“If that thing says it’s here, then it’s here, so we wait right here; those hicks ‘r supposed to be headin’ this way, so we stick to the plan, we scoop ’em up, take that big bastard’s head like we’re ‘sposed to, grab the gal, and get the fuck back to civilization and that million-dollar bounty; the sooner we’re outta here the better I like it, this shithole gives me the creeps. We start second guessin’ ’em and they slip through, well, I for one don’t wanna hafta explain that to Felipe, he really ain’t in a listenin’ mood!”
A sudden trilling birdsong made Carvalho look around uneasily; these woods had been silent as the grave the whole time they’d been trekking here, day after day no sound of birds, small animals, nothing except the occasional ‘plunk!’ of a bullfrog leaping into the water as they passed, shockingly loud and startling in the eerie silence; he’d become used to the dead silence, and the bird-call came close to spooking him. Without conscious thought he swung the lethal-looking HK33 on its neck sling into the ready position and flicked off the safety.
The call came again, from off to his right this time, and Carvalho spun again; this time he was certain; that had sounded like a signal, and then there came from behind him what he’d been dreading.
“Drop your weapons, turn round, and put your hands behind your heads!”
Carvalho made like he was complying, then suddenly snapped his rifle up and fired from waist height at where he thought the voice had come from. A shot rang out from an entirely different direction and he was flung backwards in a spray of blood, dead before he hit the ground, most of the left side of his face missing.
Max Zeigler carefully put down his rifle, keeping his holstered sidearm on the other side to where he thought the shot had come from, and silently tugged open the Velcro clasp. As he stood, making out as though he was raising his hands, he spun to face his attackers even as his right hand flashed down and clawed at the butt of his handgun. Before he even drew the pistol, two shots rang out. Blood and brains sprayed as the back of his head exploded from the two bullets, one each through the lenses of his flashy Porsche sunglasses.
A head in a NEXUS tactical helmet rose cautiously from behind a dense clump of foliage. The soldier stood up, keeping his M4 carbine trained on the two motionless bodies, and two more helmeted heads appeared.
“Sergeant…?” he called, and one of the other soldiers lowered his carbine.
“Good, clean kill, Uncle Sam’s trained you well! Hillier, Sloane, get down there, check and search those two, and secure their weapons. Huber, Slenke, on my six, rest of you keep spread out and keep your eyes peeled, don’t bunch up; there might be others on their way in, don’t give them easy targets. Mister Deaucette, any word from your people yet?”
A man who, by the look of him was obviously one of Johnny’s close kin, stood up and safetied his hunting rifle, and spoke in rapid Creole dialect into a clunky-looking sat-phone, then nodded at the sergeant.
“Tante Amice’s boys tell me they jes’ kinda made some o’ these Noo Yawk boys up on the banks o’ th’ Atchfalaya lose interest real quick, another four so far; way they keep losing men you think they be smart an’ jes’ pack-up an’ go home, they mus’ know by now they ain’t making no kind a friends hereabouts! An’ by the way, my name Jean-Martin, soldier-man; roun’ hyah, you-all call a man ‘Mister’ once, you jes’ bein’ polite; call him ‘Mister’ twice, less’n you six years old, it mean you don’t like him too much an’ he might take to dislikin’ you right back!”
Sergeant Jones unclipped his helmet, pulled it off, and grinned.
“I’ll bear that in mind, Mister- I beg your pardon, Jean-Martin, and my name’s Everett. What do you want to do with these fellers?”
Jean-Martin grinned wolfishly.
“Why sergeant Everett, I’m s’prised you-all had to ask; din’t yo mamma never teach you nuthin’ ’bout takin’ out the trash? Way I see it, them fellers’ mamma’s ain’t gon’ come lookin’ fo’ them; they got no business hereabouts ‘cept to go murderin’ my kin, so they got whut they askin’ fo, an’ this their just reward; the book say live by the sword, die by the sword, so my conscience clear. Them ‘gators down bank-side look fair famished to me, why don’ we jes give them po’ boys sumthin’ to chew on, they God’s creatures too, I reckon they be real grateful!”
