Renegade 19

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  Captain Gringo—trapped in a bloody hellhole in Honduras!

  The Britishers say they’re after a hidden treasure. Gringo doubts it, but he doesn’t argue. After all, there are four sensationally beautiful women in the search party—and to Gringo, they are just pure gold waiting to be uncovered.

  But enjoying his new-found wealth of women won’t be easy—not when scores of crack foreign troops wait in the jungle, itching to rip Gringo’s group to bloody tatters. And definitely not when he’s caught in a bone-crushing cannon bombardment. With death threatening him from every direction, Gringo’s only chance is to stay right where he is, and fight!

  RENEGADE 19: HELLFIRE IN HONDURAS

  By Lou Cameron, writing as Ramsay Thorne

  First Published by Warner Books in 1983

  Copyright © 1983, 2017 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2016 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Captain Gringo awakened with a start, rolled off his bunk with his pillow gun, and wound up prone, naked, armed, and dangerous in the dark before he was fully awake. He lay with his weight on his elbows, both hands gripping the double-action .38 trained on the stateroom door. His heart pounded against the hard decking as he strained with all his senses to determine what the hell he was doing down on the floor. He hadn’t been dreaming. So something else must have gone bump in the night. But what?

  There was a sliver of lamplight under his stateroom door. Said door had been locked from the inside before he’d turned in, but nobody seemed to be out in the companionway close enough to matter. He recalled that the companionway lamp was on the bulkhead opposite his stateroom. Feet cast shadows, and there were no shadows, so what was left?

  He listened, holding his breath. Save for his own heartbeat, all he heard were the usual creakings of a rusty old tramp steamer under way. He shook his head again and muttered, “I must be getting Fugitive Fever. It’s my own fault for going to bed alone and sober!”

  He climbed back onto the bunk, placing the gun on the crumpled linens beside him as he groped in the dark for his shirt and a smoke. He glanced idly at the small porthole across the way, wondering what time it was. Then the penny dropped.

  He muttered, “What the hell?” as he resized what had awakened him. He hadn’t heard any additional bumps in the night. In fact, he had awakened because he had heard too few. When he’d turned in, the fusty old tub had been threatening to pop the last of the rivets holding her together as they’d wallowed south in the ground swells of the trade winds. Now they were steaming smooth as silk. Ergo, they were no longer standing out to sea. So where the hell were they?

  Captain Gringo picked up his shirt, fished out a Havana claro and a box of wax matches, and lit up before he rose to go to the porthole. He hadn’t thought to worry about that side of the tiny stateroom before, since the porthole opened out the sheer side of the hull, amidships. As he peered out, he swore softly. Harbor lights were something a guy had to swear at, this far north. He and his sidekick, Gaston, were wanted in every port north of Limón. They’d been off Honduras when he’d turned in for the night. There was no way this tub could have steamed six hundred sea miles since midnight!

  The deal Gaston had made with the French purser had not included putting in this side of Costa Rica. Gaston had assured Captain Gringo that the purser of this rust bucket was an old pal from the Legion who knew the facts of life, and they’d paid the son of a bitch double the going rate.

  Captain Gringo pressed his nose to the glass as he studied the ominous noose of shore lights they were steaming into. One harbor looked much like any other at night. Wherever they were, they were in trouble.

  He took a deep drag on his cigar and used the glowing tip to light the oil lamp over the bunk. Then he dressed, pronto. He’d just slipped his linen jacket on over the gun he’d put back in its shoulder rig when he heard Gaston’s knock.

  He opened the stateroom door, and as the older, smaller soldier of fortune slipped in, Captain Gringo said, “I noticed. I thought you said we could trust these sons of bitches!”

  Gaston sat down and sighed. “Merde alors, one would be a fool to trust his mother if she ever read all the reward posters out on the two of us. But I don’t think it’s that, Dick. I have enough on the rogues on the bridge of this thrice-accursed vessel to assure their joining us in durance vile. I just came from the bridge. They say the problem is salt water.”

