Panacea (24 page)

The rain had been a boon, because water was still dripping and splashing from the zillions of leaves around him, masking his approach. The clouds were blowing off, leaving a starry sky. The moon would rise soon. Had to get this done before then.

He'd numbered the steps to the village from the break in the brush. He'd subtracted the Jeep's distance from the village, and now found the spot with little trouble.

Here came the hard part: reaching them without giving himself away. He was sure they were armed and just as sure that they'd shoot first and ask questions later if they spotted anyone sneaking up on them.

Crouching low, taking it slow and easy, feeling his way in the dark, he followed the crushed vegetation until he heard the murmur of low voices and the sound of dripping water splashing against metal—on the roof and hood of a car. Those big drops were a big help.

Edged closer and came upon the rear end of a Land Rover. The dashboard lights provided the only illumination, silhouetting two heads. Smoke drifted into the air through the open windows. Rick recognized the smell. The one in the passenger seat was sucking on a J. As Rick watched, the guy on the driver side tilted a bottle up to his lips. Just a couple of working stiffs relaxing after a hard day in the torture-murder trade. They were talking in Spanish so it didn't matter that he couldn't make out all the words.

Now the hard part: subduing them for a little Q & A. He couldn't brace both of them in the front seat with just the Glock. One would try something in the dark and everything could go to hell in seconds. Had to get them out in the open first.

Squatting by the bumper, he pulled his pistol and placed it in his lap, then pulled his knife. He left it folded as he gripped it in his left hand with the butt protruding half an inch beyond the heel of his palm. He raised his free hand and raked the metal of the rear hatch with his fingernails. Five quick scratches: 1-2-3-4-5. Then again. And again.

One of the men—sounded like the guy in the driver seat—stopped the other from speaking. Rick scratched again. More words were spoken, then the driver's door opened. Rick grabbed the Glock as one of them approached.

Just as the driver stepped around the rear corner, Rick leaped to his feet and started counting seconds.

One …

Whatever the driver had been drinking had slowed him down, allowing Rick to deliver two sharp backhand blows,
yawara
style, with the butt end of the knife to the side of his head.

 … two …

His knees buckled, leaving him vulnerable to a solid kick in the balls.

 … three …

As the guy went down with a groan, Rick raced around to the passenger side and jammed the muzzle of the Glock against the other one's cheek.

 … four …

By the dashboard light he could see a semiautomatic in the passenger's right hand and his left reaching across to the door handle.

“Drop it!” Rick shouted, hoping the guy knew some English. “Drop it on the floor right now or you're dead!”

After seeing what that little girl had suffered, he almost hoped the guy did try something. Maybe that came through. The gun thudded to the floor.

Rick yanked open the door. “Out!”

The guy complied and Rick noticed that he was shorter than his pal. He kept that in mind as he prodded him toward the rear of the Rover where his moaning buddy lay on his side in the fetal position, hands between his legs.

“Hands and feet,” he said to short stuff, handing him a pair of zip ties and then pointing to the guy on the ground. “Behind the back, double figure eights. I'm sure you know how it's done.”

When the first guy was tied, Rick forced the second down onto his belly, put a knee in his back, and zip-tied his wrists and ankles. Then he checked the first. The ties were looser than he liked so he remedied that.

Now he could relax a little. He pulled their wallets from their pockets, then hauled the pair around and up so they were sitting with their backs against the rear bumper.

“Okay,
señors
.” Rick pulled out his flashlight and flicked the beam back and forth between their faces. “What have we here?”

The taller one looked a little fuzzy. Most likely had a concussion. Two sharp shots to the temple will do that. His bruised
cojones
had to be adding to his misery.

Short stuff's eyes flicked left, right, up, down, then repeated the circuit. He was scared but not showing it. This obviously had not been part of the plan.

“I assume you're members of 536, right?”

Neither spoke, so he opened their wallets. The taller guy, the one with the swollen
cojones,
was Miguel Herrera. Short stuff was Jorge Medina.

