Chivor

By Richard Quinn

Sam Cassady knew he’d hit bottom when he heard the cell door slam closed. There’s an air of finality to that clang of metal on metal, when the walls of a squalid cage close in around you and you know, for real, that you’re in there to stay. Minimum five year sentence, that’s what the judge had said, and that’s assuming he even lived that long. He’d been shot sneaking into Mexico from Guatemala and the wound in his left shoulder, still not properly treated, hurt like a son-of-a-bitch and was badly infected. The Mexican Federales, instead of helping him, had confiscated his Beretta, arrested him for weapons smuggling, and chucked him right straight into the Tabasco State Prison. He had no money, no papers, and no one back home knew, or even cared, where he was. Could things possibly get any worse? Oh, most definitely.

A guard showed up outside the cell, informing him of an unexpected visitor. Half out of his head with fever, he was escorted to the warden’s office, and when the woman who was waiting there looked his way, his breath caught in his throat. Fiery-red tresses fell past her shoulders, parenthesizing a flawless face and eyes that shone an incredible emerald green. Long, well-tanned legs extended from beneath a short cotton skirt, and her silk blouse was strained by a bust line that would stop traffic on a freeway.

“Your wife has paid your fine,” the Warden said amiably. “Just sign these papers, and you’ll be free to go.”

“My wife?” said Sam, gaping openly. He turned toward the woman, a questioning look in his eyes. He’d never seen her before in his life.

Thus begins the novel Chivor, a rousing tale of adventure by up and coming writer Richard Quinn. Most of the action is set in Colombia, the country that produces the best coffee, the cheapest cocaine, and the finest emeralds found anywhere in the world. Mix the three together and you get cash by the boatload, side by side with grinding poverty, which is a sure recipe for political corruption, armed insurrection, and that peculiar brand of violent criminals popularly referred to as the “cartels”. Add a dash of spectacular landscapes, exploding mountainsides, pitched gun battles, the thrill of every type of chase imaginable, and a soupçon of romance, you get a pretty good story. Add a legendary emerald treasure worth billions, you get a great story. Chivor. Check it out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Quinn
• Release date: Aug 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465710505

Book preview

PROLOGUE

20th Day of the month of Kankin, Year of the Jaguar (1537 A.D.):

The easternmost reaches of the Muisca Empire

The priest led the way up the steep mountainside, following an all but invisible trail that he’d only traveled once before, nearly two decades earlier. His twelve bearers trudged along behind him, blindly trusting his expertise, with their backs bent parallel to the rising ground and their heavy loads steadied by thick cotton straps stretched taut across their foreheads. These were sturdy men, the strongest he’d been able to enlist, but the last four days of arduous travel had left them too exhausted to speak, scarcely able to follow, driven only by the extreme importance of their mission. The verdant, cone-shaped summit high above them was lost in clouds, though its presence loomed like a living thing, a watchful guardian, which, in a very real sense, is exactly what it was.

As the sun moved toward the western horizon, they emerged above the tree line, and after climbing to the top of a boulder-strewn ravine the priest spied the final trail marker: a small cairn of pebbles, pointing to the left. They worked their way around the edge of a bowl-shaped meadow, so sodden with rain from the previous days’ storms that it had the appearance of a shallow lake, a flat gray mirror reflecting a darkening sky. They climbed another slope, pausing at last on a natural terrace halfway up. The central feature of this terrace was a narrow crevice in the mountainside, partially concealed by stones.

At the priest’s instruction, the bearers shed their loads and set to work clearing the entrance. Then they broke out the torches that had been packed with their provisions. Using a flint striker, he coaxed a tiny flame from a small pile of powdered tinder, and with this he lit the sticky pitch that coated the first torch. Crackling flame from the first ignited the second and third, and with these held aloft the group squeezed their way through the opening and down a narrow passageway, finally emerging into a spacious cavern, deep inside the mountain.

The torchlight cast macabre, flickering shadows on the cavern walls and shuffling footsteps echoed eerily as the procession moved to the bottommost part of the cave, where they stopped beside a stagnant pool of cold, utterly black water, as wide as a man is tall. The priest closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the musty scent, filling himself with the power of Chivor, the gullet of the earth itself, a shrine so sacred that only the chief among the Muisca shamans even knew of its existence.

