 
Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

By

Claude L Arango

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

# Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

# By

# Claude L Arango

# PUBLISH BY:

# Claude L Arango on Smashwords

# Tethered Dreams in the Shadow Game

# Copyright © 2013 by Claude L Arango

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to download their own copy.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

Adult Reading Material

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

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Contents

Chapter One: Blame it on Rio

Chapter Two: Dodger Blue

Chapter Three: Shooter

Chapter Four: Spank the Monkey

Chapter Five: The King of Palmares

Chapter Six: Rock Creek Park

Chapter Seven: So It Begins

Chapter Eight: The Harder They Fall

Chapter Nine: They All

Chapter Ten: Geechee Nation

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# 

# Chapter One

# Blame it on Rio

Five clicks south of Rio's bustling seaport storm clouds descended on Pão de Açúcar, releasing a rolling fog that spilled down Sugar Loaf Mountain's treacherous slopes, and then out among the screaming gulls that followed the fishing boats to port, loaded with the day's catch of sharks, skates, and rays.

At the north end of Copacabana beach, in the shadows of Fort Duque de Caxias, two weary fishermen with failing stamina but practiced resolve unloaded their catch of the day right onto the beach. They had transported a mysterious black man dressed in white, whom they had taken on board from a three-mast schooner anchored a mile off shore. The stranger made his way forward to the bow of the boat with his head held high and his arms cross as if he had assumed command of the third fleet. As the fishermen sailed their small fishing boat towards the shores of Copacabana they kept a watchful eye on their mysterious passenger. He appeared to be a tall black man in his mid-fifties, with a regal air about him that managed to penetrate the veil of secrecy that had accompanied him when he came on board. Judging by his clothing he appeared to be a member of a secret religion, practiced by blacks throughout Brazil, known as Macumba. He wore the white clothing that the Macumba faithful often wear, with a white fedora hat slightly cocked to the side, and the brim broken down, partially covering a pair of black piercing eyes. His white linen shirt opened at the neck, and was tucked into his white linen pants that was synched at the waist with a white snakeskin belt, and to complete his Macumba attire he wore a pair of white leather shoes that covered his bare ashen feet. The fishermen eyes poured over him like new found gold, and they were drawn to a bone chiseled ring on the small finger of his left hand. They recognized the ring as a powerful symbol of a Macumba high priest, and according to legend such rings were honed from the bone of a Boto porpoise, and only bestowed on the most powerful practitioners of the dark arts, only on those who had demonstrated their awesome ability to summon spirits of the dead.

Perhaps the stranger was a purveyor of the dark arts or just an odd ball tourist who fancied white clothing, just who he was, they could not agree, but they did lived in Rio de Janeiro the center for the practice of the dark arts, and the birthplace of Macumba, but they both agreed that a wise fisherman would avoid sailing through trouble waters.

When they were just a few feet from shore the stranger leapt over the side of the boat with a large burlap bag slung over his shoulder and his white Fedora hat in hand. He sat his possessions down just above the tide line, then fell to his knees chanting in the African language of Bantu. The fishermen watched from a distance, captivated by the antics of the stranger, and then he began to draw a figure in the wet sand. Slowly, facial features began to take form, and the fishermen's curiosity caused them to move even closer, and soon they began to recognize the face taking form right before their eyes.

The two fishermen looked on with mounting concern, it was forbidden to witness religious rituals other than their own, because they may have undue influence on the observer. They had their own rituals that also were restricted to their own membership, which made them fear that the stranger had somehow tricked them into bearing witness to a Macumba black magic ritual, but for what purpose they didn't know. They held on to each other with mounting fear as the stranger continued to work on his demonic creation in the wet sand.

Most Brazilians would be able to identify the face taking shape in the wet sand, and many of them would have also remembered the stories told to them as children about Exu, the evil prince of chaos and trickery, who took immense pleasure in casting innocent children under its spell to do his evil bidding.

When the stranger had completed his creation in the sand he ended his chant, and quickly rose to his feet. Then he stood by and watched the surf engulf the sand mask, completely destroying it then taking the grainy remnants back out to sea with the receding tide.

It appeared to the fishermen that the stranger had summoned the tide to do his bidding, and with the mask's destruction the water had set the message free to travel to the spirit world on the Other Side.

The stranger then looked in their direction with an intimidating stare. They nodded their heads in deference to him, but could not hold his piercing gaze, so they focused their eyes on the ground, hoping that they had not offended him.

With his clothing wet, and clinging to his body in the chilling air, he strolled up the beach with the two fishermen in tow. He could feel the storm coming on strong, and he knew that he didn't have much time. Soon he found a suitable place, and set his bag down to open it. He took out a thick wad of Brazilian currency, secured with a red rubber band, and peeled off several large bills and offered them to the fishermen. They lowered their eyes for just a moment, but then quickly grabbed the money from his hand and ran down the beach shouting out "Macumba!" until they reached their boat, and quickly pushed it back out to sea.

Further north across the Bay of Guanabara, storm clouds gathered high above Mt. Corcovado, while high upon the mountain top, the colossal white stone monument of Christ the Redeemer stood majestically with arms open wide dispensing hope to the masses far beyond its exalted perch.

With the promise of redemption from on high, the faithful fell to their knees in the driving rain, and raised their heads towards the heavens praying for salvation. Among the faithful there knelt a corpulent man, with a gold crucifix hanging securely around his neck with a solid gold chain. In his hands he held a string of black onyx stones, an ostentatious substitute for common rosary beads, in the false belief that the expensive stones would validate his devotion even more so, thus affording him a better shot at redemption.

The corpulent man's outward appearance suggested an educated man of faith and means, but his inner demons revealed him to be the fool that he was.

But far below, down past the inlet sea, redemption was not promised as white capped waves slipped past shifting swells to crash against the shore, delivering a promise of a different sort with the advent of the storm.

The beaches lay deserted, and even the adventurous surfers had abandoned the tumultuous seas. Self-preservation had a way of cutting to the quick. Yet there stood the stranger at the water's edge chanting in Bantu before a large flat rock that lay half buried in the sand. He had covered the rock with red silk fabric upon which he had placed the jaw bone of a Boto porpoise, and a few strands of human hair entangled in an old wooden comb. A few color trinkets lay to the side, and next to them was placed a vanity mirror and four lit candles, two black and two red, whose flames flickered wildly in the wind. On the left side of the rock altar lay a small wooden doll, whittled from a branch of a Capaiferra tree, then charred black by flames.

The stranger stood in front of the rock altar in the driving rain like a man in a trance. He was totally mesmerized by the pounding surf as wave after wave raced up the beach to greet him, drawing closer and stronger with each passing surge, until a towering wave overtook him, and tossed him about and into the surf, before quickly receding. After a moment of confusion, he regained his balance and raised himself to one knee, then caught sight of the damage that had been done. Driftwood, coconuts, and twisted palm branches were scattered across the sand, and down by the water's edge lay his improvised rock altar in total disarray.

Yet miraculously one red candle still flickered frantically in the wind. He took that as a sign from the spirit of Exu. The stranger sang one last verse praising the power of Macumba, and then he snuffed out the flame, and retrieved the scattered objects from the rock altar and put them back into his bag. Then, taking one last look at the churning sea, he turned and headed for the rain swept streets of Copacabana.

A few minutes from the beach, as the Tucano birds fly, tall shade trees line the streets of Copacabana offering temporary shelter from the storm. A dubious proposition at best, the stranger soon discovered as he wiped away rainwater falling from the trees right into his eyes. Then he saw a figure off in the distance, and quickly departed the porous sanctuary of the trees.

The streets were almost empty now, except for a few determined souls such as one young boy who had braved the storm to sell umbrellas in the rain. The stranger had witnessed the boy's determination from the sanctuary of the trees. He walked to the child and gave him a few coins, but refused the umbrella that was offered as he continued on his way.

The weather continued to deteriorate as the stranger walked with hunched shoulders against the wind, with eyes to the ground and head held down, ignoring the sound of waves crashing against the shore a hundred yards away, and hardly noticing the high-rise apartment buildings with million dollar views, but that day the view wasn't worth a dime.

The stranger walked past open air bistros, with garcons dressed in pressed black pants and white serving jackets, all huddled under plastic canopies beneath the rain. They spoke softly amongst themselves as they anxiously waited for the deluge to end, as it had reduced the tourist flow to zero and their prospects of gaining a sizable tip to nothing more than wishful thinking.

Suddenly the rain stopped as if a celestial switch had been thrown. People began to materialize on the streets as if conjured from thin air, and within minutes the bistros began to fill with patrons taking advantage of the lull in the storm, and soon it was as if there had been no storm at all.

The weather's rapid transformation presented a picture of tranquility, with blue skies penetrating the roaming clouds above, heartening the middle class Brasileiros who now filled the bistros to overflow. It was a far cry from the plight of the poor, stacked in favelas just a few blocks away. Action News camera crews had already begun filming the carnage left behind by mudslides that came after the torrential rain, wreaking havoc on the improvised dwellings stacked one atop another like colorful game board pieces on the sides of the favelas' mountains. The heavy downpours frequently caused several makeshift houses to tumble down the favelas' steep slopes.

Copacabana appealed to the stranger more so than nearby Ipanema's anemic façade. As he walked through Copacabana he came upon a traveling band that roamed the streets entertaining tourist with singing, dancing, and the strumming of guitars. One troubadour passed the hat while drummers beat out a captivating rhythm on macaco skin drums, and Capoeira fighting dancers did their thing. Copacabana appeared to be a mad house totally congested by dozens of buses jockeying for position along Nossa Senhora de Copacabana Avenue. They all seemed to be in some unannounced race, with the outcome to be determined by the number of surviving passengers.

The stranger continued moving about like an errant breeze, neither confined nor hindered by the shopping throngs, nor by street vendors hawking their wares along the crowded avenue. Before long the clouds began to gather again, and as if on cue with the first clap of thunder, the crowds dispersed without a trace, leaving the stranger once again on his own.

It was his nature to be observant, and observe he did as he watched two black men unload a truck load of red bricks at a curbside construction site, while their white co-workers sought refuge from the driving rain. The grimace of resolve upon their dark faces outweighed the pain upon their backs, and with the belief that their time was near, they gathered strength to persevere.

He knew that blacks in Rio de Janeiro did all of the heavy lifting and manual labor was reserve for them, equality was something that they taught in school, but he saw remarkably little evidence of it in practice. The stranger was a pragmatic man who dealt with reality, and not with the way one thought it should be. Although he moved seamlessly between the worlds of the have and have not, his sense of equality was never filtered through the prism of righteousness. He knew that social staging happened by design and not by happenstance. The ditch diggers, bus drivers, and baggage handlers bore their Afro-Brazilian heritage reluctantly upon their backs, albeit unwittingly. They appeared to accept their station in life, but only a fool would believe that they were resigned to perpetual acceptance of the status quo.

The shop owners were well educated and prosperous, with their European heritage intact. The white Brazilians assumed the caretaker role, which assured their status as captains and masters of Brazilian society. They dominated the most vital enterprises required to build a successful material life, in the form of complete ownership of everything in the country worth owning, except for a man's soul. In that realm of spirituality and mysticism, the decedents of Africans slaves held their own.

One shopkeeper called out to the stranger dressed in white walking in the rain, and invited him inside to dry himself, thinking that he was a tourist with money to spend. The stranger was amused that he had been so readily tagged by the shopkeeper as a tourist. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but it demonstrated that his projected image was working as planned. However, he was an inquisitive man ahead of schedule with time to kill, so he accepted the invitation.

It wasn't a racist thing, the shopkeeper told him, when he answered the unexpected question of inequity posed to him by the stranger. The stranger already knew the answer, which was that it was about money. The stranger understood the shopkeeper's acceptance of the gross imbalance between the rich and the poor. He wasn't passing judgment, but simply passing time, his mind elsewhere as he looked at his watch before thanking the shopkeeper for indulging him, and walked out the door back into the pouring rain.

He was back on the streets of Copacabana, occasionally dodging pedestrians who suddenly crossed his path. He avoided collisions and mishaps time and again as the pedestrians attempted to pass him along the narrow sidewalk. It seemed to be a Brazilian thing, for they possessed no inkling of the presumed pedestrian sensibility to veer to the right while walking. It was the little things that reminded him that he was in Rio de Janeiro. He observed other Cariocas, as the residents of Rio de Janeiro call themselves, going about their daily lives, oblivious to the wet conditions that winter brings to Rio. It was a welcome change of climate for them, tossing off summer's torrid heat, and the bustling streets stood in stark contrast to the recently deserted beaches, abandoned by tourist and hucksters alike, and now attracting only the occasional sea turtle tossed ashore by the wind whipped sea.

The evening downpour turned into a steady drizzle as the stranger side stepped the small puddles of water that had gathered on the sidewalk. When he reached the corner of Rua Bolivar, he turned right, and then proceeded to thread his way through the rest of the mini neighborhood that combined with others to form the barrio of Copacabana.

Soon he arrived at his destination, an office building located on the corner of Rua Aires Saldanha and Miguel Lemos, one block away from the beach and the turbulent sea. Posted on the front door of a travel agency a travel poster extolled the reader to simply "Blame it on Rio". He kept that in mind as he quickly scanned the scene and observed that there were people everywhere. They seemed to be milling about waiting for something to happen. Silent witnesses, he thought to himself as he adjusted the white fedora, then opened the door and stepped inside.

