Retribution Road by Jon Coon (e reader comics .TXT) 📕

there was a small opening of dry sand. He pulled her forward until they were able to roll out of the water, still beneath the deck, and surface on the cool sand. Angelica grabbed him and wrapped her arms around him, pulling tight. Her shivers bordered on convulsions, and she was crying softly. “Hold me. Hold me, please. I’m so cold.”

Above them, Paul heard the men asking if anyone had seen two divers with scooters.

“Do you mean the crazy gringos who drove our bus into the water?” someone asked. There was laughter.

“Yeah, those are the ones.”

“No, amigo, we have not seen them.”

“There’s a phone at the top of the stair. Please call the office if they turn up.”

The men left, and Paul wondered if he could use that phone to call Tom or Gabe. But how to get past the crowd in the water?

Angelica was still shivering and whimpering quietly. He held her and tried to be as comforting as possible. But he had to get to a phone.

Chapter 22

AT NOON, THREE HEAVYSET MEN walked into the hangar where Tom’s red Beechcraft Bonanza sat loaded, fueled, and ready. Tom was casually finishing his walkaround, checking tires, flaps, and tabs. As the men approached, Tom turned and smiled. “Hola,” he said cordially, as if greeting old friends.

The man in the center stepped forward, opened his coat, and let his shoulder holster be plainly seen. “I will be flying with you, Captain. And so you know, I’m a pilot too. So no tricks. I can fly this plane and I can land it. With or without you.”

“That’s good to know, señor. But, sadly, you won’t be going anywhere today. You and your friends here are going to have a chat with my friends there at the door.”

The hangar door closed behind them, and as it did, six armed agents, each holding a full-auto machine gun, filled the room. Tom’s phone rang as the three were taken prisoner.

“Hola,” Tom answered. It was a familiar voice.

“Why did you close the hangar doors?”

“We are just securing your load in the plane. We didn’t need any extra eyes seeing what you put under the tarp.”

“Open the doors now and let me speak with Jose.”

“Of course.”

“Is everything ready, Jose?”

Tom stuck a .45 under Jose’s chin and smiled.

“Si, patrón. Everything is ready.”

“Bueno. Have a safe flight. Remember, no radio and no cell phones unless I call you. Comprende?”

“Si, patrón.”

“All right. Our men will be waiting for you. You know what to do.”

“Excuse me,” Tom said as he took back the phone. “I’d like to talk to my grandson.”

“When you land, amigo. He’s not available right now. But I assure you, he is all right.”

“As you say, but I’ll want to know he’s all right before I release this load. I hope you understand.”

“No problemo. I’ll make certain he’s right here when I call you to confirm delivery.”

The hangar doors opened, and the plane taxied out onto the tarmac. It went to the end of the field, and the engine came up to full revs. The brake released, and in a very short space, the powerful little plane was airborne. Cruising high above, a P-8A Poseidon submarine surveillance aircraft followed, masked from local radar and elevated enough to be well out of sight. The hangar doors closed, and inside a large delivery truck, Tom sat with the three cartel goons handcuffed in chairs welded to the floor.

“I’ll make this simple,” Tom began. “The first one who talks, lives. I don’t have time for a dog and pony show. Start talking or I’ll kill you right now. Where are those girls?”

There was a moment of silence. Tom screwed his silencer into the barrel of a Colt Woodsman, an assassin’s gun, and fired the first shot. The target slumped over in his chair with blood running down from a small hole in the center of his forehead. Tom turned to the other, who was sitting beside Jose, aghast. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

The two men looked at each other in fear and confusion. Neither spoke.

“Too bad,” Tom said and raised the gun again.

“No, señor, whatever you want. I will tell you,” Jose said.

“Puta,” his partner snarled.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Tom said and shot him in the knee.

Gabe and two Rangers pulled into the parking lot at Dos Ojos and saw the gathering of Mexican police and security from the park standing on the hilltop, looking at the trail of destruction leading down to the partially submerged bus.

“If Paul did this, I’m impressed,” Gabe chuckled. “Now how do we get past these guys?”

“Got it,” the shorter Ranger with Hispanic features, named George, said. “Just hang back and pretend to be Mexican.”

Gabe, who was Cajun by birth and had a chestnut complexion, nodded. “Bet I could pass. But my Spanish sort of sucks. Oh well.”

Gabe and the second Ranger, Mike, hung back while George approached the police. Flashed a badge and began asking questions. In a few moments, he returned. “It was Paul and an older girl. Men from the Zapatista Army were looking for them, and they jumped back in the bus, got it started, and ran it down the hill. They grabbed dive gear off that dock down there and disappeared into the cavern. It’s been four hours and no sign of them. The Army guys were shooting at something in one of the cenotes, but the search divers didn’t find anything. Oh, they stole dive scooters too, so they might have covered a lot of ground. The real cops are here now, so the Zapas are leaving,” George said.

“What was that badge you showed them?” Gabe asked.

George produced a Mexican PFM badge, the Ministerial Federal Police. “The government just dissolved their FBI and formed this new unit. It’s good for us because nobody knows who is and who isn’t. We just got these badges a couple days ago. When in Rome, I guess.”

“Got any more of those?” Gabe asked.

“Fix you up. No problem.”

“Getting back