Zombie Drug Run

  Chapter 10: The Pick-Up

  Not long afterward the murky shadow of the Colombian Gulf coast came into view. It seemed to ooze out of the silent water, manifesting itself in ragged and mysterious coastline jungles. Frederick knew to stay far clear of the commercial flying lanes, keeping the Cherokee skipping along the surface of the waves to remain invisible to radar. However, almost every elected official and police captain was on the take, and the large private armies of the drug dealers were a formidable force for any straight politician. But, luckily, it didn't make good business sense to shoot money out of the sky on dark nights.

  Frederick banked the Cherokee, skirting along the northwestern seaboard, hopefully staying deaf to any stray beach patrols. He adjusted direction according to the printed instructions on the laminated map, and at the proper time swung left, vaulting higher into the Colombian jungle. Somewhere down there in the darkness lay an imaginary line separating Venezuela from Colombia, sprawling across the fetid jungle floor. Maybe it was crazy, but it always seemed to Frederick the air smelled different here, thicker perhaps, as the cabin pressure adjusted and filtered the ancient, foreign climate through modern technology.

  A pencil-thin line of deeper darkness cut a jagged tear through the dense jungle below, and this satisfied Frederick that they were where they were supposed to be. That rip in the landscape below would be the Magdalena River and the next three hundred miles they would follow it like a road. He decided to wait at least another half hour before announcing their arrival.

  Paul, never taking his eyes from the side window, hummed along with what was playing as Samuel hunkered deep and silent in the back. The moon etched a fine sliver of blood in the sky, the Big Dipper prominent while lesser stars unconsciously winked in their own vast depths of space.

  Not long afterward, Frederick switched off the music and tuned to the hailing frequency. Crackling noises from the speakers rebounded through the cockpit. He kept it short and sweet. "This is Flyer seeking Santiago," he said. Then again.

  "Santiago," a voice, in English though thick with Colombian accent, confirmed.

  "Flyer confirming transmission; entering your airspace within the next fifteen minutes. Awaiting response."

  "Received. Light's on." A click sounded as the other party signed off.

  They flew on, scanning the jungle floor for the telling glow of the airfield, and moments later the ebony jungle below was suddenly cut by a thin strip of light, just off to their left. Frederick adjusted and prepared for a hurried approach while Paul nervously drummed his fingers on the armrest. Frederick felt the familiar beat of his heart tuning up, the adrenaline flowing in earnest now. No matter how many times he did it, the tension was a mainstay.

  He cut an initial half-circle around the lighted perimeter, skirting the uppermost trees by less than thirty feet. "Looks pretty empty down there," Paul said, peering out his window which offered a drastic, angled view of the ground. Frederick arrowed out again in preparation for the final approach, backing the speed off by degrees and dropping below the tree level for touch down. He buzzed a seemingly deserted cabin set just off to the right and less than a hundred feet from the airstrip's extent, and eased the controls forward. The wheels bumped lightly on the ground and he throttled back, aware of the familiar backward protest as the engines reversed. The jungle loomed ominous and overpowering on both sides as they bounced and eventually rolled three quarters of the way down the strip. They came to a sudden halt and Frederick steered the Cherokee around, pleased that the strip was wide enough to make the turn. Most weren’t. He jigged the throttle forward a hair above idling speed, nudging the plane into a slow crawl.

  The lights lining the strip dimmed dramatically as they proceeded and Frederick felt Samuel leaning forward in his seat, just over his shoulder again. A Jeep appeared, outlined in their headlights. Several men were inside. "This should be Manuelo," Samuel mumbled.

  "Better fucking be..." Frederick replied, more to himself than anyone else. He stopped the plane and killed the power, the sound ceasing like a summer thunderstorm passing. Too late for anything else now, he thought. This is it. The Jeep pulled up alongside. While Frederick busied himself with the instruments, Paul wordlessly went about the task of unbolting the sealed doors. After a glance at Frederick and an affirmative nod, he pushed them open.