  “They say what? We were just steaming down the Caribbean, you idiot!”

  “Ah, you noticed that, Dick? The problem is not the salt in the sea. This species of a rusty antique has salt water in her boilers, too. Don’t look at me like so. I assure you I didn’t turn the wrong valve. I don’t even know why a steam engine can’t run on salt water.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “I do. If we’re boiling brine, we’re lucky to be moving at all. The damned condenser tubes must have finally rusted through. I told you when we boarded this tub in Mexico that it looked like nobody’d so much as swabbed the deck since it was launched, God knows when!”

  As if to make his point, an added hush fell over the hitherto throbbing vessel. Gaston cocked an eyebrow and said, “The engines have stopped, non?”

  “The engines have stopped, yes. We’re losing headway already. But the skipper turned in soon enough to keep from going dead in the water out on the bounding main. Do you have any idea where the hell we are, by the way?”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Oui. Puerto Cabezas.”

  “Jesus, Puerto Cabezas, Nicaragua?”

  “Sacre bleu, don’t look at me like that, Dick. I told you I didn’t do it! Look at the bright side, my tall tanned youth with glowering eyes of gray. Puerto Cabezas is just south of the Nicaraguan border. A sixty-mile moonlight romp through the jungles of the adorable Mosquito Coast would see us safely across the Rio Segovia, running trés amuse through the jungles of Honduras, hein?”

  “For God’s sake, we’re wanted in Honduras, too!”

  “True, but not as badly as in Nicaragua. I told you as we last left Nicaragua that they would never forgive you for sinking that gunboat so noisily, hein? If we can make it to Laguna Caratasca, up the Honduran coast, I used to know some rogues there who would no doubt take us in. Coastal pirates can always use extra hands who know which end of a gun the bullets come out, non?”

  Captain Gringo moved back to the port as he asked, “How long back did you say it was when you knew these knock-around guys, Gaston?”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Ten, maybe twelve years ago. Piracy is not my usual line of work. But any old port in a storm is better than the one we seem to be in at the moment, non?”

  Captain Gringo looked out and said, “Shit, we’re dead in the water and a tug’s coming out to take us in tow. That’ll mean customs officials about to board. We’d better get out on deck where a guy can duck more than one way.”

  They stepped out into the companionway, saw nobody in sight, and moved up a ladder. Their supercargo staterooms had been booked under the amidships of the
three-island freighter, so when they got topside, they were in the dark by the funnel, aft of the bridge superstructure. Two lifeboats hung at either side of the funnel. So they were covered by the dark shadows aft the bridge while gaining a bird’s-eye view of the dismal scene below. A couple of guys in white uniforms stood in the bow of the tug as it approached the steamer. Captain Gringo muttered, “What did I tell you? Those are customs officials, sure as hell!”

  Gaston shrugged and said, “Eh bien, our friends in the crew are old hands at dealing with customs in strange ports. We are not in our staterooms. Our passages will hardly be engraved in stone on the ship’s no-doubt-quite-in-order papers. Since we did not put in here to discharge any cargo, there is no need for anyone to make a trés fatigue search of the whole vessel, hein?”

  “I hope you’re right. Let’s talk about pirates again. Even down here, piracy seems to be a pretty obsolete industry. Didn’t the British navy go boom boom a lot at some coast pirates off the Half Moon Reefs a few years ago?”

  “Oui. I read the names of the men they hanged. None of them were anyone I ever worked with.”

  “I’m so happy for you. The point is that the Half Moons are just east of Laguna Caratasca, and there’s been no piracy in that neighborhood since. What would these old pals of yours be doing there now—gathering Spanish moss for drinking money?”

  “Merde alors, how should I know? I told you I haven’t dropped by for supper in the last ten years. I agree they may not be there now. But do you have somewhere more important to go?”

