The Costa Rica Job: Part 13

A short story written by:

Jesome “Hawk” Herring Enterprises, Inc.

P. Sheppard & TheSpecialist  

in Collaboration with CPS Works

Life has its funny twists and turns… put me in a tough fix and I can outfight, out punch or out kick any three men I ever tangled with, yet in the end I’m still a sap for a damsel in distress…or a dog.  I proved that for the umpteenth time while watching a parade in the center of Limon with Chava Cresca at my side…

Chava had left quietly after our thunderous lovemaking session, leaving me to recover both my strength and my senses, and later that day just after sunset, as I read the Vespula dossier, she called my room.  She suggested we drive the old beat up pickup truck to the Central Market at the heart of the city.  I quietly contemplated her motives as we made our way to the center of Limon.

“I wanted to tell you that our friend Ze’ev Pinski has extracted more intel from Maziar Safi, the man who attacked you with his son,” said Chava.  “The banker Mr. Sabo stole money from several head honchos, and Pinski’s target Vespula is one of those people.  Maziar Safi handled Vespulas’ money transfers, and now he’s on the hook…he is scared shitless, and that’s why he’s talking.  Ze’ev also had the banker’s daughter Mimi Sabo tailed.  She and her mother left Los Angeles and are now here in Costa Rica, in the capitol.  They traveled with the man you know…Aguilera.  We believe that Vespula, Mimi Sabo, and Aguilera may all be in contact, perhaps even working together.”

“Nothing surprises me…and what of the mother…”

“Senora Sabo?  Just a concerned wife, it would seem.  Oblivious to the larger picture.”

For that reason alone I fought off the urge to bail and cut my losses.  She was clean, not dirty like her daughter Mimi and the others…and I had already taken her front money.  I looked over and studied Chava’s pretty profile carefully.

“And…you chose to tell me these things because…”

“I chose to tell you because my primary duty is to help Pinski kill Vespula, to ensure he never bombs anyone else.  Sabo, this crooked banker, he means nothing to us.  He is expendable, as is his wife and his daughter.  I will help you get Sabo if I can, but it is not primary.  Don’t get it twisted, as they say.”

“If what you say is true, then I am expendable too…”

“Not to me, you’re not…Not to Ze’ev either.”

“But to your bosses…”

She didn’t respond and that said a lot.  We didn’t speak much more, she just drove.  I took in the sights once we parked outside the Central Market area and went on foot. There were local housewives out shopping for food, older men huddling around fruit stands, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, and kids selling cheap souvenirs to conspicuously dressed tourists. Evening was falling and neon signs sparkled eerily upon the timeworn streets.  The buildings stood tired, heavy, wanting for upkeep.  Limon looked older at night.  Quite a few nice-looking women stood around too—some not so nice—haunting the bars, tempting foreign men with alluring smiles, hoping for some action…none wasted glances on me, obviously due to Chava’s presence.

“This place looks different at night,” I said, noting the dilapidated state of most buildings.

“That’s part of the charm, I suppose,” commented Chava.  “There’s supposed to be a parade tonight.  I thought you might like it, just to break the monotony…”

We didn’t have to wait long.  Soon, the sound of a Jamaican band filled the tropical air as it made its way down the main boulevard.  The tourists and the locals forgot about their usual business and began lining up along the street. The Afro-latin beat seemed to hypnotize them all, and then the procession of black musicians came into view.  A drummer led the way, followed by a horn section and dancers in bright attire.  Limon’s humble version of the Festival Flora de Diáspora Africana began kicking into high gear.  It wasn’t much, but it was loud and lively and the curious throngs began singing and clapping along.  The small parade advanced frenetically, like an agitated serpent. 

I liked the rhythmic cadence and felt somewhat drawn to the black voices erupting above the loud music.  Chava seemed less captivated, almost weary. When our eyes met the hardened agent had softened very little. 

“You like?” she asked.  “This is nothing compared to the capitol.” She sounded almost indifferent. “In San Jose the celebrations are far more elaborate…I have seen them a few times.” All the while her eyes scanned the crowd methodically, like a gazelle marking lions at the water hole.

“A pity you can’t really enjoy it, Chava” I said.

“Nor you, to be honest.  Unfortunately, downtown Limon can be a treacherous place at times, Phillip…”  Her frank tone doused the tropical enchantment.  The brash band played on, of course, and the lively dancers still swayed, but she stayed leery.  It was a good thing, I knew.  We weren’t exactly newlyweds on a honeymoon.

“Chava, there must be a reason you took us out of the School to talk.  What’s that reason…”

She turned to look at me.  “Smart man…my operation is compromised, Phillip.  I am not sure by whom…perhaps that CIA man, Fields, perhaps one of my own.  Strange as it may seem, you’re a more trusted asset than those I work closest with—and don’t doubt for a second you haven’t been thoroughly checked out. So listen.  Tonight, actually tomorrow morning, we strike this place called ‘The Hole.’  I am sure Ze’ev Pinsky filled you in on its significance.  That’s where Sabo is.  If Ze’ev is right, Vesplula will be there too.” I wondered what made them so sure, but I never got a chance to ask. 

A woman screamed behind us just then…shrieked …high and piercing… over the blare of the parade trumpets.  Chava glanced but dismissed it; it meant nothing in her world.  I on the other hand peered over my shoulder, straight down an alley that split two bars, one called Clavos and the other called Mininos.  Both were stark and neither lacked for danger… I could just tell.  But the bars and their patrons did not concern me.  Down the alley that split those bars, that’s where the trouble was. 

A woman in a trampy little dress, if you could even call it that, had just hit the ground screaming…a working girl with a big butt and sturdy legs.  I saw her teeth grimace by the red glow of a light bulb blazing above the door she tumbled through.  She wore gold heels and one had snapped off like a twig. A big man in a dark suit followed her out the door, lumbering and yelling in hot Spanish and waving an empty whiskey bottle like a cave man with a club.  It looked like he wanted to slug her with it but he didn’t.  He made out to, but instead he stomped her one or two times—good stomps—then bent down and grabbed her hair.  Up she rose, light as a half-mannequin, screaming, as he dragged her back towards the bar.  She twisted and attempted to break free, but the broken heel tripped her up, and the man slapped her around for trying.  Then, with her hair still clenched in his fist, he side-kicked both legs right out from under her.  She landed, unceremoniously, flat on her bottom and howled.  It wasn’t pretty.  Some onlookers laughed, but I didn’t find it amusing.

Nobody—and I mean nobody—did a damn thing…not one of the parade spectators, not one of the bars’ patrons, not even an old municipal cop manning the parade.  They all just watched for a while, chuckled or frowned and then turned back to the street show.  The only real protester was a little black and tan dog in the alley that kept barking at the man and lunging at his shoes whenever it could.  I started to walk over…

“Leave it alone, Phillip.  It’s not our business. She’s nobody, just a whore.  Street discipline.  Let it go.” 

I turned and looked back at Chava Cresca. 

“I can’t let it go…”

Yeah, I knew she was right, but the girl kept shrieking and the big man kept slapping her…and then he hauled off and kicked the tough little dog, too.  He caught it good, mid lunge, just under the chest, a real pro-bowl punt.  The feisty little champ yelped, sailed up like a football and slammed against the alley wall with a thud, like a sack of brown sugar.  Then it dropped down to the ground and just lay there, out for the count. 