“Lost your voices? No problem.”

He leaned Miguel forward and checked his right arm. There it was:
DXXXVI
in blue ink. Jorge's arm had a tattoo of a Mexican Day of the Dead skull, but no number of any sort.

Okay. Now he had a pretty good idea who gave the orders and who followed them. Miguel was 536, and Jorge was either a wannabe or a hired hand. According to Stahlman, the members of 536 were zealots who could pretty much be counted on to go to their deaths without giving up anything. So Rick would start with Miguel.

The flashlight provided only limited illumination, so he stepped around to the driver's side, reached in the open door, and turned on the headlights. Then he dragged Miguel to the front of the car, followed by Jorge, and leaned them against trees with the light in their eyes. Both wore light cotton pants and guayaberas—Miguel's white, Jorge's yellow.

“Let's get past what I already know: You were sent here to find out whatever Mulac knows about the panacea. So was I. You got here first and killed the guy during the course of your interrogation or shortly after. So, since I can't question him, I'm left with you guys. Who wants to start?”

As expected, deadpan stares and silence.

“Okay. We'll let the coin decide.” He pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Heads Miguel, tails Jorge.”

Flipped it, caught it, and checked it in the headlight. It showed tails.

“Heads it is! Miguel wins!” He pulled out his flashlight and inspected the branches on the surrounding trees. “Let's see…”

Found one about seven feet off the ground that was an inch thick near its base. Perfect. He used the saw-tooth edge of his knife blade to cut it off five inches from the trunk.

Next he locked a zip tie around Miguel's neck—not too tight.

“That's your collar.”

Then he looped a second tie through the first at his nape.

“And let's call that your leash.” He placed himself squarely before Miguel. “Okay, Miguel, I'm asking you … just you: What did Mulac tell you about the panacea?”

“Chingate!”

“Don't understand much Spanish, but I've heard that before, and it's not very nice. That your final word?”

“Besa mis huevos!”

“Guess that settles it then.”

He dragged Miguel by his neck to the tree where he hauled him to his feet. He lifted him under his sweaty arms until the loop of the leash tie hooked over the cut branch, then let him hang.

With his air cut off, Miguel began twisting and kicking—as well as anyone could kick with his ankles tied. Rick waited until his face was good and purple before grabbing him by the hips and lifting him just enough to relieve the pressure on his throat.

“We'll try again: What did Mulac tell you about the panacea?”

Miguel gasped a few times, then answered. His voice was barely audible.
“Chingate!”

“Okay. Gave you a chance.” Rick let him drop and stepped over to Jorge. “Guess that leaves you.”

Jorge didn't respond. His wide-eyed gaze was fixed on Miguel's writhing struggles behind Rick. Rick didn't need to look around to know what was happening. Instead he slapped Jorge's cheek.

“Hey! I'm talking to you.”

“You just gonna let him die there?” he said in heavily accented English, still staring.

Rick hadn't expected anything out of Miguel, so no loss.

“He made his choice. What's yours?”

Jorge said nothing but his eyes widened further as the sound of Miguel's struggles stopped.

As Rick began looping a zip tie around Jorge's neck, he broke out of his trance and tried to roll away—“No-no! Please, man!”—but Rick locked it around him like a collar.

“Talk.”

“Wh-what do you want to know?”

“You've heard the question twice already.”

“The
curandero,
he told us nothing, man! Nothing!”

Rick heard a sound and glanced behind him. Miguel's cotton pants were darkening as his sphincter released.

“You mean you tortured him and he said nothing?”

“He say all sorts of shit but nothing that Miguel want to hear. He tell us he got lotsa cures that he be glad to show us how to make but Miguel was only interested in one, some kind of cure-all. Mulac said he didn't know nothin' 'bout that one.”

“Whose idea to set him on fire?”

“That was Miguel—all Miguel. He call it ‘the Leviticus Sanction' or some shit.”