  “Let’s move behind the funnel. Those shits are sure to come up on the bridge, if only to strut their stuff. We could probably take that tug over. The top of her cabin’s too far to jump, but if we worked our way down to the cargo deck …”

  Gaston waited until they were hidden in the shadow of the funnel before he sighed and said, “Behave yourself, you naughty child! I am trés certain you could seize that poor little steam tug. I’ve seen you seize everything from a railroad train to a balloon since I made the mistake of escaping that firing squad with you. But leave that tug alone. There’s nowhere to go in a shallow-draft vessel from here. I know this harbor. It is trés small and trés land-locked. Our best chance is to—”

  “Hush! They’re coming topside!” the tall blond American cut in, drawing his .38 with one hand as he snuffed his smoke with the other.

  Gaston murmured, “Good thinking. Why should there be smoke from the vicinity of a dead funnel, non?”

  “Will you shut up? They’re on the bridge, talking to the skipper!”

  Gaston drew his own pistol, silently for a change. As the two soldiers of fortune crouched in the shadows, straining their ears, they couldn’t make out the words, but the conversation up ahead didn’t sound excited.

  A million years went by. Then they heard the familiar bustle of crewmen making ready for a tow. Captain Gringo hissed, “Cover me!” and crabbed over between the lifeboats. Nothing happened topside, so he peeked over the side, and, sure enough, the two guys in white were back aboard the tug. They were standing on the fan deck, watching with idle interest as the smaller vessel took the crippled tramp in tow.

  Gaston joined him, had his own peek, and said, “Eh bien, all is well that does not end trés fatigue. We have been exciting ourselves over nothing, my old and nervous. They have bought our adorable skipper’s story, since it is mostly true in the first place. Shall we join him and find out how long we shall have to stay here?”

  Captain Gringo thought, nodded, and put his gun away. Gaston did the same before leading the way to the bridge via a hatchway opening on the deck they’d climbed to.

  The skipper was not on the bridge. But Gaston knew the French watch officer as well or better. Captain Gringo listened, bemused, as the two of them spoke machine-gun French too fast for him to follow. His Spanish had gotten pretty good since he’d first jumped the U.S. border just ahead of a U.S. Army hangman. High-school French worked only when people spoke slowly. Unfortunately, he’d yet to meet a Frenchman who did.

  Gaston swore in French that Captain Gringo could understand, since in their travels he called lots of people motherfuckers. Gaston turned from the watch officer and told Captain Gringo, “All is lost. For the moment they have satisfied the local authorities. But we are putting into a shipyard for extensive repairs. This offspring of an unfortunate incestuous union of halfwits tells me that the captain applied for permission to give his entire crew shore leave while this bucket of rusty bolts waits for spare parts from New Orleans.”

  Captain Gringo nodded soberly and said, “Right. If we stay aboard, some nosy Nicaraguan is going to wonder why. It’s almost four o’clock, and the sun will be up long before we could leg it far enough to matter, even if I liked the idea of running for a hideout that might not be there anymore. We’d better hole up ashore and hope for another boat out.”

  Gaston grimaced and said, “Very funny. Puerto Cabezas is an out-of-the-way port of call and one could kick one of your silly Yanqui footballs the length of the main street.”

  “Okay, since you know the place so well, do you know a nice hotel with hot and cold running no-questions?”

  Gaston thought, shrugged, and said, “Oui, but I was hoping to spend at least some of that loot from Mexico on the good things of life in Costa Rica. Bribery is trés expensive in Nicaragua these days. The unpopular current government pays its police informers well above the usual rates.”

  Gaston started to move on. They were alone in a companionway by this time. Captain Gringo grabbed his arm and said, “Hold it. There’s nothing in our staterooms we can’t replace. We’re packing our money belts and guns.”

  “Oui, but the staterooms have doors that lock. As we put in, a swarm of Nicaraguans are going to swarm aboard, non?”

