Renegade 25 Read online

  CONTENTS

  About the Book

  HIGH SEAS SHOWDOWN

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  About Lou Cameron

  Captain Gringo in dangerous waters off the Mosquito Coast!

  Only a crazy man—or a highly paid professional fighting man—would work for Sir Basil Hakim, the corrupt British peer and international arms trader. Gringo signs on to locate a top secret Spanish shipwreck for Hakim.

  He stands to collect a bundle, if he lives. A stinking spongeboat with its Greek crew is supposed to get him there—with a little help from the delicious, doe-eyed cook. In between lie shark-infested seas, U.S. gunboats, German spy-schooners, and islands filled with man-eating Carib natives. If Gringo can fight his way to the sunken Spanish “gunbucket”—and keep the women aboard his own ship happy— he’s got it made!

  It was the Day of the Dead. So all day the narrow streets of San José had been crowded with noisy Costa Ricans living it up. Tin horns were still honking, strings of firecrackers were still going off, and señoritas were still screaming as mysterious strangers in skeleton masks felt them up.

  The rather grotesque religious holiday was supposed to last all day and it would, even though by late afternoon the festivities were becoming a bit forced and the wiser heads in the crowd were starting to drop out. Little kids who’d been eating candy skulls and swilling soda pop all day were beginning to puke on people’s rented costumes. Bigger kids who’d been swilling stronger stuff were threatening to become fighting drunks, and, naturally, as the shadows lengthened, the resident robbers and pickpockets would be crawling out of the woodwork.

  And so, in his furnished room on the second floor of La Posada Dulce, Captain Gringo was celebrating the Day of the Dead more sedately with his landlady and current paramour, a pleasingly plump brunette named Lucita. He’d have enjoyed Lucita’s ample charms more had they been able to shut the grilled window above the big brass bedstead. But when two consenting adults find themselves in bed together on a tropic afternoon they need all the ventilation they can get, even if it stinks.

  The faint sultry breeze blowing across the big blond Yank’s bounding buttocks as Lucita moaned in ecstasy reeked of spent fireworks, puked sugar candy and rum, red pepper, and frying grease. None of which went with Lucita’s rather cloying violet perfume and more earthy body odors. But a man had to do what a man had to do. So maybe if he slid another pillow under her Junoesque bare rump ….

  “Por favor, querido,” Lucita said, sighing as he reentered her from a more inspiring angle, “what you are doing to me feels most delicioso. But this is not what I came up here for and, en verdad, you have placed me in a most awkward position, Deek.”

  He smiled down fondly at her and asked, “Don’t you like it with two pillows under you, my little propietaria?”

  She sighed and spread her soft thighs wider as she dug her nails into his buttocks and replied, “You know all too well how much I like this position, you muchacho malvado! I was speaking of the position you have placed me in with the owners of this posada. As I was trying to tell you when you started tearing my clothes off just now, I do not own this place. I only manage it for most-greedy people who do not understand my warm feelings for you.”

  He said, “Speaking of warm feelings, it’s just too damned hot in here for this old-fashioned stuff. Let’s try it dog style.”

  Lucita didn’t argue about that. But as he rolled her over on her hands and knees she insisted, “I have to tell them something, Deek! You know if it was up to me alone, you and your little French friend could stay here forever without paying rent. But unless I can give the owners some idea when you and Gaston can pay … Oh, that feels so glorioso, querido!”

  That had been the general idea. He had to stall their landlady at least until his sidekick, Gaston, got back with news of a job or, at worst, another place they could hole up, free, until they got one. As he stood with his bare feet on the rug and his organ grinder in Lucita’s big bare rump, thrusting with more skill than enthusiasm, Captain Gringo tried to figure out where the money from that last soldier-of-fortune job had gone. He and Gaston had been living pretty discreetly since making it back to the only country in Central America where they weren’t wanted for everything but the common cold. But the one worm in the apple of Costa Rica was the simple fact that a working democracy with a free and easy popular government just didn’t offer steady employment, or any employment at all, for professional fighting men. And despite its being an inexpensive place to rest up between jobs, a knock-around gent was expected to pay something for his bed and board even when he got to lay his landlady.