The bearers removed the large cloth-wrapped bundles from their packs and stacked them in a pile by the edge of the pool. The priest selected one of these and slit it open with an obsidian blade, reaching in to extract a gleaming green crystal the size of his fist. Holding the stone above his head, he chanted aloud, then dropped it into the water and watched it disappear with an echoing splash. He repeated the ritual with the next crystal, and the next, one after another, until the woven bag finally lay empty at his feet.

The torches sputtered, growing noticeably dimmer, so they ignited a fresh set while the priest moved on to the second bundle. He worked more quickly now, taking a bit less care, throwing the crystals two and three at a time, scooping out double handfuls of the smaller ones, casting them like so much gravel. Even at that rapid pace it took an hour, possibly even two before the extraordinary sacrifice was complete, and the entire assemblage breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.

The priest thanked the bearers for their efforts and announced that they would have the unprecedented honor of spending the night in the shelter of the shrine before beginning their journey back to Hunsa. He then prepared a ritual meal from the last of their provisions, adding a bit of the brackish water from the sacred pool to a leaf-wrapped packet of ground maize, using his fingers to knead the flour into a doughy mass. To this he added a bit of spice, ground peppers and cinnamon, along with another substance highly prized by the Muisca shamans: tectec, a potent drug made from the pulverized seeds of a plant with large, trumpet-like flowers.

He divided the loaf into twelve portions, taking none for himself, and squatted on his haunches, watching as the men fed themselves. In a very short time, they were drowsy, and moments after that, they all slumped to the ground, thoroughly stupefied. The priest rose to his feet, walked over to the first unconscious bearer, and grasped his head by the hair. He chanted once again, then, with his free hand, he took his obsidian blade and slashed the man’s throat all the way to the bone. A sudden gush of blood sprayed from the gaping wound, followed by a convulsive gasp of expelled breath and a violent, final shudder.

The priest calmly wiped his blade on his victim’s tunic, and moved to the next in line. He entered a trance-like state, where the butchery was almost mechanical, victim after victim, grasp and slash, grasp and slash, until the cavern was awash in blood, the air redolent with the stench of violent death.

By the fading light of the last torch, he grasped the hair of the last man. His blade was slippery, so he fumbled for a better grip, then drew his arm back to make the cut. By that time, the victim had come full awake. This was the strongest of the twelve strong men, and he easily jerked himself loose, swatting the priest with a backhanded slap that sent him flying. Enraged, the priest leapt forward, attacking him with the knife as he staggered to his feet. This time the bearer drove a fist into his face, and he went down, out cold.

Time passed, and the priest came slowly awake. The cavern was blacker than a starless night, and the bearer--was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER I

December 3, 2003: 9:30 A.M.: On the Usumacinta River in southern Mexico

Sam Cassady tugged his bush hat a little lower over his eyes and settled back against his tightly rolled bundle of baggage, careful not to make any sudden moves. The dugout canoe floating him down river had no more than three inches of freeboard, and he'd learned the hard way how easy it was to capsize one of the squirrelly sons-of-bitches.

Julio, the boatman, a Lacondon Maya with black, shoulder-length hair and the classic hawk-like profile of his ancestors had no such qualms. He stood serenely in the prow with guide pole in hand, perfectly balanced, concentrating on the swirl and eddy of the currents as they glided downstream between the dense walls of vegetation lining the riverbank.

It was a gorgeous day, clear and sunny after a solid week of rain. The air felt like an over-saturated sponge, but out there on the water there was just a touch of breeze, infinitely more pleasant than the closeness of the jungle. Sam hated jungles. Hated the heat, the mud, the bugs, not to mention all those ugly memories that always got stirred up. Despite the passage of three decades, Vietnam was always with him, always would be, but he preferred to keep it under the surface someplace, out of the spotlight of his front-and-center consciousness.

