Ghosts of Guatemala

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John Carpenter didn’t dream often. But when he did, they were always full of dread.

He was jogging along a beach, and although he couldn’t say where it was exactly, he somehow knew he was somewhere in Latin America. Sweat stained his armpits and chest. The beach was empty except for a lone figure up ahead, directly in his path. He moved to jog around them, but the man followed his movement. He slowed so he could meet the man. The man turned away, pulling ahead. John sped up again. Faster and faster. Legs pumping furiously. He knew who that figure was. It was his friend. His best friend, Brian. It had to be. And he had to stop him. But Brian kept running.

“Brian!”

John tried to call out but the wind was blowing hard in his face…

“Brian!”

And the sun had disappeared and his words were snatched away…

“Brian!”

Then he was in Washington. He knew it was Washington. He was running again, forgetting suddenly why he had been so worried — he was jogging along a paved path through a park, along the water near the Washington monument, birds chirping and cawing from their trees. He pulled up short when he reached a bench. There was a paper coffee cup sitting there, as if waiting for him. Another was spilled on the pavement in front of the bench. But no one was there.

The birds in the trees exploded in every direction, cawing and chirping frantically at some unseen threat. John spun around, reaching towards the back of his waistband for his g*n. But there was nothing there. It should’ve been there. He always kept it there. And his phone was ringing. He didn’t dare answer it. If he answered it, he’d know some horrible truth…

John’s eyes shot open as the phone’s ringing continued, slipping from his dream and into reality. His phone didn’t ring often. But when it did, he had to answer it. Answering his phone was his job.

It was sitting on his night table, a cheap prepaid phone. The noise stopped after the second ring. As if the caller had hung up. Or hadn’t meant to call at all.

John sat up in bed, snatching up the phone and blinking a couple times. Early morning light was just beginning to creep into the room. He was usually an early riser, but sleep had become a difficult thing the last little while.

He snapped open the phone.

There was a single line of text from an unknown number displayed.

Antigua, Guatemala.

54 Hernandez Street.

13:30.

So much could be said without two people ever speaking. John had never been a man of many words. It was fitting that he didn’t need many to tell him what to do either. As long as they were precise, direct, and put him to work.

He memorized the information. Then he snapped the phone shut. The message would delete within a minute. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, resigned that he wouldn’t be going back to sleep. A phone call put everything else on hold.

He was going to Guatemala.

***

John was on a plane out of Augusto C. Sandino International Airport in Managua, Nicaragua within hours. He had enjoyed the surfing, its beaches, and even its jungles. But now it was time to leave. Now it was time to work.

Normally he’d be at relative ease. The flight was short — a hop and a skip over Honduras and El Salvador, and he’d be making land. Flying didn’t gave him nerves and it wasn’t the upcoming mission either. No one ever truly lost the adrenaline that came with the start of a new operation, that little spark of excitement could never be shrugged off. But he didn’t have the pre-op jitters. That’s not what was bothering him. John was too experienced for that.

He didn’t need reminding. Turning thirty he could handle. Pushing forty put a different spin on things. The gray in his hair was stubborn but he said a silent prayer for avoiding going bald for this long. He caught his reflection in the plane window and tightened the cap he was wearing. The Canadian pin stuck to its front flashed, glinting sunlight off a blood-red edge.

It was a good country. He wore the hat to emphasize his Canadian heritage, which was always a safer bet when traveling. And although lacking in the accent and boisterousness, he was also half-American.

His parents had divorced long ago. He had been born and raised in his mother’s country, getting his high school diploma on the east coast of Canada. He hadn’t had any true ambition to pursue post-secondary, even though his mother had pushed him to do so. John had been average all his life. Still was in many ways. Taller than many, but still passing for average. Average weight, although muscled more now. Average looks. He had a strong jaw and gray-blue eyes that pierced like a hawk’s, but spotting him in a crowd would leave him forgotten.

His only distinguishable personality trait was his seriousness. People described him as cold. Grim, even. John knew he didn’t empathize the same way as others, or process emotions as readily. But he still felt average in all the other ways. He didn’t feel like a special person. Not really. But his training begged otherwise.

It had started when his father intervened, after his mother’s prodding to get John somewhere further after high school fell flat. His father was a hard Oregon man and was determined to find something that would be good for his son. The U.S. Navy was offering generous scholarships and was hungry for young, able-bodied men. John had never had many friends so the move hadn’t been hard, but it had changed things with his mother.

It had been a rash decision to join up, but it was an attempt to beat back the feeling of being nothing but average. He could never have been prepared for how it would change him, or for the path it would set him on. Part of the attraction came from a place of unbridled and unabashed masculine desire. The image of the strong, crisp soldier in uniform, taking orders and fighting against all odds for victory and glory. The Navy was more than these things, of course. A part of young John Carpenter must’ve known. The other part signed up anyway.

The experience had been a cruel shock for John. He was able to fit into the soldier’s mold well enough; orders and discipline weren’t a problem. But the culture was. Americans were different than Canadians. Louder, prouder, and meaner in his initial experience. But besides Americans, soldiers had a different way of life than any civilian could imagine. The social aspects were the hardest. John had never drunk more in his life (and never could outmatch himself after). Partying altogether had been a foreign concept for him. Previously he’d been considered somewhat of a loner. He liked the physical activity of it all; being active and pushing himself spoke to both his natural resolve and his testosterone. But the boredom was a brutal reality of the soldier’s life. He had heard about it, but living it was something else. Still, he seemed to have a better mental discipline to handle it than many of his compatriots. He’d also seen combat. Two battles, one of which he hardly felt he’d participated due to orders that placed him far from where the real fighting took place; the other had been a true skirmish experience, brief but dangerous. Both instances left him unsatisfied to be called a combat-veteran.

