Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) (20 page)

Five minutes later, Pedro returned and gave her a single key on a large carved wooden key chain. “It is just an old flatbed truck,
se
ñ
orita
. Mostly blue, but living on the coast, it is also mostly rusty. But the engine? She is good. You will not be stranded on the road.”

Charity thanked him, and after he left, she went back aboard to eat dinner and shower two days’ worth of salt from her skin. She was tired, but still wanted to leave and get up to the volcano tonight.

She’d studied the satellite images and found a winding rutted road over rock and sand that ended near the northern base of the mountain. Two miles before its end, the road dipped into an arroyo and switchbacked around a boulder field. She could park in the arroyo and go the rest of the way on foot. At nearly three miles from the mountain, she doubted she’d be observed, and she planned to wear night vision goggles and drive the last couple of miles in total darkness.

After showering, Charity dressed in rugged black cargo pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, also with cargo pockets. She took her hammock and a plain black ball cap from the closet and went up on deck.

Seeing nobody, she hung the hammock below the boom. Under the port bench, she retrieved her Colt and, pulling the cap over her face, settled in for a short nap. Hopefully, the sound of the truck would wake her. But, just in case, she set the alarm function on her watch for one o’clock, local time. That would give her plenty of time to get there. With the Colt at her side, Charity fell asleep.

Shortly after midnight, the chugging exhaust of the marina operator’s truck woke her. From under the hat, she watched as two men got out and staggered toward the marina office before heading further down the dock.

When the men were out of sight, Charity rose from the hammock and went down to the cabin to get her equipment. Everything she’d need, she’d already put into her backpack, except the rifle. Stored in the black case, she hoped it would be inconspicuous enough.

Before locking up, she checked the laptop for messages. There was a long one, with several attachments. Reading the message and studying the images attached, she had a sudden but fleeting feeling of dread.

The volcano could erupt at any minute?
Charity thought.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she studied the terrain map. Someone had pinpointed several places with corresponding geographical coordinates, indicating the locations of the terrorist camp, the sentry, and the cook fire. Another spot was identified as the volcano’s fumarole dome, with a current surface temperature of one hundred and fifty degrees.

The sentry location was a problem. Deuce himself had helped teach her the finer points of sniping. Even McDermitt had given her some pointers, as well as Donnie Hinkle, the Australian sniper on the team. Lastly, the young Marine she’d spent time with and who was killed a few months ago, had said the same thing when she was in a lighthouse with him in Key West.

“Snipers need to command the high ground,” they’d all advised her.

She’d planned on using the same high cliff for her hide that the terrorists had set up as their lookout post. This meant she’d first have to kill whoever was there. Which meant she needed to know their schedule for relieving one another.

She wrote a quick response, asking for any information on how often they changed sentries and at what times. But, since she needed to get moving now, she asked that her message be sent to Deuce at once. She’d be able to access the email server on her encrypted sat-phone.

Putting on her web belt with several equipment pouches and canteens of water, Charity holstered the Colt and put two loaded magazines in one of the pockets. She tossed a two-hundred-foot coil of black nylon mountaineering rope over her shoulder and went back up on the deck. Kneeling in the cockpit, she watched the other boats and the parking lot for a couple of minutes.

Satisfied that nobody was watching, she rose. Picking up the backpack in one hand and the rifle case in the other, she hurried to the truck and tossed them in the open passenger-side window.

Going around to the other side, she opened the door as quietly as she could and climbed in. Sitting low in the seat, Charity looked around the parking lot again before starting the truck and driving out of the marina.

She’d already programmed the GPS on her sat-phone for the fastest route to the dirt road leading to the north slope of the volcano. Following the directions of the GPS, Charity was soon on the outskirts of town, heading east on Mexico Highway 180.

Once she was in the rural countryside, she found a wide shoulder and pulled over. From her backpack, she took out a white Mexican-style blouse and unbuttoned her cargo shirt halfway, tucking the lapels inside. Then she put the white blouse on over it. There were toll booths on the road, and she hoped to be able to pass herself off as a simple farming woman, heading back to the farm.

Back on the road, she made it past the toll booths without incident, and thirty minutes later, in the tiny town of Tula, she turned left onto Avenida Cesareo Carvajal, the dirt road that wound along the coast to the volcano.

Ninety minutes and twenty bone-jarring miles later, Charity reached the arroyo, where she would leave the truck. She hadn’t seen another vehicle since turning off the main road and had driven the entire length of the dirt road with the lights off, wearing night vision goggles.

Pedro had been right—the truck was old and rusted, but the engine chugged its way up and down the ravines with ease, though the suspension could probably use some work.

Charity quickly turned the truck around and backed it behind a large boulder where the arroyo was widest, the transmission whining loudly in reverse. After she shut the engine off, the only sound she could hear was the ticking of the exhaust as it cooled in the night air.

Climbing out of the truck, she shed the white blouse and tossed it onto the seat of the truck, then buttoned her cargo shirt to the neck. She quickly pulled her hair back, secured it with a band, and put her cap on. Looking around, she saw nothing but rocks and fine powdery sand. Off to the east, clouds were building, and there was an occasional flash of lightning.

A thunderstorm would be good
, Charity thought.