  Three men were in the Jeep; one, the driver sat passively staring at the plane as the other two bailed out and walked toward them. "Samuel Franklin?" the taller of the two said. He was a whip-thin shade of a man with thick, coarse hair braided and draped over his left shoulder; a huge goatee covering the lower half of his face, and the accent heavy Colombian. Paul stepped to the side as Samuel pushed forward.

  "Manuelo?" he asked, filling the doorway.

  "Ola, Ola!" the man shouted enthusiastically. "You like the strip, yes? Slick as a new babies' ass, yes?" A broad smile broke through his beard. At least his English was clear enough.

  "You have to ask the pilot," Samuel replied, motioning inside with a jerk of his thumb. He climbed down the three short steps and waited. Frederick unbuckled and came down the stairs to stand within feet of him. "Yeah, it's nice enough," he said to the two men. Paul faded into the background to let the businessmen break the ice.

  Manuelo sauntered over to the Cherokee while the other, shorter man stood off to the side. From his look, Frederick figured he didn't understand English. The driver scarcely cast a glance in their direction, as if too involved in whatever lay in the iridescent gloom past the limits of the dimmed spotlights for anything else to command his attention. Manuelo pointed a finger at Frederick. "You must be Paol," he said, hitting the pronunciation perfectly. He offered his hand in greeting. They shook.

  "You got it," he said.

  "It is good that the flight was safe," Manuelo said as he let go of Frederick's hand and presented it to Samuel. Regardless, the air remained thick with tension. It was like this most times, at least at first. Sometimes all the time. "Talkative bunch, no?" Manuelo said and laughed. The handshake broke off and Manuelo thumbed his fist in the others' direction. "This is Roberto," he said pointing to the one standing close by. "Unfortunately he speaks no English, as well as my driver, David. So, you see, you are stuck with my hospitality." He smiled again, broadly and Frederick began to inadvertently relax. His heart had stopped trip-hammering. At least for the moment.

  Samuel cut directly to the chase. “So where’s the stuff?"

  Manuelo dismissed Roberto with a wave and stepped closer. He rocked back on his heels and leaned heavily against the Cherokee's wing, placing his hands nonchalantly in the pockets of his loose-fitting cammos. "I got word from my operative not twenty minutes after you radioed. They have a problem with their whirly-bird but your supplies will be ready first thing in the morning. At the latest, you leave tomorrow before dark."

  Samuel looked over at Frederick and shrugged.

  "It's what you expected, no?" Manuelo asked.

  Frederick looked from Samuel to Manuelo and nodded stiffly. "Okay by me. Five keys?"

  "Or more...you're the boss," the drug dealer said and the magnificent smile crawled again through the mustache and beard.

  "Then we’re good."

  "Fine, fine!" Manuelo exclaimed, walking around to the Jeep's passenger side and jumping in. "Follow me to the shed." The driver dropped the Jeep into gear as Roberto climbed into his spot in the back. "Follow us. It is not far to walk," he said as the Jeep spun around to head the other way.

  "Well..." Frederick said, watching them pull off and start rolling into the gloom. “You heard what the man said.” Samuel stared silently after the Jeep. "Leave the gear in the plane,” Frederick said to Paul, and then leaned closer hoping Samuel wouldn't hear. “Bring your 9mm,” he said. “Be ready for anything." Paul gave a minute nod and minutes later they began following the slowly bumping taillights toward the shack.

  Inside they found an arsenal. Machine guns (both M-1s and M-16s) lined a whole wall while undernea
th boxes had been stacked by the dozens which were full of ammunition and K-rations. A large, American-made Kenmore refrigerator purred stoically in one corner near a desk piled high with flight maps and dog-eared smut magazines. "There is plenty of meat in the refrigerator; American beer, too," Manuelo offered his guests as they pushed inside. "Do you have a tent in the plane?"

  "Yes."