He’d been happy to bring some stability to troubled regions. There were murmurings that the military did more harm than good, but he had to content himself with his own efforts as an example of something worthwhile. But besides hopefully helping the local society, his tour had an important perk.

Travel.

He’d expected to be in Africa or the Middle-East, but fate had placed his company in Latin America — a region containing a plethora of countries he knew next to nothing about.

He fell in love.

It had been a reluctant rise to appreciation. The absorption of culture and climate and society was slow but sure. The cuisine may not have impressed him, but the people and geography had.

He was in Panama first, then Nicaragua, then Guatemala. He picked up the language, the feel, the nuance in each region as best he could.

Better than most. It was clear he worked harder at it. Practicing language amidst the boredom. Refusing card games in favor of language lessons and a local explaining any and all cultural particularities.

The brass took notice. After his mandatory tour and his eagerness to stay on, a few officers had thrown his name around and suggested he get further education and training. They didn’t want him stuck and plateauing. They told him he was ripe for potential. Some of them joked they didn’t want to see John end up like them.

One of those officers knew a Navy SEAL trainer and put in a word, just to see what would be good for John. But the trainer wasn’t interested in asking around or moving John elsewhere. He’d either take the kid on or stay out of it.

John took the plunge.

It was the most challenging thing he’d ever done in his life. It would probably remain that way. If John had thought Navy training was tough, becoming a SEAL was pure hell. He was broken down and built back up, stronger in ways he couldn’t imagine ever becoming. Sometimes he thought about the training. Other times it seemed like a strange dream. Either way, it was simply a part of him now. Who he was.

It was also hard because he had found his passion for Latin America, but had to leave it behind. The SEALs allowed him to enroll in college classes, perfecting his knowledge of Latin-American culture, religion, and of course, the language. SEALs were encouraged to have college degrees and John’s education was considered an important asset for the team, so it was fully paid for. Say what one will of the military; it took care of its own.

Graduation was a double blessing. A completed degree to the delight of his mother, who was becoming less estranged, and the perfect capstone to the accumulation of all his training: the Navy, SEALs, and a diploma in his hands. He could achieve a good position and pay, and live the good life.

But it was hardly a year before he was pulled by a strange detachment. Definitely not the Navy, much as they’d like to have him back. He was overqualified. And it wasn’t the army, or another Navy branch. No, these recruiters spoke and acted like civilians. But John could sense they were equipped with military minds.

He was never told it was the CIA. He’d never asked. He’d been told they’d never speak again if he did. If he accepted their offer of recruitment, he’d work for America and would undergo another round of specialized training to expand an already extensive record. He was a prime candidate.

He would’ve said no, but was offered generous pay and further education options on their dime. He didn’t need more money. The education was a nice perk. He had hesitated. Then they laid the perfect bait. His job postings would only be across Latin America. Freedom of travel throughout as long as he came when called and performed as necessary.

He took the bait. They weren’t surprised. It was what they did for a living.

Training had been brutal again. Different than what he’d gone through with the SEALs. More psychological than anything. More covert. More focus on solo ability. And once it was done, he had become a killing machine.

He worked for a group only known to him as the Firm. He knew his handler’s codename, Esteban, and a few other agents who he worked with on missions. His regional residences varied across Latin America. His comings and goings were indeed loose, thankfully. But when orders came — always by cell, always brief, always direct — he moved. He tracked. He killed.

This time should’ve been no different.

He loved Guatemala. It was a beautiful country. For all its poverty, corruption, and unstable infrastructure, it was welcoming, warm, and bursting at the seams with joy. The people were the happiest he’d ever seen. And Antigua was one of Guatemala’s gems. But Antigua meant something else to John. Something darker.

A week ago, John had sent Brian an email. Agents were not supposed to contact each other, but the job was a lonely one. John was a solitary creature, but for the first time since he could remember, he had made a good friend. He didn’t want to lose that. The emails they shared were brief, devoid of any work details, and encrypted. If the Firm took issue, they would shut it down. The messages were almost certainly monitored. That was fine.

Last week John had sent Brian an email. He had received an almost immediate response.

Asset is KIA. Cease email.

—Esteban

John rested his head against the plane window, closing his eyes, letting the rhythm of the plane’s engines lure him into calmness. He couldn’t avoid his sadness, but he could avoid that feeling he got when he remembered. It was a haunting feeling, the undeniable wrongness of a good friend who was no longer alive, removed altogether from his life. Memories remained. Nothing else.

Brian had died in Antigua.

He didn’t know how. It was classified information. John had been kept in the dark. He was always kept in the dark. It wasn’t usually a problem — it had never bothered him before. Not really. Not until now.

He’d always done his job. Done his job well. Now…

Now it was personal.

And John had a good feeling this operation would be linked to whatever Brian had been ordered to do. It might even be the same mission. The Firm had an interest in Antigua. He didn’t know what it was, but he’d find out soon enough.

And then he’d get the answers he needed.