The fat man seated behind the desk looked up and quickly made an effort to stand, but he was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a gun held firmly in the grip of the stranger. The surprised look on the fat man's face belied the fact that he wasn't surprised at all. He had known that this moment was coming, sooner or later, someday, one day, today.... Now.

With a wave of the gun, the stranger motioned for the fat man to sit, and with a visible sigh of relief the fat man settled back into his chair, and thought to himself that he had just dodged the proverbial bullet.

Then the stranger leaned forward and shot him in the head.

The fat man's eyes held no surprise as he slumped forward quite dead, while his lifeless hand released a string of black Onyx beads that upon impact scattered across the floor, and his sightless eyes failed to see salvation seeping out of a hole in the back of his head. A solid gold crucifix, secured by a solid gold chain, were removed from around his neck, and then a charred black doll was placed in his lap before the stranger closed the front door behind him, and pulled down the brim of his white Fedora, and melted back into the crowd as effortless as the rain.

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#  Chapter Two

# Dodger Blue

#

A day later and a continent away "The Mob" so aptly exemplified by the crew riding inside the big black Cadillac Escalade sporting 22 inch chrome rims on ultrathin tires, and a bobbing head of St. Jude in the window, were partying in the back seat like it was 1999. They were celebrating the Dodgers' victory over their arch rivals, the California Angels, by passing around a 40 oz. Bottle of Old English Malt Liquor, and a joint the size of a good Cohiba.

Three of the ladies present were bobbing their own heads as they performed fellatio on the entire crew, except for The Shot Caller and his personal bodyguard, Hector Mendoza. Miss Carlotta Sanchez, the Shot Caller's main squeeze, sat next to him quietly getting excited, while watching the other girls going about their business. She w as a good catholic girl, and didn't approve of the public display of affection. While the party continued in the back seat, the Escalade rolled through the barrio of Echo Park in Los Angeles, with the Mp3 player blasting, and The Shot Caller nodding his head to a funky Latin beat behind the heavily tinted windows.

The Escalade slowly moved through the Pico Union district of Los Angeles, which was heavily saturated with the infamous El Salvadorian street gang named 18th Street. They took a right turn onto Alvarado Avenue, heading north, and soon were crossing the bustling intersection at Wilshire Boulevard and Alvarado Ave. pass the sprawling Macarthur Park complex that straddle both sides of 6th street, where the immigrant families got a taste of Americana after having fled the political and economic strife of their homelands, only to be plopped down in the midst of street gang warfare that was all about the dope and the money it brings. The park was more or less neutral territory, depending on how much dope the gang bangers had consumed, and how much money was owed to whom.

The Cadillac continued to follow the heavy traffic north along Alvarado Ave, up to the city of Hollywood. Not the glamorous Hollywood of movie stars and fame, located west of La Brea Ave, but the old one that spread east of Virgil Ave. The SUV turned right onto Sunset Boulevard sliding in with the traffic heading east towards downtown Los Angeles. The Escalade continued its slow roll down Sunset Boulevard then it suddenly made an abrupt U-turn in the middle of the boulevard, dashing across four opposing lanes of traffic amidst screeching tires and angry horns, and then quickly entering the parking lot of Taix, the 'old school' French Restaurant located a quarter mile from where their victory tour had begun at Dodger stadium in Chavez Ravine.

The Cadillac's occupants were greeted profusely by uniformed attendants and were welcomed inside with great fanfare by Carlos, the head waiter. He guided the Shot Caller and his entourage through the cavernous banquet hall leading to the best table in the house. He was ever so thankful that there was no one around to witness this spectacle. It was late afternoon, and the lunch crowd had gone.

The entire crew was decked out in Dodgers Blue, but rather than resembling baseball players, they looked more like the felonious crew from Kubrick's film, "A Clockwork Orange". The Shot Caller's ominous presence was enhanced by the five pound Louisville Slugger that he carried at his side. It had been signed by every member of the current Dodgers team.

The Angels billed themselves as the Los Angeles Angels, although they were from Orange County, and The Shot Caller, the "Dodgers biggest fan" didn't like it. "That's territorial infringement," he told his lieutenant, Edwardo. "If somebody tried to pull that shit on us, there would be blood in the streets. Somebody ought to do something about that. " Edwardo knew that if the Shot Caller thought that he could get away with it, he would have the entire Angels Front Office whacked.

The Shot Caller ordered Champagne, burritos, and finger shrimp cocktails for all, and Hector gave the Head Waiter a CD of Latin Funk to play while dinner was being prepared. The four young Mexican girls, straight from the barrios of East Los Angeles, were duly painted with Maybelline black mascara, black eye liner, black lipstick, and penciled in black eyebrows. They sat there laughing and giggling at nothing in particular. Obviously they were not used to such attention as they were served by three waiters working around the thick oak table. Miss Carlotta Sanchez stuck a wad of gum under the table in preparation for the meal. The Shot Caller and his lieutenant, Eduardo, conferred while a rousing Latin Funk song filled the entire dining hall.

"I am so happy for the Dodger's victory today, Patron. I think that we have a chance to go all of the way this year" Eduardo gushed, offering his congratulation to the Dodgers' most rabid fan, The Shot Caller, undisputed leader of The Mob.

Eduardo actually didn't give a damn about the Dodgers, and he thought that the Shot Caller was full of shit. But he knew that The Shot Caller's fixation with the team was real, and also linked to Fernando Valensuela, the Ex-Dodger. When the south paw first came to the Dodgers, his considerable fortune coincided with The Shot Caller's rise to power. They both had come from the same dirt poor village of Etchohuaquila, in the state of Sonora, Mexico, and they had been childhood friends.

With a forced grin, Edwardo told the Shot Caller about a call that he had received that morning from their connection in Rio de Janeiro. Colonel Roberto Javiar Silva of the Federal Police had wanted to speak to the Shot Caller directly. The Colonel would not tell Edwardo what the call was about, but he sensed that it was not pleasant news, so he told the colonel that the Shot Caller could not be interrupted, and asked him to call back after the game.

At that moment, Hector handed the Shot Caller the cell phone, and Colonel Silva was on the line. The Colonel told the Shot Caller that his emissary, The Dishwasher, had been found dead at their business office in Rio de Janeiro, shot once between the eyes. So far, there were no leads in the case. Apparently the only thing missing was a gold crucifix and chain that his man wore around his neck for luck. They also found something odd - a small, charred wooden doll in the dead man's lap.

Mention of the small wood doll sent a shockwave through the Shot Caller's body. He immediately knew that something was terribly wrong and that he was being sent a message. He thanked the Colonel for keeping him abreast of the situation, and told him that he had done the right thing by speaking directly with him, and if something else came up to call him immediately, then he handed the phone back to Hector.

He sat back in his chair, and calmly asked Edwardo why the Dishwasher had been in Brazil, and how come he had not been told of his presence there. Edwardo had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he sat there and fumbled for an answer. Knowing that there was nothing he could say but the truth, he told the Shot Caller "Yes this is true. He is in Brazil, taking care of our business. "

"When did it become our business?"

"Oh, Patron, I did not mean any disrespect. I only meant the Mob's business. "

"And when did you last hear from The Dishwasher?" queried the Shot Caller.

Edwardo didn't like the way the conversation was going, as all of the people at the table stopped what they were doing to listen to his reply. He didn't know what else to say, so he continued with the truth.

"Three days ago. I haven't heard from him since he left for Rio."

"Perhaps he has been detained by one of those Brazilian senoritas. Eduardo" the Shot Caller said, pushing a taco into his mouth.

"He is a professional" Edwardo shot back, a little bit too loud, "and never before had he failed to stay in contact. He takes care of our business".

The Shot Caller let that one pass and said, "well, Edwardo, The Dishwasher was found shot to death this morning at our office in Rio, and the killer left a calling card behind, in the form of a small wooden doll that was found in the Dishwasher's lap." Edwardo's head went spinning. He knew that this was the signature of The Shooter, a dark ominous figure in the even darker world of professional hit men. A legend in his own right, who had never failed to deliver on a contract. He was known as The Shooter, a misnomer, as his tools for dispatching people were not limited to the use of firearms. He was equally skilled with knives, ropes, poison, explosives, and deadly in hand to hand combat. He gained legendary status when it was rumored that he took out four body guards and a Yakuza gang leader in a Tokyo bathhouse with a pair of chop sticks and a rolled up dinner menu. The man was a force to be reckoned with, and once the terms were accepted there was no cancelling a contract with him. Any attempt to abort his mission would be considered an unforgivable sign of disrespect and would automatically put the offender at the top of his hit list.

"So, you see Edwardo we have a problem on our hands," continued the Shot Caller.

Edwardo's mind was racing now. He didn't know what this had to do with the real reason The Dishwasher was in Brazil, nor did he know what the Shot Caller knew or didn't know.

"So Eduardo, you say that no one knows who this hit man is?"

"That's right, Patron. But we do know that he is into Macumba, the Brazilian version of voodoo, and he goes through some kind of ritual before every hit. It is said that before a believer in Macumba can take a life, one has to prepare the way for the soul of the intended victim by doing three things: first; he must recognize the attribute of resolve in a complete stranger and reward it. Second; he must give hope where none exist. Finally, he must take the life without warning. But he uses many disguises, and no one knows what he actually looks like. We used him twice before in Brazil, and he always leaves one of those voodoo dolls behind.

"I told you all this before, Patron. We were put in touch with him by your friends in Columbia, and we did everything by throw-away cell phones and FedEx. It was as if he was a fucking spy and didn't want to meet anyone. All he wanted from us was info about his target and his money, but that was OK, because he never missed, and he always got the job done. We had him by the balls because he only got half of the money up front, and the rest upon confirmation of the hit."

At that moment, Hector again approached his boss and handed him the phone. The Shot Caller listened intently but didn't say a word, and then he gave the phone back to Hector. Then he got up from the table and started to dance. Everybody at the table watched him, except for Edwardo, who had his back to him. As the Shot Caller got into the groove, holding the bat high above his head, he said to Edwardo "And did you have the Dishwasher by the balls when you decided to help him to steal our money, Eduardo". The words were barely out of the Shot Callers' mouth when he swung the bat in a deadly arch, impacting with Edwardo's head and splitting it like a ripe melon.

Edwardo tumbled from the chair, dead before he hit the floor. "Come clean up this piece of shit", the Shot Caller barked at Carlos, "and get him the hell out of that uniform before he spoils our celebration".

"You better have them all by the balls, Eduardo, because where you are going they don't play nice like me." The Shot Caller said to the dead man on the floor, as three waiters rushed to the body to carry it away. One stayed behind to clean up the blood and brains, and, of course, to wipe off the bat.

The taking of life aroused The Shot Caller, and once he seated himself, he gave Carlotta the eye to go under the table. He then motioned Hector to come to the table, and told him to bring Ramirez to him. The young man approach the table showing no fear, and The Shot Caller told him to sit where Edwardo once sat. "You are my right hand, now. Arrange for our flight tomorrow. We are going to Rio." he managed to say, through clenched teeth as Carlotta dropped the pretense of being a nice girl and did her thing.

**********

# Chapter Three

# Shooter

#

The black man peering through the telescopic scoop, attached to the top of a Chey TAC M200 sniper rifle, was lying in the brush with his finger on the trigger, and he had absolutely no fear of dying. Ordinarily this would have been a red flag, and not a good thing, considering the fact that fear will keep you on your toes, and make you think twice before doing something stupid. But today fear was a luxury that he couldn't afford. He needed to be steadfast, and he needed to be patient, and above all else, he needed to be fearless.

The hounds were closing in on him. They had picked up his scent, and would be on top of him in a minute. But ten seconds later his target walked out onto the veranda, and right into the crosshairs of his high-power scope. A distance of a thousand meters was not a particularly hard shot to make even with the yelping getting louder. He squeezed the trigger, then broke down the gun without waiting to see the target fall. Twenty minutes later he was on board a Blackhawk helicopter, crossing the Strait of Hormuz on its way to rendezvous with the USS Ronald Reagan, on station somewhere near the Arabian Sea. He would be debriefed on board the aircraft carrier, and then transported to a friendly country nearby. From there, he would catch a commercial flight back to the States, in time to watch the football game on Sunday morning.

Shooter was a lethal weapon with the safety off. A man of few words who believed that actions spoke louder, especially from the working end of a gun. He believed that if you let someone get too close it could only end badly. And that loyalty was a precious commodity that had to be earned, and not squandered on frivolous relationships with God or man. Commitment, honor, and resolve formed his core beliefs, but life had taught him above all else to be pragmatic. In addition to the fact that he was a bona fide killer, ultimately he was a survivor. He was determined to be the last man standing after the shit hit the fan, and he usually was the one throwing the shit.

When he was seventeen he went off to war with a kid named Jones, whom he had befriended, or perhaps it was the other way round. Shooter stopped a beating that Jones had been receiving at the hands of the high school bully, a big Irish kid by the name of McDuffie. It wasn't much of a fight, as the Irish boy outweighed Jones by fifty pounds and stood a foot taller. He was pounding the kid senseless behind the bleachers on the football field, when Shooter stepped in and said "that's enough. It's over". McDuffie also towered well above Shooter, but even he knew that you didn't mess with this guy - he was just too damn dangerous. Shooter had already sent two young men to the hospital to be fitted for liquid diets. And the deadpan look in his eyes left McDuffie in no doubt that he was in imminent danger.

