitors involved in this dangerous ruse, which became our mission to annihilate that emergent cartel, and place a trace on the shipment. There was so much to explain, so convoluted, so problematic. But that is often the case when a mission goes FUBAR. We are fortunate to be able to regroup and plan a new strategy of attack. It was reassuring that our handler, General Harley, was there to greet us. A Code Black warranted immediate action. Thankfully, he was on his own, without any other senior personnel. With a final thumbs up and that cheeky grin from Charlie, the helicopter took off as we went down in the service elevator.
We would wait until we were alone with the General, to bring him up to speed, even though we understood the doctors were military personnel. They didn't have clearance for our mission details. Pacman grabbed my hand and fist bumped me. I nodded, understanding his unspoken gratitude. He knows and appreciates how we live by the Ranger promise: Leave no man behind.
Until he went into surgery, we never left Pacman's side, even while having x-rays. We were now his protection detail. General Harley had commandeered an entire floor to ensure both Pacman's safety, and ours. It also enabled us to use the bathroom facilities and clean up and dress in our fatigues while he was in surgery, taking turns to be on watch. Silvio had already dispatched four duffle bags with our gear from the Miami office, after I'd sent him the Code Black memo and our destination. He arranged for computers and Sat phones and an encrypted phone to access information and personnel if needed.
General Harley's presence in Miami was remarkably fortunate timing. Whilst visiting his daughter with the newest grandchild, the first grandson, he received our message. He didn't need to explain a sudden Miami visit, nor the urgent need to take leave. No suspicions alerted. He was sending a couple of photos to a colleague, when he received the Code Black, without an audience. Yes, very convenient.
Sunrise was just looming outside. We still had a mission to fulfil. The meeting room on the same floor became our new operations room with all the necessary computers, laptops and general office equipment, including a whiteboard. I briefed the General on finding Juan Pedro Gonzales, aka Pacman, one of our operatives deep undercover for nearly four years, confirming how he had tagged this particular shipment, adding our own trackers. Coincidentally, the General inherited Pacman's file when his handler retired a year ago due to a dire cancer diagnosis. Shaking his head, he chuckled wryly.
"I was just going over his file and authorisations last week. I was trying to absorb all the details, especially since he was deep undercover. He had been able to make some contacts but missed a few until he indicated that this shipment was the one that would likely reveal the open door to the smugglers at the receiving end. Operation Trap Door was set up. Hence your mission was instigated, which suddenly went FUBAR, indicating our traitors must be close to home. With the combined agencies involved with this task force, the criminals must be in or around that group, someone in the know or connected in some capacity." We all nodded in agreement.
In the meantime, we had the DB on ice. Sending him to the morgue would have to be activated shortly. The General had a look at him but there was no recognition, nor with his college ID card. There was no driver's licence, so no home address. That will be investigated by Rodriguez. With the General's authority, he was finally dispatched to the chilling drawers as a John Doe, non-military, but marked for collection when the General headed back to HQ.
At one stage, we had considered bagging and hiding the dead punk in amongst the cargo, perhaps neatly with the cocoa or coffee beans. Just like a bit of excess baggage. However, the likelihood of him being discovered en route, or at the other end, more importantly, it could create problems for the joint task force. Perhaps it would even alert the receivers to question its presence and back out. If he was discovered, he would be disposed of, overboard quite likely. Keeping him with us was relevant because there was something weird and hinkey about this one.
Inevitably, the decision was critical since his body was also evidence and my gut told me he was involved, right up to his now broken neck. I had a hinkey feeling about this kid. Such a waste of a young life. Wearing that college shirt was the tipping point in making that decision. Leaving him behind might have created issues with the local people. That astute move from Sly to send a text to Garcia would certainly give us time while also keeping the village safe. We have his phone in an evidence bag. Hopefully, it should make interesting reading.
How I wish Stephanie was here to do a deep search with her determined, inquisitive and nosey nature. That tenacity of hers was something else. I smiled at the thought, of my Babe and that remarkable spidey sense. How was this college kid connected and in what capacity? Viktor Jacob Santiago Richardson. What was the significance of his name? Americans rarely have four names, unless they come from old families with history, or wealth. Or a Latino background. That is something Steph could get her teeth into. Silvio could add that to her searches, just to see what she can find. Silvio and Rodriguez enjoy giving her those kinds of BGCs.
Juan Pedro Gonzales, now Pacman, was happy to finally hear his given name, Jason Packham, although we loved the Pacman moniker. We had already introduced ourselves on the flight. His surgery went well, just over an hour. There were some bone splinters which caused an infection requiring more antibiotics but his recovery was looking good. We took turns at his bedside.
Once he was fully compos mentis, and able to eat and talk, it was time for his debriefing. The General introduced himself as his new handler, explaining how his previous handler was on medical leave, while pending a medical discharge, now retired. We left the room while he was interrogated extensively.
After a substantial rest and some well-earned sleep, on an actual bed, we were in the operations room making plans and gathering intel. Pacman confirmed the shipment was labelled RicoSnape Enterprises with the manifest cargo listed as cacao products, cocoa beans, coffee beans and various tropical fruit. It was headed for Miami.
Using a wheelchair with his leg extended on a large brace, Pacman was keen to fill in the gaps in our intel. He drew a map of where his villa was, which Diego Garcia had commandeered. He was holding a woman and her son hostage. The woman was American, visiting family, allegedly. Her name was Sofia Maria Santiago Richards. Viktor is her son. Hm…Richards, Richardson. Quite likely not their true surname.
After a couple of days of extensive planning, I called our two amigos who were excited to take us down to the new drop zone in Colombia.
While the General grabbed the evidence, passport and photos of the dead punk, he left with his body bag cargo in a special hummer. I noticed his curious glance with the punk kid's name, just a raised eyebrow. I wondered at that connection too. Very curious. I gave him Silvio's connection and recommended Rangeman's unique expertise. He smiled knowingly, shaking hands with us all as we readied to depart.
It was Go Time mark 2.
oOoOo