Garcia's Paradise

By Neal Donohue

CIA Agent Mark Calvin is sent to assassinate an American living in Mexico. Betrayed by the Central Intelligence Agency Mark becomes isolated and confused until he finally decides to confront his own enemy, and discovers the greatest secret of history. 'Garcia's Paradise' is told by Mark Calvin telling of changing from hunted victim to hero, after uncovering the greatest assassination in history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neal Donohue
• Release date: Apr 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311736536

Neal Donohue

Neal is an Air Force veteran, and has traveled the world both for the military as well as in private life. He has taught English as a Second language in both Mexico and Korea, and worked in London, Spain and Ibiza. His educational background was grounded in Kansas and still holds dear the bright memories of the State who honors John Brown. Though versed in communication, English and world history, Neal's vast and notable experience encompass the panorama of human psychology; its detailed implications as well as cultural affects. Through travels and work he has met and known American icons as varied as Muhammed Ali, Buzz Aldrin, and Eldridge Cleaver. Presently residing in Montana, he teaches public speaking, and enjoys each and every day the Lord is willing to give him.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The horseflies covered Stigler’s head like a black bonnet. High atop

of the city dump, his severed head was no longer attached to his body,

but I doubt he minded. He was dead. And I was disappointed. He was my

last hope of reaching Juan Carlos Garcia.

The Mexican sun now reached its zenith, creating a blistering heat

that surrounded the debris of the city dump that had begun to stink.

I wondered why Stigler considered his Chicago expertise of any use

in this furnace of hell. Arrogance, I suppose. He was a clever man, given

to smart remarks, and loud-colored Hawaiian shirts. In Mexico, he was an

eyesore. My memory of him was cheap perfume and a garish assortment

of rings lodged on fingers, nose, and ears, and who knows where else.

Even for a drug dealer he was gaudy, terribly dressed and easy to spot.

Impressive in a whorehouse, but in Ixtepec he was destined to become

food for flies.

Yesterday I talked to him of conditional surrender. Yesterday, he

said he would think about it. Yesterday he was alive. Now, the burning

breeze swept across my eyes like a razor as I stood wearily above his

head, watching an army of lizards scurry from one empty beer-can to

another, fleeing the fierce sunlight. It must have been a hundred degrees

and I couldn’t breathe anything except the rotting flesh of Stigler’s

head lying beneath my feet. Oddly enough, as dead as he was, both blue

eyes remained wide open staring back at me, while his mouth still smiled.

The only difference was his gold tooth was visible, jutting out from his

shriveled lips; a suitable epitaph to his short, foolish life.

I covered my nose with my handkerchief as I stumbled back down

the garbage heap into an adjoining parking lot. My job was over. I had

failed. I was tired, much too tired to care any longer. I needed sleep

and I needed a drink. Perhaps I needed to be drunk. A couple of shots of

Tequila would make the bliss of moonlight return, but a public cantina

was now dangerous, and one drink wouldn’t be enough. I might not make

it back to my hotel, either alone or alive. So, I bought a carafe of wine

at the local Mercado and strolled back, brushing aside the marching

thoroughfare of laborers heading out towards work. It was an hour later

that I arrived at my temporary domicile at the Hotel Allegre.

Why cut off his head? A bullet would have done the trick. Obviously,

it was a message from the Cartel, one which you never got twice.

Stigler’s detached head spoke volumes,’... Go home, Yankee! We don’t

need no stinkin’ badges! ’

They knew. They knew I was here. They knew exactly who I was, and

where I lived. But worst of all they were more than willing to give me

the same farewell, but decided not to. So, it was a happy ending after

all for everybody, except Stigler.

As I swung wide the glass pane entry to the hotel, I caught sight of

the reflection of a white limousine parked directly across the street.

Oddly, this neighborhood neither owned limousines, nor taxis. I held my

breath as I sensed the drama had not ended. It was only beginning. I

wondered what else they needed to say to me, or worse, what they needed

to do.

I cautiously climbed each flight of the rickety, wooden stairs, as if

it were a gallows. I knew they were up there, and they were waiting

inside my hotel room. I could have run, but I realized if I had been

marked, I would have been lying dead next to Stigler, as well.

I was staying in a run down hotel, though I could have afforded

better, but I also could have dressed better, but wouldn’t. Each detail

an agent exposed to locals was not only noticed, it was potentially

fatal. Even a child would notice that your expensive suit was out of

place for a Gringo. In two decades of foreign work, I had learned that

details shouted louder than any voice. One careless mistake, as simple as

the wrong jewelry, could be a matter of life or death.

I knew agents who had destroyed months of work, and sometimes

themselves with a stupid remark, or a social indiscretion. Americans not

seen as bums, or touristes, were always suspect.

My heart started racing as I climbed that stairwell. When I reached

the top I halted, listened, but heard nothing. I unlocked my door, swung

it wide, and was enveloped by a silent, black chasm of mystery.

I groped for the light-switch, but suddenly heard what I dreaded most.

It was the disjointed English of an intruder.

Stay dark, my friend. We talk. You close door.

I did as ordered. No doubt the Mexican had all the unseen forces of

death at his disposal. I noticed an orange glow from my kitchen table and

a shadowy image emerge each time he inhaled his tobacco.

"This Stigler...you friend?

Si, I answered.

Stupid man...no?

Well, no longer stupid..., I offered with resignation, "...just

dead."

The Mexican found my remark amusing. "Just dead? Si, Stigler no esta

estupido...esta muerto! " Then added, "He no longer anything. He

nothing!" He laughed at his own joke.

It explained the simplicity of his secret world. I froze and remained

quiet. He went on to explain, "You Stigler, he no listen...he no live.

