The Money, Sir [2]

[r_Masquerade2 98]

Read Part One

The Money, Sir?

 

Why is it that small children routinely exhibit the urge to destroy sand castles on the sea shore? This impulse- this motive to destroy- is it something that gradually diminishes over our childhood years? We tell ourselves that we are rational thinkers, creators. However, disloyalty is often more profitable than loyalty. The fine line between quid pro quo can become difficult to distinguish from auribus teneo lupum. Creation has its rewards, as does destruction.

 

* * *

The audience gazes at the white-faced man clutching the telephone. Abruptly he hangs up, and glances down at his feet with a dazed expression. He quietly utters what everyone already had guessed, explaining that all thirty of the hostages had been ended in an unknown turn of events. It was only a matter of time before the press figures out what had occurred, and all efforts now needed to be focused on damage control. The military had mobilized a handful of troops to examine the scene, but it was doubtful that they would find anything of importance. Allegedly a helicopter was hit in the tail and had exploded on a mountainside, but the connection between it and the explosion was unverified. Apparently, the blast was likely an accident; the explosive compound was unstable and susceptible to inadvertent discharges. In addition, the hostage guards had also been killed in the detonation. 

 

I steal a glance at my fellow officials. Some were clearly upset at the turn of events, but I know very well that many are just as relieved as I was that the situation had come to an end. A listless flurry of movement is elicited from the group, and they all walk off to do their separate frivolous tasks. I leap into the elevator, riding it to the bottom floor, and stride out into the sunny day. I dial a number into a payphone adjacent to the entrance, hoping for a response. My wish is granted. 

 

A smooth voice marked by a perfect accent greets mine. It assures me that the objective had been thoroughly taken care of, and there were no witnesses whatsoever. A helicopter belonging to the other cartel was a necessary casualty, and there were no survivors. The final ruthless act would soon be carried out, and then nothing could be traced. My relief is hard to contain, and I remark, 

 

“Your work has paid off... should our next transaction go as expected, your reward may be doubled for great service.” 

 

The man on the phone quickly agrees, and with a click, the call ended and the line went dead. I smile grimly, wondering if everything could work out so perfectly. Anything for the family, I repeat to myself. We had brought the Medellín Cartel to their knees: none would forgive them for their supposed execution of 30 hostages, and none would do business with a group under so much suspicion and indictment. And their imprisoned leader, whom they had hoped to release using the hostages as a bargaining chip, would undoubtedly spend the rest of his days behind bars. The other gang that had lost a helicopter might be the next mass exporter of “llello”, but that was unimportant. What was important had been taken care of: the family could not be incriminated in an ensuing investigation, and the United States would probably stay out of the whole mess.

 

I turn suddenly, regaining my focus. I hail a Taxi and, ignoring the stench of cigarettes, climb into the back. I pay the driver handsomely, and then turn to gaze out the window. The car breezes past lines of beggars and trinket salesmen, their adamant demands lost in the speed of the automobile. Soon the colorful cityscape vanishes into the countryside. The combination of dense jungle and tangled, hole-riddled roads prove no enigma for the driver. A wide open expanse of rural meadow materializes, showcasing numerous tin huts and lonely cattle. A shirtless man with a wrench adjusts an ancient, rusted tractor. Then, with equal indifference, the jungle swallows the car once again. God, this is a long drive for someone with too much to think about. Distant oil refineries pump black vapor into the sky, signaling that the border is not far off. I reassure my spinning mind: No payments from certain disreputable organizations would ever be found, nor would the obscure transfer of government funds ever be excavated. If the party keeping the Medellín’s leader under lock and key, namely the USA, had intervened, a subsequent American investigation could wreak havoc. Now that the confrontation had come to an end, the sleeping bear could continue its hibernation. A small inspection by our own government would be made into my bureau, yielding nothing: all countrymen know that we must pick our battles, and some battles are too controversial and inconvenient. Besides, a few thousand dollars would usually revoke any uncomfortable questions. 

 

The tropical wasteland passes indiscriminately, and at last the taxi pulls to a stop. The remote train station seems utterly vacant amidst the rocky slopes and mountains. I hand the driver several thousand more pesos, and order him to wait. I step out of the car and walk toward the station, not entirely sure of myself. I pull the door open, and a dark figure joins mine from behind the inside wall. He lowers his hoodie and I recognize him as the man on the phone, my perfect agent. He states,

 

“My ride leaves in ten minutes. Your train arrives in five minutes. You better have the money ready.”

 

 “The deed is not yet done. And, are you absolutely certain the documents are aboard the train?”

 

“You were the one that requested them to be transferred from the capital. If they were in fact requested, they are certainly in transit as we speak. Incidentally, the train is carrying around eighty oil tanks. The final result will be... interesting. Actually, I think I can hear it coming.” 

 

The dark, calm man cocks his head to the distant chugging of an engine. Sure enough, through the dusty windows, the body of a train can be seen snaking around a mountain. I wait in tense expectance, as the train drew closer and closer. It all seemed so easy, so casual. The task would be performed, and we would go on our separate ways without incident. The train was two hundred meters from reaching the station when something happened: at first it was just a buckle, then a ripple, then a tidal wave. The snake toppled over- strangely the middle of the train plummeted off the edge first. Then, a disjointed series of train cars plunge into the three-hundred-foot abyss. I watch as they hit the bottom of the rocky ravine, smashing like tin cans, breaking into pieces, some immediately bursting into flame. The cars lay there in a pile of carnage, fire spreading as a plume of smoke rose into the sky. The man turns to me and says, 

 

“My work is finished. The money, sir?”

 

I silently reach into my case and count out the massive sum of American dollars. My colleague carefully places the payment into his backpack, and begins walking away. Something stops him, and he turns for a final look before disappearing out the door. I refuse to catch his eye, standing there transfixed by the inferno. I was- at last- safe. I was free. Anything for the family. At this exact moment, an American accent bellows,

 

“Put your hands in the air and turn around! By order of the Bureau for International Narcotics and Law Enforcement, you are hereby under arrest for drug trafficking and obstruction of justice.”

 

* * *

The man climbs into a conveniently waiting Taxi. With a few American dollars, the driver soon lost all interest in his previous customer, sending the car speeding away toward the nearest airport. A seven-figure sum of money lies in the backpack of the meditative mercenary. The original drug gang had paid generously to wipe out the hostages- as did the government official. The same official had also extensively rewarded the intentional derailment of the train. Furthermore, the US government had been very eager to reward the “anonymous tipper” with a massive wad of cash and immunity for his “minor involvement” in the whole debacle. There is no honor amongst thieves, no corvus oculum corvi non eruit. Lives, trains, and careers are all the same: It certainly pays to destroy that which we hold dear. 

 

Edited August 6, 2016 by r_Masquerade2

[BlueDragon_tamki 3,204]

Wow that was awesome :o

[DESTROYER_13 1,019]

Yeah.

[mydoom.exe 5,154]

At this point, I look forward to any story in the AWC with the author of Masquerade.

 

Exceptional job.

[vaibhav_king_best 14]

Awesome,Friend.

[Hex 11,520]

Wow :O

[ToHoYoNTaDa 1,147]

Great!

[Ninja 10,468]

Amazing!  :wub:

[TTK_229 1,080]

Ya.

[Cyborg 3,189]

Had such a good read after a long time.