Texas Showdown

10

"These men were excellent." Pardee told Furst as he pointed to Schwarz and Blancanales. "Without Morgan and Marchardo, we would've hit three different ambushes on our way up the hill. And without Schwarz's — what were they?"

"Tricks," Gadgets told him. "Electronic Counter Measures."

"...we wouldn't have come back."

"I monitored the Mexicans," Furst nodded in the gloom of the barrack. "They're totally mystified. Now, excuse us, soldiers. Captain Pardee and myself must brief Mr. Monroe."

"Wait. I want bonuses for them. They earned it."

"Then let's go talk with the man with the money." Furst saluted as he walked away.

"You'll get your money," Pardee called back to them as he followed Furst. "Count on a thousand each."

* * *

Blancanales motioned to Lyons that all was clear for him to emerge from his hiding place beneath a bundle of blankets and tarpaulin. "How're your nerves, Mr. Morgan?"

"Burned." Lyons exhaled, shuddered. "Five years ago, Furst screamed straight in my face that I was dead pork. Said he'd come back and assassinate me. And here I am. Oh, man, do I have a problem. I am giving serious consideration to going AWOL."

Lyons watched Pardee and Furst get in the limousine.

"Then again," Lyons said to his friends, "the solution to my problem is obvious. Mr. Movie Star Mercenary has got to go."

* * *

Wearing the lurid colors of a tourist — powder blue polyester slacks, a blue and green and red Hawaiian shirt, and a red L.A. Dodgers baseball cap — Bob Paxton left the air terminal and limped to the nearest taxi. The porter followed with his luggage.

All around them, groups of tourists talked and laughed and argued in American and European languages. Under the tropical sun, the airport's landscape was ablaze with the luscious colors of Jamaica's North Shore. Brightly painted hotel buses lined the curbs, drivers calling out for passengers. As if he were also a tourist, curious about a new country, Paxton stared at the crowds.

But he was not a curious tourist. He spotted Lieutenant Navarro several taxis away, elegant in his pomaded hair and waist-hugging double-breasted suit. The lieutenant saw him also, and turned away. Paxton gave the elderly porter three crisp American dollars, then slid into the taxi. He told the driver the name of his hotel. He let himself relax, enjoying the afternoon warmth as the taxi eased through the airport's traffic jam.

Tonight, he would resume his search for the three federal agents. He had followed them from Bolivia. A sharp-eyed, high-priced prostitute working one of the hotels in La Paz had seen two of the unidentified agents escort a husband-and-wife team of Colombian drug dealers to a limousine. The limousine had parked for an hour among the private planes at the airport. A chartered jet had flown the group to the Colombian port of Barranquilla.

Three days and thousands of American dollars in bribes later, he learned of the Colombian dealers' escape from a hijacking attempt. Within the hour, Paxton and Lieutenant Navarro left for Mexico, where they would take a flight to Jamaica.

Paxton no longer doubted the identities of the three gunmen. What better way to infiltrate the drug gangs? They would pose as mercenaries, serve with the various gangs, then betray the gangs to the same secret agency that had devastated the Mafia organizations in the United States.

El Negro put no limit on the cost of Paxton's search. The Bolivian warlord knew the legalities restricting the operations of the Drug Enforcement Agency. And he knew the danger of an agency accountable to no laws. He wanted Paxton and Navarro to find and identify the members of the new agency before the Americans imperiled his entire organization.

And then the Americans would die.