That did it for me.  Enough was enough, in my book.

I ran down the alley, not really thinking, I guess, and the man looked over with the meanest grimace I had seen in a while.  I slowed to a fast walk and right when I got to him, he raised two fingers to his lips and whistled, then swung that empty whisky bottle right at my head. 

I instinctively made him miss and penetrated the opening he left with a hard flurry of sledgehammer punches to his chest and head that drove him back, and followed through with an elbow, smack-dab in the middle of his forehead.  That last hit, bone to bone, sent him reeling and bowled him over onto his back. I felt and heard every one of those strikes and made them count, rapid-fire and hard.  He was too big to take chances on, for sure. The whiskey bottle flew out of his hand as he landed on the ground…it bounced and pinged on the pavement, unbroken, and came to rest right next to the gal in the skimpy dress.  The big fellow looked up from the ground, but not at me…just into the faraway Limon sky.  If he saw any stars they were in his own head.  I don’t think he knew where he was anymore, but he knew he was through fighting.  When his head fell to the side, it was bedtime… out cold.

I had precious little time to assess the damage or tend to the girl.  Things happened pretty fast.

“Cuidado!” the girl yelled, through the pain and over the drone of the parade, now receding.  “Cuidado!” she cried again, pointing behind me.  “Sus humbres!” 

The side door of Mininos burst open and three more a-holes rushed out, probably summoned by the boss man’s whistle, all toting pool cues and ‘rearin’ to go’ from the looks of things.  One of them cursed and charged straight at me…a big mistake.  Everything I did from that point was pure instinct.  Nothing was planned.  I dodged his first vicious roundhouse swing and took a stance as he swung again. I dodged again, barely, and caught him with a high, arching classic kick, straight from the hip. My foot cracked his jaw hard and his eyes lit up like spotlights.  I landed two more quick punches that flattened his nose and buckled his Adam’s apple.  He faded silently, then fell back as stiff as a burnt pine.  In one quick motion I grabbed the pool cue from his limp hands and whirled, barely in time to block an overhead tomahawk swing from another man.  I lunged forward with the butt of the cue and brutally jabbed that guy’s solar plexus, then twisted to deflect a swing from number three. 

To be frank, I like nothing better than a good stick fight…I‘m like a shark in warm waters…and it didn’t take long for them to figure out that they had their hands full.  But I had my hands full too, because two more rushed from the bar, one armed with a bottle and the other with what I thought was a baseball bat.  The guy with the bottle got it first.  I crowned him king of the night—top of his skull—and he toppled over with his eyes still open.  I only caught a glimpse of the bat, which turned out to be a rounded two-by-four, but fended off the swing that brought it to me.  My pool cue shattered, but probably saved half my rib cage.  I grabbed the swinger’s forearm, yanked him to me and nailed his face with my opposite elbow.  He threw his free arm around me and drove me hard against the bar’s brick wall.  He had me pinned, but a wild swing from one of the pool cues cracked him instead of me, and I broke free—with the two-by-four now in my possession.  There were two left with pool sticks, and one man disarmed and hot, and he stooped down and grabbed the butt-end handle of the shattered pool cue.  It was three on one now, but I had the big equalizer in hand and by that time I was pissed off!

“Vamos!” I roared. “Soy listo!”  

And come they did, like three swinging tornadoes.  For every blow that came my way, I countered with blocks, parries and counterstrikes that put a bad-ass hurting on each one of them.  If I got hit, I never felt it.  They were getting hammered, but they fought and didn’t quit; I’ll give them that much.  One more went down hard and the last two suddenly wised up.  They tried to flank me on either side, rushing at angles.  I retreated against the alley wall, but only briefly. I had that big-ass stick, mind you, and after a few more counter-cracks and one telling jab to somebody’s family jewels, I regained the initiative.  They rushed once more and I knew I had to finish them before my luck ran out.  Everything suddenly speeded up then.  I jab-stepped, but lost my footing on a chunk of broken pool cue, and hit the deck. 

I thought I was a goner. 

One moved in with a shout, but just before he struck, that little black and tan dog came out of nowhere and ripped into his calf.  He hollered and convulsed, and swung at the dog instead.  I seized the moment and struck with fury, crushing a shin and shattering his kneecap, then desperately rolled away and onto my feet as he shrieked in pain.  The last man rushed me and swung the heavy end of his pool stick so hard it whistled and rattled the bones of my arms when I blocked it.  Another swing whizzed by just inches from my face, and all the while that little dog kept dodging in and out, nipping at the man’s shins and growling like a little badger, ferocious and fearless. 

Then I heard sirens and saw Chava running toward us with her Jericho 941.  I knew she would do something but I didn’t know what, so I took a big chance and feigned a swing at that last adversary, and then put everything I had into a backward roundhouse kick, chin high.  The risk paid off, because the roundhouse kick sent him sailing across the alley like he’d been hit with a Joe Frazier uppercut…it was devastating…the guy actually sailed off his feet and stumbled backwards before losing it and slamming the back of his head into the wall, if you can believe that.  But I did pay a price.  I felt a thunderbolt whip across my back as a pool cue landed.  The big man in the suit had risen to strike again. 

I tumbled forward to the pavement with a grunt.  The rounded two-by-four flew from my grasp.  I rolled, more to avoid another strike than from the actual back blow.  Still, I was down.  Defenseless.  I knew I was in trouble. The big suited man moved in, limping and grimacing with pain and hatred.   He swung the pool stick down hard and heavy, going for my head.  Somehow, I made him miss. 

He raised it high again but suddenly Chava Cresca, shouting “Kee-yahh!” flew into him feet first, full-force, catapulting her entire mass into his midsection, and knocking him completely off of his feet.  His body seemed to fly in all directions at once…his pool cue bounced and spun like a drumstick before finally resting on the pavement.  The man crash-landed right beside the gal with the broken shoe heel.  He tried to rise, but before he could, the girl grabbed the whiskey bottle beside her and slammed it down on the top of his head…and that time, it did break, shattering into pieces.  It was over.

All three of us, Chava, the girl and I, were on the ground too.  Slowly, we rose together, trying to get our legs back.  The little black and tan dog rushed the man in the three piece suit and sank his teeth into the man’s shoe, snarling and tugging at the laces with little effect. The battle had ended, but he still remembered who had kicked him.  

The sight of it made me laugh a little.  

“Phillip…you are crazy!” cried Chava.  I wasn’t sure if she was pissed off or amazed, or maybe a combination of both.  “You’re unpredictable, incorrigible…I don’t really know what you are but…damn…you sure know how to fight.”  She looked over at the girl with the broken heel, who had never let go of the broken neck of the whiskey bottle.  “We don’t even know her…and everybody’s looking…we better go…now.  I’ll handle the police, but I’m not happy about this at all!”

I nodded.  “I’m not your typical spectator, Chava.  I don’t turn my back on people.  Maybe that disqualifies me for Mossad or the CIA, but…just tell me this, if it was your sister…or your mother, would you have done the same?”

