Smoke and Shadow (30 page)

But he
couldn
’
t bring
himself to slink back into the shadows. In one smooth and familiar
motion, Trent cupped a gloved hand over the
rapist
’
s mouth and
yanked his head back. At the same time, he thrust forward and up
with his hips, adding power to his stab. Trent drove the point of
his knife through the loose uniform shirt, past the soft skin of
the back, under the floating ribs and into the vulnerable kidney.
For a moment, the three of them existed in a bizarre chain of
violence. The rapist forced his weapon inside the girl and Trent
forced his weapon inside the rapist. Then the blood began to flow.
The rapist
’
s legs
became useless. The small man fell out of his victim and collapsed
on Trent
’
s chest
with a scream dying in his mouth. Trent eased his fresh corpse to
the leafy blanket of the forest floor without a sound. Then slit
the rapist
’
s
throat with all the ceremony of stepping on a
cockroach.

Trent wondered
what the girl saw when she looked up at him. Were her eyes closed
during the rape? Did she block out the horror by trying not to look
at it? If she did, then how long did it take her to realize her
rapist was dead and not just pulling out of her for some new
brutality? When her torturer hit the ground, what did she see?
Trent
’
s matte
black uniform, black skin covered by blacker charcoal and the
bulbous extra set of mechanical eyes on top of his head must have
created the image of a demon looming over her. His black bladed
knife still dripping with the rapist
’
s blood might have looked like the
fang of a snake coming for her flesh too. Trent expected her to be
scared out of her mind. He knew she would scream. So he dove on top
of her and clamped his hand down over her mouth.

The girl
didn
’
t scream and
she didn
’
t
struggle. Between the wild strands of dark hair covering her face,
her eyes bulged wide from shock and terror. Her heart pounded so
hard in her chest Trent imagined he could feel it in his own body.
But she didn
’
t
scream. Maybe she couldn
’
t scream anymore.

Trent held a
finger up to his mouth, just to be sure. Her only response came in
a frantic twitching in her limbs, a natural byproduct of her
trauma. He scanned the area with his eyes, ears and
predator
’
s mind to
sense other threats. It didn
’
t make sense for the rapist to be
out here alone. The slave pit and its guards might be close. Some
patrol vehicle could be parked near them.

Trent heard a
gruff laugh barked in the darkness. The rapist had friends, maybe
the same men Trent saw patrolling on the beach. He
didn
’
t deal with
them before, but sooner or later they would come looking for their
partner. He couldn
’
t let them find the corpse and raise an alarm. Trent clenched
his jaw and accepted the invitation to violence.

He looked back
into the victim
’
s
eyes and continued to hold his finger over his mouth. She nodded,
as if understanding both his demands on her and his intentions for
the sentries. She pointed in their direction and nodded along with
Trent. He moved his hand away an inch. She didn
’
t scream. Her tear stained face held
its terrified expression and her arm quivered as she pointed, but
she didn
’
t scream.
Trent held up his hand to tell her to stay put, then he crept
towards the sounds of crass laughter.

Trent
’
s
intended victims stood around soaking in the afterglow of their
gang rape.

He approached
them from behind the glare of their floodlight to ensure his
movements would be obscured. Two of them stood next to a surplus US
military transport, smoking and laughing without a care in the
world. One had his shirt open and his belt loose. Sweat glistened
off his skinny fat skin in the shine of artificial light. Did he
rape the girl first? Did they all plan to take turns with her
before morning? What did they plan to do with her when their fun
ended? Would they throw her back into the pit or just slit her
throat and leave her in the bushes? Trent planned to discard their
bodies in the forest, but he couldn
’
t just leap out and start
shooting.

He scanned the
area to formulate a plan. The truck and the floodlight sat in the
center of what looked like a crude power station. Mobile generators
hummed beneath camo nets suspended in the branches above his head.
Black cables snaked across the ground in several directions like
the strands of wet hair on the girl
’
s face. Trent
couldn
’
t see a
pattern at first, but he soon realized all the cables headed in the
same direction. A small structure, similar to an outhouse, sat
about thirty feet away and swallowed up all the cables through a
hole in its closed door.

But an outhouse
didn
’
t need seven
generators to power it. Did the door lead to something else? Maybe
the generators powered lights and air filtration in a tunnel. It
made sense. The Vietcong used tunnels to avoid and ambush Marines
in Vietnam. Hamas used tunnels to hide and attack Israeli positions
in the West Bank. Why couldn
’
t Los Zetas use tunnels to hide and
warehouse their slaves? It would explain why the structure
couldn
’
t be seen
from the air and it would explain the generators in the middle of
the forest. Maybe the slave pit wasn
’
t a myth after all. Trent could
record this location and finish his mission, but before he pulled
out his camera, he slid the suppressed SIG from its
holster.