The Leviticus Sanction
 … sounded like a Ludlum title.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno. Never heard of it before. But it's all about burning. Miguel called it act of faith.”

“‘Act of faith'? Was he kidding?”

“Hey, don't ask me, man. Miguel got all religious there at the end, asking Mulac if he repented his sins before he set fire to him.”

“Burned alive?”

Jorge looked away. “Barely alive.”

Rick believed him. Nothing he said could hurt Miguel now. And as intended, Miguel's corpse dangling a dozen feet away proved an efficient tongue loosener. In fact, Jorge wouldn't
stop
talking.

“Hey, listen, man, I ain't a player here. Ain't got no dog in this hunt. I'm just hired help.”

“Not 536?”

“Never heard of no 536 till you started asking. What is it? Some new super-secret branch of the CIA?”

“CIA? That who you think hired you?”

“Hey, I know it was.”

Now
this
was interesting.

“Miguel told you he was CIA?”

“Naw, man. He say he some cultural something with the U.S. embassy but, hey, c'mon. Who's he kidding?”

Probably no one. CIA field agents often posed as cultural attach
é
s and the like.

“Why'd he hire you instead of bringing someone else from the agency?”

“We worked together before, and I speak Maya. How many CIA guys you think speak Maya?”

Well, there was that. But Rick also figured this little sojourn into the interior was not an official operation. Miguel was a 536 member who happened to be in the CIA. Made sense. Gave him access to all sorts of intel and the option of masking his activities in a cloak of officialdom when it proved convenient. Whatever he paid Jorge was probably billed to the Company as a legit expense.

Perfect situation. He wondered how many 536ers hid in law enforcement around the world. No way would Jorge know.

“You came, you questioned, you killed the guy—”

“Miguel called it ‘sanctioning.'”

Rick knew the type. Call it something else and it became something else. Sanctioning wasn't killing, it was … sanctioning.

“Whatever. He's dead, but you two are still here. Why?”

“'Cause Miguel says we stay. He the boss.”

“And he never said why?”

“We watch that lady you came with. If she find anything we miss, we get her to tell us.”

“And then ‘sanction' her too?”

Jorge shrugged. “His boss wants her dead.”

“Really?”

That explained the creep he'd had to deal with in the doc's backyard last night. Had a flash-bang and a syringe full of something.

“And you too,” Jorge added.

No surprise there.

“His boss in the CIA or his boss in 536?”

“Don't know, man.” He glanced over to where Miguel's corpse dangled from the tree. “You coulda asked but I don't think he tell.”

“Probably not.”

“Skinny white dude. Arrived this morning with some other guy, looked around, told Miguel to make her disappear, then helicoptered out.”

“My job is to protect her, you know.”

“Yeah, we figured.”

“And I take my job seriously.”

Another glance at Miguel. “I see that. But hey,” he added quickly, “she got no worry from me. With Miguel gone, I'm done. I wrap his body in the back and head for Mexico City.” He shrugged again. “Maybe I get some kind of reward.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Time for a change of subject.

“Who hurt the little girl?”

Jorge stiffened. “What little girl?”

Rick fought to keep his voice steady and disinterested.

“The one with the missing fingernails.”

“Miguel did that. He want so bad to get Mulac to tell him about the cure-all.”

The villagers had been definite about the “short one” pulling out the child's fingernails. Jorge stood at least a foot shorter than Miguel.

“Kids should be off limits, don't you think, Jorge?”

“Oh, yeah, man. Definitely.”

Rick pulled out his flashlight again and checked the nearby trees. He found the right-size branch the right height off the ground. As he began to saw at it, Jorge let out a whimper.

“Aw, man. I been cooperatin', ain't I?”

“Kids are innocents, Jorge. Noncombatants. They shouldn't be used for fodder and they shouldn't be used for leverage. Shouldn't be
used
—period.”

Jorge flopped onto his back and began to roll himself away.

“It wasn't me!”