Chapter 37 The Speedboat #2
The street, which in the summer would be crowded with tourists just off the ferry, was desolate—it looked like a hurricane had been through the place.
Shotguns seemed to have been fired at the pitted front of the Docampo supermarket, and someone appeared to have smashed the door down with an axe.
The ice cream sign, full of holes, creaked dully in the breeze.
There was evidence of fighting everywhere they looked.
Broken glass covered the ground, and a barricade, formed of yellow garbage containers, old tires, and fish crates, had been set up in the middle of the road.
Whatever had happened there had taken place some hours earlier, and none of the combatants were anywhere to be seen.
Python moved a little way to the side. He was short and barrel-like, with arms like pistons, and his half-unbuttoned shirt revealed the sizable snake tattoo from which he got his name. He crouched over something glistening on the ground, touched his fingers to it, and brought them to his nose.
“Blood.” He nodded. “Still fresh. Shoot-out happened less than two hours ago.”
“I can see that.” Osvaldo frowned.
He didn’t like it. He thought he was showing up on a cute little island inhabited by the type of people he could simply scare into handing over the money.
And here was the aftermath of what appeared to have been a full-scale gunfight, outcome uncertain.
Maybe the victors were hiding in the shadows, with him and his men in their sights at this very moment.
“Change of plan,” he hissed. “Shoot first, ask questions later. We move together, and we stick to the cover.”
They crept forward along the street, observing the damage.
There didn’t appear to have been many casualties, apart from whoever had left the patch of blood.
The bullet holes seemed scattered rather than concentrated, and to Osvaldo’s clinical eye, it looked more like an act of vandalism than a bona fide assault.
The work of amateurs, he concluded. Civilians, most likely, out to cause a ruckus and give whoever it was a fright.
Nonetheless, he would have felt better with an assault rifle in his hands just now.
He and his men each had a Beretta 92S—provided by the fixer in Madrid for what was supposed to have been a simple in-and-out job—but these had only fifteen-round magazines.
But he might as well have asked for the moon to be made of cheese.
You play the hand you’re dealt.
One of his men, his olive-skinned face leathery and sporting a pencil mustache, tapped him on the shoulder.
“What, Carlito?”
“Over there,” whispered the gunman, pointing across the street. “The church.”
Ons’s church was in a pitiful state. Part of the door had been hacked down, and the remaining portion swung pitifully in the wind.
“Let’s go,” he muttered.
It was even worse inside. What little furniture there was had also been hacked to pieces, and bits were scattered everywhere.
The altar had been toppled and lay broken at the foot of the steps leading up to the small tabernacle.
Flagstones had been pried up, exposing the bare earth below.
Here and there, someone had drilled holes in the walls that looked like the entrances to giant burrows.
They had no idea that they were contemplating the results of Ibaibarriaga’s and his men’s meticulous yet ultimately fruitless search for the money.
“Mother of God.” Carlito crossed himself. “What’s been going on here, chief?”
“Someone’s been looking for something!” Osvaldo said. “And it seems they were pretty determined. Question is, did they find what they were looking for?”
“Our package?”
“Beats me. Python, why don’t we find out? Get the tracker.”
Python swung his backpack onto his front, unzipped it, and took out a rectangular device about the size of an iPad. He pressed a button on the side, and the screen came to life as the GPS device inside started sending out a signal. After a minute, a pulsing green dot appeared on the display.
“It’s really near, chief,” Python said, proffering the device. “Like a few hundred yards.”
“Well, let’s go find it,” Osvaldo growled, “and then get the hell off this island.”
They left the church, guided by the green dot on the device, which Osvaldo carried, while the others moved stealthily ahead, guns at the ready.
It wasn’t long before they came to a halt, at a point where several footpaths met.
“Joel,” Osvaldo said, pointing. “Open that up for me and let’s see what’s inside.”
It was a yellow garbage container on wheels, intended, along with a dozen or so others distributed around the island, for the use of tourists.
Although barely used in recent months, it still gave off a very pungent smell indeed.
Shining a flashlight inside, they found it empty except for a bright orange buoy—the same one Roberto had spotted floating offshore.
Python leaned in and pulled it out. Still attached were some shreds of yellow plastic.
Python took out a jackknife and plunged the blade into the buoy, opening up a slit about eight inches long, and then pulled out the small locator device and the attached battery.
Osvaldo grimaced. Someone had gotten to the bundle first. He couldn’t help but think of the Ferreiros and their negligence.
If those sloppy bastards had done their job, he wouldn’t be on this shithole of an island, and he wouldn’t have this mystery to solve.
Disconnected from the tracking device, the money could be absolutely anywhere.
“What now, chief?” asked Carlito.
“Let me think.” Osvaldo rubbed his eyes. “First up—”
But before he could finish, from somewhere in the distance there came a salvo of what sounded like rifle reports. Instinctively, the gunmen all dropped to one knee, aiming their guns in the direction the sound had come from.
“Let’s go pay our respects,” Osvaldo said with a half smile.
“We’re light on tools,” Python said, waving his gun. “Sounded like rifles, right? They’ll shit all over us.”
“We’ve got the element of surprise. Plus,” Osvaldo chuckled, “you’re an ugly bunch. One look at you and I reckon they’ll throw down their weapons in an instant.”
“Seriously,” said Python, “there’s four of us. Shouldn’t we go get some backup?”
“By then, the storm will be over, and the money will be long gone.”
They set off in the direction of the gunfire, which started up again with a few furious bursts, followed by silence, and then a further exchange. As they were getting closer, Joel, at the head, raised a clenched fist and dropped to one knee.
Osvaldo crept forward until he was next to him.
“Enemy spotted, twelve o’clock,” Joel said under his breath. “In that ditch.”
“You sure?”
“Boss, I spent two whole years hunting guerrillas in the jungle. I’m sure.”
“Okay, how many?”
“One. Don’t think he’s seen us yet.”
“All right, you and Carlito circle round and come down on him from the bank. I’ll hold here with Python in case he decides to move. And save your bullets. Let’s take him alive.”
Joel and Carlito left the track and slipped into the undergrowth. Osvaldo waited patiently. After a few minutes he heard a scuffle, followed by muffled shouts and a thump. Shortly, the two gunmen reappeared, dragging a crumpled figure between them.
“Any more?” said Osvaldo as his men flung the individual at his feet.
“Just one,” Joel said. “Like I said.”
“Armed?”
“Just this.” Joel held out a penknife as the prisoner eyed Osvaldo in terror.
“Who the fuck are you?” Osvaldo asked.
“Tris . . . Tristán Docampo, sir,” he stammered. “Wh-what’s happening? Are you friends of Roberto?”
“I’ll ask the goddamn questions.” Osvaldo glared. “And if I don’t like the answers, motherfucker, you’re going to die in the most horrible way imaginable.”