McDuffie thought that perhaps he should let the boy go, but on the other hand he was much bigger than Shooter. When he did not immediately comply, Shooter took a step forward, and asked him if he had a problem with that. McDuffie looked in Shooter's eyes, and immediately released the boy, turned around, and quickly walked away, convinced that he had done the right thing.

Jones followed Shooter wherever he went, and it came as no surprise that they became friends. Jones was second in line behind Shooter when they enlisted in the army in 1967. Jones became his spotter on their two man sniper team. On the field of battle there is no bond stronger than one formed under fire, and such a bond was formed between the two men in the Asha Valley in Vietnam in 1968.

The dynamics of a kill are quite simple when devoid of all emotional content. At twenty yards distance simply line them up and pull the trigger, the quicker the better, and before long you will have bodies piled up like fresh meat dangling from meat hooks above the slaughter house floor.

In war victory is often declared with the least provocation, and some would surmise often without knowing the full price that is paid, even when the enemy has been annihilated. At the bottom of a crater left by a five hundred pounder, dropped from the belly of a B-52 flying thirty thousand feet above, eighteen enemy bodies lie united in death with a single gunshot wound through each of their head, simple and effective, but still a victory nonetheless. But to think that the taking of human life can be that simple, even if they be the enemy, would be to ignore the human condition, and the inevitable retribution. Inevitably there will be an accounting, and when the bill comes due it will be paid with everything that you possess, starting with your sanity and ending ultimately with your soul.

On the night of January 3rd, 1968, the Viet Cong penetrated Able Sector, and Jones and Shooter were waiting for them. Jones took cover to the right of Shooter, in the thick jungle bush. From there, he relayed the movement of the infiltrators as they crawled on their bellies through the mud and wire, past the mine field, and on up to the edge of the crater. There in the tall elephant grass waiting patiently was Shooter. He took his time and adjusted his sights, then attached a silencer to the end of his rifle. As each Viet Cong began to climb over a strategically placed fallen tree, he squeezed the trigger. Each shot sent a VC tumbling into the abyss, well out of the line of sight of the sapper following five yards behind, crawling on his belly, relentlessly inching his way forward to his own destiny.

At dawn it took Shooter only a glimpse at his own handy work for him to grasp the finality of life entangled in death's relentless grip. There at the bottom of the pit lay a ghoulish testament to the gods of war. Eighteen enemy bodies lay atop one another in a haphazard pyramid of death. Victory was total and complete, but Shooter's euphoria came to a screeching halt, for upon closer scrutiny, two women, and what could only be described as a child, had been spotted among the dead. All of them dressed in the familiar but ominous black clothing of the Viet Cong, and all of them shot with a single bullet through the head.

As the sun's rays filtered through the dawn, burning away the early morning mist, a familiar but eerie sound could be heard rising from the pit. A faint whimper just above a whisper, drew his attention. After a brief moment of confusion and disbelief, there came a realization as to the source of this aberration. A young child lay wailing at the bottom of the pit.

At that moment destiny played its hand, for a line would be drawn that once crossed allowed no return. Shooter raised his weapon and fired. After what seemed like an eternity, the deafening sound of silence was all that could be heard. Jones just stood there in shock and disbelief, silently shaking his head. He knew that Shooter had gone too far. Shooter opened his mouth to say something but the words just wouldn't come. Jones pushed Shooter's hand off his shoulder and walked into the bush, dazed, mystified, and quietly sobbing.

Now Shooter was faced with a reality that would have shattered a weaker man's sense of propriety, for perpetrating such a heinous crime under the pretext of combat. Still it presented as a rare moment of clarity, an opportunity for self-examination, a chance to peel back a layer of one's own humanity, and witness the true nature of the beast that lie within. Reluctantly but willingly he accepted the price that the beast demanded to sustain its salacious apatite.

He felt no remorse for killing the child, it was akin to relishing the taste of forbidden fruit, knowing that it was he who did the dirty deed that took an innocent life in such a senseless manner. All the while what was left of his rational mind performed mental gymnastics attempting to lay the blame at the feet of necessity.

But the act was carried out with such callous indifference that it could only be construed as actions having been carried out by a demented mind, a mind out of touch with basic human decency which when engaged, would have prevented such a tragedy.

So totally absurd was the crime that not even his mind could convince itself that the killing was an absolute necessity. Since the deed could find no refuge in the realm of rationality, his mind distorted the facts to create the necessity for his actions, which he now believed should have been a foregone conclusion, if not hailed as an outright courageous decision. Was not the child also the enemy, and was it not just a matter of time before it too would have been targeted without question? A question presented in a feeble attempt to justify a perverse act that only a demented mind would attempt to embrace. But even an act such as this would be manipulated and banished to a place hidden in the labyrinths of a killer's mind, hidden between things forgotten and things best not remembered.

Fate rarely unfolds on an even keel, but works steadfast beyond the pale, Truth was disrobed before the harsh light of reality, and it ultimately revealed Shooter to be just who he was, which was that he was simply a cold blooded killer.

Shooter sensed danger before it struck and quickly rolled to his right, blocking the thrust of the VC's dagger with the butt of his rifle, while grabbing his own knife from the leather sheath strapped to his leg.

They struggled in silence, like predators in the tall elephant grass, for what seemed like an eternity. An occasional grunt or a muffled cry was emitted by one or the other when cold steel found soft flesh, and at a moment during their mortal embrace, Shooter caught a whiff of garlic on the other man's breath before quickly refocusing on the killing at hand, as they snarled at each other, face to face, through clenched teeth, 'til God's will be done.

Shooter began to overpower his weakening foe, forcing the tip of his blade into the young man's neck while looking him straight in the eyes, perhaps seeking some sign of forgiveness, while waiting patiently for him to surrender his life. Shooter sensed that the end was near and began soothing him like one would a child, as the young man began to lose his fight for life. The VC slowly sank to the jungle floor, still not understanding what was happening. All the while life was slipping out of him, until he lay quiet and still in Shooter's arms in the tall green grass next to the crater filled with death. Now, Shooter was a killer up close and personal, and from that moment on he became a gate keeper to the portals of Hell.

He found Jones not far from the crater, gasping for air in a clearing covered with his blood. The VC had found him and slit his throat. The gurgling sound emitting from the mortal wound told Shooter that his friend was quickly running out of time. Jones looked up at Shooter, but was unable to speak. His larynx had been severed, but the panic in his eyes revealed that he knew he was dying. And for the second time that day Shooter tried to calm the fears of a dying man, this time a friend rather than foe. But there was nothing that he could do. There were no bullies to stare down or bad guys to punch in the face, and death was waiting, and it would have its bounty. For the first and last time in his life, Shooter bent his head and prayed.

God simply ignored his plea. "No, this time you will suffer, this time you will feel the pain, and this time you will remember", seemed to be the penance for Shooter's sins, as his friend closed his eyes and died. In God's infinite wisdom he chose to leave behind a gross violator of the laws of God and man, an unrepentant sinner, a killer bent on mayhem, and now Shooter was as unforgiving as the Lord.

Two years later he was mustered out of the Army with a confirmed kill count of 112, not including the work he had done for the CIA. During his last tour of duty in Vietnam, as an asset of Army Special Operations on loan to the CIA, Shooter honed his craft. He spent more time behind enemy lines than his record indicated. He did most of his work above the Ben Hai River, above the 17th parallel that separated North Vietnam from South Vietnam. Once he went north he was no longer part of a sniper team. He became a lone assassin.

After his discharge he used his contacts within the CIA to get back into the game, and after six months at the CIA's Langley School of Linguistics, he was deemed ready to serve.

His first assignment took him to Japan, and his cover as an Arabic interpreter with the Yemen Consulate served him well, he being a man of color. His target was a man by the name of Nakamora, a Yakuza gang leader with a penchant for warm sake and hot women. Nakamora had somehow managed to get his name on the CIA hit list. More importantly, the hit had been sanction by the Yakuza High Council. Apparently, Mr. Nakamora had been dealing drugs to his own people which – a serious taboo in Japan, and an insult to the Yakuza, causing them to lose face.

Shooter followed his target for a week, but the man was never alone. But every night his entourage would retire to a public bath house for warm Sake and entertainment.

On the eighth night Shooter sat in the tea room next to the bathing pool, wearing a white robe and eating steamed rice and fish heads with chop sticks. The gang lord's four bodyguards posted themselves at the four corners of the room, while their boss bathed alone in the center of the common pool.

The bodyguard closest to the tea room was the first to die, with a chop stick jammed through his left eardrum and straight into his brain. The second bodyguard reacted a second too late, and went down with a chop stick through the left eye. The third bodyguard was caught off balance running round the pool. A punch to the solar plexus with a rolled up menu and a blow to his throat with the ridge of Shooter's hand dropped him to his knees. Then a twist of the head broke his spinal cord at the second cervical vertebrae. The fourth bodyguard fared no better when Shooter slid under his karate kick and grabbed him by the waist, slamming him to the floor. Three rapid blows with the palm of his hand drove the bodyguard's nose cartilage and bone into his brain.

Shooter slowly entered the water, while the gang boss calmly sat still in the center of the pool, awaiting his destiny. He realized that none of this could have taken place without the High Council's consent, and the only honorable way out now was the Samurai way. Hari Kari was out of the question, so he didn't resist when the gaijin reached out and pulled him under, then held him submerged until his lungs filled with water and his body went limp. This all took place in less time than it took Shooter to dry himself off, put on his cloths, and slip out the door, unseen.

Shooter became a master of disguise and linguistic fluency, which expanded his repertoire and his assignments. He was no longer considered a one trick pony. He was able to infiltrate the most secretive organizations, be they fiefdoms of warlords in Somalia or Ivory Coast pirates.

The Ivory towers of Western democracies were also within his grasp. He was able to penetrate a Luxemburg based multinational hedge fund whose manager doubled as one of the most prolific illegal arms dealers in the world. Unfortunately, he fell out of favor with the CIA. But the man was better protected than the president of the United States. Wilfred Wolf Hoffman was not a man to be toyed with, and he hired only the best. His new head of his security was ex-Mossad trained operative, Yusef Ben Israeli, reportedly a black Jew from Ethiopia, fluent in Yiddish, Hebrew, Arabic and several other languages, but better known to the CIA as the Shooter. One brisk morning in Geneva, Mr. Hoffman took a ride with his head of security and was never seen again, and neither was Mr. Israeli.

Shooter relied on meticulous planning and faultless execution, which accounted for his success over the years. His mission would be completed before anyone knew that it had begun, which was particularly distressing for the target. His real talent lay in making people believe that he was who he said he was, not in destroying people. Anyone could pull a trigger, but Shooter's talent for undercover work arguably outstripped his killing ability. But his forte was the ability to adapt to the situation. Often it was a matter of doing nothing and letting the play come into focus. Success or failure often is measured in minute measurements of time and distance, an immeasurable amount of patience, and sometimes the deciding factor is determined by fate, delivered by a hunch.

Shooter never asked questions about an operation, but even without doing so a pattern often emerges, and his mind inevitably connected the dots. A great deal of the CIA's clandestine efforts were centered around drugs, the cultivation of heroin in Afghanistan and The Golden Triangle in South East Asia, the growing and processing of cocaine in South America, and the transportation of drugs through Central America and ultimately through Mexico. Whoever controlled the smuggling routes through Mexico controlled the drug market in North America. If you could send drugs along the pipeline then you could send anything. The more he thought about it the more important the Shot Caller grew in the big picture.

There was no way that the Shot Caller's organization could have gained the position that it had in the drug world without the explicit consent and help of the CIA. Although the evidence supporting such a theory would never reach the light of day, the Shooter always suspected that the CIA had more say in who did what to whom and for how long, than anyone would believe, and that included calling shots in the Taliban. It was no fluke that Bin Laden and the leadership of the Taliban escaped from the White Mountains of Tora Bora in Afghanistan in 2002. If you didn't have a boogieman then you wouldn't need a ghost buster. Today the Taliban produce more opium in Afghanistan than ever before, and the Shooter connected the dots.

Shooter had infiltrated the Mob back in 2005, and he wasn't exactly a sleeper agent. He had two hits to his credit for the Mob when the agency told him not to be too pro-active. After all, establishing your cover was one thing, but unleashing a crime wave was another thing altogether. As long as his victims were gangsters and known criminals, he was given the green light to do his thing. But when he got a contract from Eduardo to kill the Fat Man, he was told to tread water. Finally, after three days of waiting, he was told to fulfill his contract.

He had a premonition after he was given the go ahead by the CIA to terminate the Fat Man. It was a matter of record that the Fat Man was laundering money for the Mob, but those in the know at the CIA also knew that he was an undercover agent for the DEA.

Shooter had learned to trust no one, especially the people for whom he worked. And definitely not the CIA. Before boarding his flight to Brazil, he hacked into the airline's web site for bookings and reservations, and generated a list of all those who had paid cash for their tickets. Five names were listed, including his alias, Bruno da Silva. The other four names he assumed were aliases, for what reason he didn't know. But he knew that that was how hit squads traveled, and during the flight he memorized the faces of those seated in the numbered seats according to his printout.

