Wild Case Page 4

  9

  Medellín was once the murder capital of the world. But since the death of Pablo Escobar, and the demise of the Medellín Cartel, the city had made a remarkable turnaround. Current crime statistics show that it is safer than Baltimore—which may not be saying much, since Baltimore ranks four times higher than the national average in violent crime. But Medellín certainly isn't what it was in the '80s.

  Though, today’s events might skew the statistics.

  The limousine cruised on a cushy cloud, speeding away from the airport in Rionegro. It rolled effortlessly down the two-lane blacktop. The airport was roughly 20 miles east of Medellín. With the new tunnel, and no traffic, the ride into town would take a little over 20 minutes.

  “We should arrive at the compound in a little over an hour,” Diego said. “It is in the mountains, not far from the city. After you have delivered the package to Santiago, Enrique will take you back to the airport, or you can stay within the compound for the evening and return the following day. It is up to you. You will be safe within the compound. In the surrounding jungle, I make no guarantees."

  A sly grin tugged the corner of his lips.

  “What's in the jungle?" I asked.

  He didn't really have to tell me. I had a pretty good idea.

  For over 50 years, rebels had fought the Colombian state in a bloody guerrilla war. Labeled as a terrorist group by the US government, the rebels had financed their operation through kidnapping, extortion, and drug trafficking. They had imposed a Revolution Tax on everyone within their area of control. Farmers, ranchers, drug dealers—no one was excluded from the tax. Countless civilians had been slaughtered during the mayhem.

  A peace agreement had disbanded the largest of the guerrilla forces. But that left thousands of former militants without employment. And those former militants were being recruited into a new organization.

  "The FRP," Diego said. "Fuerza Revolucionarias del Pueblo. The People's Revolutionary Force. In the last few months, their numbers have grown exponentially. Their leadership has warned of ongoing attacks. And this time, it won't just be limited to jungle warfare. They've threatened both civilian and government targets within the major cities."

  “And how do you fit into all of this?" I asked.

  Diego smiled. "I'll let Santiago explain that to you."

  We cruised down the highway. The roadside was lined with lush vegetation. There was a wealth of flora in Colombia with thousands of different species. Trees towered over the roadway and lined the hillside.

  We stopped at a toll booth, then proceeded toward the tunnel. It was claimed to be the longest tunnel in Latin America. The two-lane highway drilled through the mountainside for 8 kilometers.

  I wasn't a big fan of tunnels.

  It had nothing to do with claustrophobia—they were a security nightmare.

  We cruised into the darkness, and Enrique turned on the headlights. A steady stream of oncoming cars passed by, the double yellow line in the road dividing us. I peered out the rear window, keeping an eye on the cars behind us.

  So far, everything seemed calm.

  My heartbeat elevated slightly. If something was going to go down, this would be the place. This is where I’d do it.

  "Relax, Mr. Wild," Diego said with a reassuring smile. "There's nothing to worry about."

  "If there was nothing to worry about, my services wouldn’t be needed."

  "Point taken," Diego replied. "But we have maintained the highest operational security. Santiago is just as eager to receive the package as you are to deliver it."

  I exchanged a glance with Frankie. She was a cool customer as usual, but behind those blue eyes there was a hint of concern.

  Maybe I was making too much out of this? The mind can sometimes spiral off on paranoid tangents. But I'd rather be paranoid than dead.

  It probably wasn't the smartest thing in the world to be traveling with a high-value asset in a flashy limousine. Why draw unnecessary attention? Perhaps a dented beater with a flaking, rusty paint job would have been a better choice of vehicle? A black limousine with tinted windows screams high value.

  We continued down the seemingly infinite tunnel, cars whizzing by in the opposite direction. Wind buffeted the chassis, rocking the vehicle slightly. The rumble of engines echoed off the tunnel walls.

  Diego poured himself a drink. He wasn't worried about a thing.