“Lets just go, Phillip.”  Chava looked at the working girl one more time.  Finally she asked in Spanish, “Where will you go?” The girl looked toward the bar, then back at Chava, and shrugged.  She had nobody.  “Fine then…go with him,” she said, pointing at me.  “He likes to save everybody.  Maybe he’ll find a place for you, too.”  She glared at me one last time, but I didn’t get that she was all that mad.  She turned away and stalked off to charm the now-arriving police.

“And the dog comes too,” I said, to the girl.

“He no mine,” she said.  “He nobody perro.”

“Go grab ‘im then, quick,” I said, motioning with a hand.  I tapped my chest.  “He’s mine now.  Hurry!”

No portion of this story may be used without express written consent from the author. 

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The Costa Rica Job: Part 12

A short story written by:

Under the dim glow of a small wax candle, her toned shoulders and smooth torso narrowed at the waist with astonishing grace, the elegant contours blending seamlessly with almost sinful perfection.  I had not enjoyed such a passionate and energetic lover in some time, and I felt not just satisfied but mildly exuberant.  Soon she murmured in the darkness, then sighed and shifted softly on the bed as her taut hips flexed and her luscious round bottom caught the light…and goodness gracious, once more I grew tensely aroused.  Call it ardor or outright lust, but I couldn’t help myself… I had to have her again, then and there. With customary assurance I placed my deft hand upon her back… slid it down slowly, relishing the warm landscape…caressing, massaging… and gently clasping the firm, fleshy tush.  She shivered, moaned quietly and arched her entire, sculpted derriere upward in response, then turned to face me with a curious gaze.

“…Your not?”

“Expended?  Oh no, not hardly my sweet, not just yet…”

“No…? What about San Jose…”

 “It will be there…Our delay is all your doing, Chava.  There’s no one else to blame….you’re simply delectable…to see and to hold.”

She scanned the length of my eager frame as I maneuvered to wrap her completely in my arms.

“You too, Phillip,” she cooed, “…in more ways than one.” 

I made it my business to prove us both right, tapping out steady rhythms on her little drum kit until she erupted with a volcanic crashing of cymbals.

Earlier that morning, upon first arriving at Ze’ev’s fighting school, I had absolutely no cause to believe my day would come to such a smashing conclusion.  As fate would have it…it did.

Tzvi Pinsky certainly threw me for a loop shortly after our mutual introductions.  Right away, someone came and ushered me off to the training and practice gym.  The gym looked first class.  A loudmouthed sensei-type had a dozen of the top kids going through their paces.  I watched him a while.  He was heavy on his form and his technique and a bit too pushy for my taste, and once or twice I saw him sizing me up out of the corner of his eye. 

I recognized him for some reason but couldn’t place him at first…it wasn’t work-related, though. 

Eventually, Ze’ev’s brother Tzvi came to the gym with his guide dog and told them all I was a visiting master.  The sensei guy frowned and coolly marched off to the free weights …apparently he resented the intrusion.

…Ah well, get over it.

I wasn’t expecting a formal introduction but I warmed to the kids.  I told them the history of Wing Chun kung fu and a few key concepts that I thought meshed well with their Krav Maga skills.  Tzvi translated, which was convenient. The students stayed interested.  They tried a few ‘sticky hands’ exercises, for tight spaces with no room to run.  They liked it… I could tell that their main instructor didn’t allow for much social interaction.  They were highly disciplined…no spontaneity, very programmed…but good at what they did.  One of them eventually asked me what I thought were the most important aspects of fighting …

“Interesting question,” I said, through Tzvi Pinski.  “What are the most important things to all of you?”

They looked around a while until finally one said, “Ataque y retírese.”

Classic Ze’ev-think.  “Right…engage and disengage,” I said.  “Yeah.  If you’re not in the dojo, or at the gym, get in, do damage and get out quick.  There’s no sparring in the streets…no referee… remember that.  Three seconds, three moves.  Take him out and disengage.  Just remember it’s not all about the physical.  It’s also about awareness… outward awareness and inner awareness…”

         “That’s what they needed to hear, Phillip, all that.” 

         We sat at the big long reception desk, where Tzvi spent much of his time.  “We don’t want them fighting on the corner, we want them gaining self-confidence.  They don’t get enough of the thinking part…”

            “That’s just the instructor’s push,” I said.  “Speaking of which…who is he…what’s his name?”

            “Our instructor?  He’s new…Fields,” said Tzvi Pinsky, rather flatly.  “Baron Blaine Fields… That’s his real name.  He’s only been here for a few weeks.”

            “Hmm,” I said.  “I know the face.” 

            “From where?”

            “Picture in an old album… he was married to my secretary, Charity, years ago.  They had a kid, a boy…he’s mildly autistic…”

            “…And let me guess, he left her.”

            “Exactly, for the home-care giver…It all went down long before I met her.  Still a mess.  She stays with her folks now…nice gal, sharp, deserved better.”

            “We don’t exactly adore him,” said Tzvi.  “Our real guy got called back to Haifa…security detail for the mayor, his uncle.  Ze’ev says that Mr. Fields is here special request from Langley.”

            “Yeah? What for…eyes and ears?”

            Tzvi snorted.  “Hardly.  It’s not classified so I’ll tell you what I know… if you even care to know.”

            I shrugged. “Shoot…”

            “A stupid scandal blew up in Algiers.  According to my brother the station chief there got in trouble for drugging and raping two Algerian women…I forget his name…a station chief!  He filmed the attacks and stored images on his computer.  Recalled…dismissed…a terrible blow.”

            “What about Fields?”

            “He knew something but refused to cooperate with the Algerian authorities, which embarrassed the administration.  So now this is Camp Washout for Fields.” 

            “Interesting,” I said, “I have a good mind to send for Charity.  She always says she still owes him a punch in the nose…and what about you, Tzvi?” 

            “Me? Well…let’s see…I started the Pinski School to address the social issues affecting the kids here in Limon…the drugs, the gangs, the poverty, everything.  It’s so easy for some to close their eyes.  Mine were closed…even when I could see they were closed.  Now I’m blind but there they’re open, too. That’s really what I’m all about, now, keeping good kids off the street so they don’t go bad.”

            I liked Tzvi.  He had a good heart, I could see that.

             “Ze’ev told me you used to play the violin and Spanish guitar, as well.”  He nodded.  I could see him remembering.  I looked around at the school’s interior walls.  There were lots of paintings, the hyper-photorealistic kind that modern photography swept away long ago, the kind that still fascinates people who see it for the first time.  “You painted everything on the walls, too?”

“Yes, a long, long time ago.  Losing my sight and my good hand…it changed things, obviously”

“You were incredible.”

“Yeah,” said Tzvi.  He sighed heavily. “Sometimes people still rave about them, the pictures I mean, but I’ve forgotten what most of them look like.  Isn’t that strange?  It’s a little frustrating too.  It’s like being a retired athlete, you know?  People talk about the wonderful things you used to do—but you can’t do those things anymore…I know what that feels like.  But enough about me.  Ze’ev keeps telling me that he wants you to help me run this place…”

That’s not going to happen…Ze’ev knows that.”