Sergeant Everett Jones grinned just as wolfishly.
“Jean-Martin Deaucette, remind me to never get you pissed at me! You fellers heard, get it done, and remember; this didn’t happen, we were never here, and we’ve never seen these douchebags before, got that?”
A chorus of ‘ Yes Sar-junt!’ met his words, and Sergeant Everett Jones grinned again.
“We’ll get them stripped and their weapons and personal effects removed and dumped in the bayou somewhere downstream, anyone comes looking for them, they’re gonna have to argue about it with those ugly critters, that OK by you?”
“A-ffirmative!” smiled Jean-Martin, “You already thinkin’ like bayou folks, Sergeant Everett Jones; when you done bein’ soldier, you-all might wanna come back, I reckon we could have us a time down the bayou; there some fine surf-fishin’ and real han’some, friendly gals down Dulac way!”
*
Even as Johnny and the girls prepared to start their trek, a world away, in an expensive penthouse in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive apartment complexes, the two remaining Ribeiro brothers were not having a good day. Joao-Luiz Ribeiro, suave and handsome, but with a hint of the depraved savagery he was capable of showing in his eyes and the curl of his lip, was behind his priceless 18th century English Chippendale desk, leaning back in his decadently luxurious executive chair, while Felipe, his hulking, brutal older brother paced back and forth across the jewel-toned, hand-knotted antique Persian Sarouk Farahan carpet that was such a feature of the elegant, tastefully decorated office.
“Six teams, Meu, six teams, more than twenty of our top-guns, your best people, OUR best people, and nothing, no word, no call, nada; it’s like they vanished, those swamps just swallowed them whole. What are you going to do about it? We keep losing people like this the Cartel is going to start thinking things, can you give them answers? Because I cannot; they show up now, and I tell them we’ve got our best people on it, they will want to see what we are doing, and if they think we are doing nothing, then maybe they will think it is because we can do nothing, have you thought of that? What that could do to us? A peasant, an ignorant, inbred campone, the dirt and filth of those bayous and swamps, is making us look weak and powerless! He has already killed our little brother, mama needs to have payment for her filho bebe (baby boy), her soul will not rest until we have bought our blood back, and we cannot even do that, and you sit there cleaning your nails!”
Joao-Luiz pursed his lips in annoyance at Felipe’s bluntness.
“We have many more men, Felipe, more than the cartel knows about, but I’m not wasting them on pointless manhunts; our friends in the Orleans sheriff’s department have told us where that swamp-rat and the girl are going, we will have people there waiting for them, as many as we can spare, all of them, if necessary; let’s see them slip through our net there!”
Felipe’s lip curled in a sneer.
“You think those fools are going to be any more successful? So far, those swamp campones have made us look like foolish amateurs; what makes you think this plan will be any better? I think it’s time we start thinking about taking care of this ourselves; there’s only two of them, maybe we should finish them ourselves. There’s an old saying, little brother; ‘if you want a job doing well, then do it yourself’; perhaps the time has come to show those fools we have trusted to do our work for us how it should be done, and then we will thin them out a little as an example of what it means to fail us…”
*
Johnny and the three girls made good time that first day, finally pitching camp a good ten miles from their starting point, no mean feat, given the rough country they were traversing. Justine had had no problems keeping up with them as they broke a new trail, keeping off the game trails and more obvious paths and tracks, justifying Johnny’s confidence in her, and Johnny grinned as he caught the approving looks passing between his two woodsy little cousins. They pitched camp, rudimentary tents consisting of lightweight plastic tarps draped over para-cord stretched between two handy saplings, a groundsheet, and a mosquito net thrown over and tucked under the whole thing, and Johnny and Justine set about sorting through their packs for the camping rations packets while Odelie and Melette built a small fire and unpacked camp utensils.
The food was filling, that was the best thing to be said for it; dehydrated corned-beef hash, fried Spam, hardtack, and coffee, and a pack of dried peaches each. Johnny grimaced as he wolfed down his portion, and winked at Melette.
“Tomorrow, you-all un limber that there bow o’ yours, honey; many more meals like that an’ I gonna be surrenderin’ just to get fed right!”