Against All Enemies

During a time when he was feeling most depressed, he’d tried to lift his spirits by literally launching himself into the air, but not parachuting, no. He’d talked to a few buddies and found something much more exotic in the Romsdal Valley of Norway. Within two days of his arrival, he was wearing a wingsuit and jetting through the air at 150 miles per hour. He dove down into the valley, taking advantage of the favorable winds during the summer solstice. The wingsuit allowed him to soar like a bird, with the fabric fanning out beneath his arms and legs like webbing. This was not free fall but a very fast, very dangerous form of gliding. All Moore had to do was lean to the left or to the right to steer himself within a meter of the cliff walls beside which he raced.

He came whipping around one corner, close enough to reach out and grab the rock face, then he rolled to the left and plummeted at a forty-five-degree angle, the wind now roaring across him. Death was very close, whispering in his ear, and he began to find peace with himself, with the wind, the valley, and for a few seconds, he just closed his eyes, knowing he should pull his rip cord but waiting to see how long he would wait, how long, just a few more seconds, the euphoria mounting as he imagined the mottled rock face below.

He pulled the cord. Boom. The chute blossomed; the cords tugged. It was over.

The group roared from somewhere behind him.

Of the fifteen people in his extreme-sports posse who’d come from all over the world to do this, Moore’s flight had been the fastest, the longest, without question the most dangerous of all, like something out of an action film and not a tourist’s joyride. He hadn’t realized what he’d done until the others gazed on him in awe, as though his temples had gone gray and he’d seen the maker.

Afterward, their Norwegian guide, Bjoernolf, took them all out for lunch, and over smorrebrod topped with smoked salmon and cups of dark-roast coffee, he pulled Moore aside and, in his heavily accented English, simply asked, “Why do you want to die?”

“Excuse me?” Moore replied, lowering his mug.

“I’ve done this thousands of times with many, many clients. No one has ever flown like that. Not even me. And you flew only three practice runs and then did that?”

“I told you I was in the Navy.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You came much too close to the mountain. You waited much too long to pull your cord. I’m sorry, but I won’t take you up there again.”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve already paid for two more days.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moore. I can only work with people who want to come back. I don’t know what your problem is, but I won’t let you become mine. I’ll return your money.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“Look, you are not the first one who’s come here looking for more than I can give. Get some help. Whatever is bothering you, I think you can get through it. This is not the way. I’m sorry.”

Moore thought of bolting to his feet and letting the cocky long-haired asshole have it, but there was nothing but concern in the man’s eyes — and the guy wasn’t a kid, either, probably Moore’s age, and he probably had seen his share of emotionally damaged thrill-seekers also attempting to punish themselves.

“How do you learn to forgive yourself?” Moore asked, realizing that he was speaking to a hillside in San Juan Chamula and not to a Norwegian daredevil.

“When you’re ready to talk, come back to me. I want to hear your story. I’m an old man. I’m a good listener.”

Maybe the old man Wazir, tucked tightly away in his compound in the tribal lands, did have an answer …

The first booms from the fireworks were met by a roaring crowd, the crackling and popping like corn, as even then, at that precise moment, Moore’s cell phone rang.

“Ready when you are, boss,” said Fitzpatrick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on,” Moore said, shifting his rifle slightly to the right and watching as the front door opened and the older guy Moore assumed was Salou ventured out.

“Maybe he wants to see the show,” said Fitzpatrick.

“He needs to close that door; otherwise, we’re screwed.”

Salou stood there, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, took a long drag, then stood there, staring off at the lights of the parade beyond.

“Come on, come on,” Moore said, as another salvo of firecrackers exploded and echoed off the hillside. A few suppressed cracks from sniper rifles would easily be lost in the racket, but this fool was wasting the moment.

“Oh, shit. You see him? You see Torres? What the fuck is he doing?” asked Fitzpatrick.

Torres had rigged the two cars to explode and was supposed to detonate the explosives just after Moore and Fitzpatrick took out the guards with their sniper rifles. But now the fool was marching toward the front door of the house. A curious Salou took one last pull on his cigarette, then stepped down from the porch.

“What the hell is he thinking?” asked Moore.

“Wait a minute,” said Fitzpatrick, as Torres actually shook hands with Salou. “Son of a bitch. I think Torres knows this guy! Holy fucking shit. I think this might be a setup!”

“Fuck this, then, fire, fire!” cried Moore, as Salou threw his arm over Torres’s shoulders and wheeled him around toward the house. That fat bastard had played them all, all right, and now he was going to tip off the Guatemalans. Maybe he, Zuniga, and Salou had all struck a deal, cutting Moore’s group out of the negotiations.

But then again, would Torres be stupid enough to act friendly when he knew Moore and Fitzpatrick were watching? Maybe he didn’t care anymore.

Well, Moore would never find out—

Because the fat man was the first guy he targeted, and the round took off the back of Torres’s head and sent him twisting around like an oil drum toppling off a cargo ship. He crashed to the ground and was lost in the darkness.

Moore switched aim to his first guard, who was already on the move, rushing forward from a tree on the north side and scanning the hills. Moore had to track down, readjust his aim yet again, and finally fire, hoping the guy would literally run into his shot. Bingo. The round punched him squarely in the chest, the blood spraying as he was knocked onto his back — all within the span of a heartbeat.

Meanwhile, Fitzpatrick’s rifle cracked despite the suppressor, and then it sounded once more. The DEA agent’s aim had better prove true, because they were not going to lose Sonia.

They would not.

Moore would die first. The decision had been made.

True, he didn’t know the woman, but he could not bear what losing her represented. He reasoned, perhaps illogically, that, if he saved her, he saved part of himself. If he failed, he wasn’t sure what could be salvaged.

Still holding his breath, he found his second guard and shot him twice as he was running alongside the house, back toward the front door.

Just then, and without any explanation, since Torres had been the one carrying the remote detonators for the two cars, they exploded in succession, their front ends rising a meter off the ground, the fireballs mushrooming up into the night and casting the house in a flickering otherworldly glow.

Whether Torres had remained alive long enough to blow the cars or had set them for remote timer, Moore wasn’t sure. He didn’t think the fat man was smart enough to deal with the timers and had shown him only the most rudimentary of setups, C-4 here, wire, remote here. Take your fat-ass thumb and push this button. Got it, knucklehead?

Whatever the case, they needed those cars taken out, and the job was complete.

“Let’s go!” Moore shouted across the hillside, drawing his pair of Glocks and breaking into a full-on sprint down the hill, with Fitzpatrick falling in beside him.

They had changed into black utilities — pants and long-sleeved shirts — and now wore balaclavas and Kevlar vests, the latter of which Torres had balked at because he’d been unable to pull his protection over his massive man-boobs.

As Moore hit the bottom of the hill, he saw Salou rushing back outside with a rifle in his grip. Behind him were Sonia and Miguel, whose legs had been freed but whose arms were still bound behind their backs. They were each being dragged by a pair of men, all armed with pistols. Without transportation and with the car fires raging and drawing attention away from the parade down below, Moore figured, the Guatemalan had only one avenue of