“Why not?  We could use you, Phillip, and Costa Rica is like paradise…”

 “Well, Tzvi… I’m a martial artist, but if I teach anything, it will be Wing Chun kung fu…exclusively.”  I thought a moment before speaking further. “I get into this with my son a lot, too, so don’t take it wrong…but Krav Maga is really a mixed combat style—a good one, too.   It’s direct, it’s tactical, it’s brutal, it’s efficient, and everything a fighting system should be. It’s just not a true martial art.” 

“No?”

“No.  It probably never will be, because it’s too good at being what it is…a military fighting system.  It’s focused, but also limited in what I prefer to call its spiritual usefulness.”

“Hmm… I‘ve never heard it put quite that way before, Phillip.   I’m not sure what that means.  It’s practically the national fighting system of Israel.  People everywhere love it…”

  “Yes, of course, and it has a founder and a branching history and there are now undisputed masters of the style.  But there’s no enduring values, no life-defining customs, no holistic traditions involved.  It’s definitely more than just a sport, though.  Put it this way Tzvi…Krav Maga is a way to preserve your life…but not a way to live your life.”

  “That’s fine…that’s fine.”  He cleared his throat with a soft little cough.   “Ze’ev and his… colleagues here …they have helped out from time to time…”

“That’s probably not company policy, I bet,” I said.  “Not good for operational cover either…”  I wondered if Tzvi understood my meaning.

Oh, that.  I don’t think Ze’ev even worries about it.  Mossad?  Is that what you meant by cover?  My brother worked for them for so many years…it’s beyond departmental loyalty and chains of command now.  He’s out of it, now.  Completely.” 

“That’s what I hear,” I said, neutrally.  But I also thought about Ze’ev’s precise flow of intel, his intense hatred for Vespula and the utterly casual way he gunned down two hostiles the night before…without a moment’s hesitation… He might’ve been out of the game, but he sure hit like he never left the playing field.  

“Tzvi… a local woman picked me up today.”

 “Not exactly a local…just an excellent facsimile, I guess.  It was the infamous Chava Cresca… one of ours.”

 “Chava Cresca?  I like that.  Is that her real name?”

“It’s the one she answers to lately.  I don’t know what’s real when it comes to names and identities anymore, Phillip… I’m not even sure who Ze’ev is from week to week…and he’s my god dam brother!” 

“Just curious…” 

“You can ask her yourself…she’s coming right now…I know that walk… drum your fingers if she’s as fine as they all say…”

I heard the footsteps just then, and turned quickly to my right.  A striking woman walked directly toward us with a head of wavy auburn hair… it bounced freely and brushed her shoulders gingerly with every springy step.  She looked to be about forty, or maybe younger.  It was hard to tell, with her tapered waist, agile-looking frame, pert upper torso and energetic legs that bloomed ‘just so’ at the upper thigh and filled her tan cargo pants perfectly. 

To Tzvi’s mild delight, I drummed my fingers lightly on his desktop, in unison with her crisp footfalls. “The kids got it right,” I said. “She’s fine as hell…”

She was a professional, no doubt about that.  I spotted a slight bulge on her right ankle, just above her coffee-colored tactical boots…perhaps a light, polymer Jericho 941 handgun tucked away for a rainy day, standard issue for Israeli agents… and probably something with a lot more ‘stoppage’ concealed inside her cute beige duty vest.   She was armed, dangerous and apparently quite comfortable in the role.  I saw several other details at a glance, small little things…her left arm swung more freely than her right arm, unencumbered by the presence of any gun… her eyes scanned point to point, at a door, or a window, at the front main entrance.  Eventually, those eyes bore in on me as she closed the final gap.

From the start, she had a way about her…

“Chava Cresca,” she said mildly, with a perfect accent.  She stared at me long and hard.  I felt a warm rush of attraction pass through me as we exchanged brief pleasantries.   I casually stood and offered my hand.  She extended her own and shook mine firmly, with no claim to dominance. Her palm was soft and warm, her fingers delicate, yet strong.  She was even more attractive up close.  The handshake lasted long enough for each of us to get our point across. 

I studied her face closely… and suddenly it all came home to me… those big brown eyes were the give-away.  She was the exact same woman who had transported me earlier, in the pickup truck…and she had tidied up very well… 

“Miss Cresca, surely that wasn’t you earlier today…” I said.  “I find it hard to believe…”

“It was me,” she said emphatically “Sorry for my scruffy appearance.  I hope I look better now.”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,” I said.

“Thank you…”   

She smiled.  It was a not a token gesture, but something more.  I felt subtle electricity sparking from us every time our eyes met.  Despite the formalities, she put something out there that I liked.  She intrigued me…aroused my curiosity.  She knew it, too.  If sex appeal was her only weapon, Chava Cresca could have ditched the slingshot, and still slain Goliath like a champ.

 “If you are up to it, we can recon The Hole in San Jose, as early as tonight.  I’m’ sure Ze’ev filled you in, but things always look different up close, right?  In the meantime, I can show you your personal quarters if you like…You must be a little tired. Bring your things.” 

On that note, we left the reception area.  I had a very warm feeling about Chava Cresca, but I couldn’t exactly say why.  She was hot, sure, and I liked it plenty, and I knew I couldn’t trust her beyond a certain point, not blindly anyway.  She was Mossad, after all.  They had their own agenda… I was no fool about that.  Her support had nothing to do with courtesy.  She would play me like a fiddle if I let her and would probably help me only if it helped her, too.  Still, all that was fine and dandy, though… I understood.  I knew how the game was played, and I had an agenda of my own to fulfill. I definitely wanted more information from her but she didn’t have to tell me anything if she didn’t want to.  …she was certainly no Tzvi Pinsky…she wouldn’t spill beans just because I asked nicely—at least not at first.  Despite all that, I still liked her.

“Ze’ev briefed me on Mossad’s purpose, here,” I said, following her to the aft section of the building.  “But he didn’t tell me anything about you, in particular.”

“I’m just your friendly neighborhood master spy…just observing to increase my knowledge base.”

“Is that so?”

 She nodded and opened a door which took us to another part of the building.  Then she led me down a long corridor that ended at yet another door.  She entered and I followed. It was a small studio sized room, decently equipped with a double bed, a study desk, and all the usual amenities of a hotel room.  “This is your room.  It’s the only one down this corridor. You look like you could use a hot shower and some time to rest.  Tonight we hit San Jose…to verify location….” 

I couldn’t argue with her thinking.  I was feeling a little ripe and somewhat tired. 

“Alright.  I’m going to hit the shower, then…” 

She made no move to leave, and just nodded at me.

“Feel free to stay,” I said.  It rang hollow to my own ears.  I conceded her presence and left her to own devices.  I took an extra long hot shower.  I knew Chava Cresca would go through all my things, anyway.  It was standard practice.  I didn’t really care.  She had a right to…it was her house.  I would have done the same.

I expected her to still be there when I left the shower, but I didn’t expect her to be standing there nude.  I stood and gazed upon her, wearing nothing but a towel around my waist.  She stood there too, facing me in all her golden glory, as pert and firm as I imagined when she came strutting up to me a few minutes before.  All I could do was admire the view at first…she looked that good. Then my mind reactivated.

