Payback

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Babin fell over to the driver’s side of the truck, the phone bouncing from his hand to the floor. He raged against the whirlpool of pain that enveloped him, screaming and flailing and refusing to give up, refusing to be cheated of his revenge. He rolled and tried to grip his assailant, remembered his gun, then saw the cell phone a few inches from his head; unsure which to grab, he hesitated, and in that moment the pain increased exponentially. He felt himself falling, surrounded by flames — he was back in the aircraft, back in the ambush, screaming at the pilot and yelling at himself, tricked by the CIA liar, murdered, murdered, murdered.

Túcume lowered the pistol, then reached through the window and pulled Babin’s body upright. He had killed a number of men in his life as an army commander but never one so close to him.

He went around to the other side of the van and opened the door. He reached on the floor and picked up the cell phone, then dashed it on the street. It broke in two. Not satisfied, he stood over each piece and shot it. It took two bullets to hit the second piece, his hand was shaking so badly.

He threw the pistol aside and went back to the truck. He thought from Babin’s directions earlier that the waterfront was nearby somewhere; he’d drive the van into the water and be done with it all.

But which way was it? Left? Right?

Slowly, he backed down the road, struggling to see and control the van at the same time. As he reached the intersection, the ground began to shake with the heavy beat of helicopters overhead.