  Just as I began to relax, I heard the roar of an engine behind us. A black SUV sped up behind us. It veered left and crossed the double yellow line. It raced past us and swerved into our lane ahead of us, then jammed its brakes. Red taillights flashed, and Enrique had no choice but to slam the brakes.

  The SUV ahead of us came to a complete stop, and I knew we were in trouble.

  Tires squealed.

  Another SUV pulled alongside us, boxing us in.

  The sedan behind us blocked the rear.

  The oncoming traffic was forced to stop. A sea of red taillights spanned the tunnel in both directions.

  I drew my pistol from my holster as the window rolled down on the SUV beside us. An Uzi emerged from the window frame and muzzle flash flickered from the barrel. Bullets peppered the limousine—the report of gunfire amplified by the narrow space.

  Dozens of slugs impacted the bullet resistant glass, putting it to the test.

  10

  The window webbed with cracks as slugs pelted the glass. The resistant material did its job, capturing the slugs, keeping them from penetrating the cabin.

  Frankie ducked below the door.

  Enrique dropped the car into reverse and mashed the gas. Tires squealed. The limousine plowed backwards, slamming into the passenger vehicle. The heavy limo pushed the sedan back, rolling it onto the hood of the car behind it. Metal twisted and crumpled. Headlights and tail lights shattered, sprinkling the roadway with bits of red and orange plastic. The extra space gave Enrique just enough room to veer left and move forward around the SUV that had pulled beside us. The limousine clipped the corner of the SUV as we plowed forward. The SUV’s bumper dented, and red taillights shattered. Metal scraped and squealed.

  The limousine veered around the SUV to the opposite shoulder, then banked around the front of the SUV, smashing into another parked car in the oncoming lane. The limousine crunched the front end of the car, twisting it aside, plowing in between it and the SUV that had blocked our path.

  A hail of gunfire peppered the rear window of the limousine, sprouting cracks in the layers of laminated glass.

  The two SUVs chased after us as we raced through the tunnel. The engine rumbled. The limousine bounced and rolled as Enrique pushed it to its limits.

  Diego's wide eyes flicked about. Sweat sprouted on his forehead. His drink had long since hit the floor and spilled onto the carpet. He wasn't so relaxed anymore.

  "Are you okay?" I asked Frankie.

  She nodded.

  "The highest in operational security," I muttered with sharp sarcasm.

  Diego crouched low, his face bathed in fear.

  "Who knew we were coming?" I asked.

  "Nobody," Diego said. "Myself, Enrique, Juan Pablo our head of security, and Santiago. That’s it!” He paused. "That and the NID, your CIA, and your Cobra Company."

  There were too many people in the chain. Too many cracks for a leak to flow.

  We blazed through the tunnel, finally catching up to the stream of traffic ahead. We had to slow down. Enrique zigged and zagged, trying to find a way around the slower cars, but it just wasn't possible.

  The black SUVs caught up in no time.

  More bullets peppered the rear of the car, and the back window. Metal pinged and glass crunched. The sound of gunfire rattled in the tunnel. It didn’t take long for the once clear glass to look frosted. Dozens of flattened, copper slugs were embedded in the glass.

  Enrique pulled onto the double yellow dividing line and tried to split the traffic. Sparks flew as the limousine ground against quarter panels, pushing cars aside.
Metal squealed. Side mirrors were knocked off. Paint scraped away.

  Horns honked and angry voices shouted obscenities.

  I opened the sunroof and angled my pistol at the SUV behind us. I squeezed off several rounds. Muzzle flash flared from the barrel, and the sharp smell of gunpowder wafted into the cabin. My 9mm pistol hammered against my palm.

  Let's just say my accuracy wasn't that great. But I did manage to put a few cracks in the front windshield of the SUV behind us.

  A goon hung out of the passenger window. His Uzi sprayed a torrent of bullets, peppering the trunk and rear window of the limousine. The staccato flicker of muzzle flash continued until he emptied the magazine. He pressed the mag release button, pulled out the magazine, then jammed another into the mag well and continued the onslaught.

  Things were about to get worse.