  “Exactly. Let’s move down to the cargo deck. It’s dark. There’s bound to be a certain amount of confusion. So we slip ashore before anyone can get around to questioning us and—”

  “But, Dick, the purser owes us. Our deal with him was passage to Limon, where neither of us are wanted by the trés fatigue law.”

  “So? We’re two-thirds of the way there, and we don’t have to let the son of a bitch in on any future plans. You may be right about him not turning us in for the rewards aboard this tub. But make him mad, then go ashore, and what does he have to lose?”

  “Merde alors, don’t you mean what does he have to gain? Eh bein, I kiss my lovely Mexican gold adieu. But I must say, travel seems trés expensive down here these days.”

  *

  The “hotel” Gaston remembered from his last run through Puerto Cabezas wasn’t exactly a hotel, or even a posada. It was a waterfront whorehouse. Captain Gringo said he should have known.

  The tall American waited in the parlor downstairs while Gaston made a deal with the French Creole madam in her “office.” Captain Gringo sat in a corner trying to look invisible. It wasn’t easy. He had to take off his sombrero, and not another guy in the place was a gray-eyed blond with obviously Anglo-Saxon features. On the other hand, some of the working girls were blondes, thanks to peroxide, and the local males seemed more interested in dames of any color or complexion, so what the hell.

  There were six or eight johns and a dozen whores lounging around among the red velvet settees, potted rubber plants, and brass cuspidors. The guys all wore the white linens of reasonably prosperous gents in these parts. The whores wore next to nothing, with lots of black lace and/or red sateen. A rinky-dink piano was playing ragtime in a corner by the small bar. Both the piano player and the barkeep were female, black, and not wearing much more than were their working sisters. A couple of the latter were giving Captain Gringo the eye as he sat there smoking a cigar and trying to look innocent. He mostly felt dumb. What in the hell was keeping Gaston? The little Frenchman had been alone with that shop-worn old redhead a lot longer than it took to say yes or no.

  A muchacha with iced-tea skin and lemonade hair came over to sit on the arm of his red v
elvet chair. Her face was fair, her body was fantastic. She must have been proud of it. She was wearing only black mesh stockings, and she wasn’t really blond all over. She smiled down at Captain Gringo and asked, “What are we drinking, querido?”

  He said, “If I order us gin and tonic, the barkeep won’t have to put tea in your water. But all I have on me is Mexican money. Can do?”

  “Is it paper or silver, querido?”

  “Gold. My smallest change is a twenty-peso gold piece.”

  The whore laughed and said, “For that you can get drunk as well as laid in this place, good-looking. I am called Armida, and remember, I saw you first. Do you really need a drink to get up your courage with me? I hate to see a big spender throw his money away on club soda, but you can’t drink here alone.” He said he understood the rules of the game as he fished out a coin and handed it to her. She shrugged and moved over to the bar, wiggling her bare brown rump more than she really needed to in those high heels. Captain Gringo took out his watch. Gaston had been gone nearly an hour, damn his horny hide. All but one of the guys who’d been there in the parlor when he’d first sat down had gone up to the cribs. The one guy who was still there was across the room, pretending to read a newspaper. None of the whores had joined him. He either had V.D. or, more likely, had to be the professor, or a cop. He didn’t look big enough to bounce anyone. Nobody but a cop would be allowed to fall back on that bulge under his left armpit. Was there a telephone in the hall outside? Captain Gringo thought back, decided he’d have noticed if there was an easy way to call police headquarters from here, and tried to relax. If the guy was a cop, it was just as likely he’d come to see the madam for a payoff. He was probably wondering what was keeping her all this time, too.

  Armida came back with two glasses filled with tepid liquid. His really had a little gin in it. The tonic water had gone flat. Ice was a semi mythical, exotic substance in a tropic dive like this. They had one of those new electric ceiling fans, moving sluggishly above. It was still too hot even to think about sex, even if he’d been in the habit of paying for it. But Armida leaned to brush a nipple against his ear as she husked, “Now that we have our drinks, what say we go upstairs, eh?”