The naked edge

"CIA?"

"Finally got your attention? Strictly speaking, not the CIA. It was a company that worked for a company that worked for the Company. They call it 'compartmentalizing the risk. Plausible deniability.'"

"I call it yawning, man."

"The whole point was to build a private airstrip that hardly anybody knew about. See, to fly what you'd call 'spies' into hot spots… in those days, Central America had a lot of those…"

"Yawn, man."

The truck hit another bump.

"The CIA couldn't just pop their people onto a United jet and fly them to El Salvador or Nicaragua. They'd leave what's called a 'paper trail.'"

"You know what I call it?" Ferguson made an obscene gesture.

"So this company that worked for the Company made up its own airline and flew its people out of here straight across the Gulf to where the action was."

"Gulf?"

"Of Mexico."

Ferguson looked interested. "We're near Mexico?"

"But then times changed, and the hot spots moved to other countries, and the company that worked for the Company didn't have any more use for this place. Besides, it had started to attract attention, so they sold it to some drug smugglers they'd been working with."

"Drug smugglers?" Now Ferguson was really interested.

"Sure. The spy business is based on 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours,' the same as any other business. The spies had been working with the drug smugglers, getting tactical information from them, using them for cover, giving the spies an excuse to go in and out of various countries via secret airstrips. If you're a drug smuggler, nobody questions why you're so secretive. But if people think you're a spy, you're in trouble. So when it came time to get rid of the airstrip, it made sense to sell it to the smugglers, who were already using it. But eventually, the smugglers decided to switch locations, too, and the place was rotting until we bought it."

"Yeah," Ferguson said. "Rotting. Step on it, would you?"

"Can't."

Carl drove slower.

"What are you doing?"

"Stopping to take a leak."

"Man, can't you hold it till we get to town?"

"You want me to hold it for an hour?" Carl gave him a "get real" look and steered to the side of the road. He stepped out and went down a slope to the edge of the swamp. Under deceptively attractive Spanish moss-it was always bug infested-he undid his fly and urinated into the algae-covered water.

Ferguson banged the truck door open, stepped sullenly to the spongy earth, and walked to the water, fumbling at his fly.

Carl finished relieving himself, shook lingering drops from his penis, pulled up his zipper, and asked Ferguson, "You want to make a bet?"

Three shots roared. Crimson blossomed on Ferguson's shirt. Blood erupted from his face. He dropped on his back, thrashing.

The shots echoed across the water.

Carl turned toward where Raoul, on cue, had shot from the back of the truck. Under Carl's loose shirt, he had a Colt Commander.45. If Raoul had delayed, Carl would have drawn his pistol in a continuation of zipping up his fly, shooting both of them.

Raoul looked pale. The darks of his eyes were huge. Obviously, despite all his bravado, he had never killed anyone before.

Better distract him, Carl thought. "Very good, Mr. Ramirez. Two shots to the body and one to the head. Why were you taught that pattern?"

Raoul had to switch to a different section of his thoughts. "Uh…" He looked confused. His need to seek approval became greater than the shock of his emotions. "Uh… The target might be wearing a Kevlar vest, so I also shot him in the head."

"Your instructor explained that?"

"No." Raoul continued to look confused. "I just figured that was the reason."

"It is the reason. Your intuition is excellent. Did you do what I told you and sit with your head against the back window?"

"Yes."

"You heard what I said about the CIA?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand the necessity for what I ordered you to do. There are serious issues at stake that I'm not allowed to reveal to you. Not yet. But the target's lack of discipline would have made him talk about our camp. He would have destroyed us."

Using his shoe, Carl shoved the body into the scummy water. Immediately, an alligator erupted, snapping at the head, jerking the body under the surface. A second alligator fought for the corpse's right leg. Blood swirled amid the green scum.

"When I set up the camp," Carl explained, "I drove here once a day, urinated into the water, then threw raw steaks in. After a while, the alligators learned to identify food with the sound of the truck, my footsteps, and urine streaming into the water. Now those signals bring them here for dinner."

The turmoil in the water subsided. After the frantic splashing of jaws and tails, birds again sang.

Pleasing Carl, Raoul picked up his empty cartridges.

"Get rid of his duffel bag," Carl said.

Raoul took a chain from the back of the truck, shoved it into the bag, and hurled it into the water.

"Quick. Sharp. Obedient," Carl said.

Raoul's eyes brightened.

"I'm going to pull you from the group," Carl decided.

"No. What did I do wrong?"

"The reverse. You and a select few are coming with me."

"To do what?"

"Hunt an old friend."