  "Good, but it really doesn't matter. One is just underneath the desk." He gestured toward the wall of artillery. "Feel free to bring one or two of these with you tonight while you sleep. You can never tell when something nasty will come out of the jungle." His face twisted into a grimace. The three Americans said nothing.

  Manuelo pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. The luminous dial shone dimly in the room's half-light. "Roberto and I will be back here early tomorrow." He noticed the look on Frederick's face and held his hands up. "Friends," he said, his eyes sparkling. "There will be no surprises. I believe Samuel can speak for our honor, and here we leave you well equipped with such munitions. I have a wife and children several miles away and I see no reason to hug the ground tonight." He looked closely at Samuel. "You know my work and my word, Samuel. The goods will be here tomorrow and you'll be off and on your way. I am a man of good faith."

  "I don't believe in faith," Samuel replied.

  Unruffled, Manuelo rubbed his hands together as if fighting off a chill. "But oh, my friend, faith is a wonderful thing. Where would the world be without it? Where would business be? Trust makes the world go round. You have the weapons and could leave in the night like a bird." He made a little fluttering motion with his hand.

  "You already know we're not going anywhere," Samuel said.

  "And you are correct, no?" Manuelo agreed. "Because we are businessman. Not suit and tie, but businessmen just the same. You will be here in the morning and so will I. One band of pirates to another, no?" He laughed again. "And so, my friends, we're off. Soon to return." Roberto grunted, as if this cue signaled the end of the meeting, and walked outside to where the driver waited. Manuelo edged past Paul and stood in the gravel entranceway. He walked over to the Jeep and waved once. Touched the driver on the shoulder and soon they were lost in the deep darkness.

  Frederick turned to Samuel. "How well you know that guy?"

  "We've done business before. Never any trouble."

  The silence stretched out.

  Frederick waved at Paul who stood a few feet away. "Why don't you go back to the plane and get the tent. Samuel and I'll tote the rest of this shit over to the campsite."

  "Where?"

  "Hell, does it matter? Wherever. How 'bout off the runway a hundred yards or so from the shack. We'll take an AK and a M-16 in case of trouble." He looked over at Samuel. “Fucking guy’s a real people pleaser, ain’t he?"

  Samuel shrugged. "He's as honest as any other back-stabbing fuck around here."

  "Whatever you say."

  A wood knot exploded in the center of the campfire, showering out little fists of light. The flame was low and each man mused his own possible futures in the dancing shapes. "Here," Paul said, nudging Frederick on his shoulder. Frederick grabbed hold of the whiskey bottle. Paul was fucked up, weaving back and forth a little in his chair. There wasn’t much left and with the next gulp it was history.

  "The old man's fucking crazy," Samuel muttered quietly, though he didn’t appear to be addressing anyone in particular.

  Frederick shot a look over at Paul but saw he was off in his own world. Samuel continued to stare drunkenly into the flames. "It's the moon that makes us all crazy,” he said a little louder. He turned to look at Frederick with a sudden awareness in his eyes.

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Frederick asked. Samuel said nothing and looked off, stared out into the night sky. "It's just clouds and stars out there, man." Frederick tried to follow his line of reasoning.

  "I was there the night he cut her," Samuel continued, nodding to himself as if finding the answer to a question that had vexed him, biting his lip as he considered. "Started with her tits. I heard all the yelling. I was peeking around the bedroom door."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Frederick said again, though he figured he already knew. Lincoln’s story was fresh in his mind. Paul was dead drunk and sailing along.

  "Nobody told you about me?" Samuel asked, his eyes shining in the campfire light.

  "What about?"

  "That I'm crazy, man. Been to the fucking nut house."

  Frederick eyed him closely, all the while fishing in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. "I'm just here on business, not to start up a relationship.”

  "Yeah, you're probably right." Samuel paused, fingering his chin. "But what did you hear?"

  Frederick lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. "Not much," he lied. "Something about a hospital, but it’s not my problem and I don’t intend to make it one."

