I motioned to Gary that we should move forward, but slowly. I wanted to see what was in that box. It had me curious, because they looked like they weren’t looking at a gemstone. They all had their heads cocked in the same direction, and Ricardo was holding the box out so they could all see clearly inside. It was like they were reading or looking at a picture.
We crept forward, taking each step with care and watching where we placed our feet. One step. Another. I glanced up. Was that the corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the box? Another step. Another.
I don’t know what I did, whether I turned in an odd way or I tensed up too much or my muscles finally decided to call it a day, but a lance of pain jabbed me in the lower back.
I managed not to cry out, but I did stagger to the side, and before I could right myself, I had rustled the bush next to me.
The men turned, drawing guns from their pockets or shoulder holsters.
Thirteen
The first shot clipped a small branch above me, making it drop right on my head. The second bullet whickered through the nearby underbrush, clipping leaves as it passed.
I dropped to the ground, ignoring the protest in my back. A bullet through the gut would be a lot more painful.
All five of the Panamanians had drawn pistols and spread out to take cover. Ricardo, the old man, and one of the young men got behind the engine block of the four-by-four. Another ducked behind the remains of a brick chimney. The other two dove behind the wall of the house.
And all five of them blasted away at us like nobody’s business.
I adjusted my glasses, aimed at both vehicles, and took out a tire on each of them. Gary busied himself by chipping away at the brick chimney.
That got them to put their heads down for a second. We used the opportunity to shift position a few yards to the right. Remarkably, my back didn’t lock up. That would have been seriously bad news.
Then they opened up again. From the direction of their shots, I could tell they weren’t sure exactly where we were. They searched for us with their bullets, and once or twice they nearly found us.
The two who had disappeared behind the house didn’t fire. That worried me.
“I think the rear two are circling around to flank us,” Gary said.
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“Let’s head them off.”
“Wait a second.” I raised my voice. “Ricardo Pretto! The police are on their way. They know who you are, and they know you and your men killed Sir Edmund for the Volcano Stone. Give yourself up and the CIA can help.”
All that got me was another fusillade, this time closer. They had sensed the location of my voice pretty well. These guys had obviously had some training, probably from one of the older exiles. Most had been in the police or military.
“I tried,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”
We fired a few more times, smashing the windows of the four-by-four and perforating the side, then crawled back a bit, Gary wincing from his knee wound and me wincing from my back. The two of us were in a real fix. Once we put a few more yards between us and them, we got up and moved to the right, hoping to head off whoever was coming at us from that direction.
We didn’t have long to wait. The guy had moved fast, or at least fast from the point of view of someone who by all rights should be at home quietly drinking tea and petting her kitten.
He came creeping up a dry creek bed that gave him some cover.
Unfortunately for him, it was the obvious route, and Gary and I were waiting on opposite sides of the opening. When he came out, he got a quick warning and two guns pointed at his head.
I was right. They had been trained well. Most people would either freeze or immediately fire in that situation. If he froze, he’d get all of one second to drop his gun or I’d be forced to shoot to protect myself and my old partner. If he fired, we’d have to kill him.
Luckily, he did the smart thing. He might have gotten one of us but not both of us. Not at the angles we were at.
He dropped his gun and raised his hands.
His fear was quickly replaced by annoyance when he saw a grandmother wearing a pair of reading glasses and a limping middle-aged man come out of the bushes.
“Guns are guns no matter who wields them,” I said by way of reassurance. I said it in Spanish, trying to lay on a Panamanian accent.
He frowned at me, stepping away from his gun without having to be asked.
When Gary bent to pick it up, the Panamanian kicked a small stone into the side of his head. He followed this with a kick to the head then a karate chop to my hand that made my gun go flying.
He had done it all so fast I hadn’t had time to react.
At least he had been gentlemanly enough not to hit me hard. With his level of skill, he could have broken my wrist. Instead, he put just enough force into it to make me drop my pistol.
In a flash, he grabbed both guns and held them on us.
“Dad! Grandpa! I got them.”
“Grandpa?” Gary asked, trying to get to his feet.
“You don’t know half of what you think you know, gringo.”
As the young man said this, he turned a bit away from me, giving me a chance to retrieve my pepper spray. When he turned back to me, he got a full dose in the face.
Pro tip: never underestimate your enemy, even if your enemy is a sweet little old lady.
Especially if your enemy is a sweet little old lady.
He staggered, choking and coughing, guns