“Is this one of your master spy techniques?” I asked.  “If it is, I surrender, but I can tell you right now, I hope to God it’s not, because you’re incredibly gorgeous.”

She shook her head no, slowly, staring at me like a lonely goddess with golden-brown eyes. Daintily, she licked her pouty lips, swallowed, and spoke.

“I’m won’t lie and say I’ve never done something like this before…I have”

“Good,” I said.  “I won’t lie and say I haven’t either.” 

I took the few steps necessary to draw near. I raised my hand carefully to her face and gently ran my fingers along her smooth jaw line.  She turned her face upward and bit her lower lip, and it made my blood simmer. 

“Earlier today” she whispered, “…I decided…”  She stood on her tippy-toes, closed her eyes and softly pecked my lips, again and again, “that I simply had to…have you.”  

Her seductive brown eyes opened and like a skydiver rushing to earth I fell into them…fast and hellishly quick.

That was all she wrote.

In that same moment she was in my arms.  Her tight body felt like a portion of paradise, bountiful and rich for the taking…her breasts swelled like ripening fruit in my agile hands, the tips on point and rigid.  Everywhere I touched I felt warmth and flesh and an incredible exchange of sensual, hot desire…cosmic volts passing between us…my lips smothering hers, her tongue melting mine…slithering, slippery-moist kisses, hot and enticing, driving us to rare heights. My loins literally raged under her sultry ministrations.  Then suddenly, with a playful growl she threw her arms about my neck and leapt up, wrapping her wonderful thighs around me, right where I stood.

Incredible…like a passionate farm girl forcing herself on the wiry hired help—and helpful I was, placing my hands beneath her for support, and taking her as she so willingly offered.  I wanted to carry her to the waiting bed…but she had other plans…so as physically demanding as it was, I went along for as long as it took to satisfy her. She moved like a woman too long deprived of good old-fashioned loving…and believe me; I had that in ample supply.  She had me gasping for air when the thunder cracked for her, and I rode out the storm like a good ranger should.  She howled and whimpered like a she-wolf as the bolts of lightning struck and then finally faded…then she clung to me and pulled me in for grateful, deep kisses.  It was all her show, but I was already contemplating the inevitable encore… as we kissed with the great big world spinning around us.

Sometimes, it’s good to be The Specialist.

No portion of this story may be used without express written consent from the author. 

WGA Registration Number : 1519346

7 months ago  /  0 notes

The Costa Rica Job: Part 11

A short story written by:

Jesome “Hawk” Herring Enterprises, Inc.

P. Sheppard & TheSpecialist  

in Collaboration with CPS Works

What a difference a half-day makes…

I sat securely strapped in my soft leather seat feeling rather relaxed, despite my earlier ordeal.  Over time, the helicopter’s powerful drone even became hypnotic.  I was impressed that Charity had come through once again.

Now, if anyone had suggested twenty-four hours earlier that I would be flying along Nicaragua’s southern Pacific coast in an A119 Koala, I would have bet a wad of cash against it.  If they had predicted everything else that went down, I would have wagered my Z4 and a full tank of gas that they were dreaming.  

Still, there I sat… zooming along, one thousand feet above sea level and looking out my window at all the nice scenery.  How chipper… Actually, I counted myself lucky not to be plugged full of holes.  If that weren’t enough, I was flying straight into what might be the most dangerous mission of my life.  How chipper, indeed…

“Below us to the left is the Nicaragua resort town I mentioned earlier,” piped in my pilot, from the cockpit. “San Juan del Sur…look at that coastline.”

“Nice.  Drop her down some if you can… it’s beautiful.”  I wasn’t expecting a high-speed, low-level pass, but she swooped the big bird down with an exhilarating rush of power and flew parallel to the coastline with the fuselage slightly tilted, so I could take it all in.

“Good stuff,” said the pilot. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter how many times I see the Pacific coastline from up high,” I said. “It’s always a thrill.”

“Yes, same here… You see that alcove…that one right over there…they film some reality show down there.  They might be doing one right now.”

Yeah?”  I chuckled.  “Maybe we ought to drop in on ‘em…the place seems more like paradise than purgatory to me.”

“Yeah, right… buzz the tropical campers and then off we go?  Piss off the Nicaraguan Air Force…nice.”   

The helicopter swung hard east and left San Juan del Sur behind.  In less than an hour I would hit the ground near Limon, but in the meantime I tried to unwind and take in all the scenery.  My mind drifted back to the night before, in the basement laboratory of Dr. Brownell Temple, the black ex-CIA doctor who treated my injuries. 

When we arrived, I had started having convulsions from so many ant stings. He put me down again right away but it seemed only briefly, like I had slept for just an hour or two, and I felt pretty good when I woke. The good doctor had worked wonders in a very short time, I thought.  Boy, was I mistaken.

“…According to this blood test, brother man, your captors put you down with Diprivan…”   

“Why have I heard of that drug before…”

 “It’s generic for Propofol…a white liquid anesthesia…fast acting, and quickly metabolized, therefore relatively safe.  It’s the stuff that killed Michael Jackson, you know, but whoever did you dirty apparently knew exactly what they were doing.  You won’t have any bad side effects at all.  Obviously it didn’t stop your heart, right?  You seemed completely unaffected by the Diprivan when you first arrived…but the ant venom had begun doing a real number on you. Too many stings.”

“The Diprivan…no harm?”

“None.”

“Temple…are you sure?”

“Come on, Phillip… I’m a doctor and a former CIA interrogation specialist. I have shot Diprivan into people countless times, and stronger meds as well. For normal surgical purposes, Diprivan works like a charm.  Maybe that’s why rich cats like MJ paid so handsomely for it… Three hours down is like getting eight hours of really good sleep. In fact, if they had not tortured you, you might have woken up feeling better than you have in a long time. Of course, slush showers and Conga Ants are not my notion of ideal counter-treatments.”

Temple had that way about him, a brilliant store of medical and physiological knowledge coupled with a wry humor that only life in ‘The Company’ would foster in a man. He had retired from the CIA a few years earlier and broken off all ties.  No one who really knew why ever really said why.  He then turned his house into a ‘toy shop’ and made specialty devices for guys like Ze’ev and myself.  He refashioned the ESQ watch I wore that night, so indirectly he had already saved my life.

“The pain from the stings is completely gone, Temple… how?”

“Were you that far gone, or did you just forget everything?  Wow.  Well, first I provided a mild sedative and an anesthetic—plus a double shot of tequila because I’m the doctor, then electro-shocks individually administered to each sting site. Afterwards, you slept for twelve hours…it’s four o’clock in the afternoon, my man.”

“You’re—”

“Kidding?  How cliché that sounds, and so incorrect.  Mrs. Fields and Mr. Pinsky stayed until noon…then both left.”

“Where to?”

“Ze’ev? You know him.  Off on another rampage or some clandestine information hunt.  He mentioned something about a man being stuffed in the trunk of Mrs. Fields’ car, and having to take him somewhere…I think the fellow was still alive, because he asked me if I had any truth serum. That man…he’s really quite a deadly character…but I and Mrs. Fields wanted no part of that.”

“Where is she?”