  Samuel looked back into the fire. "He really slashed her face up good, too," he continued. "There was even blood on the fucking curtains, I’ll never forget. I thought he might've smelled me in the room once, but he didn't; or if he did, he never let on. Or, of course, maybe I was supposed to see?" He grunted and rubbed at his face. "Never was the same after that. She was the first and I'm the second. Ain’t no stopping this shit."

  Frederick kept watching him, saying nothing. It was as if Samuel didn't know he was there.

  "And Dad had the telescope, but he didn't use it. It just sat there in the room. But after Mom... well, I started looking out there,” he gestured vaguely to the sky. “It was the first time I got a hint of the vacuum, first time I recognized the place she'd been making for me all along...

  He laughed and kicked at a patch of ground.

  “I had to kill the hookers and that pimp. I had to have the blood on my hands because that’s the price. And they almost got me for good, but not quite. I still remember those nights in the nut house, listening to the creak of the ceiling, bearing up under all that tremendous weight. I heard 'em calling out my name at night sometimes, just whispering in the corridors or close behind the walls where the rats ran, and they'd be telling me that they were coming."

  With goose bumps rising, Frederick whispered "Who?" so as not to break the trance-like revelation. The jungle suddenly seemed more oppressive. Even the sliver of moon seemed to sink lower. Frederick heard what must have been a monkey screaming in the distant reaches.

  Samuel lowered his head and scratched furtively at the dirt beneath his boots with both heels. "Demons, man. Fucking demons. I could feel 'em scratching on my backbone some nights. But I managed to steer clear. I knew the doctors felt there was something there, but I didn’t let on what. And I didn't tell 'em about the moon either, or the sky. When they came for our sessions. I didn’t tell them about the voices." He got quiet.

  Frederick said, "You hear em now?"

  Samuel looked his way only briefly. "You hearing things too?"

  "I don’t think so, but maybe I don't know what I'm listening for."

  Samuel laughed, and waved his finger knowingly at Frederick. "You do think I'm crazy, I can see it. But it doesn't matter. Don't mean shit. It’s my legacy."

  Frederick shrugged and looked back at the fire. Paul was now asleep, not privy to any of this. His head resting quietly on his chest. Samuel laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Freddy," he said. "It makes you crazy, man." He spat in the dirt, pointed up at the night sky. His face writhed with nervous twitches, dissolving eventually into a singular twisted smile.

  Frederick followed his gaze reluctantly, the whole time not wanting to take his eyes off this maniac. He heard Paul groan in his sleep.

  Samuel twisted his head and glared defiantly at Frederick. "They talk to me, goddammit. They all talk to me. She made 'em do it."

  Frederick just sat there, mouth agape. And then, just as suddenly, Samuel was out. Frederick had never seen anybody go down that fast without getting a fist in the face or a bullet between the eyes, but there it was. His
foot was practically in the bed of ashes surrounding the dwindling fire. And what the fuck had he been talking about?

  Frederick looked over his shoulder into the borderland of suffocating jungle. Thick, gnarled vines hung from the trees like serpents and he could hear the wind drifting through the branches like a thousand ghosts getting on. He walked over to the tent and picked up the AK, the magazine protruding. Then he went over to nudge Paul with the tip of his boot but the younger man only snorted once and continued sleeping.

  Frederick looked at the monster.

  Peaceful as the dead now. His foot must have gotten hot because his leg was hitched up where he'd drawn back. He was still breathing fast and hard. Earlier, when Samuel had starting belting the whiskey back, Frederick had been surprised at the fury of his gulps, but he'd also been curious. Because as Samuel poured through the whiskey, that look had come back to his eyes, the one Frederick had only briefly glimpsed at the airstrip in Thibodaux. He'd said some weird shit about the moon or sky that night, too, hadn't he?

  Oh, yes.