There were a lot of good reasons why he'd hesitated to make this trip, but when you’ve got the IRS, a couple of dozen creditors, and three ex-wives on your ass, you can’t be too particular. This time, for a welcome change, the risk had paid off. He could feel that thing wrapped up in the middle of his bedroll, poking him in the back of the head. Not the angles and the hardness of it. He had it too well protected to feel it that way. This was more like a presence, like maybe there really was a tangible power in that thousand-year-old hunk of jade, carved by some ancient Mayan craftsman into the image of Chac, the rain god. Only eight inches high, but in perfect condition, and guaranteed authentic. Hell, he'd dug it out of that overgrown temple with his own two hands! The dealer in Palm Beach who'd sponsored this little excursion had promised him a thirty grand bonus for a piece this nice. Not too shabby for a week's worth of work. All he had to do now was get it home.

He wondered what Julio would think if he knew about the carving, wondered if the old gods still held any sway in those parts. Almost as if he'd read Sam's mind, the boatman suddenly stiffened and glanced back in his direction.

"Problemas?" Sam asked, peering out from under the brim of his hat.

"Posiblemente," Julio replied. He knelt in the prow, resting his pole across his knees, and scanned the left bank of the river, shading his eyes with the palm of one hand. Before Sam could even react, Julio leapt from the canoe and started swimming for the opposite shore.

Hey! Sam shouted. He rose up on his elbows to see what was going on and a volley of shots rang out, KAPOW-POW-POW! One bullet put a crease in his hat, the second slammed into the side of the boat, and the third struck him in the shoulder, a white-hot jolt that knocked him sideways and took his breath away.

Old reflexes kicked in as he flattened himself on his back at the bottom of the canoe, holding perfectly still, nothing showing up above the gunwale but the tip of his nose. He groped for the 9 mm pistol that he kept in a holster on his belt, pulled it out and thumbed off the safety. If they came after him, he was ready for them, but he only had one clip, nine lousy bullets, and he had no way of knowing what he was up against.

Some time passed. It was hard to say how much. His shoulder felt wet and sticky, bleeding steadily and hurting like a bastard. Shit, he muttered through clenched teeth. What next? Then the canoe started picking up speed, and he heard the unmistakable roar of approaching rapids.

2:00 P.M.: Near Medellin, Colombia

Luis Velasco leaned back against a smooth boulder set high on a lush green mountainside, watching two iridescent purple butterflies chasing each other around the base of a wild guava tree. The afternoon was utterly peaceful. A bright blue sky dappled by fleecy white clouds, warm sunshine, a gentle breeze. He closed his eyes, momentarily drifting, and almost forgot why he was there.

A distant sound snapped him back to reality. A faint metallic whine, growing louder by degrees until it was unmistakable. Motor vehicles, traveling on the little-used dirt road down into the canyon, running in low gear to negotiate the steep hairpin switchbacks. The convoy. It had to be.

He raked his long, jet-black hair back from his face with the fingers of both hands, then he trained his binoculars on a pre-selected section of roadway, his palms sweating and his heart beating rapidly. In another moment, his tedious wait was finally rewarded. A charcoal-gray Land Rover rolled into view, followed a minute later by a black Chevy Tahoe with oversized tires, and finally a second Land Rover, identical to the first.

When the lead vehicle reached a particular curve, he hit the button on his stop watch, continuing to track them through his binoculars. He could see them very clearly, and confirmed that each of the Land Rovers carried four passengers, exactly as expected. The Tahoe supposedly carried four people as well, but the windows were tinted so dark it was impossible to be certain. Rafael had told him that those windows were bulletproof, but the idea of glass that could stop a bullet seemed a bit much to believe, and he could never really be sure when Rafael was kidding him. Besides, if the attack went according to plan, it wouldn't make a bit of difference whether those windows were bulletproof or not.

He tried not to think too much about all of that. Didn't want to risk making himself more nervous than he already was. His part was a small one, but it was crucial, and he was determined not to foul up the single most important thing he'd ever done. When the convoy reached his second checkpoint, he stopped the watch, made a quick calculation, then depressed the transmit switch on his walkie-talkie and calmly said, Condition green. E.T.A. six minutes.

Rafael Contreras, also known as El Comandante, sat behind the wheel of a small Renault sedan parked alongside the road at a turnout, well beyond Luis' hiding place. When he heard the signal, he casually tossed his cigar out the window and looked at himself in the rear-view mirror, adjusting his trademark black beret to the proper rakish angle. He started the car and drove rapidly downhill, rounding a blind curve at a spot where the roadway narrowed to a choke point. Two other members of the team had emerged from their hiding places and were waiting for him there, each of them carrying an M-16.

