Death in High Places (A Renegade Western Book 7)

  Through the sweltering, equatorial days, Captain Gringo marches across the highlands with his guard up and his Maxim handy. There’s no territory he can call home, although there’s a room reserved for him in every jail across the map and women who would gladly put him up as well.

  He’s leading a brigade through a maze of volcanoes, where molten lava fills the trail, and the burning sting of the common fly sets the pace. Colombia is a political powder keg, and he’s bound for Bogotá to light the fuse that will ignite an explosion of chaos, destroying the country’s corrupt and depraved regime.

  DEATH IN HIGH PLACES

  RENEGADE 7

  By Lou Cameron, writing as Ramsay Thorne

  First Published by Warner Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2016 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: January 2016

  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

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  The night was young, but sailors are a salty breed and Limón was a seaport. So the paseo around the main plaza started long before the corrugated iron roofing and cobblestone paving had had a chance to cool in the evening trade winds from the harbor. The sweaty squalid whores of Limón accepted the oven-like conditions of their cribs as one of the unavoidable costs of free enterprise in the tropics.

  Captain Gringo wasn’t worried about heat prostration as he lounged against a cast-iron pillar in front of a ship’s chandlery, smoking a Perfecto. He wasn’t there to meet a woman. The tall blond American was waiting for his business partner, Gaston, and the sneaky little Frenchman was late, as usual. He’d told Gaston he didn’t want to hang around the plaza during the paseo, damn it.

  Captain Gringo pulled a bandanna from his hip pocket and removed his Panama hat to wipe his brow and hatband as he clenched the cigar between bared teeth. A small thin Costa Rican sidled up to him and said, “Forgive me, señor. I mean no disrespect, but that mestizo, you have been flirting with is the woman of Rosario.”

  The tall American put his hat back on and said, “Take a stroll, amigo. I’m not playing that game this evening.”

  “I only wished for to warn you, señor.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you have a cousin in Key West and you’ve always admired Americanos and we both know you’re full of shit. Do I really look that young, Chico? That crap about some local bully’s mujer is for fourteen-year-old street Arabs. So shove off.”

  The troublemaker slunk away, muttering darkly. The big blond Yank moved from the post and position his broad shoulders against the pink stucco wall under the overhang of the arcade, doing some muttering of his own. His cigar was half smoked. Gaston was nowhere in sight, and now some clown wanted to start a fight with him.

  He was tempted to chuck it and go back to the boat. But if Gaston had gotten into a jam, the boat might not be such a safe place to wait, either. Gaston wouldn’t rat on a friend just for practice, but he had a low pain threshold and the people they were dealing with played rough. Gaston would spill his guts, hoping anyone associated with him in a spot of gunrunning would have sense enough not to be anywhere near the guns or the schooner when it was raided. Ergo, he had to wait here until Gaston showed, or until it was obvious he wasn’t going to.

  Captain Gringo watched the crowd as he waited, wondering how long he had. Limón was a cosmopolitan port and the men and women sizing one another up as they circled the plaza came in all shades and ethnics. The women circled the plaza clockwise, the men, counter clockwise. From time to time he spotted a casually patrolling national guardsman, but they worried him less than other strangers. Costa Rica was one of the few banana republics with a reasonably stable government, and he wasn’t wanted by the local law. That made Limón one of the few ports he could operate out of, these days. He had the schooner loaded with arms for the Cuban rebels under José Marti. But he couldn’t just set sail for the south coast of Cuba with them. The situation up there was more Byzantine than your average revolution. Aside from the rather bloody-minded “Butcher Weyler” masterminding the Spanish Occupation, a dozen or so Cuban rebel bands had gone into business for themselves, and a gunrunner had to be the words were in English. That was something to think about. So the battered Yank kept his eyes closed as he pulled his wits together. He was on what felt like a leather couch. He didn’t seem to be tied up. Somebody put the smelling salts to his face again and he said, “Cut it. I don’t need that shit to feel awful.” Then he opened his eyes.

  He was in an oak-paneled office with blue velvet drapes and a stuffed American eagle peering glass-eyed down at him from the mantel of a bricked-up fireplace. The Stars and Stripes hung on a pole in the corner and the current president of the United States stared sternly across the room at him from a gilt frame. Captain Gringo warily eyed the four men in the room and said, “I know this is a dumb question, gents. But can I assume I’m in the U.S. Consulate?”

  The older of the four men in identical linen suits nodded and said, “Yes, Walker. You were on your way to the local prison for manslaughter when Williams, here, recognized you. We, ah, managed to convince the Costa Rican authorities that we had more use for you, so—”

  “Manslaughter?” the big Yank protested, and propping himself up on one elbow, he added, “Bullshit! I never got my gun out! They were trying to slaughter me!”

  “I’m sure it was an accident. These things happen when knives are flashing all around at close quarters, son. But don’t worry about who put that blade in the one with the tattoos. Costa Rica dropped the charges when we pointed out you were wanted on more serious charges back in the States.”