Shooter never took a direct flight to his final destination when that could be avoided. When his plane landed at Sao Paulo for refueling, he ditched his flight and took a bus to Niteroi, Rio de Janeiro's twin junior city across Guanabarra Bay. From there, he boarded a schooner dressed as a Macumba medicine man. He arranged to be picked up at sea, and came ashore in a small fishing boat directly onto the beach in Copacabana. This way he could be certain that he was not being followed. To make sure that his cover was complete, he went through a full Macumba ritual, performing a black mass on the beach as soon as he reached shore.

Eduardo had told him that he could find the Fat man in Copacabana, and because he always did his own due diligence, Shooter contacted his connection in Rio and soon found out this to be true. It wasn't hard to locate the girl that the Fat man was banging. Her name was Paula, and she was a hooker who worked out of a Disco Club in Copacabana called HELP. For a few hundred reais, she told the Shooter's connection everything that she knew about the Fat man.

The Fat man's real name was Calvin Hanks, a white male, 63 years old ex-government employee, retired, and recently divorced from his fourth wife, Ida. According to his personnel file, he had been a pencil pusher with the Department of Justice, tracking the paper trail in drug operations. When he left the government, he tried other kinds of work, but this he was good at, and life kept getting in the way. Unfaithful wives, ungrateful children, and bosses who, by the grace of God, never found out just how far they had pushed him. He never did get rich plying his trade, but he did put in some work every now and then for the other side, and this allowed him to pursue his vices if not his passions, and quite often not even he knew the difference. That was enough for him, but no one knew that it was all a part of his cover story.

The Fat Man's mission involved national security, which included tracing laundered money from a street gang out of Los Angeles that had morphed itself into an international drug cartel, that called themselves "The MOB". He was close to learning the identity of those who really controlled the MOB, and what their primary purpose was. On the surface The MOB was a group of Mexican nationals with ties to the infamous 18th Street gang, operating out of LA. Normally, the two groups would maintain their distance. The 18th Street gang members, were comprised of Mexicans (Chicanos) born in America, who looked down on their Mexican brothers from south of the border, calling them Pisas. In prison, there existed a well-defined delineation of the two groups, although they were allies when confronted by blacks, whites, Asians and any other ethnic group that threatened "their" supremacy.

The Mexican nationals gained status and importance when 18th Street took over the drug business in Los Angeles. They needed connections to secure routes in order to bring in their drug shipments from Mexico. Tijuana was the last stop in the pipeline from the cocaine labs in the jungles of Columbia that turned the coca plant harvest into cocaine bricks. And who better to use than the Pisans, who used the routes to smuggle their own people into the US all of the time. They knew the what, when, where, and how of the smuggling operations along the entire southern US border with Mexico.

The Mob benefited from the protection of 18th Street as the Shot Caller's business grew from one broken down El Camino, to a fleet of 32 cars and drivers that brought in a million and a half dollars a day in drug money, and that was just the beginning.

Shooter went undercover, and started working with drug traffickers after he was introduced to them in Cali, Columbia. The Black Eagles, Aguilas Negras, a former Columbian paramilitary group with ties to the CIA, hired him to do a job for the Medellin cartel. He dispatched a local Cali cartel crime boss who had violated the truce between the two cartels. He had to be handled by an outside source, namely the Shooter, in order to maintain the peace. Part of Shooter's payment was in the form of ten kilogram of cocaine. He also got a hundred grand in cash in addition to the drugs that could be turned over back in the states for $60,000 per kilo each. The Black Eagles introduced him to the emissary's of the MOB who were in Columbia buying drugs. Instead of keeping the drugs he sold it to the Mob at the wholesale price for five thousand dollars each, which was the going rate in Columbia. He was in good with the Mob after that transaction, because nothing makes friends quicker than making money together.

Before long, Shooter became the Mob's assassin of choice, but before he could complete a job he had to get the OK from the CIA to proceed with the contract. Which wasn't a problem, as long as the target wasn't on their payroll? The Agency had a lot of people on their books and they didn't want any of their operatives to be retired prematurely. The Fat man hit was another matter altogether. Although he wasn't one of their boys, he was a federal undercover agent. But that was the DEA's worry. As far as the CIA was concerned, he was expendable.

**********

# Chapter 4

# Spank the Monkey

Ronaldo Murillo Cardoso Silva was a prince among men at least that was the way he was treated in Vidigal, one of Rio de Janeiro's most nefarious favelas, known for drug trafficking and extreme violence. The latter practiced most vigorously against its own residents.

Vidigal is located at the base of two mountains in Rio de Janeiro that shared the same name, Morro Dois Irmãos (The two brothers), and when viewed from Ipanema they were known as the Twin Peaks, absolutely stunning and breathtakingly beautiful, and they created a perfect back drop to Zona Sul, the gilded stretch of affluent beach communities that lie along the ocean front of Rio de Janeiro.

Vidigal presented an opportunity to see what appeared to be a normal situation that occurs in Rio de Janeiro. The favela was located a short distance from the wealthy community of Ipanema, and the close proximity of the Have and Have Not presented no apparent discord, which is not what one might expect when the economic extremes of society occupy the same relative space. It was the juxtaposition of the social fabric, with the mobility of the rich moving fast forward while the poor remain stuck in place, with little more than quiet despair delineating the lines of their co-existence. With the silent but inevitable comparisons gnawing at the open wounds of poverty, the poor residence endured a daily dose of the social inequities provided by a system built for the rich. The wealthy relinquished their moral obligation to provide for the poor by allowing predators to fill the social vacuum left by their neglect, ignoring the basic rights of those living in their midst.

Ronaldo Murillo Cardoso Silva was the drug lord of Vidigal, and he ruled with impunity, for there was no one left alive in the favela to challenge his grip on the community. He had an army of gun toting teenagers ready to enforce his will, which gave him the final word on everything that mattered, and what he decided could mean the difference between life and death.

Three armed boys brought in the accused, a middle age man resembling a beguiled school teacher who had lost his way, rather than the monster who had committed such a horrendous crime. The oldest boy was 16 years old, and the weapon he carried had been switched to full automatic, to his utter glee, secretly hoping that the prisoner would make a false move.

The middle age man had been accused of raping his neighbor's daughter, a young girl that had turned 13 the day before. The girl was a good student who had, until the rape, surprisingly still been a virgin. Her mother pleaded her case before the drug lord as her neighbors crowded into the room and demanded that justice be done. A neighbor testified that he saw the young girl running from the man's house in the late afternoon, half naked and crying hysterically. The accused stood there in silence. He had nothing to say. Some of his neighbors whispered that he was a follower of Macumba, as if this explained everything. They had found the girl's torn underwear on the floor inside the man's house, next to his bloodstained bed. He offered no defense, and to everyone's surprise, he pled guilty to the charge without hesitation. The drug lord had gone to an adjoining room to smoke a Joint, and while awaiting his decision, the accused had wet himself and a small puddle of urine gathered at his feet. He had cast his fate to the wind and he, most of all, knew what that meant.

They took the condemned man to a clearing atop a ridge at the edge of Vidigal, overlooking the coastal waters a thousand feet below. They made preparations for what was to come, and bound his hands and feet so that he could not resist. The condemned man could see street lights twinkling through the trees down below along Avineda Niemeyer, and he followed the lights as best he could as the road snaked its way around the mountainside, twisting and turning precariously taking every vehicle to the edge of certain death. The vista was breathtaking during the day, with an unimpeded view of the ocean below with cool blue waters as far as the eye could see. But that night the condemned man's finale view was that of flickering lights strong along oil platforms anchored in the deep cold waters of Guanabara Bay, halfway between the cities of Rio de Janeiro and Niteroi.

They tied the condemned man to a wooden stake that penetrated the ground four feet deep, and then they dropped four BF Goodrich snow tires around him, like a polyurethane python that had sprung to life. He began to panic but soon his resolve reasserted itself, and with acceptance came peace of mind which allowed him to think about mundane things, such as where did they get new snow tires, and would they burn ferociously. Morbid thoughts tread deep when faced with one's own mortality, but knowing that they were new snow tires stolen from a loading dock at the airport, just minutes before being trans-shipped to Argentina, would have provided little solace to the condemned man, and no plausible explanation for snow tires being in the tropics at all, except to fulfill the demands of destiny.

Hundreds of people had come to see justice done, and they watched in silence as 151 Bacardi Rum was poured over the condemned man. Then a match was thrown. The man screamed out in agony for what seemed like an eternity before the drug lord appeared with the young girl by his side holding a gun. With the drug lord's help she aimed the gun then closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger, quickly putting her rapist out of his misery. Such as it was, mercy had been shown.

Down below along Avineda Niemeyer, one could smell burning flesh masked by smoke for miles in every direction. Whenever the locals got wind of this peculiar scent they knew that someone had paid the ultimate price for violating the rules of the Vidigal, and swift justice had been served.

The Shot Caller ordered the French Doors closed when he smelled smoke coming into his penthouse suite through the balcony at the Sheraton Hotel, about a mile down the road from the scene of the immolation. The Shot Caller and his entourage had arrived that morning from Los Angeles looking like tourists. There were nine people in the Shot Caller's party; four women, and four male body guards, including the Shot Caller's new personal body guard, Jesus Del Toro Madrid. The four women performed as hostesses and dressed in the sheerest of lingerie as they circled the room and kept everybody's glass full, their minds stuck on stupid.

"What the hell is that smell?" the Shot Caller asked his guest, Colonel Silva of the Military Police. He and his deputy, Lt. Col. Orlando Rocha, and two uniformed military police captains, had arrived a few minutes earlier.

"That my friend is the smell of barbeque justice. The Trafficante or drug lord, as you gringos say, rules the favela down the road from here, and he carries out cruel but swift justice whenever the opportunity presents itself. When someone breaks the law, they are tried immediately by the drug lord. If he thinks that the crime deserves special attention, then death is the sentence, which is carried out immediately. We choose not to interfere, because they have their own law and order up there, and they are armed to the teeth. Is that not how you say it? Yes, armed to the teeth, and it would mean the spilling of innocent blood if we went in there to stop it. Besides, he pays a lot of money to us to be left alone." They all laughed at this fact of life in the favelas.

"Yes, I understand Colonel Silva. Sometimes, we too have to carry out cruel but swift justice. You must have discipline and loyalty. Without it, you have nothing." They all agreed and raised their glasses in a toast to the facts of life. Colonel Silva failed to mention that Renaldo Silva, the Drug Lord of Vidigal, was his nephew, and that 25% of all the drug money went directly to him, for services not rendered.

The Colonel had come to discuss the 1.5 million dollars that he had recovered from Paula, Eduardo's whore. She had received the money from the Fat Man, who in turn had stolen it from the Shot Caller. All of this had come to light after the Fat Man had been assassinated by the Shooter a month ago. Once Col. Siva got his hands on the money, there was no way that he was going to give it up.

"All pleasantries aside, Colonel Silva, we have come a very long distance, and I only want to know one thing. Where is my money?" The Shot Caller said bluntly, getting straight to the point.

"I like that about you North Americanos. You are all about the business" the Colonel said, as a hostess poured him another Jonny Walker Black Label, and he continued "We have certain procedures that we must follow, Señor Gomez." he said, addressing the Shot Caller by name.

The Shot Caller had expected as much, and told the Colonel that of course there would be a finder's fee of 10%. "Although your offer of a reward is most generous, Señor Gomez, there are other considerations that have to be taken into account." the colonel responded.

"Like what?" the Shot Caller shot back.

"You must consider the fact that you are in Brazil, and I am a colonel in the Military Police of Rio de Janeiro, and last but not least, I already have the money in my possession."

"You know what, Colonel Silva? You speak English very well. Maybe you speak it better than me. After all, I am just a poor boy from Mexico, and I am not a citizen of the United States." The Shot Caller said, as he stood up from the couch and walked towards the Colonel. He continued "Where did you learn to speak English so well?"

"I went to prep school in the United States as a young boy, before going on to West Point" the Colonel answered, indulging his host.

"Well Colonel, I learned my English in prison in the United States, and the first thing that they teach you in prison is that you don't let anybody take your shit." The Shot Caller spat out as he pulled out a gun and shot the Colonel's deputy in the head.

Immediately, the front door to the Penthouse burst open and a cadre of Federal Police Special Unit BOPE fanned out through the room, with guns drawn and at the ready. "You didn't think that I would come here with just my deputies." The Colonel said, as he got up from the couch, wiping his deputy's blood and brains from his face. It was then that he noticed that the Shot Caller's entire crew including the four women were aiming their automatic weapons directly at him.

"And this, Colonel Silva, is what you call a Mexican standoff." The Shot Caller said, as he leveled his gun at the Colonel's head. "Come along Colonel, you are coming with us." Then someone rolled a hand grenade towards a cluster of Federal Police stationed at the front door, and the shooting began.

Several more grenades went off in the ensuing melee, and Jesus could be seen guarding the Shot Caller and directing the assault against the police. When the smoke cleared, the Shot Caller, Colonel Silva, and Jesus were gone. The rest of Señor Gomez's entourage lay dead or dying, along with fourteen members of the Federal Police.