  Great minds appeared to be running in the same channels that afternoon. Even as Lucita arched her back to take it deeper she said, “I have to tell the owners something when I see them later this evening after the fiesta. When can I assure them they can expect at least part of the money you owe them?”

  “Don’t talk dirty while you’re fucking,” he growled, pounding her harder to change the subject to more pleasant matters. It only kept her quiet until she’d climaxed and fell forward across the crumpled sheets, sobbing how much she loved him. But the trouble with women was that they could be so ungrateful, as soon as they calmed down a bit. He’d just snuggled down beside her and lit a smoke when she said, “Oh, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about those expensive cigars you keep charging at the cantina downstairs, Deek. Honestly, don’t you and that little Frenchman ever pay for anything!”

  He put his free hand in her fuzzy lap to gain such advantage as he could before he sighed and said, “All right. I don’t need a brick wall to fall on me. I can take a hint. As soon as Gaston gets back we’ll be checking out.”

  It worked, for a moment. Lucita put her own hand on the back of his to encourage his soothing motions as she spread her thighs wider and said, “Don’t be so sombrío. I never said I wished for to throw you out, querido. I only said I had to promise the owners something this evening. Suppose I tell them you promised to pay by this time next week? Surely the check Gaston assured me was in the mail will have arrived by then, no?”

  He sighed and said, “Gaston shouldn’t have told you that, Lucita. We’re a couple of bums. But I pride myself on being an honest bum. There isn’t any check in any mail. I hope nobody who’s at all interested in us has this address.”

  She began to fondle him, too, as she snuggled closer and said, “In that case I shall just have to lie for you, I fear. It is not easy for to get such a good job in San José, and they are sure to fire me in any case, once they discover I let you check in without any luggage or money!”

  He snubbed out the smoke and kissed her before he said flatly, “You’re not going to get fired, Lucita. That’s a promise. So what say we drop this tedious business talk and get down to business again with that sweet little tamale you’re twitching at me?”

  Lucita giggled and said he was just awful as he remounted her and hooked his elbows under her knees to put it to her deep, the way he knew she liked it. But even as she responded to him passionately, the saner corner s of her mind were still stewing about what on earth she’d ever tell the owners. He kissed her hard to shut her up. And to shut himself up, too. It was hard to keep from reassuring a worried friend at such a time. But he couldn’t tell her, until Gaston agreed, how they’d been holding out on her.

  They did have a little money left. The trouble was, they didn’t have enough to pay their bills and still have enough left over to get anywhere else. But he’d meant what he said when he’d promised Lucita her job was safe. So if Gaston came back from that meeting to say the deal was off and they weren’t getting any front money after all, he’d just have to rob a bank or something, right?

  *


  Captain Gringo had meant it seriously when he told Lucita he hoped nobody at all interested in him had his current address. But even as die renegade soldier of fortune was enjoying his landlady’s ample charms, a U.S. secret-service agent named Rumford was pinpointing the posada for his superior, Agent Purvis, on a wall map at the U.S. consulate across town.

  Rumford said, “The renegade’s there now. That little Frenchman he runs with left the posada a good three hours ago and our tails lost him in the fiesta crowd. I’ve got a team staked out around their hideout. We’re ready to move in anytime you say, Chief.”

  Purvis looked pained and said, “Let’s not be hasty, son. We’re Secret Service, not Justice or War. So leave us not be jumping any guns until we find out just what old Richard Walker, alias Captain Gringo, is up to here in San José.”

  Rumford, newer to the bananalands than his older and wearier-looking boss, frowned and said, “He can’t be up to anything here in Costa Rica, sir. He hides out here between jobs for the same reasons the intelligence community uses Costa Rica as a safe place to keep the files. Nothing too dramatic ever happens here.”