“Took my car…borrowed it, to be returned in one piece, she said.  She’ll be back, soon.  She is out following your standing orders, Phillip.  That means arranging your travel to Costa Rica…She may be in completely over her head right now, thanks to you.”

“Don’t underestimate Mrs. Fields. I don’t anymore.”

“Believe me… I never underestimate anyone.  She’s quite loyal too… it’s a shame she doesn’t work for me.  I was like that once…young and gung-ho to play follow the leader.  I’m against all this current activity, Phillip.  I don’t think you should go. You need more time to recover…It’s too much too soon, but I realize I’m talking to a deaf man…”

“Yeah, you are, but at least you’re smart enough to know it. It’s hard to believe that I lost half a day… and that electrical shots could end pain like that.”

“The shocks did more than end the pain.  They neutralized the poison and, stopped its spread throughout your system…killed all its effects. You were stung thirty-nine times.  That’s a lot of venom.”

“Temple…you’re simply a genius, that’s all.”

“I wish I was, my brother.  I am brilliant to be sure, but certainly no genius. I did not invent the technique.  Some say it started in the Amazon twenty years ago… people using stun guns.  Others say it was the Texans, with car batteries and jumper cables for rattle snake bites.  I only know it works.   For you, I used a modified taser.  It delivers a near-perfect high-voltage, low-current shock.”

“That’s it…?”

“Yes, that’s it.  One major drawback, though…each shock is quite painful, which is why I put you asleep beforehand.  It was somewhat risky, given all you endured, but necessary because you were exhibiting a strong allergic reaction to the Conga Ant venom by the time you reached me.”

“Yes… I remember, now. The shakes …then the spasms.”

“Exactly. I had to work fast. The technique is not textbook approved, but I have perfected it over the years to counteract various insect and scorpion stings…and venomous snake bites.  I’m not going to bore you with the physiological details.  No one truly knows why it works.  You just need to know that neurotoxins effect the synapses and nerves and that electrical charges neutralize their deadly effects almost instantly.  You’ll be fine.  By the way, Phillip, you have an incredibly low heart rate, and that may have slowed the venom’s effects. Oh, and how’s Malcolm these days?  Still want to be a doctor, or was I just the flavor of the month back then?

“Yeah, I’m afraid you were…”

“No problem, my man.  As I recall he wanted to be a train conductor, a teacher, a bus driver and a vet during that same time frame…and in rapid succession.  Six-year-olds…fickle souls… time flies, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.  And now you freelance, Temple.”

“Yes I do, like you, just selling a different expertise.  Although I must say…my new gig is ideal for where I’m at right now…your field of endeavor is a younger man’s game.  I could just never keep up now and I’m not sure how you still do it.”

“I need to get up.”

“You’re quite free to move about now.  There’s food to eat…if you need anything else, don’t hesitate.  Later I will show you some of the things I have been working on. You might see something useful. I hope so, because as much as I object to your plans, I actually wish you well in Costa Rica, you adventurous fool…”

Before I departed, Temple had repaired my ESQ watch and reconfigured my cell phone to operate on an encrypted satellite signal.  He also provided a rundown of current CIA activity in Central America, and everything he could gather about the Sabo case from personal contacts.  That information included PDF dossiers on Aguilera and Vespula.  We both wondered if they were somehow linked, but nothing concrete supported our thoughts…

…The A119 Koala landed on a farm near a small hub town called Moin, just four miles east of Limon.  My pilot bid farewell with a sharp nod and a gloved ‘thumbs up’ for good measure. I carried a few things in a beat up old backpack and trekked north from the small farm to the main road that ran eastward to Limon.  I took a good look around.  Moin had seemed more like a big stockyard than an actual town from the helicopter.  On the ground, my opinion changed little.  Fuel storage tanks, brick warehouses and a Dole Fruits train depot dominated the landscape.  The air smelled of petroleum and the place felt dull…not exactly a tropical getaway, that’s for sure.  Once I got my land legs back I made good time despite the moist heat and hit the outskirts of Limon soon enough.

The first thing that stood out in Limon was the black population.  Most were native born, of course, the ancestors of imported slave labor, but there were far greater numbers than I had a right to expect.  In fact, a few looked like tourists from Belize or Haiti.    Temple had mentioned something about a weeklong cultural fair, an annual event occurring across Costa Rica.  I saw lots of posters, some promoting ‘Limon Roots,’ others promoting Flores De La Diáspora Africanas.  I stopped to read one and got the gist of it.  It was Costa Rica’s black history week.  Perfect cover for my presence, I thought, and bought a T-shirt from the first street vendor I saw.  After all, the more I blended in the better. 

I entered a chicken joint called El Pelazzo, just to use the bathroom and to change my shirt.  Once I left and moved on, an old flatbed Ford filled with recyclables slowed down and stopped right next to me.  A woman dressed like a dumpster diver sat at the wheel.  Everything about her looked common and dirty, except her eyes.  They were the lightest brown. That was the one nice thing about her, but it didn’t matter.  She could have been Eva Longoria in stiletto heels and I would have still been wary.  I had ate my fill of troublesome women.

She wore a headscarf and a light shawl and when she smiled, it lacked warmth—and that suited me fine.  She motioned toward me to get into the truck. “Hop in …”

Yeah right… I studied her face again.  Clearly, she was no junk collector.

“Who you work for?” I asked.  I put it to her in Spanish, too.  “Para quien trabajas?”

She seemed a little surprised at my caution, but stepped out from the pickup and showed both hands.  “No tricks here, amigo.  Ze’ev asked me to make contact, that’s all.  He said you would turn me down, too…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You’re the big bad kung fu instructor, I hear.  I’m nobody special, just your ride.  Get in or keep walking.  It’s your choice…”

“Okay.  Lets go…”

Neither of us spoke, and I kept waiting for an ambush that never occurred.  When I arrived at the Pinsky School, I immediately went to the front desk, where I received a rather strange surprise.

“Ze’ev?”  I could not believe he was actually sitting at the reception desk.  He turned his head and regarded me through dark aviator sunglasses, but none of the usual warmth came through. 

“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong Pinsky.  Ze’ev Pinsky is my brother.  I’m Tzvi… Tzvi Pinsky, his twin.  And you?”  He extended his prosthetic right hand.  I recovered quickly enough to shake it and spare us both any embarrassment.

“The pleasure is mine,” I said.  “I’ve worked with your brother Ze’ev from time to time. My name is Phillip.”

“Oh…Phillip.  My brother’s sparring partner!  Welcome.”

No portion of this story may be used without express written consent from the author. 

WGA Registration Number : 1519346

9 months ago  /  0 notes

The Costa Rica Job: Part 10

A short story written by:

Jesome “Hawk” Herring Enterprises, Inc.

P. Sheppard & TheSpecialist  

in Collaboration with CPS Works

Everyone cracks eventually.  That’s my thinking.  You can play the tough guy for only so long.  

In fact, some deviant types actually enjoy your gallant efforts, so they can get their jollies breaking you down. My main captor, the ‘mink lady,’ seemed of that stripe.  In the hands of real-life ogres like her, it’s usually best to ‘crack’ a little and string them along if you can.  If you play it right you’ll live longer.  Even if the pain makes you regret your reprieve, hang on. 