  An SUV from the oncoming lane swerved in front of us, blocking our path.

  Enrique jammed the brakes. Tires squealed. There was no way to avoid collision. The limousine T-boned the SUV, crumpling the front-end like a tin can. The airbags deployed, and the limousine screeched to an abrupt halt.

  The force of the impact launched Diego forward. His head smacked into the privacy glass at the front of the passenger cabin. His spine crackled like a stalk of celery snapping. His body came to rest in an unnatural position, and his eyes were fixed and dilated.

  My seatbelt mashed against my hips and shoulder, but it kept me from flying across the compartment.

  The two SUVs behind us stopped, and goons spilled out with their machine guns ready. They advanced toward the limousine.

  Uzis were pray and spray weapons. They were notoriously hard to control. But, if you pointed in the general direction of the target, and kept the trigger pulled, you'd likely hit something.

  I popped up through the sunroof, squeezed off two quick shots, and dropped a goon as a flurry of bullets flew in my direction.

  Bullets snapped past my ears as I ducked back into the cabin.

  I reached up and pressed the button to close the sunroof.

  Frankie unbuckled her seatbelt, and we moved forward, taking a seat by the driver's compartment. We crouched low, aiming our pistols at the rear doors.

  A hail of machine gun fire blasted at the passenger windows, turning the bullet-resistant glass into flimsy, flaky sheets. It wasn't long before the goons were kicking at the glass, trying to punch them out of the window frames.

  We were in deep shit.

  11

  The goons kept kicking at the rear passenger windows, flakes of glass breaking off with each impact. The tiny shards dropped to the floor-mats like flakes of snow. The whole car rocked and vibrated.

  I looked forward through the privacy glass. The limousine’s hood was crumpled, and steam billowed from underneath.

  The SUV we had T-boned wasn't in good shape either.

  The passenger door was caved in, and so was the goon that occupied the passenger seat. The passenger window was spotted with blood and webbed with cracks from where his head had impacted the glass.

  I’m sure the driver had a hell of a headache, too. The airbags had deployed.

  I lowered the privacy glass and crawled into the driver's compartment. Enrique was passed out, blood dripping from his nose. The impact of the airbags had smashed his face.

  The driver of the SUV in front of us hopped out and made his way around the vehicle with his weapon drawn.

  I had a brief window of opportunity.

  The goons behind us were focused on the passenger compartment. They kept kicking at the windows.

  I swung open the right side door and angled my weapon around to the rear of the vehicle. I squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession, blasting into two goons at the right side of the car. The bullets smacked their chests with a wet slap, knocking them to the ground. The thugs gurgled and wheezed for breath as they writhed on the concrete. Groans of agony escaped their lips.

  The driver of the T-boned SUV marched toward me. He unleashed a torrent of gunfire.

  I crouched behind the door as the thug blasted, bullets impacting glass and sheet metal. When he swapped magazines, I swung my pistol around and capped off two rounds at T-bone. A bullet caught him in the throat, and he tumbled back, clutching his neck. His Uzi clattered to the roadway.

  I spun around, popped up, and angled my weapon over the roof of the limousine at the goons on the left side of the car. My fingers squeezed another flurry of rounds. A bullet blasted one of the thugs in the face. Blood spewed, and chunks of brain and skull splattered the man next to him.

  I ducked below the roof as the remaining goon sprayed a wave of bullets in my direction. They pinged off the roof of the car and ricocheted off the concrete walls of the tunnel. Puffs of smoke and chips of concrete scattered.

  I dropped to the ground and aimed my weapon beneath the undercarriage. I blasted several more rounds at the thug’s ankles. Blood spewed as the man's ankles were pulverized into a pink mist. He dropped to the ground, groaning in agony. I fired two more shots into his torso as he lay on the concrete.

  I sprang to my feet and scanned the area. It seemed there were no more hostiles left standing.

  The two thugs near the right rear of the car still groaned in agony. One of them reached for his weapon. I blasted a few more shots into his chest, ending his last ditch effort.

