infested with every sort of predator and miscreant, completely removed from any laws or government’s jurisdiction, a no-man’s land where those who went in never came out. She’d read up on the area, which was populated by small Indian villages that rarely had contact with the outside world, and by little hamlets with hapless Colombian natives who’d lived there for generations, eking out a sustenance existence from the sea, rivers, or land.
The stretch of coast that she needed help with ran from the Gap south to Buenaventura, a river town that also served as a Pacific port notorious as a cocaine smuggling hotspot where more of the white gold embarked on its journey north to Mexico than from any other place in Colombia. There were two primary corridors – the Pacific Ocean along the Central American coast, and the Caribbean route, each requiring different techniques due to the disparity in patrols. Buenaventura had become infamous due to the cottage industry of submarine manufacture, where the locals crafted fiberglass subs in the hundred foot and up range in jungle factories, some replete with air-conditioning and other creature comforts. These were single-use craft that would be scuttled once they’d delivered their payloads in Mexican waters. Designed with the ability to haul many tons of cocaine, their production cost was a rounding error.
Grimly poor, the port town was one of the most dangerous on the planet outside of an active war zone, although whether that qualification was appropriate was debatable. Colombia was in its fifth decade of civil war, with rebel forces controlling much of the south, parts of the coast, and the north, including the Darién. Originally driven by communist ideology, the rebels had long ago transitioned from freedom fighters to capitalists engaged in protecting the thriving cocaine production that was the primary industry of southern Colombia and northern Peru, Ecuador, and Brazil.
Fernanda’s Panamanian contact had told her that the going rate for a submarine captain was two million dollars, cash. Most only made one trip, preferring to retire once they collected their windfall. Those that were apprehended en route died in prison – the cartels didn’t suffer failure gladly, and it didn’t matter to them what the circumstances were behind a botched voyage. Someone would pay for their loss, and that was inevitably the captain and crew.
Fernanda blinked in the bright sunlight and slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. The thug next to her opened his door and slid out, and the driver swung hers wide so she could do the same. She stepped onto the gravel and eyed the large ranch-style house before her. It was perched on top of a bluff, a valley stretching into the distance before it, with distinctive tiers of coffee plants spilling down the slope.
She didn’t blink when the sound of gunshots cracked from her left, beyond several satellite buildings that ringed the drive. Pistols, she thought from the timbre of the reports. The thug looked her up and down and grunted.
“This way.”
Fernanda followed the man along the drive until he veered off onto a dirt path that led to a grove of trees. More shots echoed from beyond the trees, as well as the sound of laughing male voices.
On the other side of the grove stood four men, pistols in hand. A bottle of Ballantine’s sat on a card table, which was ringed by lawn chairs set on the trimmed grass of a small clearing. The men turned and watched as she neared, and then one of the men – older, impeccably attired in linen pants, a Robert Graham shirt, and black suede Gucci loafers – tilted his head in greeting.
“Welcome. We have a mutual friend who explained that you have a pressing problem you’d like some assistance with?” The man’s eyes took in every inch of her. “I’m Mosises. Make yourself at home.”
He approached and shook her hand. She noted that in spite of his full head of silver hair, he had a youthful
The stretch of coast that she needed help with ran from the Gap south to Buenaventura, a river town that also served as a Pacific port notorious as a cocaine smuggling hotspot where more of the white gold embarked on its journey north to Mexico than from any other place in Colombia. There were two primary corridors – the Pacific Ocean along the Central American coast, and the Caribbean route, each requiring different techniques due to the disparity in patrols. Buenaventura had become infamous due to the cottage industry of submarine manufacture, where the locals crafted fiberglass subs in the hundred foot and up range in jungle factories, some replete with air-conditioning and other creature comforts. These were single-use craft that would be scuttled once they’d delivered their payloads in Mexican waters. Designed with the ability to haul many tons of cocaine, their production cost was a rounding error.
Grimly poor, the port town was one of the most dangerous on the planet outside of an active war zone, although whether that qualification was appropriate was debatable. Colombia was in its fifth decade of civil war, with rebel forces controlling much of the south, parts of the coast, and the north, including the Darién. Originally driven by communist ideology, the rebels had long ago transitioned from freedom fighters to capitalists engaged in protecting the thriving cocaine production that was the primary industry of southern Colombia and northern Peru, Ecuador, and Brazil.
Fernanda’s Panamanian contact had told her that the going rate for a submarine captain was two million dollars, cash. Most only made one trip, preferring to retire once they collected their windfall. Those that were apprehended en route died in prison – the cartels didn’t suffer failure gladly, and it didn’t matter to them what the circumstances were behind a botched voyage. Someone would pay for their loss, and that was inevitably the captain and crew.
Fernanda blinked in the bright sunlight and slipped on a pair of designer sunglasses. The thug next to her opened his door and slid out, and the driver swung hers wide so she could do the same. She stepped onto the gravel and eyed the large ranch-style house before her. It was perched on top of a bluff, a valley stretching into the distance before it, with distinctive tiers of coffee plants spilling down the slope.
She didn’t blink when the sound of gunshots cracked from her left, beyond several satellite buildings that ringed the drive. Pistols, she thought from the timbre of the reports. The thug looked her up and down and grunted.
“This way.”
Fernanda followed the man along the drive until he veered off onto a dirt path that led to a grove of trees. More shots echoed from beyond the trees, as well as the sound of laughing male voices.
On the other side of the grove stood four men, pistols in hand. A bottle of Ballantine’s sat on a card table, which was ringed by lawn chairs set on the trimmed grass of a small clearing. The men turned and watched as she neared, and then one of the men – older, impeccably attired in linen pants, a Robert Graham shirt, and black suede Gucci loafers – tilted his head in greeting.
“Welcome. We have a mutual friend who explained that you have a pressing problem you’d like some assistance with?” The man’s eyes took in every inch of her. “I’m Mosises. Make yourself at home.”
He approached and shook her hand. She noted that in spite of his full head of silver hair, he had a youthful
Similar Books