If you’re alive, there’s always hope.

…The oblong room was warm, and dark in the shadowy corners.  I ‘came to’ suddenly, like an old junkie from a soft nod.

“What the hell is this,” I grumbled.

“Strike One, for you…” 

My whole body convulsed when an ice-riddled bucketful of cold slush slammed into my face.  It was the classic rude awakening from every dime store novel ever written—but damn effective nonetheless.  My ears rang, my eyes blazed, and my head throbbed like a bass drum in a military parade. 

I heard a metal bucket drop to the floor with a loud crash.

“I trust you slept well…” 

It was ‘mink lady,’ from the parking structure.  I felt sure of it.   Her voice bounced softly off the walls… metal walls, gauging from the reverb.  I lowered my torso and shook my head, letting the water drip away, feigning more grogginess than I felt.  They had strapped me to a chair, apparently one designed for that very purpose.  My watch had been removed, as well as my shirt.  My slacks and shoes remained.  I had no idea how long I had been down. 

“Where am I?” 

If I had thought anyone would actually answer, I might have raised my head.

“My cruel world,” her voice said, chillingly.  “Welcome…and now tell me who you work for.”  Her tone lacked any pretense of curiosity…so I figured she already knew or thought she knew.

“Please, I’m just a software salesman and a part-time actor…”

That didn’t go over well.  I heard her hiss and snap her fingers.  Someone moved and I thought for sure that I would get shot in the back of the head, just like that.  Instead, another cascade of icy slush ripped into my back, and another empty bucket clanged across the floor.

A burst of laughter erupted.  I knew then that three men were standing close by. 

“Save that for the usual fools…that’s Strike Two.”

“May I lift my head?”

“Of course…”

I squinted and grimaced to express my discomfort—not that it took much acting.   She smiled, apparently pleased with herself.  She would be my Grand Inquisitor, it seemed.  She stood at the table that separated us, lording over my personal belongings, including my dismantled cell phone.  Thankfully, my precious black-faced ESQ watch lay intact next to my wallet.  No doubt, they had gone through everything, or so they thought.  She had removed the makeup she wore in the parking structure, and I realized that she had truly piled it on.  Her face looked remarkably plain now, a stark change from the mink-toting vixen who orchestrated my downfall.  Two men in black battle fatigues stood behind her, leaning on the wall and cradling Mexican-made Mendoza HM3 submachine guns.  A third man, unarmed, kept watch at a sliding door which was cracked open to ventilate his smoldering cigarette.  A single low-watt bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting strange shadows everywhere.

I suddenly realized we were inside an old, renovated boxcar, like the troop movers from the 1940’s.  I couldn’t tell if we sat on rails or just plain ground.

“Listen,” I said, letting my voice crack—in my best fearful tone, “I don’t know who you are, or if you’ll believe me, but I am not an agent or a spy or anything like that.  I’m just a private citizen.  A girl asked me to help find her father.  He’s a banker and he’s been kidnapped.  She offered me a few thousand bucks, and I took it because I’m broke.  I only wanted to help. I’m not Derek Flint or James Bond, for God’s sake. The car you saw me driving…it’s not even mine…you probably already know that.  I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.  This was all one big mistake…”

“You are right on two counts.  One, you made a big mistake… and two, you don’t know who I am.  You’re about to find out though…”  She snapped her finger again and the smoker standing at the boxcar’s sliding door flicked away his cigarette.  He moved to her side, carrying a large, square object he had paused to retrieve from the shadows.  It was covered with a fitted fabric.  He placed the covered box onto the table, and then bent down and lifted a third silvery pail from the floor.  I heard the slush settle as the pail dropped onto the tabletop, and watched rivulets of condensed water dribble down its outer surface.

She removed the fabric which covered the box and revealed a transparent cube enclosure.  Inside, lots of one-inch ants milled about restlessly, carpeting the bottom of the cube and jostling for room on bamboo strips littering the interior.  It may have been dozens…or…perhaps hundreds.  Knowing what I knew, things did not look good for me.  They were not fire ants, or Amazonian army ants—I would have preferred them, given a choice…

“Let me introduce you to my little friends,” she said warmly,

“Conga Ants,” I whispered.  Damn…game over.

“Yes…Paraponera clavatas. I guarantee, when they are through with you, you will beg me to splash you with this icy water…then we will really talk, if you haven’t screamed apart your own vocal cords.”  She smiled again. It made me want to make an ugly face at her, but it was no time for antagonism.

She was not exaggerating…and somehow I knew she was not bluffing. Paraponera clavatas… the words sent chills down my spine. 

Conga Ants…cruel little devils roaming the moist jungles of Central America like stoic, wingless wasps, their stings shooting a neurotoxin twenty times stronger than any hornet…chemical fire. 

Imagine big, red-hot needles piercing your skin, never cooling, and never going away… for hours.

 I braced myself.  She actually used her bare fingers to pluck the first specimen from the cube.  “They are actually quite docile, until aggravated.”  She held it up and blew upon it and then came around the table and stood at my shoulder.  “They don’t like the smell of mammal breath…or body odor.”  She waved it around my shoulder near the armpit.  “That excites them… and the poison has evolved to devastate smooth muscle tissue… like the flesh of your trapezius.”  She dropped it on my shoulder.

“Hmmmpph!!”  The sheer pain was indescribable…and instantaneous! 

I literally screamed with my mouth closed, if one can imagine such a thing—and that was just the first one.

 The burning…it would not go away…would not subside…refused to fade…no matter how much I squirmed or twisted… and as I settled into a concentrated breathing pattern, controlling it somewhat with my mind…she dropped another…then dropped another…and another…and yet another…choice spots, tender intimate spaces…countless times, all punctuated by innumerable yelps and bloody-painful screams…deep breathing, to no damn avail!   I imagine I looked like a savage werewolf to them, with my sweat and spittle flying everywhere…and as the men laughed and hooted with relish, spastic, crazy, seizure-like shudders came over me…and then a mad, uncontrollably fast trembling…

Then she placed one in the crease of my ear… and another at the apex of one breast…then the other…   

“Aaaarrrrggh!!”  I actually bit my own tongue and tasted my blood, that’s how bad it hurt… I thought I would start sobbing uncontrollably… at that point I really didn’t care.  Then, finally, the icy water slammed into me with tremendous force…and yes it hurt, but by God, right then I felt damn grateful.  One of the men brought in a nozzled hose, and moved in to spray me down.  The jet of water struck too harshly and I yelped miserably.

“No, you fool!”  She snatched the hose from him, then gave it back. “Remove this nozzle, imbecile!  Then go get another bucket of ice!” 

Then the water came soft, and gentle.  She poured it delicately upon my head and body… “I think you are ready…yes?”  I nodded in utter defeat and she cooed, as if the others were not even there, “I’m so proud of you…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”  I had never felt such agonizing pain in my life…as if I had charged a fire-breathing dragon, and lost decisively.

“They made me do it…You are my strong, sexy man now…”
“Not now, Sweety,” I muttered, “I’m dying here…”  Her mind game was crude.
“No…you are mine now.  I won’t hurt you anymore…I promise…” 

I wondered if that included her poorly-spun reverse psychology… She was actually not all that bad.  She had the voice for it, if not the looks.