The black BMW sedan raced down Avineda Niemeyer, taking hairpin turns and short straightaways with ease, and quickly out distanced the two police vehicles in hot pursuit. Once they passed Vidigal, there were no longer any head lights in the rearview mirror, and Jesus let up on the gas. The police would be looking for a black sedan, so they switched cars in the parking lot of the Hotel Intercontinental Rio in Sao Conrado. Jesus had prepositioned the car there that afternoon, just in case.

Three quarters of the way up Gavea Pedra Mountain they ran out of road, and had to abandon the car and proceed on foot. By the time they reached the summit the sun was rising, and the hang gliders were already taking to the air from the neighboring mountain of Pedra Bonita.

Jesus reached into the gear bag that he had toted up the hill from the car, and handed the Shot Caller a satellite phone. The Shot Caller could not help but notice that Jesus had thought of everything, and handed the phone to the Colonel, telling him to call his nephew. The Colonel looked at the Shot Caller with surprise and newfound respect and said "I have underestimated you, Señor Gomez."

If the truth had been told that day they both had underestimated Jesus.

"Tell him to bring the money up to the top of Gavea Pedra, and put all of it in one bag. He has one hour to get here, and he can only bring one man with him." The Shooter instructed the Colonel to say.

Within the hour, Jesus spotted two men climbing through the mountain pass heading straight towards them. When they got within hearing distance, he instructed them to put the bag down, turn around, and go back down the mountain; he said this all in perfect Portuguese.

Now it was the Shot Caller's turn to be surprised. "You have many talents, Señor Jesus. You continue to surprise me. You shall be rewarded for all of the good work that you have done for me," he said as he watched the two men go back down the mountain. Jesus retrieved the bag, then transferred the money to a large nylon tote bag.

"Here they come." the Shot Caller hollered at Jesus, as forty to fifty armed men ascending the mountain pass closed in on them. "Put this on," Jesus instructed the Shot Caller as he connected the tote bag to a security belt strapped around his waist. Jesus strapped on what appeared to be an oversized parachute. "Hurry, we don't have much time," he said as he helped the Shot Caller get connected to his gear.

The Colonel stood there in amazement, shaking his head as he watched them make their way to the edge of the mountain top. "You know that even if you survive the jump, we will still catch you before you can get out of the country, and then you will know what barbeque justice is all about," he said, standing there with his hands on his hips as though he was in command.

Jesus half turned with the Shot Caller in tandem, and put two bullets into the Colonel's chest and one in his head. Then he tossed a small doll at the Colonel's feet, just before they both jumped off the mountain top together.

Everything went into slow motion as they fell down the side of the mountain. The only thing that the Shot Caller could feel was the wind in his face, and the pounding in his chest as they rapidly fell towards what he believed was certain death. Then the para-glider deployed flawlessly, with the Shot Caller securely strapped to Jesus, which provided him with the closest thing to a religious experience that he had ever experienced. They circled high above the tropical terrain and the blue ocean below, like it was the second coming. They could see the twin peaks to the southeast that dominated the skyline looking south towards Ipanema, about ten miles away. The whole of Guanabara Bay spread out before them, all of the way to Niteroi on the far side of the bay. A spectacular view nonetheless, considering the turmoil taking place down below, as the men who had been sent to kill them reversed direction and headed down the mountain side to try to intercept them when they landed.

Where they would land was the answer to the question that they all had on their minds. The Shot Caller's brush with death had set his mind in motion, prompting him to revisit every event that lead up to what had just transpired.

From the time that his personal body guard, Hector Mendoza, suddenly fell ill, and was replaced by Jesus, things seemed to be slipping from his control, but surprisingly enough, all for the better. Jesus was thorough and efficient, and quickly assumed control of the situation by anticipating the Shot Caller's every need and desire. Jesus Del Toro Madrid came highly recommended by Hector Mendoza himself, and the Shot Caller had full confidence in Hector's judgment.

A background check by the Shot Caller's contacts in the FBI revealed that Jesus was a prime suspect in a string of assassinations that had taken place across continental Europe. A deep background check by Interpol suggested that he was a clandestine operative who discretely provided special services for the powers that be. A cross reference of known family members indicated that they were descendent of Berbers from Moorish Spain, which accounted for his dark skin and perfect Castilian Spanish. A complicated man to be sure, but when he tossed the doll at the colonel's feet the Shot Caller knew that it was all a lie, and that he was literally in the grip of the Shooter. But if the Shooter had wanted him dead he would be dead, so he decided that the best course of action was to bide his time and find out why he had been saved.

There is nothing quite as profound as when logic is suspended while you are dangling a thousand feet above the ground tethered to a natural born killer.

The sky was full of hang gliders and paragliders, and no one took notice of the two fugitives as they circled the beach at Conrado, and came in for a perfect landing. The Shooter immediately let the Shot Caller know just who was in charge, and told him to stay out of his way as he gathered their gear and put it off to the side. "Don't ask any questions, just follow me, we're not out of the woods yet," he told the Shot Caller as they headed down the beach like two old friends on holiday. They made their way up to the highway and down the road to the bus stop. They boarded the first bus headed to Ipanema. They rode the bus into Ipanema and got off at the General Osorio Metro station, and headed downtown on the subway to Centro Rio.

"We got a tail. We must have picked it up at the Metro station in Ipanema" the Shooter whispered to the Shot Caller, as they stood shoulder to shoulder on the crowded subway train. They got off the train at Uruguaiana station, and took the moving stairs up to street level, and walked straight into a huge bazaar that sold everything at a discount. The place was a giant maze crowded with shoppers and hustlers, selling and buying everything at a frantic pace.

There were over a hundred cubicles in the building selling knockoff of Louie Vuittons, Guccis, Pradas, watches, Hand Bags, DVDs, CDs, smart phones, cell phones, PlayStation, Xbox's. You name it, they had it, all at a discount. If you strayed ten feet from where you were you may not be able to find your way back again. This was the perfect place to ditch a tail, or so they thought. The Shot Caller went to a baggage cubicle and bought another bag similar to the one he had been carrying the whole day. The Shot Caller was still lugging the tote bag full of money, which made it easy to follow him in a crowd. They moved on to the next section of the bazaar, which was just as large as the first, and the Shooter spotted two men whom he believed were following them.

The Shooter quickly exited the bazaar with the Shot Caller close behind. They crossed the main street and headed up to Rua Buenos Aires and took a left and proceeded down the street until they reached a brothel named Quatro X Quatro, and ducked inside. They were greeted by a statuesque blond wearing the tiniest bikini either of them had ever seen. The woman behind the front desk asked each of them for a name, and then handed each a plastic charge card. "The locker room is straight ahead. I'll show you the way" said the blond. They looked at each other and then fell in line behind one of the most beautiful asses either of them had had the pleasure of following in a while.

Once in the locker room, it was back to business. They split the money up, putting half in the bag that the Shot Caller had bought at the bazaar. They then put a money bag in each of their lockers and locked each one with keys they had been provided to them to secure their possessions.

They were provided with white robes and flip flops, but the Shooter kept on his underwear, and tucked his gun in the waistband.

The blond was waiting for them when they stepped outside of the locker room, and offered to show them around the place. There were beautiful girls everywhere, all of them dressed in bikinis. The blond introduced herself as Monique, and she first took them to the sauna. It wasn't until the Shot Caller saw several girls going up stairs with men that he realized that they were in a brothel. "Damn, Homie, why didn't you tell me?" was all that he could say, as one robust big breasted girl squeezed by him in the hallway.

"We have more important things to think about, Homie" the Shooter said, with added emphasis on "Homie." He then told Monique that they would catch up with her later. He pulled the Shot Caller into the sauna, and told him that the money would be safe in the lockers for now, but they had to make it to the safe house before 10:00 pm. "Safe house? What Safe House are you talking about? All day long you haven't said ten words, and now you're talking about going back into the street to find some safe house, knowing that the Federal Police and the drug lord's gang bangers are looking for us? Let me be the first to let you know that I feel pretty safe right here" the Shot Caller said, as he pressed his face against the sauna's steamed window. "And since you're in the talkative mood, who the hell are you anyway?" the Shot Caller said, turning back to face the Shooter.

"My name is not important, but you can call me Shooter" he said, looking at the Shot Caller. "I work for the US government in a variety of capacities, and my current assignment is to make sure that nothing happens to you. It seems to me that you have something they want, or something that they need," said Shooter to the Shot Caller.

"But you are the same guy who killed The Fat Man, right? The same one who leaves voodoo dolls with all of his victims?" the Shot Caller asked.

"I am not at liberty to discuss that information with you. But you can take comfort in the fact that I am not here to kill you. At least not now." The Shooter said it as if he might change his mind at any moment.

"Well, what about the money? I suppose that you want a share of the money" the Shot Caller said. "No, the money is all yours if you can get it out of Brazil. Like I said, I am just here to make sure that nothing bad happens to you, and to get your ass out of Brazil in one piece" the Shooter told him. And then Monique knocked on the door.

"Come with me gentlemen, I would like to show you the lounge" she said grabbing the Shot Caller by the arm, taking him up a flight of stairs with the Shooter in tow.

They entered the lounge on the second floor, and the Shot Caller kept thinking that it just keeps getting better. There were twenty five to thirty women in the lounge, and all eyes turned towards them when Monique opened the door. There was a short bar to the left of the entrance, where there were several girls talking to some of the other guest - which didn't stop any of them from giving the two new guests a salacious eye groping. The Shooter hung back and took in the scene, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were nine men in the lounge, dressed in white robes and flip flops. None of them appeared to be strangers, as they made small talk with the girls and their hands covered the girls in all too familiar places. A sexual aura permeated the room, and each girl exuded a sense of wanton sexuality as best she could, with a come-and-get-it look in their eyes and manner.

There was a small glass enclosed elevator on the other side of the room, just big enough to accommodate the redhead descending in it, and there was a dance poll positioned next to it that extended down, through a hole in the floor, to the first floor ground level. All in all, it was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, they were preoccupied with other business, like trying to stay alive.

Two new guests entered the lounge, and the Shooter noticed that although they both wore the white robes, they also had on their street shoes. The Shooter quickly got the Shot Caller's attention with a nod of his head, and gestured for him to go to the back of the room. It was crowded in the lounge, and they hadn't been spotted yet. The Shooter slipped out the door, and gestured for the Shot Caller to follow suit. They quickly descended the stairs and went into the locker room. The Shooter told the Shot Caller about the two men as they changed into their street clothes. They each took one of the money bags and headed for the front desk. They gave the clerk their plastic cards, and waited anxiously for the computer check to complete. The Shooter tossed two hundred US dollars on the desk, when the two men walked into the room. They walked past the bouncers at the door when the clerk nodded his head. Then the two men tried to follow suit but they were stopped by the bouncers at the front door. The Shooter and the Shot Caller jumped in the first taxi that they saw, and pulled away from the curb as the other two men exited the club running. The Shooter told the driver to drive around while he cleared his head. He told the Shot Caller that he didn't think that they were being followed, and that they had to take the chance and head straight to the safe house. It was a quarter to nine, and they were running out of time.

The taxi took them to the top of Santa Teresa, a trendy neighborhood on top of a hill in the middle of central Rio. The Shooter told the driver to pull over three quarters of the way up the hill, and then told the Shot Caller that they would walk the rest of the way from there.

The safe house turned out not to be a house at all, but just a clearing at the top of the hill. They approached the clearing from the woods, and it was then that the Shooter spotted a man lying in the brush just inside of the tree line. It wasn't long before he spotted another man off to the right of the first man lying in wait. The Shooter told the Shot Caller to stay put, and disappeared among the trees behind them. The Shooter quickly worked himself up behind the first man and slit his throat. The Shot Caller thought that he heard a strange sound above him that grew louder with each passing second. The Shooter was back at his side, and told him that there wasn't enough time to get to the other man, just as the helicopter appeared above the trees. The Shooter pulled out a sat phone, and told the pilot that the Landing Zone was hot, but they had to chance it.

The copter came in and hovered just above ground, and the shooter shouted "let's go" and they made a run for it. The first bullet whizzed by his head and the door gunner shot off a burst in the general direction of the sniper. They were both in the door when the Shooter got hit. The pilot pulled on the stick when he knew that they both were aboard, and headed for the coast. A corpsman examined the Shooter on their way to meet the US Navy cutter anchored 13 miles off shore in international waters.

That's when he learned that it pays to have money, and plenty of it. The bullet had penetrated the money bag he had been carrying, and had only broken his skin. When they opened his shirt to examine his wound, the bullet fell to the floor.

The Shot Caller told the Shooter that he didn't know who the Shooter was, but he was a lucky son of a bitch. He continued "I don't know what you got on them, but I hope that you keep it going. Something tells me that this isn't over yet," the Shot Caller yelled to the Shooter above the roar of the helicopter, as it prepared to land on board the Navy cutter, and somehow the Shooter knew this to be true. It wasn't over yet.

Meanwhile, back in Vidigal, the drug lord called on the services of Lady Manu, a powerful high priestess who practiced the dark arts with chilling awe inspiring ability. He wanted her to cast a spell to release the powerful spirit of Exu, whom he believed to be embodied in the aura of the Americano known as the Shooter. After he performed the required protocol, he placed a powerful offering at the feet of the Shooter, in the amount of 1.5 million dollars for the privilege, and the Shooter accepted it. His uncle, Colonel Silva, now deceased, was a greedy man with no vision, nor faith in the power of the dark arts of Macumba. He had become an impediment to the future of his people, and a thorn in the side of the drug lord.