  Purvis turned from the wall map, went back to his desk, sat down, and opened a tobacco humidor on the green blotter as he chuckled dryly and said, “Yeah, the Spanish Empire sure screwed up Costa Rica when they were still running things. Sit down and have a smoke.” Rumford did as he was told and waited until he’d lit both their Havanas politely before he observed, “I’d hardly say the Spanish left this particular ex-colony in a mess, sir. It’s the only real working democracy down here. Except for the lingo and hot peppers, Costa Rica reminds me of Switzerland in some ways.”

  Purvis nodded and said, “You’re learning, son. Like I said, they screwed up. Spain’s colonial policy was divide and conquer. So even after Latin America got rid of Spanish rule, most of ’em were left in one hell of a mess. It’s the class and racial hatreds fostered by the old Spanish rule that make life so dramatic down here. But I guess they just weren’t paying attention when they got around to settling Costa Rica. The name itself was a Spanish sarcasm. There were no riches here at all when they found the place. No gold or silver. Not enough Indians to bother saving and enslaving. In the end they used it as a dumping ground for cheated Spanish veterans. Giving a retired soldier or sailor a homestead in unmapped and unwanted jungle sure beat giving him a pension for life back in Spain.”

  Rumford looked puzzled as he said, “The Costa Ricans I’ve met so far don’t seem very militant to me, sir.”

  Purvis smiled fondly and said, “Yeah, they’re pretty nice guys for the most part, arid the girls are the prettiest in Central America. You know why? Good breeding, that’s why. The people running the old and current Spanish Empire were and are a bunch of inbred jerk-offs. But the average enlisted vet with an honorable discharge tends to be a decent guy no matter who he works for. So as Spanish vets brought their white Spanish peasant wives over here to settle on their modest land grants, Costa Rica wound up decent too. Nobody wound up all that rich or all that poor. There weren’t enough Indians to produce a sullen class of mestizo peones. The original settlers didn’t have enough to import slaves. They just buckled down, got to work, and wound up with a mighty nice little country here. They say Switzerland was an accident too.”

  Rumford repressed an impatient grimace as he said, “I’m sure that’s all very interesting, sir. But may I ask what it has to do with that renegade, Walker?”

  Purvis shrugged and said, “For one thing, Costa Rica doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the States. Walker and that little legion deserter, Gaston Verrier, know it. So they’ve been very careful about busting any local laws.”

  Rumford said, “We wouldn’t need help from the local police, sir. He’s alone at the posada right now and we have him boxed, so—”

  “I hope you left orders nobody’s to move in without my approval?” Purvis cut in with a worried frown. When Rumford nodded, he relaxed a bit but still looked annoyed as he said, “I keep telling people around here, but nobody listens. This is the U.S. Secret Service, Rumford. You don’t keep secrets by holding public shootouts in the streets of a friendly power without letting their authorities in on it. You don’t keep secrets by telling said authorities of said friendly power that you’re a secret-service agent. Am I talking too fast for you, son?”

  “Nosir. I understand secret service reports only to Washington. But we have to do something about that goddamn Captain Gringo!”

  “Why?” Purvis asked calmly.

  Rumford blinked in surprise and gasped. “Why, sir? The son of a bitch is a U.S. Army deserter wanted for murder, grand larceny, and God knows what all by now! Aside from the U.S. government, Mexico and half a dozen other greaser governments have reward posters out on him and that murderous little frog he runs around with!”

  Purvis shrugged and said, “Some say Walker was framed on a bum rap. But that’s neither here nor there. Like I said, our job is to gather intelligence, not bad guys, and those two soldiers of fortune aren’t the only bad guys in this neck of the woods. I asked you to see if you could get a line on one Sir Basil Hakim, British subject, possible German agent, and all-around prick. So where is he right now?”

  Rumford looked uncomfortable and said, “We know his private yacht’s moored down in Limón, sir. If he’s here in San José, he’s holed up pretty good. We naturally checked all the better hotels in town, but—”

  “Jesus,” Purvis cut in with a groan, adding, “I don’t know how to tell you this, son, but master criminals seldom check into hotels of any sort. Hakim’s so fucking rich he doubtless owns one or more private houses in every town from here to Constantinople. Okay, so much for Hakim. How about that military attaché, Jager, at the German legation?”