Rafael parked the Renault sideways, blocking the road, then he climbed out, and the three men tipped the little red automobile onto its side. They removed the cap from the gas tank, and fuel gushed out, quickly spreading across the packed surface of the road, collecting into puddles in the low spots. The air was heavy with the stink of it when Rafael stepped back and struck an emergency flare, holding it for a moment until it was burning steadily. Grinning, he tossed it toward the rising fumes, which burst into flames with a tremendous WHOOSH, sending a thick cloud of black smoke roiling skyward. The three men then moved quickly up the slope and vanished into the trees.

Less than a minute later, the lead Land Rover appeared from around the curve and braked to a screeching halt. Three of the passengers piled out, all brandishing assault rifles, while the driver hastily radioed the Tahoe, which was still two hundred meters further back. Suspecting an ambush, the driver of the Tahoe immediately pulled over at a conveniently located wide spot and stopped, waiting.

Rafael, observing the action from a well-concealed blind fifty meters up the slope, turned to his companions and grinned triumphantly. Perfect, he whispered as he tripped a switch on a small transmitter.

There was a tremendous explosion, and a good-sized section of the roadway shuddered, crumbled, and collapsed. With a colossal roar, a thousand tons of earth and rock slid to the bottom of the gorge, taking the Tahoe along for the ride.

The heavy vehicle rolled over four times on its way down, and after it hit bottom it bounced end over end twice more, coming to rest on its crushed flat roof, half buried by debris from the slide. All the doors had sprung open and torn off. The engine was jammed all the way backward into the passenger compartment, eliminating any possibility of survivors. A huge cloud of dust filled the canyon like a brown fog, and loose stones bounced and clattered down the mountainside in a steady stream.

Meanwhile, the frantic occupants of the two Land Rovers were isolated on opposite sides of the newly created gap in the roadway. The lead vehicle was trapped between the burning Renault and the chasm, and when the driver gunned it forward in a desperate bid to escape, he and his three passengers were taken out by a single long burst from an M-16, fired at close range. At the sound of the shooting, the driver of the rear vehicle made an awkward attempt to turn it around. There was another long burst, from another M-16, and all four men in that group met the same fate as their comrades.

When they were sure it was safe, six more of Rafael's team members converged on the wrecked Tahoe down at the bottom of the canyon. They were dressed in jungle camo fatigues, with hard hats painted to match, and they carried a variety of tools: fire extinguishers, an acetylene cutting torch, shovels, long crowbars, and sledge hammers.

"Movamos!" shouted Alejandro Duarte, a burly city boy from the slums of Medellin, with a shaved head under his hard hat, gang tattoos on his neck, and pale skin blackened by camouflage cream. He attacked the rock pile covering the back end of the wreck with his shovel, joined by several of the others, and in a short time they exposed the Tahoe's tailgate. Using the big crowbars, they pried it open, revealing the contents of the cargo space behind the rear seat. Two large canvas duffel bags, stuffed near to bursting with neatly rubber-banded bundles of American hundred dollar bills.

The money was quickly transferred into back packs, and the team members moved out down the canyon, one man lagging behind momentarily to take care of one last detail. Using a can of day glow orange paint, he sprayed a bold message on the side of the Tahoe. One letter, and two numbers: M-38.

6:00 P.M.: Chiapas, Mexico

Sam laid on his back, eyes closed, too exhausted to fight it anymore. It had finally happened. Charlie had nailed his sorry ass, and now he was on his way to one of those snake pits that passed for P.O.W. camps. Christ, he'd had nightmares about this kind of shit ever since his first trip upcountry. Now he was actually living it. Nothing more to do but rest. Conserve his strength and rest. So tired. Need rest. Rest.

Daddy!

What is it, Sam?

I had a bad dream.

Tell me about it, son, said his father, stroking his sweaty forehead with his fingertips.

I dreamed something happened to Mommy. Something really bad.

His father took his hand and squeezed it. I'm so sorry, Sammy, he said softly. Try and go back to sleep, okay?

And he knew then. It hadn't been a dream. Hadn't been a dream. Hadn't been a dream. . .

"Señor?"

The hand touching his cheek was a child's hand, not his father's, and he wasn't home in bed. He was lying in a hammock and his shoulder hurt like hell and he was dizzy, so dizzy, too weak to sit up.