 “Okay,” she said softly, after the water went away.  “We’ll talk now.  Don’t lie to them, or they will kill you.  I want you to live, so tell the truth… Where is Juan Miguel Sabo being held?”

“In Costa Rica…the exact location… I wish to God I knew.  I think in Limon, or perhaps another town.  That is why the girl offered me money, to find him.”

“Why Limon?” 

She took the bait.  She should have pressed for the location again…

“Because I don’t think he was kidnapped.” Utter rubbish!

“What do you mean?  It’s all over the news…”

 “I think he went into hiding, and plans to escape the country.”

She turned and looked at the man who had stood watch at the door.  They said nothing, and then she turned back to me.  She looked me very deeply in my eyes.

“Why Limon…tell them.”

 I had to somehow keep talking.  Delay, delay, delay…  

“Limon has a sea port and that’s how he’s planning to leave…by sea.  All the money is in a bank in the Cook Islands.  The CIA helped him and now they’re trying to get him out of the country, so they can get paid.  All the airports are being watched.  But not the port of Limon…”

“How do you know all this?”

“I’m a former Federal Agent.”

“What department.”

“Defense Investigative Services.  Back then my name was Charles Peterson. After 9-11, DIS merged with FBI, but some of us went to CIA.  I worked there for three years out of the Miami branch office.  Check it out if you like.  My bosses smuggled Cuban embezzlers away from Havana and gave them new identities in America in exchange for millions.  I wouldn’t play ball, so they burned me out.  I still have friends in the CIA, though… one of them told me that’s what is going down with Juan Sabo.”

“If that is true, then why go to Costa Rica?”

“For the money his daughter promised me.  He’s got everybody fooled.  My military and Homeland Security contacts are insistent that there’s been no kidnapping.  I took the girl’s money, so I have to make a show of following through.  I planned on going there and after Sabo got out, say I rescued him and helped him escape.  It’s all a big secret, so how would his daughter know otherwise?  That’s all…I just wanted a few bucks.  My CIA friend thinks he knows where he is…”  More bait…more reason to talk.  More time on the books.

For a while I held their rapt attention.  By then I had surmised that they all worked for somebody else who had lost a ton of money in Juan Sabo’s scheme.  So, I rambled on about intercepted radio transmissions, secret money transfers, messages I received from my CIA friends and various escape routes involving the Costa Rican Coast Guard.  I owed a lot of that gibberish to my prior Costa Rica gig, so I sounded convincing, minus any real scrutiny.  “…The first place I plan to look—if you let me leave here—is in the secret tunnels dug beneath the Tortuguero Canals, just north of the Port of Limon…” 

I knew they would never let me out of there alive. But they were willing to be delayed by my tales of intrique.

What they didn’t know was that I was also keeping one eye on my black-faced, ESQ watch lying on the table in front of me.  A small blue diode along its side, facing me, had begun to blink, a flash so tiny you wouldn’t notice it unless you knew to look for it, and even then you might not fathom its purpose.  For me, it meant that Ze’ev Pinsky had locked onto my GPS coordinates.  Now I had hope.  

So I kept rambling, but eventually the lookout man grew restless.  He walked over to the table and started looking at my things.  I saw his eyes admiring the watch.  I kept talking, as he picked it up.  He began turning it over in his hands, probably deciding that he would keep it after he had blown my brains out.

Then he saw the blinking diode.  He smiled at first, as if it were a curiosity, and touched the diode with his finger.  Then he shook the watch at his ear and looked it over again.  I kept talking, kept talking…and talking.  The man looked at me, then the watch, and finally me again.  I wondered if he suspected that a blue diode had no business on such an older watch, or that the light kept blinking faster as time went on.  He seemed preccupied by it…fascinated…or suspicious.  Then the watch began emitting a tiny beeping sound, like an auditory beacon.  He stared, brooding…and finally, somehow he just knew.

“This is all lies!”  He slung the watch at my chest.  The woman turned to him, confused, and he slapped her face so hard that she fell to the floor, “He’s playing you!”  The lookout man spun toward one of his compadres and shouted, “Shoot!”

The gunman raised the submachine gun and pointed at my chest.  I was dead.  My gambit had failed…

“Not him, her,” ordered the lookout man, now turned angry leader.  “Now!”

“No!” the woman screamed, rising and raising her hands in protest.  A burst of rapid gunfire silenced her and literally pinned her to the floor.  Her ploy had failed, and she paid the ultimate penalty… her life.  She had never been calling the shots.

“Now shoot this lying mosca,” ordered the new boss, pointing at me. 

Damn… I was dead all over again.

Ever the survivor, I flung my whole body to the left, and crashed to the hard floor in a chair-bound heap.  In my panic, I forgot I had all those ant stings until I hit the floor.  Then it all came back to me, and the burning, living hell re-intensified.  But it didn’t matter, because I was done for.  The table offered no cover, and his poor angle could easily be rectified…if only I could find a third degree of separation…but too late…my killer had already shifted on his feet, adjusted and swooped in, barrel first. 

A short burst of gunfire roared—from the doorway.   My would-be assassin lifted off the floor and crumpled like an old brick chimney, without pulling off a single shot.  Ze’ev Pinsky then swiftly pivoted and drew down on the second gunner with his KRISS Super V…it looked mighty mean and could spit out .45-caliber slugs with no recoil —one reason it is the best submachine gun in the world. 

“Party’s over, amigo,” growled Ze’ev.  “Put it down.”  The gunner made his move anyway, so Ze’ev let him have it, waist high and rising as the steel ripped him through.  “…Lights out in London.”  Ze’ev now had the last man standing under threat of fire.  “Phillip, are you okay?”  

“I’ll live.”

“Good.”  Without hesitation Ze’ev advanced on the lookout man.  He kicked him squarely in the cajones, elbowed his jaw, and then clubbed him hard on the head… a not-very-nuanced attack that proved effective and established the new pecking order.   “This one we take alive… Charity!  Get in here!”  My secretary entered and rushed to my side.

She began un-strapping me.  “Oh God, sir…”  She sounded distressed.

“Quit calling me ‘sir’, Charity.  What are you doing here?”

“Ze’ev needed transportation.  The Tesla would never get you guys back…no juice.” 

“I need a doctor Ze’ev.”

“Yes I know, but first things first…”  He kept the KRISS Super V trained on the last man, now in plasti-cuffs and seated with his back against the wall…Ze’ev walked over to examine the Conga Ants.  “These little guys ain’t nothing nice.”  He carried the container back to his captive and placed it on the floor next to him.  Then he pointed his weapon directly at the man’s head.  “Close your eyes, amigo.”  The man complied.  “Nice…now open them again…That’s what it means to be alive.  Do you like that feeling?”  The man nodded slowly.  “Good. Who do you work for…”

“Vespula…I do not know him…I have a family.” 

By that time Charity had freed me and I painfully managed to sit up straight.  The man with the gun to his head had begun to cry. 

“We all have family, amigo,” said Ze’ev. 

“Dr. Temple, Ze’ev…get me to him…quick and in a hurry.” 

No portion of this story may be used without express written consent from the author. 

WGA Registration Number : 1519346

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