He knew that the money had been intended as an offering to the spirits from the dark side, to entice them to do the drug lord's bidding, but he was not a believer. The Colonel's troops had the Shooter cornered on top of Gavea Preda, but then the Shooter jumped off the mountain. Dismiss the idea that the Shooter was trying to escape. After all, it was his manipulation that got them all to the top of that mountain. It was a sign that could not be ignored, that indeed, it was true, that he was the all-powerful Exu reincarnated. And when the black doll was found at the Colonel's feet, the drug lord knew that the spirit had accepted the offering, and had been enjoined to do his bidding.

With first light of dawn just over the horizon a Navy Cutter sailed forward, while a Black Mass ensued at the top of Vidigal as the faithful gathered on the spot where the child rapist had met his end, but this time they were there to celebrate him. With white candles burning bright and ceremonial flames leaping high into the night the faithful threw rose peddles on the spot where the martyr's life had been taken. He had volunteered to perform the sacred task of taking the chastity of the virgin child knowing quite well how all this would end. Nevertheless he kept his silence to the very end as the ancient ritual demanded. With painted dancers leaping high into the air and ceremonial drums driving the faithful to a state of frenzy, a spiritual bliss fell over them, uniting their voices as one, and bringing the ancient strain to a crescendo. The Drug Lord looked on with fervent anticipation as the High Priestess Lady Manu cast her spell with the heart of a Dove ripped asunder, yet still beating vibrantly in her hand; she invoked the words 'Você deve retornar' three times and then fell silent. As the crowd roared their approval, she then blew rum onto the flames and threw the heart into the fire. The true believers stood firm in their faith as she smacked her lips and spat into the wind, while the crowd bared witness; she then brought the Dove back to life. This time the crowd roared their total adulated approval. She then spun twice, and released the Dove into the wind that carried it on its way, bearing a message and a command to the other side, for the ear of the Gate Keeper. The spirit Exu lay dormant, but ever vigilant, patiently waiting to be summoned; while the Shooter fitfully slept aboard the naval cutter USCGC Alex Haley, dreaming unimaginable things, impossible things, things that made no sense at all except in a dream, as the ship sailed undaunted towards its destiny.

**********

# Chapter 5

# The King of Palmares

The commander of the 282-foot medium endurance cutter Alex Haley was relieved of his duties April 20 for "loss of confidence," a Coast Guard spokesman from Pacific Area Command in Alameda, Calif., said Monday.

Cmdr. Stanley Silverman was relieved temporarily by Pac Area commander Vice Adm. Charles Monk because the flag officer has lost confidence "in Silverman's" ability to command," Public Affairs Chief Ralph Ottoman said.

The cause for dismissal remains undisclosed because an investigation is ongoing, Alholm said. The relief is related to an administrative matter and was not the result of a mishap or operational problem, according to Anholm.

5 Days Earlier

The Chinese Navy Yuan class Attack Submarine had been shadowing the US Coast Guard Cutter Alex Haley, for the past twenty four hours, off the coast of Brazil in international waters. Its orders were to stay within attack range of the US vessel, and to observe and sink the US Naval Ship if so ordered. The submarine Captain had just sent a low frequency crypto message to his secret home base Command Center, near the city of Sanya, in the Hainan province in China. The message stated that the American naval cutter, Alex Haley, had recovered its helicopter with two men on board, and that the men had been under surveillance by Chinese secret agents, working undercover, in Rio de Janeiro. Captain Zhang Wei would remain on standby awaiting further orders. The Captain was a loyal Chinese Navy officer for the past 13 years, and would not hesitate to carry out his orders. But he also knew that such a belligerent act would lead to war between the two countries, and he would never get to visit Hollywood. He could not fathom what situation could arise that would bring the High Command to issue such an order. Even he knew that the Americans were so deep in debt to the Chinese Government, that they were too big to fail, let alone be attack. If hostilities broke out between the two countries, the United States would default on their loans, and refuse to service their debt. Which would immediately affect the credit rating of the People's Republic of China, and they would not be able to purchase fuel for the Chinese Red Army or Navy on the open market at benchmark levels, because all transactions would be in US Dollars, and the United States would immediately block China's access to their own bank accounts, and freeze their assets. He prayed to his ancestors that such an order would never be given, but if it did he also prayed that his secret 401 K account would not be seized nor his assists confiscated, and last but not least, that Hollywood was not on the list of first strike targets for nuclear retaliation.

US Coast Guard Cutter Alex Haley had just weighed anchor, 17 miles off of the southern coast of Brazil, and now was sailing north in calm seas, heading for the United States Southern Command center in Miami, Florida. "The fox is heading back in the henhouse" had been the terse message, sent by the cutter to headquarters. The Top Secret Mission was a joint operation by the US Coast Guard and the CIA. Participation by the Department of Homeland Security had been rejected on grounds that they couldn't keep a secret. They being relatively new agency to the game, no one in the top echelons of the department had been properly vetted, and they were not officially cleared to lay eyes on Top Secret files from other agencies.

Two decks below on board the cutter, the Shooter tossed and turned in a futile attempt to get some sleep, but he was still too pumped up after being shot by a sniper then saved by a miracle, and ultimately rescued by the ship's helicopter, while under fire, earlier that evening. The helicopter had penetrated Brazilian airspace, and managed to avoid detection, and the only problems they encountered were stray shots fired from the favelas when they flew too close, and were mistaken for the police. Nonetheless, they were able to navigate across the city to a hot Landing Zone, located on top of a hill in Santa Teresa, right in the middle of downtown Rio de Janeiro, and were still able to pick up two stranded CIA agents. The Brazilian air defense units went ballistic trying to locate the intruder's helicopter, while the USCG naval cutter Alex Haley maintained the required distance to remain safely outside of Brazil's territorial waters.

It was near dawn when Shooter finally went to sleep, and immediately found himself in a very strange dream. In the dream a white dove had landed on the edge of his open window, which had been left open to let the cool breeze in to relieve the sweltering heat. The Dove sat there staring at him like it had something to say. The Shooter patiently waited to hear the bird begin, but just like any ordinary bird it just sat there and said nothing, not even one little chirp. Although he was aware that he was in a dream, which was strange enough in of itself, he realized that it was not his dream, and apparently, like the dove, he was only there to observe. Suddenly a dense fog enveloped the room, and when it had dissipated he found himself to be out of doors, hovering above a group of men like a lost spirit. At first he thought that perhaps he had died, and was now a restless soul spying on the living. He observed that the men were dressed in old fashion clothing, the kind that was illustrated in pictures printed in old history books. In fact they all appeared to be from a distant pass, like 15th century Conquistadors sent by kings and queens, in the name of God, to conquer the New World. They carried old fashion muskets and swashbuckling swords, like they knew how to use them, and the men spoke Portuguese, and they all seemed to be agitated about something that had just transpired. Apparently, they had been in a recent battle, with their faces soiled and bruised, and their clothing tattered and bloodstained. One man suffered a deep gash above his left eyebrow, and another man bleed from a busted lip, with several teeth missing, and still yet another man limped from a saver leg wound, which was much worse than that of their prisoner. ,

They were guarding a large black man, who walked with a noticeable limp. He was bound by chains and blindfolded, while being pulled by a rope tied to the back of an ox cart, which was being pulled by two black men. The regal black man appeared to be a man of nobility, even though he was in poor physical condition, and his clothing a bit tattered. His aura still commanded the respect that one gets when one is used to giving orders, and having them carried out immediately. He wore a fine white shirt, made with Egyptian cotton, and black silk embroider pants. He also wore rings on both hands, and what appeared to be a small gold earring piercing his right earlobe, and a splendid gold chain hung around his neck; his ensemble strikingly contradicted the tribal marks that had been carved into, an otherwise, handsome face. His leather boots were well made, but not ostentatious, and they rose all the way to the top of his calves. He wore a full Leopard skin pelt over his garments, which was a sign of royalty, among West African tribes at that time.

A recent battle had been fought by runaway slaves against Portuguese Colonials, with smoke and gun powder still hanging in the air, lethal cannon fire had brought the rebels to their knees, and the victors had captured the defeated rebel leader. The prisoner fell down a several times, but the soldiers insisted that the Ox Cart be driven forward, dragging him a short distance through the mud each time. Apparently they wanted to continue to humiliate him, even though the battle had already been won. This was a sure sign of colonial vengeance, which did not bode well for the prisoner. Finally they reached the center of town, where they untied him, and then dragged him to a hitching post in the center of the square. Once there, they disrobed him, and divided his garments and jewelry, leaving him naked but unbowed. An extremely short man with a long gray beard, dressed in armor and a gunmetal helmet, with a long black feather attached, began reading in Portuguese, from an unfurled scroll that he held in both hands. "As Commander in Chief of this expeditionary force, empowered by the Governor of Pernambuco, I have been sent to put down this rebellion by any means necessary, against runaway slaves, lead by Ganga Zumbi, Commander in Chief, of the rebellious City State of Quilombo dos Palmares. I, Domingo Jorge Velho, declare victory on this day, November 20, 1695, and order the sentence of death to be carried out immediately, against the so called King of Palmares, Ganga Zumbi, a runaway slave and a traitor to the crown.

Several hundred people that had gathered in the square began to push forward, including free black men, runaway slaves, whites, mulattos, Indians, and deserters, but they were being held at bay by soldiers with loaded muskets and drawn swords. Many of the people in the crowd began calling out the name Zumbi, and openly crying, and shouting out, "Long live Palmares and God save our King." The soldiers pushed forward into the crowd, looking for runaway slaves and deserters, and asked all of the black men to show them their freedom papers. Every now and then a black man would bolt from the crowd, only to be recaptured by soldiers, who would then beat him down.

Five men held King Zumbi down, and then another man approached him holding a long butcher's knife in his hand.

At this point the Shooter tried to wake himself, but couldn't, as if he too was being force to watch the execution against his will all he could do was stare at what was unfolding.

The man with the knife, called out to the others, to make sure that they had hold of the prisoner. Then the executioner grabbed him by his manhood and cut it off, and stuffed it into his mouth. As the citizens of Palmares staggered in shock and disbelief, a sorrowful gasp left the crowd and fill the air with dreadful lamentations, as the five men dragged their castrated and bleeding King over to a chopping block, and after several failed attempts with the butcher's knife, they eventually managed to cut off his head, The Commander in Chief of the victorious army grabbed Zumbi's severed head from the ground and thrust it high into the air, and then he told the gathered crowd to always remember this day.

The Shooter, still hovering overhead, thought that they could never forget this day. The people of Palmares would remember that day as the beginning of the resistance that would last a hundred years, to end slavery in Brazil. A dialectic shift took place that day, undermining the moral support given by the church to the idea of legitimately possessing human beings as slaves. Slavery was utterly wrong and diametrically inconsistent with the teachings of Jesus Christ. The church had waited six hundred years to come to that conclusion.

A swarm of black birds suddenly took to the air from a nearby cornfield. They flew overhead squawking as loud as they could, some would say that they were crying, and they darken the sky as they flew by the headless corps of Ganga Zumbi, and shitted on the head of the little general. And on that day the seeds of Macumba were planted in the hearts of black men from Palmares, as they were once again lead back into slavery. But this time the soul of Ganga Zumbi was transformed to the spirit of Exu, never again to be touched by the hands of mortal men. Just as suddenly the Shooter was back in his bed, onboard the Cutter.

He tried to raise himself but he couldn't move. Then he noticed the white dove still sitting on the edge of the portside window, but this time he slapped himself to make sure that he was awake. Once again the dove remained silent, and failed to speak, but the Shooter began to hear a voice inside his head that whispered a warning, that he must get off the ship. The voice repeated itself over and over again. "What's going on" he said aloud, but the dove ignored him, and he closed his eyes as panic began to set in, but try as he might, he still could not move. "The ship is in danger. You must get off this ship.

You must get off this ship. You must get off this ship." He opened his eyes, and the dove had vanished into thin air. He was in a cold sweat, and he didn't know if the whole thing had been a dream or a vision from a past life, but one thing that he felt for sure, was that he had to get off the ship. The Shooter had always possessed an affinity for the paranormal, and had always listened to that inner voice and what it had to say; it had never failed him. Even as a child he saw things that other people could not see, and heard voices when there was no one there, and sometimes, somehow, he knew what people were thinking. More than a few times, after he got into the Shadow Game, his quick response to that inner voice saved his life, and he wasn't about to stop listening to it now. Even though he was aware that it was not actually his inner voice speaking, it was close enough for him to put his total faith in it.

His other concern was that he had to get hold of the Shot Caller. He swung his feet to the floor, and to his great relief they did what he wanted them to do. The Shot Caller was in the cabin next to his, and he opened his door and found him wide awake. He told him to get his things together, they were moving on, and don't forget the money. "Where are we going?" the Shot Caller asked, as he gathered his things together. "First of all we got to get off this ship. We are in danger. Don't ask me how I know, just get moving." When they got topside, they saw that the seas were getting rough, with five foot swells beginning to pound the side of the ship, and then it started to rain even harder.

Two thousand meters from the cutter's port side, a submarine's periscope broke the surface water. The submarine's Captain began plotting a firing solution to the target as the submarine maneuvered into position to launch its torpedoes. The Chinese Captain's prayers had not been answered.