  Rumford brightened and said, “Oh, he was easy to tail, sir. Right now he’s at the Spanish embassy. Been there all day, as a matter of fact. We spotted some British agents tailing him, too. So there must be something to that rumor about the young Kaiser and His Most Catholic Majesty being up to something.”

  Purvis drummed on his desk blotter thoughtfully as he stared at his telephone. Then he shook his head and told himself, aloud, “No sense calling Greystoke of British intelligence. That wise-ass lies to us when the truth is in his favor. We’ve got him under surveillance, too. So, okay, we’ll just sit tight and see who contacts those soldiers of fortune first.”

  Rumford tried. He was learning how sneaky his older boss was. But he knew he’d never get any sleep that night unless he asked. So he asked what on earth anyone would want with scum like Captain Gringo and Gaston Verrier.

  Purvis said, “Something calling for the services of real professionals, of course. Something’s up. Something big. Ever since that last hurricane, all sorts of strange bedfellows indeed have been running about like a mess of very sneaky alley cats with red ants under their tails. Our naval intelligence picked up some waterfront talk about some vessel, an important one, going down in that storm. Obviously the Brits, the spicks, and the square heads know more about it than we do. Hakim could be working for still another side, for all we know. He sure didn’t come here to bid on coffee or bananas. Have you ever had the feeling you’re the only kid on the block who doesn’t know if that redhead on the corner puts out or not?”

  Rumford grinned like a mean little kid and said, “I get it. Whatever may be up, it’s safe to assume the Brits and Germans can’t be in on it together. So one side or the other may want to hire Walker and the Frenchman to murder someone on the other, right?”

  “Close enough, though they say Captain Gringo doesn’t sign contracts like that. What they might want him for is unimportant. What’s important is that we have him under surveillance. So when and if someone approaches our soldiers of fortune, we’ll have them under surveillance, too! Get enough tails on enough people and we have to find out just what in the hell is going on.”

  He reached for the phone as he added, “We’re going to need more field agents
on this can of worms. I’d better have Limón and Puntarenas send us all the guys they can spare.”

  Rumford asked, “What happens to those two hired guns once we know who they’re working for, sir?”

  Purvis asked the consulate switchboard operator to connect him through to the secret-service office in the coastal port of Limón and, as he waited, told Rumford, “It depends on who hires them to do what, of course.”

  “And once we know that, sir?”

  Purvis shrugged and said, “I told you why I didn’t want them hit here in San José. Once they’re out of Costa Rican jurisdiction, you can shoot ’em, stuff ’em, or eat ’em for supper for all I care.”

  “But what if they don’t leave San José, sir?”

  “They will. Nobody ever hires Captain Gringo just to mind the store.”

  *

  Secret-service agent Purvis was right. In yet another part of San José, two gray but very dangerous men regarded each other with mutual distaste as the sun went down outside. The sunset could not be seen from Sir Basil Hakim’s inner sanctum. Oriental rugs and drapery worth a king’s ransom covered every inch of the walls, floor, and ceiling. Perfumed candles provided dim illumination but failed to mask the scent of hashish and messy sex that haunted Sir Basil’s office, harem, or whatever he chose to make of it. At the moment Sir Basil reclined on a mass of silk pillows, wearing blood red silk pajamas stained here and there with dry semen. He was just too tall to qualify as a dwarf. His oversized head was about as satanic as one might expect, considering the gray Satanic beard and his record. Sir Basil Hakim was said to be either a Turk, a Russian, a Jew, or a Greek, depending on which group one’s informant hated most. Born in Constantinople, or Alexandria, or wherever, Sir Basil was a British subject who’d been knighted for doing certain favors for people in London who were probably still paying blackmail to keep him quiet. One of the nicer things anyone had ever called Sir Basil was the Merchant of Death. In addition to his other vices, he sold arms to one and all in a truly democratic manner.