Free Brown, Dale - Independent 02 by Hammerheads (v1.1)

fact it is composed of armed
thugs and mercenaries who extort tribute from citizens and collect bribes and payoffs
from law-abiding foreigners. They are hired criminals with guns and badges.
Remember, however, that they are well armed and tenacious, like hungry
mongrels. Do not underestimate them.
Learn their tactics and their weapons. The memories of our fallen comrades, of
the horror of the way they died must not be forgotten.” Of course, putting the
pictures of the dead Shorts crew up in every classroom and hangar in Ver-
rettes would help, too.
                 “You
are the Cuchillos! Be proud and you will defeat your enemies and take control
of the skies.”
                 Salazar
saluted the cadets, then turned and walked briskly back into headquarters to
his office. He sat down at his desk and propped his jack-boots up on the
smoothly polished desktop. His paneled office walls were decorated with all
manner of weapons from Oriental swords to exotic machine guns—all fully
functional—plus an entire wall of throwing knives. The knives, in fact, were
his favorite. He withdrew one knife from his boot, hefted it for a moment, then
hurled it at the door to the outer office. Right on target, as usual. To
celebrate he pulled a nasal atomizer out of a pocket and took a quick snort of
cocaine. High-grade. Not too much, he told himself. A tiny bit helped him to
forget that he was stationed in the asshole of Haiti, in exile from his beloved
Cuba.
                 There
was a quick knock on the door to the outer office. Salazar put the atomizer
away. “Come.”
                 His
adjutant, Field Captain Enrique Hermosa, swung open the door. “Did you call for
me, sir?” Salazar motioned to the back of the door, and watched as Hermosa
retrieved his knife from the thick wood and handed it to him. He slipped it
back into his right boot as Hermosa poured strong Colombian coffee for the
commander.
                 “Has
payment been received for the llaho?”
                 “As
planned, commandante. Two million
American dollars in our Cayman Island account. Senor Gachez also sends his
condolences for the loss of our crewmen—”
                 “Gachez
...” said with disgust. Salazar drained the steaming hot coffee in a single
gulp. Hermosa refilled the china cup, then poured one for himself. “We
delivered four hundred kilos of high-grade to his nose-picking farmers in
Florida, cocaine worth ten times what he pays us. We take the risks and he
grows richer and fatter. We lose a new cargo plane and a top-notch crew, and
all he can say is sorryP”
                 “He
sends another message,” Hermosa said. He drank his coffee, relishing the
flavor, before finishing the message. He knew his boss’ foul moods, there might
not be another chance at the rich coffee for who knew how long ... “He has been
in contact with other members of the cartel. They also seem to want to do
business with us.” “What? Do you think we’re some peasant taxi drivers? I’ll
deliver my reply in a hundred-kilo dynamite letter—
                 “If
I may, sir,” Hermosa said, “I would suggest you give this matter some thought.
We are not working for Senor Gachez
...”
                 “You
are damned right about that . . .”
                 “We
contracted with Senor Gachez alone, without any other commitments to the other
families of his cartel,” Hermosa continued. “But it is Senor Gachez with the
commitment to the cartel—if he has been approached by members of the Medellin
families, he has an obligation to provide service to them. On the other hand,
we do not. Therefore ...”
                 “So
we don’t let ourselves be tricked the second time,” Salazar said, leaning back
and sipping his coffee. “We were poor starving bush pilots then, we accepted
the deal with Gachez because we had little or no choice.