His two targets
weren
’
t alone. A
third man sat in the cab of the truck, nodding off after a long
night of rape. Trent didn
’
t see any other guards. These four
must have been assigned to protect the generator, but they
weren
’
t serious
about the job, since they spent their shift raping little girls.
Their rifles lay impotent on top of the generators. They had
nothing in place to secure the perimeter or protect their flanks.
But why would they? Who would be stupid enough to attack them on
their remote island in the middle of the night? Trent wrapped
around the truck like a shadow until he stood close enough to see
the stitching on the first guard
’
s uniform.

The men stood
facing each other. They continued to laugh and joke and mimic
barbaric gyrations with their hips. Trent didn
’
t understand their Spanish, but he
knew what the content of their conversation. They spoke in the male
language of sexual exaggeration. Trent
’
s fingers curled a tighter grip
around the pistol.

The victim with his back turned
said something to make his friend roar with laughter. His head flew
back. He had to lean against the truck to keep his balance. In the
split second the skinny fat man took to look away, Trent burst out
of the darkness.

He grabbed the
first victim by the collar to hold him in place. The man froze in a
split second of surprise, but he didn
’
t get the chance to move or make a
sound before Trent force the suppressor against his temple and
pulled the trigger.

The subdued bark
of the gun and the delicate spray of blood and brain pelting his
chest got the attention of the skinny fat man. His laugh turned
into a gasp. The cigarette fell from his mouth. He watched his
faceless friend drop to his knees with disbelieving eyes. He looked
past the corpse into the darkness of Trent
’
s face. He moved his hands up to
surrender or beg for his life. Trent ended him with a Mozambique
drill. The first round blasted through the man
’
s breast. The second shot landed in
his throat. The final shot caught him in his chin and bounced his
head off the side of the truck.

Other sounds came
from the front of the truck now. Trent anticipated more opposition.
The suppressor reduced the report from the gun, but
couldn
’
t silence
it completely. His four shots made enough noise to rouse the
sleeping rapist from his nap. A head poked out of the open truck
window. The eyes were bleary and confused. The sight of two fresh
corpses on the ground might have turned his confusion into terror,
but he didn
’
t live
long enough for his brain to process the information. Trent shot
twice into the open truck window, turning the sleepy face into a
bloody mess.

Trent spun on his
heel and crouched in the shadows, listening for any signs of alarm
or retaliation. The generators continued to hum. The crickets
resumed their song, but no one reacted to Trent
’
s ambush. The smell of propellant
and released bowels hung in the humid air. He could feel the blood
pooling beneath his feet.

He looked down at
the carnage and wondered what Los Zetas would think when they found
this scene. The three corpses lay in a rough triangle. Their
position gave him an idea. Unscrewing the suppressor from his SIG,
he placed the still warm metal in the hand of the closest victim.
He took the man
’
s
holstered gun and stuffed it into his own belt. The hasty setting
suggested one man fired on his two friends and then killed himself,
removing Trent
’
s
existence from the picture.

The ruse
wouldn
’
t fool any
competent detective. The shooter didn
’
t have any powder residue on his
hands. The angle of the shots wouldn
’
t match the position of the body.
The gun he had in his hand would be different than his normal
weapon. And what were the chances of this man having a motive to
kill all three of his associates and then himself? The setup
collapsed under simple investigation, but these were slave traders,
not cops. The gun and the position of the bodies might create
enough doubt and confusion to explain away an outside
attack.

Trent got out his
camera and began to conduct his own investigation before someone
else walked into the clearing. He took pictures of the generators,
focusing on the make and serial numbers. Baker might be able to
trace the equipment to purchases by a Los Zetas front company or
get access to other bank transactions. He got images of the
suspected tunnel entrance and marked the location on his GPS. The
time on the screen motivated him to move. Sunrise was little more
than an hour away. He needed to be off Barameja by then to meet the
extraction boat. He rifled through the dead men
’
s pockets taking their iPhones and
shoving them into his bag. The missing phones would undermine his
staged murder suicide, but Baker would want the potential contact
information on the devices. Trent stepped back into the shadows,
leaving the flies to buzz over the new corpses in harmony with the
generators.

He went back to
where he left the girl, but she was gone. The fear of staying close
to her rapists must have won out over her fear of running off alone
in the dark. Trent didn
’
t know if the girl knew how to get to the village or if
anyone would help her once she got there, but he
couldn
’
t control
those variables now. He might be able to track her through the
forest, but he didn
’
t have time. He needed to be in position by dawn or the boat
would leave without him. Trent moved double time through the
forest, hoping both he and the girl could avoid any more contact
with Los Zetas tonight.

Trent got out of the cab in front
of the Carambola Resort Hotel. He slipped the old driver a hefty
tip and they shared the last laugh of the night.

The community of
cab drivers, like the island itself, had a sense of close
community. If you stayed longer than the average vacation, you
understood everyone knew everyone else and everyone talked about
everyone else. Trent couldn
’
t stay anonymous, but he could use
the local cabs as an informal surveillance network. If he paid them
well and stayed friendly, they
’
d be more likely to tell him about
strangers who might come to the island hunting for
him.