The Shot Caller headed for the life boat, but the Shooter shook his head and pointed to the helicopter tied down on the stern deck of the cutter. There was a sentry on duty, but the Shooter slipped up behind him and put him to sleep with a nonlethal chokehold. Then he untied the helicopter's moorings and got inside and started the engine.

With the plotting solution factored into the computer, the Captain ordered tubes two and four to be fired and then lowered the periscope, and ordered the submarine to dive. The running time to target for the first torpedo, two minute and 45 seconds, with the second torpedo running two seconds behind.

By the time they lifted off the Cutter's deck the storm had turned into a full blown gale, and they didn't have a minute to spare, for more reasons than one. "Where are we going" the Shot Caller yelled over the noise of the storm and the copter's engines. "I don't know but we have to out run this storm or get above it" the Shooter shouted, and began pulling back on the stick to gain altitude. And then he saw two torpedo wakes in the water 1500 hundred yards away, heading straight for the Alex Haley. "We will head for the coast of Brazil, and then we will decide where to go from there" he replied but kept what he had seen in the water to himself. As the helicopter ascended through the clouds, he waited to hear the explosions that never came, and at five thousand feet they broke through the clouds and headed due west towards the coast of Brazil.

On board the Chinese attack submarine, The Long March, the Captain waited a full two minutes before he ordered the sub up to periscope depth to see what had happened. When the sub reached periscope depth he performed a full 360 degrees sweep of the surrounding waters. The sea continued to churn, but the ship had vanished completely and there was nothing to see but open seawater. Perhaps his prayers had been answered after all.

Agent Jack Crush of the CIA got the call at half past six in the morning, Miami time. The U.S. Naval Forces Southern Command center had lost track of the USCGC Alex Haley, sailing off the coast of Brazil in heavy seas. They were conducting a grid search of the area for the US Coast Guard Cutter, with the cooperation of the Brazilian Navy, with negative results so far. They would keep agent Crush posted of all updates as they continued the search.

"So what do we have so far" Agent Crush shouted into the phone, as he quickly got dress and headed out the door. He was told that the Cutter had been making its way off the coast of Brazil, in perfectly calm weather, when it ran into a tropical storm that came from out of nowhere. USNAVSO had received an SOS signal from the USCGC Alex Haley twenty minutes into the storm saying that they were taking on water and that their main pumps had failed. Twenty minutes later they received a signal that their auxiliary pumps had failed and that they were abandoning ship. By the time that the rescue Helicopters had reached the ship coordinates there was nothing to be found. No wreckage, no lifeboats, no flotsam, no nothing. USNAVSO was waiting for the grid search to be completed before the ship was declared missing and overdue. "What about the two men who were picked up earlier that evening?" agent Crush asked, with a note of anxiety in his voice. Nothing to report, sir, was the caller's reply.

Special Agent Jack Crush was the Shooter's boss, and the Shot Caller's handler at the CIA. Felix Geronimo Gomez, better known as the Shot Caller, represented a sizeable investment for the CIA, in time and money spent, and he was the center piece in their plan to control the flow of drugs into the United States, and of course the agency would deny any knowledge of the operation. There were many facets to the operation code named Harvest Moon, and the participation of Felix Geronimo Gomez was an integral part of it. Without him they were dead in the water.

Only a few people at the CIA were even aware of the existence of Operation Harvest Moon, which carried the highest security clearance, and was meant to be a game changer in the international drug market.

A feasibility study, commissioned by the CIA, enlisting the participation of the two highest regarded Think Tanks in the world, the Hudson Institute and the RAND Corporation, had arrived at the same conclusion. In order to vet an operation's feasibility, using interdisciplinary and quantitative problem solving via translating theoretical concepts from formal economics and the hard sciences into novel applications in other areas; that is, via applied science and operations. Both institutions came to the same conclusion, which was presented to the agency's Clandestine Actions Committee, which in turn disseminated the report and its findings to the head of the CIA. The following dissertation is a controlled dissimilation of that report.

TOP SECRET

FOR THE DIRECTOR'S EYES ONLY

OPERATION HARVEST MOON

Feasibility Study

The audacity and scope of the operation went beyond anything that the agency had ever considered as a viable action plan. The implementation of the plan would violate domestic and international laws to such a degree that the mere fact that it even existed would suggested that the agency was acting alone and acting demonstrably above the law, and would presume to be out of control and acting as a rogue element outside of government control. If its implementation was ever discovered, not only would heads roll, but governments would fall, and there would be a sustainable and relentless international mandate for a new world order. But yes, it can be done.

The most profitable commodities on earth, by definition, are illicit drugs. The most sustained conflicts around the globe can be traced back to the involvement of illicit drugs. The cultivation, processing, transportation, and marketing of these drugs are the core activities that produce the highest return on investment of manpower and treasure by the first world powers, and the United States leads the world in that commitment and pursuit.

On the negative side of that equation rest the fundamental problem that must be resolved in order to continue life as we know it. With the proliferation of nuclear weapons, it is only a matter of time before a hostile group will acquire such a device and use it against our interest. The chances of this happening will only increase in the foreseeable future. The continuing ongoing conflict in Afghanistan, remains a constant threat to the production and transport of top grade Heroin, and has only become acerbated by the active involvement of Pakistan, a nuclear weapons power, in an attempt to protect their interest. Regardless of outside intervention, the end result will be a return to power of the Taliban, as the controlling factor in the production of opium in Afghanistan, as was the case, per say our agreement with the Taliban, prior to the involvement of Osama Ben Laden and Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan's affairs prior to 911.

The control and production of heroin in the Golden Triangle, which resulted in the involvement of the United States vs. North Viet Nam, acting as China's proxy in the Viet Nam war, has temporarily been contained by allowing China to participate in the Capitalistic Market system. Eventually, China will reassert its claim to control that drug market by fiat. The ongoing conflict in Columbia and recent upheavals in Mexico for control of the drug markets in South America and use of smuggling routes to bring drugs into the US, are a result of thinly vale use of proxies, by China, to disrupt or to take control of those operations. The implementation of the propose operation, if it succeeds, will change everything. As long as the US controls the drug smuggling routes into the US and Europe, then the US can in fact bring about the condition of ripe fruit hanging on the trees, as far as the other operations are concern. Without a viable transport and smuggling system in place for the distribution of drugs now being process around the world, they will in effect die on the vine. No covert action on the part of the US will be necessary to achieve this end, except to deny them access to our network. We agree and support the conclusions reached by the authors of this white paper that this can be achieved by the implementation of operation Harvest Moon; notwithstanding the political fallout that would ensue if it is exposed before operational status has been achieved.

The deputy chief of the CIA handed Special Agent Jack Crush the only copy of the agency's conclusions regarding the think tank's analysis of Operation Harvest Moon, and told him in so many words exactly what that meant.

"The CIA want to take over the Brazilian Amazon rain forest for the cultivation and processing of opium poppies and coca plants, to facilitate the mass production of heroin and cocaine. The success of Operation Harvest Moon, would replace the existing drug operations located around the world at this time" the deputy said, all in one breath and without batting an eye. He continued "The Brazilian government has been compromised with their sanction of the Building of the Belo Monte Dam in the Amazon. The international consortium, Norte Energia, takes its lead from our people within its steering committee. They are already ahead of schedule for buying up the indigenous people's land, which will become submerged with the construction of the dam. But the diverted rivers will expose rich fertile lands that can produce denser crop yields of poppies and coca. The only real threat to the operation comes from the Chinese. In recent years they invested heavily in Brazil, and they are Brazil's number one export partner. Some people in the agency believe that the Chinese are aware of operation Harvest Moon, and are taking steps to limit its impact or to stop it all together. After all, they have a vested interest in the Golden Triangle, which eventually will come under their control."

Agent Crush was clearly impressed with the scope of the plan, but he had his doubts about the Agency's ability to foster the deforestation of the Amazon.

"We won't have to lift a finger. The clearing of the Amazon rain forest has been proceeding for well over four decades. The big lumber companies had their day, taking out hundreds of square miles of hard wood, but the majority of the deforested land has been used as cattle pastures. Today the fastest deforestation has been done by the settlers to make space for the cultivation of soybeans. And this is the area that the CIA has targeted for Operation Harvest Moon. With the market drop in the price of soya, the farmers need to clear more land just to stay even. The key to the success of Operation Harvest Moon is simply to get the farmers to switch crops." the Deputy concluded.

"And that brings us back to Filex Geronimo Gomez" Agent Crush added. "Yes, without his smuggling network, we will have to go back to square one" the Deputy said, looking at Agent Crush. "Where in the hell could they be."

At seven thousand feet, the Shooter leveled off and set a course for the coast of Brazil. Something was wrong, things just didn't add up. He kept wondering why he didn't hear the explosion when the torpedoes hit the Alex Haley. There was no doubt in his mind that he did see two torpedo wakes in the water, and at that range they could not have missed their target. He told the Shot Caller about what he had seen, and that he had been too busy at the time to tell him about it. But the fact still remained that the ship had been fired upon, and this couldn't be ignored. Either someone wanted to start a war or they wanted to kill The Shot Caller, and risk everything. Then it hit him; Operation Harvest Moon had been compromised. And the only people who had the wherewithal to try to stop the CIA from going forward with Operation Harvest Moon were the Chinese. He believed that the proverbial cat was out of the bag, and he needed time to find out what was going on. They needed a place to hide, but where do you hide from 1.3 billion people?

He had been briefed on the importance of keeping Filex Gomez alive before he was sent in as the Shot Caller's new head of security. The CIA didn't want to take any chance of losing Gomez before he could set up the smuggling routes, under the control of the CIA. The incident regarding the DEA undercover agent, The Dishwasher, came out of the blue, and had to be dealt with before they could move forward. They had a saying for this situation in the Shadow Game, "The more you step on a pile of shit the more it stinks." With the attack on the Alex Haley, it was beginning to stink to high heavens.

The Shooter had been deeply affected by the dream about Zumbi. Too many things kept falling into place, and he didn't believe in coincidence. Of all of the ships in the United States navy, what are the chances of them being rescued by a ship named after the author of Roots? It was then that he decided to head for Palmares. They were only about a hundred miles from Palmares, and it was as good as any place to hide out for the time being.

It was in Palmares that the CIA would begin their initial move to implement Operation Harvest Moon, and to add an element of plausible deniability, the operation was to be carried out by the international conglomerate Tombias.

**********

# Chapter 6

# Rock Creek Park

The call came in on his private line at 9:06 in the morning. It was from Jim Whipple, the Deputy Director of the NCS, the clandestine arm of the CIA, and he wanted answers. Operations Officer Jack Crush of the Special Activities Division, wasn't surprised, he had been waiting for the call ever since he got word that the USCGC Alex Haley went missing earlier that morning, with the CIA assets unaccounted for.

"Hello, Jack Crush, this is Deputy Director Jim Whipple. What the hell is going on with the ship that disappeared this morning?" The Deputy Director began his rant as if Jack Crush had personally caused the incident. Jack didn't say a word, it was best to keep silent while the Deputy Director vented his frustrations, especially since neither of them knew all of the facts at this stage of the investigation. There was a strong possibility that their conversation was being recorded; therefore he let his boss do all of the talking. The Deputy Director did not come up through the ranks, he had been a political appointee, and was not to be trusted.

Of course, they were being recorded, by the NSA, but then again who wasn't, even though they were supposedly on a secure line inside the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia. The Deputy Director abruptly ended his diatribe and concluded the call with "Rock Creek" in thirty minutes. Agent Jack Crush prudently waited five minutes to avoid running into Jim at the elevator, their offices were three floors apart and apparently not far enough to his liking.

From experience gained while searching for Osama Bin Laden, Operations Officer Jack Crush learned from the master about how to communicate during the Digital Age, and not get your ass shot off in the process. Henceforth, he never discussed sensitive material over electronic devices; face to face meets were preferable, especially when plausible deniability was of primary concern, when considering the remote possibilities of Select Sub Committee Congressional Hearings or future indictments, not to mention the adverse effects that Wikileaks had on the intelligence community. The last consideration was what persuaded the Deputy Director to agree to face to face communication.

An hour later they were walking along a foot path behind Rock Creek Park in Northwest. Washington DC, while a group of young black guys took center stage in a pickup game of basketball on center court. They walked near the cyclone fence, amidst the shrubbery and trees, as a precautionary measure against direct line of sight ease dropping equipment, and they also covered their mouths to thwart any possible lip reading capabilities lying in wait; due to the highly classified nature of their work and easily misinterpreted privileged conversations, they were forced to be security conscious at all times.

Jack did all of the talking now, not unlike an overly zealous school boy giving his torrid confession to the parish priest, going into innocuous details about the ship's strategic mission, but avoiding the pertinent facts, afraid of offending the almighty, until the almighty held up his hand and said "Cut to the chase Jack, and tell me what you got". Then the Deputy Director took Jack by the elbow and steered him down an intersecting path that circled back towards the boisterous crowd giving high-fives around the basketball court.