Digame, Senor Calvin, you not like you friend, are you?"

They were soft words spoken with the diplomacy of a scorpion. My name

sounded strangely terminal as he uttered it. I was not sure I was getting

out of that hotel alive, as I began sweating, my heart pounding like a

jack-hammer.

I carefully answered, No, not a bit like him. I’m not stupid.

You know who I am?

"I assume you are Senor Juan Carlos Garcia."

"Si, senor! " He felt delighted to have a reputation, and to hear his

name mentioned by an American with such respect. I knew it wouldn’t last

long.

I’ll leave tomorrow, I offered, holding my breath, then waited for

his response. The next word would decide my fate.

He coughed on his cigar smoke, then laughed. "America very nice

country. You have Disneyland. You have fat children...plenty of

chickens. Nice place to live. Nice place to die. You want to die in

America, Mr. Calvin?"

Sure, doesn’t everybody. I had no idea I would say something so

stupid, but it had the ring of an unspoken contract. It meant freedom. It

meant my life. More importantly, it was what he wanted to hear.

I heard him moving. He rose from the kitchen’s wicker chair and slowly

walked towards my hotel door. The conversation was over. Alongside him I

heard the rustle of two other shadows following him. I expected as much.

The orange glow of his cigar swung back and forth like a pendulum as he

crossed the room. But suddenly he stopped at the door, turned, and

declared,"You go back to America, Senor Calvin. You friend, Stigler...he

stay in garbage dump." Again he laughed, but this time it was harsh, and

filled with all the satisfaction of revenge.

Snapping his fingers a match was lit for his extinguished cigar. He

inhaled it and the orange glow illuminated his face. He had a large round

head with wide black eyes that glared down at me, only a yard away.

Cuban! he declared proudly. It was the last word he would utter.

He opened the door and a slight beam of light broke through. Besides

noting a well tailored white suit, a red tie, and a red ruby on a golden

ring on his left ear, I saw the tainted glory of his reputation; an old

knife scar carved down the left side of his cheek, stark and forbidding.

Undoubtedly, for him a badge of honor, a price paid for success in his

world.

Two tall, bearded, thugs stood beside him, one with a revolver pointed

directly at me; the other holding a withering match for his boss.

Garcia’s cold eyes examined me from head to toe with the clinical

expression of death, as he puffed away. His laughter hid a face without a

hint of joy, simply death and victory.

He wore cuff-links of diamonds and silver, with fingernails that were

polished and manicured. He expressed no fear, no concern. He had none.

His whole business was calculating the cost of life, and he knew his

bodyguards would end mine in a second if he simply flicked an ash from

his Cuban cigar. Thankfully, he didn’t. He was satisfied that I

understood what was expected of me, a verbal contract had been made. He

opened the door and walked out. Both thugs followed, walking backwards,

never taking their eyes off of me. I didn’t budge until the last one

gently shut the door behind him, leaving me in the dark.

Relieved to be safe, I stood motionless in the center of my dark

silent room as I listened to all three men descend the wooden flight of

stairs. When they reached bottom, the hotel door swung open on a set of

rusty hinges, then quickly slammed shut. I grabbed my cell phone, pushed

one button, and waited a minute. Suddenly, I heard a voice from a distant

land utter a familiar refrain, Well, is Stigler going to talk?

Not likely, I replied. He no longer has a head.

What the hell is that suppose to mean?

"His employer cut it off, and he and his two bodyguards just wished

me safe passage back to America."

Well, stay there and find out from those locals what you can.

"I don’t think so. Right now, the locals are picking gold out of

Stigler’s teeth. It’s unlikely they want to fill out any government

forms."

Then you got nothing, Calvin?

"I wouldn’t say that. I still got my ass. That should count for

something. I’ll be back in the States by tomorrow."

You have a job to do, damn it!

I’m getting static on my phone.

Don’t give me that shit..., he hollered.

I hung up.

I knew now I could sleep, and sleep safely. Without removing my

clothes, I rolled over onto my bed, and mindlessly reached across my

three legged lamp-stand that passed for a table. I grabbed the carafe of

wine I bought, unscrewed the cap, and took the longest swig in my life.

Several ounces drowned my gullet at once. I waited for the burning to

subside, and the sedative to work its magic. Slowly my racked nerves

settled. As it did, I smiled. It stung like hell, but I didn’t care. I

had just won the Mexican lottery.

CHAPTER TWO

The Mexican sun crept over the mountains as it had done for centuries,

but this morning it seemed different, at least for me. Sunlight entered

my bedroom bright, with a fresh cool breeze, and songs from birds greeted

me. I had left my windows open and now I could hear them and the sound of

rain drizzling against my window pane that faced my balcony. It felt

remarkably good to be alive; unexpected, yet good. Below, in the

cobblestone streets, I heard shouts of Mexican children running down

streets, kicking a ball while hollering; expecting others to pass it

back.

The laborers had begun their morning shuffle down the familiar

boulevards with well-worn boots, darting from cars and trucks, marching

madly off to earn their daily bread. City buses churned and burned black

diesel fuel into the thoroughfare, as old Mexican women bantered loudly

across laundry-lines, strung high and tight across myriad of rooftops.

I rose from my bed, still clothed from the night before. I felt a

sharp pain in my head throbbing and was glad it was only a hangover.

Carefully, I strode into the kitchen where I grabbed the cold coffee

from a pot left on the stove. I poured what was left into a glass and

downed it, then searched my valise to remove my firearm and slipped it

snugly into my holster. I had finally begun my long deserved journey back

to America. I called the airport and arranged what I needed for a flight

ticket, then after breakfast in the hotel lobby I called lovely Ana.

A mortal threat is not to