He cracked one eye open and saw a trio of small faces looming over him in the half darkness. Indian boys, with long, black hair. Who were they? Where was he? And what in God's name was that smell?

"Señor?"

He blinked, groaned aloud, then tried to move, his head whirling.

One of the boys held a gourd to his lips and poured a sip of water into his mouth. He swallowed it gratefully, then took another. His head cleared just a bit, and everything suddenly came back to him.

He remembered the river. The ambush. The rapids. The canoe flipped belly-side up after the first big wave. He'd somehow looped his arm through the strap of his precious bedroll and swam for it, fighting like mad to keep his head up, swallowing ten gallons of muddy water and losing his shoes.

He'd made it to shore fifty feet shy of a major waterfall. Crawled up on the bank, puked his guts out, then collapsed and laid there for what seemed like hours. The rest was a little fuzzy, but then he'd undoubtedly lost a lot of blood.

He vaguely remembered being found by a young Indian boy, probably the same one who'd just given him the water. The boy had come back with help, and they'd carried him to their village, where an old witch doctor cleaned him up and slapped a stinking herbal poultice on the furrow that bullet had plowed into his shoulder. He still didn't know who'd shot him, or why. Only that he was lucky to be alive.

His eyes were all the way open now and he watched the three boys as they watched him. They were fascinated by his curly blonde hair, kept touching it, like they weren't sure it was real. They also seemed intrigued by the way his feet hung so far out beyond the end of the hammock. He was only six-two, not so big by American standards, but huge by theirs.

An old man appeared in the doorway of the thatched hut and shooed the boys outside. He came over to the hammock and looked down on Sam. How you feel? he asked.

"Horríble, Sam replied. Then he had a flash of panic. The carving! The jade treasure he'd suffered all this misery over. Where the hell was it? Mis cosas, my things, he blurted, struggling to rise. Where are my things?"

"No problema, said the Indian, still barely visible in the darkness of the hut. He walked out of view, then appeared again, holding not only the bedroll, but Sam’s saxophone as well, and even his pistol, snug in its mud-caked holster. We find by waterfall, he said, indicating the sturdy aluminum instrument case, sporting a couple of new dents, but still intact. All okay. Now you rest."

Sam blew out a long sigh and settled back again, relieved but completely drained. "Gracias, he said weakly. Thank you. . ." And with that, he faded back into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER II

December 5, 2003: 12:30 P.M.: Near Bogotá, Colombia

Luis sat crammed into the farthest back corner of the overloaded cargo bus, staring out the dust-caked window as the dilapidated vehicle hurtled down the highway, bouncing and swaying to the beat of salsa music blaring from a cracked speaker. Joining in on the chorus was a crying baby, a squealing piglet, and several cackling chickens, punctuated by three dozen passengers shouting at the driver, begging him to slow down. Luis was oblivious, not listening to any of it, and the scenery he was watching so intently seemed little more than a blur. He slumped against the worn upholstery and sighed, so tired he could scarcely hold his head up. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, but he didn't dare close his eyes and relax. Not yet. Not until he was home.

The escape from the scene of the hijacking took almost as much planning as the attack itself. What was it Rafael had said? "Hitting the Cartel in their own back yard will be like poking a tigre in the ass with a sharp stick." Now Luis knew just what he'd meant by that.

Less than an hour after the operation was over, Rafael and Alejandro loaded the money and the weapons into a small plane waiting at a private airstrip and took off for Venezuela, while the other team members split up and went overland, each by a different route. Luis had easily memorized his simple instructions: take a bus to Manizales, wait there until the following morning, and then continue on to Bogotá by way of Honda.

He caught the bus without any problems, but when it reached the first transit checkpoint outside the Medellin suburb of Caldas, he ran into trouble. The usual squad of sleepy-eyed uniformed officers had been replaced by a group of rough-looking, heavily armed civilians, and they were stopping and intensively searching every vehicle on the highway, causing a massive traffic jam.

