Of Dolphins and Desires

Prologue

Prologue

“Down on your knees, hands on top of your head,” Enrique instructed the three fishermen in Spanish, the language of the country whose coast was seven and a half miles to the east of where the yacht had intercepted the fishing trawler.

Enrique, the fishermen, and Juan were on the trawler’s deck, the hot sun forcing them all to sweat rings in their armpits and around the collars of their shirts. Bang! Bang! Bang! Each fisherman landed face first onto the pile of netting and bumpers, bits of skull and brain matter splattered across the windscreen of the boat. Blood coated everything.

“Untie the lines. Cover those bales with the tarp,” Enrique shouted the orders to those on the yacht, including Juan who had just stepped from the trawler.

He made his way to the stern of the fishing vessel, leaned over the outboard, and deftly cut the gas line. Fuel gushed out to create a rainbow-hued slick on top of the salt water waves. He moved swiftly from one boat to the other by stepping over the railing, as he signaled to the man at the helm of the yacht. The engines turned over to rumble quietly. They headed south, and about fifty yards away from the trawler, Enrique aimed the flare gun he had retrieved from its bracket on the outside wall of the main cabin. The explosion sent waves that gently rocked against the retreating yacht.

Placing the .9mm that he had used to end the fishermen’s lives inside the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, then the flare gun back in its bracket, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his chambray shirt. The easy part was done. It was child’s play to take the kilos of coke from the fishermen. The more difficult task was making sure the General didn’t retaliate when he found out his goods had been taken from him. If Enrique wanted to own all the ports of Baja, and south to Mazatlan, the General couldn’t get any of the action. If Enrique squeezed him out, he would be able to deal directly with Pablo Escobedo, putting more profits into his own pocket instead of the General’s.

Enrique glanced at the black smoke billowing into the clear blue sky. Let that be a message to the General, Enrique thought.

A quick twist with arms that could bench 250-pounds and the guard dropped like a stone. David propped the soldier up against the wooden side of the building that would normally house a dozen military men. Inching his way along the shadow created by the overhang of the building and the dim compound floodlights, David reached out his right hand and quickly turned the doorknob. Slipping inside, he gave his eyes a moment to adjust as he quietly closed the door.

“Logan,” he said in a harsh whisper. A groan from his right took him to his partner, tied to a metal chair. David flicked his lighter, “Oh, fuck.”

Logan was beyond hurt. He’d been tortured. One eye was red and swollen shut. There were cuts and bruises on his face, mud and blood on his chest and ribs. The odd angle of Logan’s right leg told David it was badly broken. Releasing his thumb, the room was once again covered in darkness. Taking his Bowie from its scabbard at his waist, David moved behind the chair to cut the ropes.

“Don’t,” Logan growled.

“What do you mean? I’m here to get you out.”

“The extension cord from the generator runs inside the rope. If you cut the rope, you’ll close the circuit, and we’ll both get fried.” He was breathing hard to push the words past the pain.

“Christ on a bicycle, Logan, how do you get yourself into these situations? Never mind,” David grumbled and shook his head.

Flicking his lighter again, he followed the extension cord to the gas-powered generator. If he shut it off, the whole camp would hear the sudden silence and come to investigate. David squatted down next to Logan and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Use your lighter to melt the cord insulation,” Logan said through gritted teeth.

“It’ll short,” David nodded. “You’ll get quite a jot, and maybe some burns.”

“We don’t have time or options. Just do it.”

David exhaled loudly and moved to the back of the chair. Thankful for filling up his small, silver lighter before this mission, David pulled his thumb across the tiny wheels, and held the flame to the bright yellow rubber insulation of the cord running across the wooden floor from the generator to the ropes around Logan’s wrists. As the material melted away, sparks flew like blood from a severed artery. David put up his arm to shield his eyes.

Logan was thrown back into the chair with a convulsion as the smell of burned flesh filled their nostrils. The burning had damaged the ground wire first, sending a short jolt of 210 in both directions down the cord.

“s**t! s**t! I’m so sorry.”

David used his knife to sever the ropes. As he peeled them away, strips of blackened flesh pulled from Logan’s wrists. Lifting him under the arms, David dragged Logan’s unconscious body to the opposite side of the room from which he’d entered. The far wall held a single window and was bordered by the surrounding jungle. There, he lifted his partner’s body up and pushed it out through the window frame, the glass having been cut away by the waiting hands of the two other operatives sent by Headquarters at The Agency to retrieve Logan Phelps from the hands of Pablo Escobedo. David followed Logan’s body out of the building, and the four of them disappeared into the South American jungle to meet the chopper at the extraction point.

Once on board, the medic hooked up an IV, and with a little morphine, Logan came around.

“What the f**k happened, Bro?” David demanded

“A leak.” Logan cautiously licked dry, bloodied lips.

They looked at each other, realizing what they had to face once they were back at HQ.

“Boss man’s going to tear the place apart,” David grumbled, not looking forward to the debriefing.

“Dad can be as pissed as he wants, but I’d hate to be the mole when John Phelps, Sr. finds him.”