She pulled her backpack on, opened the rifle case and slung the rifle over her shoulder. Together, they weighed nearly forty pounds, but she’d hiked with heavier packs before. Just not at a mile above sea level. She’d have to be careful to not overexert herself. Before leaving the truck, she checked the email server to see if there had been a reply to her query.

There was one from Deuce personally, telling her the sentries appeared to change in two-hour shifts, close to the even hours. The cell members ate breakfast in the crater before sunrise and conducted live fire practice until noon. He added at the end that most of the terrorists had been seen in satellite images to be smoking cigarettes and several more had been identified.

All those identified were known terrorists, with the exception of the college student. All were to be considered enemy combatants, and she was free to engage at will. Again, he wished her Godspeed in her mission.

Charity checked the time. It was three o’clock. The sentry’s position was three miles away, the last mile being an ascent from two thousand feet to over five thousand feet along a treacherous hiking trail. Traversing the rough terrain on foot would take her more than two hours. She would get there with maybe an hour before the sentries changed and two hours before dawn.

She would wait in hiding until the sentries changed at dawn. That would allow her two hours to eliminate the lookout, identify the leader, and kill him.

With single-minded determination, Charity stepped away from the truck and trudged steadily up the road and out of the arroyo. Even if they had night vision, which she doubted, the distance made it nearly impossible to make anything out. The mountain appeared against the star-filled background, black and foreboding, as if it could explode at any minute.

A
wad didn’t sleep well. After being awakened by a bad dream, he couldn’t get back to sleep. In his dream, some kind of predatory black cat was stalking him. Invisible in the darkness, the cat spat laser-like projectiles at him from far away. When the great cat breathed fire at him, he awoke, shaking.

Checking his watch, Awad saw that it was still two hours until sunrise. In the distance, he could hear the now-familiar rumbling of thunder, only closer this time.

Awad was ready to leave this place. Predatory fire-breathing animals and heavy rainstorms were things he wasn’t accustomed to. Neither in his homeland, nor where he went to school in California. They’d been here for the better part of three weeks now, and he was having serious doubts about going through with the mission.

Having a valid American visa, he could easily slip away from this group in Reynosa and cross the border legally, just as he’d done in Arizona, when entering Mexico. Rolling out his mat, Awad prayed for the next hour, asking Allah to guide him in his decision.

When he finally left his tent, backpack flung over one shoulder, he saw Majdi was again on watch in the camp and walked toward him.

“Less than two days until we leave this place,” Karim said quietly, seeing Awad approach.

“I will be glad to be gone,” Awad replied in a whisper, sitting down next to the man. “I did not sleep well last night. I dreamed of a black jungle cat stalking me and spitting fire.”

“A black jungle cat? There is an occasional mountain lion here, but they are sandy colored. The black ones live much further to the south.”

“Nevertheless, it was a frightening dream. Who is on watch on the mountain?”

“Faud just relieved me,” Karim replied. “Fareed will take his morning meal and relieve him, when we finish eating. He should be leaving to start the cook fire very soon.”

“Do you think we are ready?” the younger man asked.

Karim thought it over a moment. “Yes, I do. The border is very porous and easily crossed. Our target is unprepared. The infidels have grown lax in the five years since our brothers’ glorious triumph in New York. The infidels have no stomach for a long fight.”

A stirring caught their attention, and they both turned toward the sound. Fareed exited the tent he shared with Faud and walked toward them.

“
As-salamu alaykum,
” Fareed whispered, kneeling next to Awad.

“
Wa-Alaikum-Salaam
, Fareed,” Awad replied. “Do you need help this morning?”

“Yes, please,” the cook replied. “Faud tossed and turned all night. I will take both our meals up to the post early, so he might get some rest before target practice.”

“What about yourself?” Awad asked.

“I will get plenty of rest in paradise when this is over. Besides, my tribe is known for sleeping very little.”

A flash of lightning from the far side of the mountain got all three men’s attention, and they turned. The loud crack of thunder split the air a few seconds later.

“It will rain this morning,” Karim said. “With this lightning, you will be wise to stay lower than the surrounding rocks.”

Fareed looked at Majdi for a moment, thinking the man was testing his resolve. “I cannot see through rock,” Fareed replied, giving the answer he thought Hussein’s third-in-command wanted to hear. “I will be alert and watching as always.”

Fareed and Awad stood, and then started up the familiar path to the volcano’s crater. Once they were out of earshot, Awad whispered, “I know you said that only for Karim’s sake. But he is right. Lightning will strike the highest object. Nobody ever drives by this mountain at night, and very few during the day. Do what is safe. We cannot afford to lose a man five days before we strike.”

The two walked in silence and reached the cook area in ten minutes. Fareed began to build the fire and Awad, familiar with his habits, brought water from one of the cans, stored out of sight. Using a ladle, he measured the correct amount of water into the large pot suspended over the now-flickering fire.

Fifteen minutes later, when the stew was finished, Fareed put some in two containers and stored them in his backpack. He then removed the large pot from the fire and placed it on a rock to cool.

“I will take Faud his meal and eat my own up there,” Fareed said, jerking his head toward the high cliff, while shouldering his pack.