When the bus finally reached the barrier pole, Luis and all the other passengers were ordered off, and everyone, men and women alike, was strip searched. He wasn't carrying anything incriminating, so they finished with him quickly, but two dark-skinned travelers from the north coast were standing next to him, and when their turn came, the searchers found a money belt hidden under one man's shirt. Inside the pouch, they found several American hundred dollar bills. The two were hauled away for questioning, and when the bus finally left, they weren't on it. Several of the passengers wondered aloud about what was going on. Luis prudently kept his mouth shut.

The rest of the trip had been a nightmare. The bus was stopped and boarded a half dozen times before it reached Manizales. Each search was more thorough than the last, and all the searchers were looking for the same thing: American hundred dollar bills.

The tigre hadn't taken too well to being poked with that stick, but he was going to have to get used to it, because this was only the beginning. The Cartel and the M-.38 were now officially at war, and he, Luis Velasco, was at least partly responsible. The all-consuming hatred that festered inside him had finally found an outlet, but he had to wonder. What would be the final cost?

More and more traffic appeared on the road as the sparsely populated countryside gave way to the sprawling southern outskirts of the Colombian capital. Scattered shacks, then clusters of houses, then a sudden sea of buildings that came closer and closer together, growing taller and finer, finally blossoming into a forest of steel and glass skyscrapers as they approached the center of town. The broad streets were jammed with thousands of cars crawling along bumper to bumper, while herds of people scurried up and down the sidewalks, so many people that the town seemed like an anthill, a human anthill filled with faceless strangers.

When the bus finally lurched to a halt at the central terminal, the passengers poured out all at once, Luis along with them. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, where several black and yellow taxis waited at the curb. Limping over to the first in line, he opened the back door and climbed in.

"A donde va?" asked the driver.

Barrio San Carlos, he replied. "The corner of Avenida Decima with Calle 25 South."

The driver raised an eyebrow, then nodded and put the flag down on his meter before shooting out into the heavy traffic, laying on his horn as he cut around a slow-moving delivery van. Luis turned and watched out the back window as they sped away, always alert for any sign he was being followed. Under the circumstances, he could hardly be too careful.

1:00 P.M.: Chiapas, Mexico

Sam staggered along the narrow jungle path, every step an effort, like he was dragging some terrible weight. His shoulder throbbed constantly, sharp, deep-down electric jolts that set his teeth on edge and warned of a burgeoning infection. Rivers of sweat stung his eyes, oozing mud slurped at his feet, and fat mosquitoes buzzed in his ears, heedless of his feverish attempts to swat them away.

He should have taken the old witch doctor's advice, stayed in the village until he got his strength back, but, as usual, he'd been too stubborn to listen. He wanted to get to Tenosique, a town downriver on the Usumacinta, and he'd figured he could walk it in a couple of hours. Just point me in the right direction, he'd said. I'll be just fine, he'd said. Man, oh man, what a crock that turned out to be!

The path crossed a small stream, clear water flowing over smooth, rounded rocks. He knelt beside it and splashed the cool liquid over his face and neck, then cupped his hands and took a good long drink. The water was so full of parasites he could almost taste them, but he just didn't care anymore.

How much farther could it be? He'd lost his watch in the rapids, to the same big wave that took his boots. He'd replaced the boots by swapping his pocket knife to one of the Indians for a pair of huarache sandals with tire tread soles, but watches were unheard of in those parts, and he was going crazy from not knowing the time. He couldn't even judge by the sun, because he couldn't see the sun through the solid canopy of trees.

Sighing, he hitched up the strap on his bedroll, tightened his grip on the handle of the saxophone case, and set out again, slipping back into the rhythm, left foot, right foot, left, right, left. He looked down as he walked, thinking about the blisters he was getting from those ridiculous sandals, when he ran smack into a low-hanging limb that conked him--WHOMP--right across the forehead, knocking him flat on his can.

Too stunned to get up right away, he just sat there. His shoulders heaved and throbbed and a sound came out of him, a weird, rumbling groan that was like a sob and a curse and a growl all rolled together. He heard a god-awful screech in response, then another, then a shrieking chorus that seemed to come from every direction. He peered upward, caught a glimpse of round, furry faces hiding among the leaves. Howler monkeys. He squawked back at them, louder this time, and the whole mangy troop erupted, screaming like banshees and pelting him with chunks of half-eaten fruit.