  I tapped on the car and shouted “Clear!"

  Frankie unlocked the passenger door and climbed out, frazzled.

  I took her hand and pulled her down the tunnel, heading west, past the T-boned SUV. The road ahead was clear, but the opposite lane, heading toward Rionegro, was at a dead standstill.

  I marched straight for a guy on a sport-bike. With my weapon aimed at him, I shouted in Spanish, ¡Bajate de la motora! “Get off the bike!”

  He raised his hands in the air and dismounted. I climbed on, and Frankie straddled the seat behind me.

  She wrapped her arms around my waist with briefcase dangling from her grasp. I turned the handle bars, twisted the throttle, and banked the bike around, heading west. The exhaust note rattled off the concrete walls of the tunnel, and we rocketed toward the city.

  Frankie held on for dear life we zipped past the line of oncoming cars with nothing in our lane. The wind whistled my ears and tousled my hair. The engine howled as I brought the bike into the triple digits, leaving the chaos behind.

  The bright sunlight blinded me as we finally exited the tunnel. We twisted down the highway, and before long, we could see the valley below and the sprawling city of Medellín.

  My heart still pounded with adrenaline. My eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror. We had gotten away clean.

  I heard sirens in the distance, and I brought the bike down to a reasonable speed.

  Red and blue lights flickered as the Policia passed by, heading toward the tunnel. The white SUV, with a green stripe down the side, didn't pay us any attention.

  We weaved our way down Avenida Las Palmas. There were palm trees on the esplanade, and lush green foliage along the side of the road. High-rise apartment buildings towered over the city. I pulled onto a side street, then rolled into an alley. I killed the engine and lowered the kickstand.

  "Are you okay?" I asked.

  "Yeah," Frankie said, wide-eyed. "I take it back. You're pretty handy in a fight.” Then she qualified her statement. “When guns are involved.“

  I tried not to grin too much.

  We ditched the bike in the alley and took off on foot. We took a left at the next block and walked down the sidewalk. My heart was still pounding, and my chest heaved for breath.

  We tried to act casual.

  There were dozens of hotels in the area. One was as good as the next.

  Secluded by tall palm trees and verdant underbrush, an asphalt drive led to the Hotel International Medellín. We strolled past the circular fountain that decorated the front of the building. Colombian flags fluttered in the breeze from flagpoles sprouting from the fount
ain. We stepped under the large awning of the passenger drop-off area and entered the lobby.

  It was an upscale hotel with elegant appointments. Mid-century modern furniture lined the lobby. A waterfall trickled. Plants decorated the area. The hotel was expensive by Colombian standards, but cheap in US dollars.

  I strolled to the front desk and requested a room. I paid cash, and the clerk handed me a key-card for a room on the 5th floor, near the stairs.

  Frankie and I hurried through the lobby, found the elevator bank, and vaulted to the 5th floor.

  We took a right down the hall and strolled to room #514. I stuck the card in the slot, and the light flashed green. We pushed into the luxurious suite. Hardwood floors, modern leather furniture, a king size bed, and a large balcony.

  Frankie's face twisted. “Seriously? One bed?"

  "They were all out of doubles."

  She gave me a skeptical glance.

  "Besides. I don't think we’ll be doing much sleeping. We just need a place to regroup and plan our next move."

  I moved to the sliding glass doors that opened to a balcony. It offered a stunning view of the parking lot. I wanted to be able to see who was coming and going. I surveyed the area and was reasonably satisfied with the vantage point. It didn’t seem like anyone had followed us. There were no police cars barreling down the drive. No sirens howling in the distance.

  I moved back to the bed and took a seat.

  Frankie had decided to lay down and catch her breath. She sprawled out on the king size bed with the silver case beside her. She stared at the ceiling blankly.

  "First time you've been shot at?" I asked.

  She looked at me like I was crazy. "Hell no. I'm just thinking."

  "It was an inside job," I said. "There is a leak somewhere."