  Captain Gringo still felt like a mule train had trotted over him, but he was now alert enough to frown and say, “Me? Wanted in the States? I’m afraid you have the wrong guy, gents. If I’ve still got my passport, it’ll tell you—”

  “We know what your fake passport says, Walker,” cut in the rather smug-looking one called Williams. The older and wiser agent shot him a warning look, but Williams was feeling smart, so he said, “You’re a former U.S. Army officer. First Lieutenant Richard Walker, Tenth Cavalry. You deserted your outfit and jumped the Texas border after killing a fellow officer during a jailbreak.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. They were wrong about his crossing into Mexico from Texas. They had most of the rest of it wrong, too. He didn’t feel like explaining he’d been sentenced to hang on a bum rap, or that the asshole he’d killed getting away had had it coming. Instead, he smiled and swung his legs from the couch as he explored his swollen face with a hand and said, “You’re full of shit. I never heard of anybody called Wilkie.”

  The older agent chuckled and asked the others, “Didn’t I tell you he was good? Beaten silly, kicked in the fucking head, and he’s still quick-witted enough to make a deliberate mistake about the name. I tell you, boys, I’m never wrong when I recruit a knockabout guy.”

  One of the others put a hand inside his own jacket, thoughtfully, as the big man on the couch looked like he might be coming unstuck from the red cordovan l
eather. But the man in charge said, “No. He’s not going to do anything stupid. Not before he collects himself and figures out what we’re talking about. Isn’t that right, Walker?”

  Captain Gringo said, “I could use a drink and you’re right about me being too smart to come up swinging. In the first place, there’s no reason for me to take on a room full of guys inside the U.S. Consulate. I’m not this army guy you’re jawing about. Maybe we look alike, but …”

  The one called Williams snorted in annoyance. But the older, smoother agent stepped over to a sideboard to pour a tumbler of white rum from a Waterford decanter, saying, “Get his little chum, Williams. We’re wasting time and I want to get this show on the road.”

  As Williams left, the older man handed the drink to Captain Gringo and said, “We heard what you did in Panama, son. I must say, you made the Colombian Occupation look pretty silly. You know, of course, that Colombia is being a real pain in the ass about the canal rights that American interests bought fair and square from the French?”

  “I was never in Panama. All I know is what I read in the papers.”

  The others exchanged glances as he sipped the rum. It lit up his brain with its raw fumes and tasted like lava going down, but he grinned and said, “Smooth. Two hundred proof, huh?”

  “It’s strong. But we’re not trying to get you drunk, Captain Gringo. We’ve been told it’s a waste of time. I understand some of the boys in British Intelligence failed with strong drugs and a weak redhead, right? Don’t worry. We Yanks use business methods.”

  “It’s in my desk, sir. But to paraphrase it, Colombia granted mineral rights to several development companies a while back. One of which was a San Francisco based – and hence American – firm.”

  Captain Gringo drained the last of his rum as he nodded and said, “I’m ahead of you, now. Mexico has been pulling the same stunt on American businessmen. Let me guess. The Yanks poked around, paying freight and salary charges and, of course, bribes and taxes, and nobody saw fit to question free enterprise until they struck pay dirt, right?”

  “You’re getting warm. Mexico only demands the lion’s share if anybody finds anything in her sacred soil. Colombia doesn’t screw around. They take it all! The American mining outfit sank over a million in exploration and development. Two days after they hit pay dirt, the mine was nationalized. Not taxed. Not shaken down. Grabbed! Right down to the last wheelbarrow.”

  Captain Gringo pursed his lips and said, “That does seem a little raw. But what in hell do you guys expect us to do about it? Gaston and I are soldiers of fortune, not gold miners.”

  “It’s not a gold mine. It’s an emerald mine.”

  “Same difference. If we were talking about bandits or claim jumpers, I can see how some hardcase guys could mosey up and take the mine back. But if the central government has expropriated a mine on its own territory—”

  Gaston cut in to say, “Let the man talk, Dick. I have already discussed the matter as we were awaiting your return to consciousness. All in all, I feel it is – how you say? – the duck soup sort of thing you have become alarmingly famous for.”

  The older agent nodded grimly and said, “We don’t want you to try and take the mine back. The American company that got diddled has no further interest in doing business with a bunch of mealy-mouthed crooked politicos.”

  “Then what do you and Uncle Sam want?”

  “A little respect for Uncle Sam, God damn it! That tinhorn highland clique knows we can’t send the Marines to climb the Andes this close to an election. They’re smug as hell about it, too. They think they just stole an emerald mine from U.S. citizens and that nobody can do a goddamned thing about it.”

  Captain Gringo got to his feet, walked over to the sideboard, and poured himself another drink. “Okay, after we wreck the works and cave in the mine, how do we get out, what do we get paid, and what are the chances for a pardon on that old murder charge back in the States?”

  The consulate men exchanged glances. The older one said, “I admire a man who can think on his feet, son. I suppose I could bullshit you, but they say it’s best to level with you and Gaston, here.”

  “I sure wish you would.”

  “Very well, the pay is double what those half-ass Cuban rebels were offering. We’ll see that your schooner and its cargo are still waiting for you when and if you make it back.”