He bellowed like Johnny Weismuller in a Tarzan movie, and they let him have it again. This time, no help for it, he laughed. A spluttering snicker that rolled into a chuckle that exploded into a sidesplitting roar. He laughed so hard that he fell over backward, tears streaming from his eyes, and the monkeys laughed right along with him, making a crazy, joyous racket. When he finally paused for breath, he could still hear laughter. Only it wasn't the monkeys. Startled, he whirled around and found the old witch doctor from the village standing behind him, grinning from ear to ear.

Oh, God, no, he said aloud, feeling very weak. Tell me I haven't been walking in circles!

Circles? said the Indian, looking perplexed. "No, no Señor, you don't go in circles."

Where am I? asked Sam.

Tenosique. Look there.

The Indian pointed through the trees, and Sam realized he was serious. The forest ended abruptly no more than a hundred yards ahead. He could see tin-roofed buildings in the distance, and he heard the faint bleat of a car horn. Cars meant roads. Roads meant civilization. Christ, he'd actually made it! But what was the Indian doing here?

Why. . .? he asked.

I come behind you, the old man replied. Make sure you arrive safe.

Sam stared, incredulous. He hadn't asked for help, and it didn't make sense that someone would follow him all that way for no reason. The old guy had to be after something, but what?

Why? he asked again.

The Indian just smiled, a strange, sad smile that washed over Sam like a shadow from a cloud and sent a chill up his spine. It was suddenly and painfully clear what this was all about, and he knew what he had to do.

Take this, he said, reaching into his bedroll and pulling out the jade statue. The old man accepted it with a reverent bow, then disappeared back down the path. Almost as if he'd never been there at all.

1:15 P.M.: Bogotá

The taxi braked to a halt, snapping Luis out of his reverie. Here you are, said the driver. That will be two thousand pesos.

He couldn't help smiling, thinking back to the year before when he would have been shocked at the thought of paying such a sum for a short ride in a car. These days, two thousand pesos seemed like nothing at all. He counted out the money, even added an extra three hundred for a tip. "Gracias," he said, handing the bills over the back of the seat. Then he stepped out onto the curb and started walking.

He was in a working-class section of south Bogotá, an area of run down houses, small shops, and litter-strewn vacant lots. The smell of wood smoke permeated the air, reminding him of the country, but that's where the similarity ended. Rusty iron bars covered every window, spray-painted graffiti covered every wall, and the people, when they weren't hiding inside their homes, hurried from place to place, as gray and somber as the perpetually overcast sky. The barrio was dangerous, prone to violent crime, and that's exactly why it had been chosen by Rafael and his comrades. In such a place, their comings and goings might be noticed, but no one would ever admit to seeing anything, and questions were simply never asked.

He limped along with a rolling gait, turning corners every other block and keeping a sharp eye out over his shoulder. When he was absolutely certain there was still no tail on him, he walked through the door of a small, two-story apartment building on Carrera 15.

The poorly lit vestibule reeked of mildew and disinfectant. A baby cried in an apartment on the second floor and a dog started barking, timidly at first, then louder. He heard a curse and a muffled thud, then the dog yelped and fell silent. Luis walked past the stairway and ducked through a door at the rear of the building, emerging into an enclosed courtyard that was shared by another larger apartment building, which fronted on a different street, one block over.

Moving cautiously, he approached the back entrance to the other building. After pressing a button set into the wall, he stood back and looked up while a hidden camera studied his face. When a buzzer sounded, he pulled open the heavy steel door and quickly slipped through. He secured the door behind him, then headed down the dark hallway toward the stairs, where he was stopped short by a shadowy figure armed with an assault rifle.

"Holá, Luis, said the sentry, lowering the barrel of his weapon. How did everything go?"

It was perfect, Ricardo. A complete success. But why ask me? Isn't anyone else back yet?

No. You're the first.

Is there anyone upstairs?

Only Gabriela. I'm sure she'll be anxious to hear all about it.

He mounted the stairs, painfully dragging his bad leg from one step to the next, glad at the thought that he'd soon be able to rest it. He’d broken his thigh and shattered his knee in a fall several years earlier, and it had never properly healed, leaving him with the limp. The problem was serious enough that he should have been using a crutch, but he was a guerrilla fighter now, and the idea of a guerrillero macho hobbling along on a crutch was just too ridiculous to consider.