  Frederick rifled his pockets for another cigarette. "My God," Frederick muttered. "What the hell was all that?" Samuel had admitted to the 'rumor' Jimmy and Lincoln had mentioned. Even the part about his mother. Christ, the guy was a basket case. He let this revelation sink in because now there was no doubt. He had a true psycho on board.

  He wiped a hand across his lips. Everything about this job smelled of shit. He dragged deeply at what remained of the cigarette and flipped it into the flames. He would definitely welcome the break of dawn. Anything to get the show on the road and the hell back to Thibodaux.

  He blew out his breath and cracked his knuckles. Ventured a look at the stars again, concern beading his brow at the heavy bank of clouds forming, as if by magic, overhead. In their impenetrable silence they continued piling on, rank upon rank, building forces as if for some surprise offensive. The moon infrequently beat down like a cat's cataract eye peering from a murky depth within the fragments of clouds. They rippled across its thin face like traces of mud swept by a tide.

  Frederick got another weird sensation at the base of his spine and turned slowly to face the jungle. Its demarcation line was less than thirty yards away and the heavy branches shifted oddly in the ghostly light. He wondered morbidly how many sets of eyes were hiding in the darkness, watching him. He decided to keep the fire burning all night; fuck any stray patrols. He looked around until he found a suitable stick to stir the coals and knocked them around until they came back to life. Then he threw several more large pieces of wood and scraps of bark onto the pyre.

  The tent was close by, a rugged four-man job, but tonight it looked like he was it. Even though the mosquito spray was still holding up okay the other two would regret staying out here in the morning. He walked over to the tent flap, ripped down the zipper and crawled inside. The whiskey began to relax him as he kicked off his boots. He left everything else on. His wristwatch read 3:44, and he rubbed his hands over his face, yawning broadly as he stretched out in the darkness. Within minutes he was asleep.

  The unzipping of the tent flap woke him. He felt the slow, familiar throb far back in his hairline, and shielded his eyes from the light filtering in through the opening. Paul stuck his head through, his eyes squinting and wounded. Strands of grass clung in his hair. Maybe the chair had gone over in the night. "Freddy!" the younger guy almost shouted. "Why the hell'd you leave me out here all fucking night!" Frederick could see a vast array of welts across his face.

  Frederick worked himself slowly into a sitting position. "Hold on buddy,” he said menacingly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Don't blame me. I tried to get you up last night but you wouldn't fucking budge, and I sure as hell wasn't going to carry you in here like a goddamn baby." He scooted over as Paul made his way inside; the kid really looked miserable.

  "Yeah, yeah…okay. I’m sure you did. This whole thing’s just got me edgy. I drank too much.” He breathed out violently, flaring his nostrils. “Man, I'll be glad when this shit's over," he finished up. His mood was different from the other trips and that concerned Frederick. Because he took it as proof this wasn’t his imagination; the events of the previous night were still too fresh, and up until now he'd thought the apprehension was just his own. But Paul’s eyes told a different story.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "I don't know," Paul said. "I just don't like this one." He looked down at the tent floor, trying to stifle a yawn while he wiped his face. He grimaced and looked back at Frederick. "I must've gotten pretty fucked up..."

  "Indeed. You were snoring like a freight train when I turned in."

  "Yeah. Goddamn bugs ate me alive." He reflected for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say anything else. "It's just that fucking guy, man. He gives me the creeps. I don't even know why, but it's something..." he said before trailing off.

  Frederick sat there in silence. "Where is he?" he asked.

  "Sleeping Beauty? Outside, sleepin like a bear and snorin like a motherfucker. I tell you..."

  Frederick regarded him warily. He was almost positive Paul hadn't heard any of Samuel's drunken confession; he clearly remembered looking over at him several times and there'd been nothing doing. However, Paul was feeling the same thing Frederick had felt the first day at the warehouse. There was something inside Samuel Franklin. He heard Paul groan and came back from his thoughts.