  “You mean making it back is our problem, eh? Okay, what about the pardon?”

  “Forget it. Officially, you’re not working for the U.S. Government. So how can the U.S Government issue you a pardon? If you’re caught by the Colombians, we’ll have never heard of you, no matter what you tell them. They’ll shoot you either way, so what the hell, right?”

  Captain Gringo swallowed a jolt of white rum, grimaced, and said, “I suppose I could tell you to go to hell, but we’ve sparred around enough, and you’ve got me by the short hairs. I’ll need some front money as well as a map and a few details.”

  Williams said, “I’ll lead you and any others you recruit into the high country, Walker.”

  But Captain Gringo shook his head: “No. Gaston and I know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. We may pick up some knockabout guys we know. We may just wing it. We need you like a big red signboard pointing us out to the other side.”

  “See here, this isn’t my first mission, damn it!”

  “You go on all the missions you want, sonny. Just so you don’t go with me!” Captain Gringo pointed to Williams’s shoes with his empty glass: “Look at those fucking feet. There’s not a shoeshine boy south of Laredo that couldn’t spot you as a North American from a block away.”

  “I intended to dress native and – damn it! – you’re a blue-eyed blond, Walker!”

  Captain Gringo nodded and replied, “I know. It’s already a problem before we try to sneak past Colombian Customs. One of us might blend in. Some Spaniards are blond and I’ve learned how people walk and talk down here. Two obvious Anglos would double the risk. So you can’t tag along.”

  He glanced at the older obvious leader for confirmation as Williams insisted, “Somebody from State has to come along to keep an eye on you two … uh …”

  “Thugs is the word you’re groping for,” Captain Gringo cut in, adding, “How about it, Boss? Do you want us to do an old-fashioned demolition job or do you want us to conduct a guided tour for budding diplomats?”

  The head man smiled thinly and said, “Diplomacy is obviously not your strong point, Captain Gringo, but I can think on my feet, too. Let’s go next door to my office and I’ll show you what we have on paper.”

  Williams tagged along behind the others, protesting. One of his friends murmured, “Shut up. I think the chief just saved your life.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s up to me to lead them in and get them safely out, isn’t it?”

  The two other agents exchanged glances. One of them whispered, “The getting out part hasn’t been worked out too well, Williams. But why worry? It’s not your problem, now!”

  Chapter Two

  Limón was not the sort of seaport that could afford a really first-class hotel, but the Alhambra, around the corner from the little wedding-cake cathedral, tried. The hotel’s pink stucco exterior had been designed by a pastry chef, but the icing had gone stale in the brutal sun and trade winds. The lobby was a small jungle of redundant palms growing under an old crystal chandelier converted to electricity. Electric fans were strategically placed. Such elite as there was to meet in Limón tended to meet one another in the hotel bar or lobby.

  That was one of the things that Captain Gringo found fault with at the Alhambra. He’d have chosen a more modest headquarters for the local chapter of the Cuban Liberation Movement, but he wasn’t running it. Up until a few minutes ago he’d been working for it. As an honest professional, he owed some consideration to the somewhat idealistic people who’d trusted him with their fives as well as their money.

  He didn’t announce himself at the desk
. He waited until nobody seemed to be interested in him before he ducked behind some potted palms and moved up a service stairwell to the third floor. Making sure the hall was deserted, he quickly moved down to a doorway in an alcove and knocked three times. A soft feminine voice on the other side said, “¿Quien es?” and he growled, “Open the damned door, Consuela.”

  She let him in. Captain Gringo was right about not being the only blue-eyed blond in Latin America. Consuela Romero was pure Castilian, albeit a Cuban Creole. She could have easily passed for a native of Amsterdam until she opened her rosebud mouth. But she insisted on speaking English – badly, with a thick Cuban accent.

  He said, “Tengo no tiempo, Querida. Esto entre la espada y la pared, pero …”

  “Speaking English, Deek! These walls they need the ears!” she cut in, putting a finger to his lips as she led him into her darkened suite of rooms. He noticed she was wearing nothing under her salmon shantung kimono and it was indeed stuffy as hell with all the jalousied windows shut against the evening trades. He followed, saying in English, “Walls have ears, huh? I’m sure the other side hasn’t got anybody working for them that speaks English. Do we have to play games, doll? I’m in a hell of a hurry. I was hoping some of the others would be here.”

  Consuela led him into a bedroom, ducked into an adjoining bath, and turned on the shower before she returned. She sat him down beside her on the bed and said, “There, they can’t hear us with the water running.”

  “Oh, hell, who are we talking about? The Spanish authorities either don’t know or don’t care about you being here, honey. You’re still alive, hiding out in luxury. But that’s not why I came. I guess if Butcher Weyler hasn’t read the hotel register by now he’s not likely to, tonight.”

  He reached in his jacket and switched on the bed lamp as he handed her a roll of bills and said, “Here, you’d better count this.”

  The little blond Creole blinked at him in the sudden soft illumination and gasped, “Deek, what has happen to your face? You look like you have been fighting, no?”