After reaching the top floor landing, he turned to his left and walked down the hallway, stopping at the door of number 27. He knocked softly, and saw an eye move to the peephole. His heart beat a little faster and his breath caught in his throat, because he knew it was Gabriela.

The lock clicked and the chain clattered, then the door swung open and there she stood, looking as lovely as he'd ever seen her. Her waist-length dark hair was pulled loosely back with a scarf, and she was wearing a tight fitting black sweater that clung like a second skin.

Luis! she exclaimed, smiling radiantly. Come in, come in. I've just heard from Rafael. He said they arrived safely in Maracaibo, and that everything went well.

Exactly as we planned it. None of our people were hurt, and we left no witnesses.

Gabriela came closer and gripped him by the shoulders, standing at arms length and staring into his eyes. Let me look at you, while you tell me how you feel about that.

About the men who died? They were hardly innocent victims, so for them I feel nothing at all.

I’m not so sure I believe you.

"Why not? Would you rather hear me say that I'm glad that they died? Or would you prefer the old Luis Velasco, the simple campesino who would have been horrified by all of this?"

Gabriela laughed lightly. You're becoming a terrible cynic. But that's good! That's the attitude you need to survive this life of ours.

What do you suppose will happen next?

We'll attack them again, of course. Then, when we're sure we have their full attention, Rafael will use the press to rub their noses in it. The publicity will be fantastic.

You make it sound like a game.

It is a game. She lifted her hands from his shoulders and playfully smacked him across the cheek with her fingertips. "Take that, Señor Piñeda, she said mockingly. That's all this was to him. Six million dollars, a dozen or so dead sicarios. That's not even a real blow. It's more of a love tap."

Piñeda won't see it that way. I know from experience.

True, she said with a shrug. But he's never had to deal with anyone like Rafael. Fighting the M-.38 is like fighting an army of shadows. We can't be beaten by brute force.

Then why don't we make this a real fight? asked Luis, pounding his fist into his palm. Let's strike a real blow! The Cartel is destroying our country, Rafael said so himself. If we have the ability to crush them, we should do it!

It always comes back to that, doesn't it? Gabriela shook her head sadly. Your anger is useful. It's what makes you a warrior. But you should never let it blind your common sense.

What's that supposed to mean?

Only that crushing the Cartel isn't as simple as it sounds. Take this one step at a time, Luis, and be patient. You still have a lot to learn.

~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER III

December 7, 2003: 4:00 A.M.: Villahermosa, Mexico

The roach moved slowly along the base of the wall, probing ahead with waving feelers like a blind man tapping a curb with his cane. Sam watched his progress with considerable interest, not only because this was the biggest roach he'd ever seen, but also because he had absolutely nothing better to do.

The bug veered left, crossing to Sam's side of the dimly lit corridor. It paused, wiggling those feelers, then it strolled, casual as you please, right under the iron bars of his cell door. That spurred him into action. He sat up and eased his legs over the side of the bare concrete bench that served as a bed. Holding one foot poised in midair, he waited until the hapless insect cruised within range, then WHAMMO! Roach pâté.

With a sideways sweep of his sandal he kicked the flattened carcass into the corner, adding it to his collection of earlier kills. He'd long since given up trying to sleep, so he simply settled back again, hands behind his head, waiting. Waiting for sunrise, waiting for a lawyer, waiting for another roach. At that point, he'd take anything he could get.

He'd stumbled into Tenosique, when was it? A mere two days earlier? That was hard to believe. At any rate, the warm reception he'd anticipated had turned decidedly chilly when a squad of nervous soldiers asked him for I.D., and he'd discovered that he didn't have any. He'd tried to explain about his mishap on the river, told them he must have lost his passport in the rapids, but they didn't buy it.

Seemed the troops were there to guard against an imminent invasion of leftist insurgents from Guatemala. He was coming from Guatemala. He had no papers and he looked like a bum. Ergo, he had to be some kind of commie spy. On the strength of that suspicion they searched him, and didn’t have to look any farther then the holster on his belt to find huge trouble. His trusty 9 mm Beretta, the barrel still clogged with mud from the river, was an unregistered weapon, smuggled into the country by an illegal immigrant, and he was suddenly in shit up to his eyebrows.

They cuffed him and tossed him into a jeep bound for Villahermosa. He