  "Look, I've got some aspirin in the First Aid pack in the Cherokee," Frederick said, fishing in his pants for the key to the cabin door. He flipped them over to Paul. "Go get a couple; bring me back some too."

  Paul turned to leave, keys in hand, but paused at the tent flap. "All this shit and now the weather's going to hell too. Looks like a damn monsoon brewing out there. I swear I don't like this," he admitted again before leaving.

  “I know the feeling,” Frederick agreed.

  They were just finishing the third pot of coffee when they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. To be on the safe side, Frederick withdrew to the tent and waited inside, gripping the AK-47 rigidly in his hands. Samuel and Paul remained outside by the campfire, although they sat apart and weren’t talking.

  Peering through the flap, Frederick watched the same, scratched-up Jeep rumble up to their campsite with a very fresh and ever-smiling Manuelo behind the wheel. The driver from last night had been replaced but Roberto was still with them. The Jeep came to a jerking halt, and the engine pinged noisily as Manuelo jumped from his seat, practically danced over. "Amigos!" the man called joyously. "Good morning!" but when he got closer he lowered his voice. Mumbled something unintelligible and shot both hands to his waist as if infinitely concerned. "A fight with demons last night?" he asked.

  Paul said something to the man that Frederick couldn't make out as he exited the tent, leaving the AK inside. When he got closer Manuelo clapped his hands together. "The poison whiskey!" he exclaimed, seemingly getting a real charge out of their misery. "Moderation is the key, my friends," he admonished, wagging his finger. "Myself, I gave it up when I caught a bullet in the back years ago. Never again, I told myself, never again." Roberto showed no concern whatsoever, ever stolid, seemingly unflappable. Samuel cooled quietly by the fire, stirring what remained of the coals with a stick.

  "Everything on schedule?" Frederick asked, walking up to take a spot next to Paul.

  "Of course, of course! I am a man of my word, Frederick. I talked to my man by short-wave and he said everything was a go." He stopped to check his watch, more to get away from the American's stare than to see what time it was, apparently. "He should be here within the hour. Two at the most. Have you had breakfast?"

  Frederick studied his quiet party. "I don't think we're up to that right now," he replied.

  Manuelo held his hands up. "Very well, quite understandable." Frederick said nothing.

  "As you wish," the man went on, and this time his face actually darkened although Frederick pressed himself to believe it must have been n
othing more than a random shadow. "But let's go ahead and get the business out of the way, yes?"

  "The business?"

  "Yes, the money."

  Frederick walked up until he stood face to face with the tall, lanky Colombian. He felt Roberto's incumbent, looming shape near his back and hoped Paul had picked up on it. "I don't make trade-offs until I see what it is I'm buying," he said evenly.

  Manuelo gave a flourish of his hand which backed Roberto off a step, although he still appeared the manifestation of a dog on a short leash. Frederick felt all this over his shoulder because he refused to take his eyes from Manuelo. He trusted Paul's judgment.

  Manuelo became his former self, backing away in merriment. "Of course, of course, no worries." He looked at the sky and the conversation seemed to change directions although the suggestion was impossible to miss. "Looks to be trouble brewing..." he mumbled.

  Frederick followed his eyes to the gathering clouds, stacking up in clustered blackness. "Appears so," he agreed. "That's why I'd like to be out of here as soon as possible."

  At half past noon a dim whirring became audible somewhere above the tree line. Frederick's head had cleared to a more functional level, and even Samuel had chosen to join the other men as they quietly munched on sandwiches Manuelo had brought them from the shed. But he remained quiet and distant, furthering the pall that shrouded the moods of the others. It did nothing, however, to stymie the constant flow of drivel that spewed from the Columbian’s mouth. Frederick had finally quit answering most of the man's irritating questions, had reduced himself now to simply nodding at appropriate places.

  The whirring grew louder.

