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Apr 28, 2004 Present - December 2009, The Compound Deep within the Costa Rican jungle, lays a secure compound surrounded with armed guards and high- tech weaponry. The camp houses a radar system with a range of 1000 miles in all directions. At first look, this could be a military installation with its airstrip for landing cargo planes, the long line of trucks moving in and out of the compound, guards walking dogs, and watch towers over looking the area from every direction. However, looks can be deceiving. This is not a government military base, nor a covert operation of any foreign national, but a staging area for an amalgamation of drug lords and their gunrunners. This highly organized operation is capable of deployment to any part of the world in less than 24 hours. Three highly trained teams of well-paid mercenaries stand guard around the clock. Its security system is state of the art, camouflaged and well hidden within the deepest part of the jungle. The base is known to the local government, but their hands-off policy concerning the base, prevents intrusion or problems from government reprisals. Jose Amelio, the head of the government, repeatedly has refused to send in any militia to the area. The drug lords have much more clout than the government, and Amelio knows this could topple his precarious government rule, and would only earn him disfavor from the locals that rely on the Cartel for their daily subsistence. Secluded, but living within a mile from the base, are the native Costa Ricans, referred to as the “Mud Hutters” by the base residents. They pose no threat to their security. These people are poor, living in odd looking dirt shacks formed by hand with wound twigs, vines, leaves and mud joined to branching adjube trees for stability. Subsisting mainly off the land on fruit, fresh water crustaceans, an occasional animal snared in the jungle, and handouts from the Cartel in return for their silence and their loyalty. They own nothing and have nothing to trade for representation, so they were never visited by anyone from the Costa Rican Government. Except for poachers or a handful of natives traveling on their yearly trek into the jungle to honor and tend to the needs of the local shaman, few have ever ventured this far into the interior. Years ago, this was a lawless region when the militia ran the country. There were no political parties in place to answer to, no one to question them or their tactics, and no one to stop the cruelties against a defenseless people or to prevent the senseless death squads that roamed the area. Wild and untamed, this spot was not designated as a favorite tourist attraction. Living in relative isolation, the local natives were an easy target and favorite sport of a depraved group of guerrilla forces trying to make a name for themselves and take over the region. When the drug lords investigated this area and began to set up their base, they began securing their position, hunting, torturing and killing anyone that could oppose them, and they enlisted the aid of the Mud Hutters to build their hidden camp. Although they were made to work from sunup to sundown, the natives welcomed the protection and assistance from the Cartel. While the construction was going on, they fed them, clothed them and vanquished their enemies. So, to the local natives, the drug lords were their salvation. They were fiercely loyal to them and would never betray their whereabouts to anyone. The Mud Hutters still respect and admire the Cartel, as one would revere a ruling king. As the years went by, the Cartel came to expect the homage the natives paid to them and allowed them free access in and out of the camp. They gave them fresh kills from time to time in exchange for services, but they do not live within the compound anymore, they live nearby in their strange looking mud hut village. June 5, 2009 six months earlier The Cartel used mostly ex-military personnel to defend their hidden base. Juan, a/k/a Johnny Sosa, an ex-Cuban security officer, was handpicked by unanimous vote of the Cartel to run their main base. He was a very different type of man than the rest of the mercenaries in the camp. Senór Sosa is the right hand man to the Cartel. His previous years in the Cuban military gave him an impressive record. His unswerving reliability, ingenuity and ability to fix whatever needs to be fixed are of the utmost importance to the Cartel. Back in Cuba, Johnny was a member of an elite group of privately trained individuals known as “The Club” by his peers. His fearsome specialty was torturing a prisoner until he extracted all the information he wanted from them. He gave the phrase, “Here comes Johnny” a whole new meaning. No one, not even those in The Club, knew how he did it. His ratio was one hundred percent, quite unheard of in guerrilla circles. His motives and tactics are still unknown, as there are no survivors to tell any tales. The Cartel chose him to run their base. They knew they could rely on him. When Johnny Sosa takes on a task, he completes it without question, without interference, and you can bet your last peso that it will be accomplished. Castro kept a few good men as covert operatives on the island of Grenada in the Lesser Antilles. This location was used as a listening post and early-warning system. Retired Cuban revolutionary, Rafael Samona, gave Castro’s men food, clothing, and shelter in exchange for services and monetary upkeep for his once run-down boarding house left to him by his Father. As a gift for excellent service, Castro sent Johnny to this house in Grenade for a one- month tour of duty. His official duties only took him a couple of hours a day to complete, so he had a lot of time on his hands and he wandered around the island trying to find something that interested him to occupy his time. He dressed like the locals, so no one knew of his military affiliation. Normally, he would dress, breakfast, and put in his time at the house, then visit some new and different part of the town for something to do. It was on one of these excursions that Johnny met the woman he would fall deeply in love with. Now for a man like Johnny, a cruel and expert torturer, who would believe that anyone could hold him captive, let alone a woman? They first met at the RumRunner Café, a favorite hangout for Castro’s covert people. Krystal had come to the café to purchase a Café con Leché, her favorite afternoon drink. From the moment she walked into the café, Johnny was immediately struck almost speechless by the innate beauty of this tall, thin woman. Her face was light in sharp contrast to her jet-black hair and as she sat down at a table, Johnny