“What, Carlito?”
“Over there,” whispered the gunman, pointing across the street. “The church.”
Ons’s church was in a pitiful state. Part of the door had been hacked down, and the remaining portion swung pitifully in the wind.
“Let’s go,” he muttered.
It was even worse inside. What little furniture there was had also been hacked to pieces, and bits were scattered everywhere. The altar had been toppled and lay broken at the foot of the steps leading up to the small tabernacle. Flagstones had been pried up, exposing the bare earth below. Here and there, someone had drilled holes in the walls that looked like the entrances to giant burrows. They had no idea that they were contemplating the results of Ibaibarriaga’s and his men’s meticulous yet ultimately fruitless search for the money.
“Mother of God.” Carlito crossed himself. “What’s been going on here, chief?”
“Someone’s been looking for something!” Osvaldo said. “And it seems they were pretty determined. Question is, did they find what they were looking for?”
“Our package?”
“Beats me. Python, why don’t we find out? Get the tracker.”
Python swung his backpack onto his front, unzipped it, and took out a rectangular device about the size of an iPad. He pressed a button on the side, and the screen came to life as the GPS device inside started sending out a signal. After a minute, a pulsing green dot appeared on the display.
“It’s really near, chief,” Python said, proffering the device. “Like a few hundred yards.”
“Well, let’s go find it,” Osvaldo growled, “and then get the hell off this island.”
They left the church, guided by the green dot on the device, which Osvaldo carried, while the others moved stealthily ahead, guns at the ready.
It wasn’t long before they came to a halt, at a point where several footpaths met.
“Joel,” Osvaldo said, pointing. “Open that up for me and let’s see what’s inside.”
It was a yellow garbage container on wheels, intended, along with a dozen or so others distributed around the island, for the use of tourists. Although barely used in recent months, it still gave off a very pungent smell indeed. Shining a flashlight inside, they found it empty except for a bright orange buoy—the same one Roberto had spotted floating offshore. Python leaned in and pulled it out. Still attached were some shreds of yellow plastic. Python took out a jackknife and plunged the blade into the buoy, opening up a slit about eight inches long, and then pulled out the small locator device and the attached battery.
Osvaldo grimaced. Someone had gotten to the bundle first. He couldn’t help but think of the Ferreiros and their negligence. If those sloppy bastards had done their job, he wouldn’t be on this shithole of an island, and he wouldn’t have this mystery to solve. Disconnected from the tracking device, the money could be absolutely anywhere.
“What now, chief?” asked Carlito.
“Let me think.” Osvaldo rubbed his eyes. “First up—”
But before he could finish, from somewhere in the distance there came a salvo of what sounded like rifle reports. Instinctively, the gunmen all dropped to one knee, aiming their guns in the direction the sound had come from.
“Let’s go pay our respects,” Osvaldo said with a half smile.
“We’re light on tools,” Python said, waving his gun. “Sounded like rifles, right? They’ll shit all over us.”
“We’ve got the element of surprise. Plus,” Osvaldo chuckled, “you’re an ugly bunch. One look at you and I reckon they’ll throw down their weapons in an instant.”
“Seriously,” said Python, “there’s four of us. Shouldn’t we go get some backup?”
“By then, the storm will be over, and the money will be long gone.”
They set off in the direction of the gunfire, which started up again with a few furious bursts, followed by silence, and then a further exchange. As they were getting closer, Joel, at the head, raised a clenched fist and dropped to one knee.
Osvaldo crept forward until he was next to him.
“Enemy spotted, twelve o’clock,” Joel said under his breath. “In that ditch.”
“You sure?”
“Boss, I spent two whole years hunting guerrillas in the jungle. I’m sure.”