  They moved away from the shade of the borderland to search the sky. Frederick felt for the stiff reassurance of the 9mm tucked safely in his flight jacket. He’d put it on because the wind had picked up, sending the grass rolling like waves. A tropical storm was brewing to the west and the winds were already up to forty-five miles an hour in the crudely-defined epicenter. Only time would tell what it would do.

  Regardless, it had been a long time since Frederick witnessed a storm build this fast. When they'd left, less than twenty hours before, the storm had been nonexistent. He refused to be superstitious but bad omens were hard to ignore. It seemed with every moment things got worse, right down to the goddamned jabber-jawed rambling of the Colombian. By definition, drug dealers weren’t this nice. He glanced over at Paul and saw his nervousness too.

  It became hard to tell who checked their watch more.

  "Here we are!" Manuelo suddenly barked, breaking Frederick from his thoughts. The Colombian was pointing into the sky and waving his hands at the approaching helicopter. Within minutes the small craft landed on the airstrip, and a group of men disembarked, none of them obviously armed, although Frederick knew they would be. He noticed Paul sticking close to him and gave the young man an angry stare. Fear had no place here. It sang of the grave. Paul backed off to hold his ground.

  Samuel simply rubbed his face and watched silently as the group of men walked over.

  Manuelo met them halfway, jabbering quickly in Spanish. There was an inordinate amount of head-nodding from one of the newcomers, obviously the one in charge, and with a quick flash of a hand he dispatched two men back to the helicopter. Moments later they appeared again, laden with one large duffel bag. They turned it over to Manuelo who walked back to the American group.

  "Just as promised, no?" he said with a careful doggedness. "Hardly a minute wasted. Now let us finish the business..."

  "I want to taste it," Frederick said.

  A quick, merciless smile greeted him. Frederick didn't move a muscle as he held the man with his eyes. The background noises faded and the sun was momentarily lost behind a freight of clouds. "Of course, of course," Manuelo said with his characteristic flourish. He offered Frederick a knife he pulled from his pocket and Frederick took it.

  They walked over to the Cherokee, shielded from the wind, and Frederick opened the bags, quickly making a deft cut into one of the parcels. He poked the knife inside, withdrew the blade as he cupped his hand around the white powder so the wind didn't take it away. A taste would suffice and it did appear to be high-grade product. He checked the remaining parcels, satisfying himself they contained the same. Then he motioned for Paul to get the money. As he brought it over to the group of men, Frederick watched with a seething, although not completely rational, anger as Samuel walked back to the Cherokee without looking at the men or the drugs, grabbed the door handle and climbed inside the plane.

  Frederick promised himself it would be the last run he'd ever make for the fucking Franklin brothers.

  Guaranteed.

  The cartel, separated from Manuelo and Frederick by no more than thirty yards, opened the suitcase and Paul stood by while they made their count. There was a little bit of head nodding and the case was shut. The leader added a curt, militaristic nod in Frederick's direction and rounded up his men for the chopper. Another minute and they were gone completely into the roiling sky.

  "And you see, my friend," Manuelo said. "It is as I said. Businessman to businessman, no funny business. The stuff is very good, no?"

  Frederick motioned for Paul to pack the duffel bags in the Cherokee before turning back to the Colombian. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just like you said it'd be." The wind was blowing harder and an occasional drop of rain pinged off the fuselage. Large drops.

  "And our friend Samuel?" Manuelo questioned.

  Frederick's mouth was a thin line as he regarded the sky. "Who the fuck knows.”

  "Still not feeling well, I see. So it goes." The Colombian laughed. He lightly tapped Frederick on the shoulder. "Some lessons have to be learned the hard way."

  "You got that right."

  They walked around to the open doorway which every few seconds tossed back and forth in the wind. Paul had not closed it; Frederick could hear him rummaging around inside. He quickly reached up to stop the banging.

  "Have a safe flight," Manuelo said. "Our man appreciates the business, be sure to let the Franklin's know. There is no need to disturb Samuel now." He paused to sniff the wind. "Be careful,” he said ominously. “The gods will piss a river."