could see just a hint of her voluptuous bosom underneath her typical island dress, as she brushed some sand off the newly purchased garment. She whispered quietly to the waiter and waited patiently for him to return. Johnny was not sure what it was about her that intrigued him so much, but he determined to find out who she was and why he had never seen her before. He made his way to the rest room and on his way back, stopped to speak to the RumRunner’s Owner, Estafan Lomelio, whom he had known for several years back in Cuba. Much to Johnny’s surprise and delight, Estafan told him that she had just started coming in about this time every afternoon for the last three days. She was usually with an older woman. They never spoke to anyone except between themselves, drinking their coffee and leaving a sizable tip. Most of the time like today, she would have a couple of bags filled with purchases from local shops, so Lomelio thought she might be from one of the tourist ships anchored in the bay. Beyond that, he knew nothing about her. Johnny finished his usual fruit drink and made his way to the front of the café. “Is this seat taken?” he said to her, with his hand on a chair at her table. “I have some friends that may come by in a few minutes and will need an extra chair.” Krystal replied, “No, it’s not taken. You may have it.” Her heavy accent was reminiscent of Eastern Colombia. “Thank you,” he replied, as he took the chair from her table and pushed it in at the table next to hers then he sat down to wait for his friends. His ploy had worked and he sat with an expression of quiet expectation as he ordered the same drink she was having. Occasionally he looked at his watch and at the door to the café as if expecting someone, while he tried to think of some way to strike up a conversation. This woman was definitely not the kind Sosa would normally associate with. You could tell she came from money, not the kind for a one-night stand. Daddy was probably very close and very rich, and Johnny knew he really should not be flirting with danger, but something deep inside him made him want to pursue her. This is absurd, he thought, why am I doing this? His gut wasn’t telling him anything. Oh well, the scene had already been set, he thought, no harm in playing it out to see what happens, as he heard himself saying, “Are you also waiting for someone Senorita?” “No,” she replied, eyeing the packages that lay on the chair beside her. “I’ve been shopping and stopped to rest.” When Krystal offered no further conversation, Johnny was just about to speak again, when an older woman, looking very anxious, opened the door of the café, saw Krystal sitting at their usual table, quickly crossed the distance and hurried to Krystal’s side. The woman whispered something to Krystal and Rosa started gathering Krystal’s parcels, and then Krystal motioned to the waiter for the check. Johnny felt a wrenching in his chest and his throat felt tight as he struggled to find some provocative words to coax her to stay, but the waiter produced the check before he could speak and Krystal paid him. Unexpectedly, their eyes met for a split second and she smiled a thin, demure acknowledgment of their brief conversation. Johnny could only manage a courteous nod as the two women walked out of the café. Up until now, none of the women he spent time with ever made him feel this way. She had such a profound effect on him, he knew that somehow he must see her again. His coffee came and he sat sipping the hot liquid and imagined what it would be like to have her in his arms, stroking her long shiny black hair. Although they had only spoken briefly, she had captivated him, and in the days to come, he would go back to the RumRunner every day about the same time to see if she was there. He would sit there on his off-hours, sipping Café con Leché, remembering the smell of her perfume. About two weeks before Johnny was scheduled to return to Cuba, Krystal stopped in again for her favorite drink. This time he was ready for her and he quickly engaged her in casual conversation. Now Johnny Sosa was a slim, good- looking man, in a rugged sort of way. He had a quick wit and a quality about him that immediately made you feel comfortable. Krystal did not know why, but she felt strangely drawn to this man with the deep voice, mild manner, and clear brown eyes. Johnny was different from the usual visitors to her Father’s yacht, other landowners, government type officials and traders of goods. The differences were refreshing. He appeared to be genuinely interested in the same type of things that she was interested in, and she didn’t feel threatened by him like she did from some of the more aggressive types she met. No harm in casual conversation, she thought, it might prove interesting. Every afternoon they would meet for Café con Leché and stimulating conversation. Neither Krystal nor Johnny noticed as their conversations began to take a more serious turn. At the time, Johnny would not admit it, but he was totally intrigued. He felt that the time he spent with Krystal was in a whole different world where nothing else mattered. They spent the long afternoons sipping their coffee, talking about her home and her young life as she was growing up outside Caracas on her Father’s sugar cane plantation. Born in Cartagena, Colombia, famous for their beautiful women, Krystal’s Father had met and married her Mother there. They moved to Caracas when Krystal was a very young girl, to the Rodriguez sugar cane plantation owned by her Father. The plantation grew in size and wealth throughout the generations since his Grandfather won it in a card game during the First World War. Eduardo Rodriguez, II enlarged it and planted the first stalks of sugar cane, hiring poor dirt farmers back in the 40’s. It was passed down to Krystal’s Father, Eduardo Rodriguez, III, who also fought to defend it. He managed to enlarge it even further, despite the political coops in Venezuela at that time. Land is a very powerful commodity in a poor country. Today, the Rodriguez estate is a one-man empire, and Eduardo Rodriguez, III is not a man to trifle with. End of Part 1/chapter 1: [ Stay tune for more “Executive Betrayal” Part 2 of chapter 1, next week Wednesday ]. ------------ Edwin lives in Cartersville, Georgia and works full-time for a major software company in Atlanta. Edwin served his country as a U.S. Marine during the 1970s. He is a fast-paced storyteller leaning toward realism. Writing is his passion and at age 45, Edwin is now working on his third book. Visit Edwin's website or email: edwinsantiago_1@msn.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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