"The NSA provided us with a digital record of the incident that took place this morning, which we are still trying to piece together. It was recorded by one of their low orbit stationary satellite that was prepositioned off the eastern coast of Brazil. The NSA had been tracking the ship since it came on station, without incident. That is until a freak tropical storm materialized in the ship's path without warning and immersed the vessel within a visually impenetrable cloud that nullified the satellite's optical cameras and direct live feed capabilities. They did manage to record the ship's helicopter leaving the stern of the ship at the precise moment that two torpedoes were spotted closing in on the vessel. The helicopter quickly disappeared into the storm, and they lost track of the torpedoes. When visibility had returned to the area ten minutes later, the Naval Cutter Alex Haley had simply vanished. The NSA was unable to identify the origin of the torpedoes, but after a thorough examination of the TACD (Threat Assessment Capabilities Data), compiled by the NSA of all information gathered pertaining to a particular area that could pose as a threat against the United States and its interest, within a 24 hour time frame; a unique acoustic/aquatic signature had been recorded three times, in a ten hour period, belonging to the Chinese Attack Submarine The Long March, ostensibly on a routine patrol in the area of interest. The NSA satellite was unable to confirm or deny any torpedo strikes against our ship, which also meant that they were also unable to confirm that an attack had actually taken place against the US Coast Guard Cutter Alex Haley. That fact actually plays into our hands as a blessing in disguise, and gives us an opportunity to distance ourselves from any need to take retaliatory measures against the guilty party, which could easily lead to a nuclear confrontation; an escalation that no one wants. The State Department's official stance is that the incident never happened. And since there was no empirical data collected or other collaborating evidence advanced to support a charge of an attack on the high seas against our ship, that part of the investigation is officially closed."

"What you are trying to tell me is that there was no attack made on the ship or that the torpedoes malfunctioned" The Deputy Director asked while he did his best to understand the situation. "What I am trying to say is that our nuts have been pulled out of the fire, by whom or why still remains to be determined. As I said before, by the time the storm blew over, the ship was nowhere to be found. It had just vanished into thin air." Jack Crush whispered loud enough to air his exasperation, hidden behind a folded newspaper covering his mouth.

"What happened to Felix Gomez and the Shooter?"

"At this moment, we haven't got a clue as to what happened out there nor do we have a clue as to where they are" he lied and continued "We don't know if they are still on the ship. We don't know who was on the helicopter. We don't even know if the ship is still afloat" Jack Crush said, and then dropped the newspaper to his side, signaling that the conversation was over.

"What I want to know before this day is over exactly what happened to that ship, and where the hell are our people. Is that understood?" The Deputy Director said in a tiff while still covering his mouth, and then he hesitantly dropped his hand to his side and abruptly walked off in the opposite direction, signaling that, now, their conversation was over.

Operations Officer Jack Crush watched the Deputy Director walk down the path and then cut through an opening in the shrubbery, which he hadn't noticed there before. The Deputy Director continued walking onto the parking lot and then disappeared inside a black SUV with government plates that had pulled up beside him. Jack thought to himself that apparently the Deputy Director was not among those with a need to know, and that could be a problem.

Jack Crush quickly began to scrutinize all of the information on file about the Deputy Director, and he began to arrive at some startling conclusions. Alex Geronimo Gomez had been tagged with a RIFD micro GPS implant, ever since he became a tier one asset with the Company. Of course, this was privileged information, and was only available on a need to know basis. Gomez was being tracked at that very moment from a CIA lily pad (remote foreign location) located in Columbia; there was no way that the Company was going to lose him at this stage of the game. He was the lynch pin to the whole operation. And because the Deputy Director was not aware of the micro GPS implant in Mr. Gomez's thigh, one could assume, with a certain degree of certainty, that he was also not aware of the pivotal role that Mr. Gomez was destine to play in Operation Harvest Moon. And that could only mean that The Deputy Director of the NSC was out of the loop, and didn't know about the covert operation code named Operation Harvest Moon, and this certainly could complicate things. When Operations Officer Jack Crush returned to his office, he gave the green light for the tactical extraction team, on alert in Columbia, to go in and get their people as soon as their final destination has been identified.

The Shooter piloted the helicopter straight through the storm, and came out the other side of it unscathed, he then leveled the helicopter off at ten thousand feet, and suddenly it was like being born again. The sun was high in the morning sky, and the view went on forever while the storm below continued to rage on like a wounded animal. The Shot Caller sat there white knuckled, but all in one piece and smiling. He thanked the Shooter once again for saving his life, and told him that he appreciated what he had done and would not forget it. "What you have done goes beyond the call of duty. I know that you are here to babysit me, but you must have also been sent by God to protect me." "Yea, something like that" the Shooter told him and then murmured something else under his breath, that the Shot Caller couldn't quite make out. But the Shooter was just as mystified by the turn of events, not to mention being in a fog about his premonitions, that went way beyond anything that he understood, as was the Shot Caller. "We're going to Palmares. We'll be safe there for a while, anyway. I need time to figure out what's really going on." Then he set a course for Quilombo de Palmares, the legendary city created by runaway slaves during their trials and tribulations, but he still didn't know why. He was being drawn to Palmares by unknown forces that were as real as thunder and lightning, and just as powerful as the wind, unseen and unstoppable.

Five hundred feet below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean the Chinese Attack Submarine, The Long March, was running a search pattern looking for the USCGC Alex Haley. The Chinese had their own spy in the sky that day recording the extraordinary events taking place off the coast of Brazil.

The Chinese satellite was there to record the kill that never happened. It too recorded the torpedoes running straight and true, but then a tropical storm materialized and covered the ship like a blanket, blocking everything from view. It took their analyst some time to spot the ship's helicopter breaking through the storm clouds and then heading for the east coast of Brazil. The Chinese Attack Submarine, The Long March, carried an eight man tactical assault team that had been put on alert when the Captain received a crypto message indicating that their primary target may have escape from the ship on a helicopter that was heading for Brazil. The Captain made a command decision and broke off the search for the American ship, and then laid in a course for the east coast of Brazil.

In Vidigal, the High Priestess Lady Manu, had been conducting a Quimbanda ritual all night long, surrounded by the faithful and a handful of gun toting teenagers. She had concluded the ritual by killing a black rooster and mixing its blood with a cup of rum. She then spat the mixture into the fire illuminating the faces of the hopeful that surrounded her, and she could see it in their eyes; they were ready. She then told the Drug Lord that it was time to take his people home to Quilombo de Palmares. The Drug Lord gathered his people at the foot of Vidigal, over five hundred strong, and told them that their time had come and it was time to go home. A 100 car caravan stretched for a mile along Niemeyer. The people had packed everything that they owned, including livestock and furniture. It was a festive mood and people were singing and laughing as the caravan moved single file through the mountain on an eight day journey that would take them back to the motherland, back to the Quilombo of Palmares, and some of them thought back in time. Just as their ancestors had escaped from the dredge of colonial slavery they wanted to escape this modern day bondage that stripped them of their dignity and relegated them to a subservient status, still taking care of the master and his children, being paid minimum wage that afforded them little more than outdoor plumbing, a tin roof, and red brick housing stacked upon sliding mountains during the rainy season. And the only conduit left to them to make real money was selling drugs. Even this they had to give the master his share. Modern day sharecropping with a twist; they had to pay the police for the privilege to sell dope and to be gunned down in the street like wild animals if they missed their quota or came up short on the payoff money. And every now and then they had to give someone up to The Man and make things look good for the politicians whose job was to convince the public that everything was under their control, and so it was.

The Drug Lord was not a fool, but he was a believer in Quimbanda and the dark arts, and he believed that Exu would clear the way for his people's return to their homeland. Among the belongings packed in crates in the vehicles of the caravan, were enough arms and ammunition to start a war. He also believed that the spirit of Exu would assist those who are among the faithful, and willing to fight for their heritage, and would help those who would willingly die to help themselves.

On the other side of the Atlantic Ocean in Amsterdam, a meeting took place among the Board of Directors of Shultz Ltd, a holding company for the Brazilian Agriculture giant Tombias. A decision had been made to use all necessary means to gain control of the land being held by the farmers of Palmares who refused to cooperate and sell their land to Tombias. A Shareholders meeting was scheduled in ten days, and a vote would be taken to support a move to get a loan from the IMF to expand the seaport and build the necessary infrastructure, roads and bridges, to get the soybean crop to market. But the proposed farm land to be used for expansion of the soy bean crop and as collateral against the loan was still in the hands of the farmers of Palmares, who refused to sell their land or to stop planting traditional crops to plant soybeans instead. This land was sacred to them, and had been paid for with the blood of their ancestors, runaway slaves who knew the price of freedom, and this land had been handed down from generation to generation for the past four hundred years. They were not only farmers but warriors descended from warriors whose resolve had passed the test of time, time and again, and they would not hesitate to pick up arms to protect their way of life, and they were prepared to fight to the death against anyone. The Brazilian government had wisely pass laws to protect their environment and to prevent confrontation, but greed had a way of ignoring certain calamity in the making. A small army of armed mercenaries were on their way to Palmares to break heads, and to get the people to bend to the will of Tombias, or to make them all disappear.

The Shooter piloted the helicopter just above the waves until they were well within Brazilian waters. Then he climbed to five thousand feet to stay well above any mountains or high terrain, and headed for Pernambuco, Brazil, and Palmares.

Palmares lay about 55 kilometers in land from Caneiros Beach, on the east coast of Brazil, and they dropped down to less than 1000 feet as they approached the city from the west.

Everything appeared to be peaceful as they overflew the city proper, which was more of a rural community, than that of a city with paved streets, and cement sidewalks. They spotted several workers in the fields who waved at them as they flew over, and further west they overflew coconut groves and long stretches of Palm trees. They circled Palmares once more, and then headed for the outskirts of town.

It wasn't long before the Shooter spotted a safe place to land and set the chopper down. As soon as the rotor blades stopped turning, they were surrounded by a group of menacing men with machetes in their hands that came walking out of the bush. The apparent leader of the group, a young muscular black man with even white teeth and tribal markings on his face, motioned for them to exit the helicopter, and they complied. The Shooter told the Shot Caller to stay calm, and not to make any sudden movements, and then he began to talk to the leader in the African language of Bantu. Soon three other members of the group joined their leader at the Shooter's side. The men were working in the field when they saw the helicopter approaching. They thought that they were men from the giant agricultural company that was making all of their lives miserable. The Shooter whispered into the ear of one of the men. Then the man ran to the helicopter. He soon returned with a white Fedora covered with plastic, which he handed to the Shooter. The Shooter slowly removed the plastic and put the hat on and then pulled down the brim, and right before the Shot Caller's eyes the Shooter seemed to go through a transformation.

Although it was difficult to tell the exact age of the Shooter, the Shot Caller put it closer to sixty than fifty, but before him there appeared to stand a middle age man, no more than forty years old, lean, strong, and dangerous. The Shooter leaned his head back and let go a soulful laugh and opened his arms and then slowly did a 360. The rest of the men surged in to be closer to him, and the leader grabbed the Shooter's left hand and fell to his knees and kissed the white Ivory ring on the Shooter's pinky. There was an energy that went through the group like an electric charge as they sang and danced around The Shooter. The Shot Caller believed that he could hear the faint beat of drums off in the distance.

Word travels fast in the bush, and within ten, minutes a large crowd had gathered around the Shooter, with more people joining the crowd from the surrounding forest every second. The leader of the group that they had first encountered grabbed the Shooter by the hand and led him away, with throngs of people trailing closely behind them. The Shot Caller quickly joined the Shooter, who gave him no sign of recognition as they continued walking.

They soon entered a Quilombo settlement that reminded the Shot Caller of an African village. The small houses were little more than huts with wood sidings and interwoven palm branches forming the roof. Naked toddlers and their pets ran about the village uncontested while chickens and goats had the run of the streets. The whole village had turned out for the Shooter, whom they now addressed as Exu.

At about midnight, The Shooter called for the village elders, to gather their people at the center of the Quilombo. There were well over three thousand people that came to hear him speak. His transformation was now complete as he stood there dressed in white, with a red bandana wrapped around his head, under a white Fedora. He told the crowd that there was a storm heading their way; that men were coming to put them in chains and take their land. These men did not understand that Exu would not allow this to come to pass. He told them to go and prepare for the afterlife, for many of them would not see the new moon rise to shine its light on the true believers, that will give the fallen a feast that will be remembered by their children's children in honor of the ultimate sacrifice that they will make to save their way of life. He then told them that he would be at the forefront of the mighty army of warriors to cast a spell on those nonbelievers, who would dare test the power of Quimbanda. Then he raised his arm and took a knife and drew blood from his forearm, and let it drip onto the head of a sacrificial goat that stood at his feet. Then he cut its throat and drank its blood, and told the people to get ready for war, because the time was near.

**************

# Chapter 7

# So It Begins

Smack dab in the middle of the Amazon jungle a mercenary convoy came upon a Brazilian military check point set up in the middle of the road. The mercenary Commander got out of his vehicle, and calmly walked over to the fat Brazilian army sergeant standing by the portable gate, patiently waiting to begin negotiations of the fee to be charged for permission to pass through the gate. After polite introductions they finally agreed on $5.00 per truck, and the Commander's vehicle could past through the gate free of charge. The Commander counted out two hundred dollars from a briefcase full of neatly stacked bills, and held them out to the fat sergeant, who was busy counting the forty Duce and a Half ton troop transport trucks lined up behind him for a quarter mile.

The first shot decapitated the driver of the first truck with his hands still firmly gripping the steering wheel. The two men sitting beside him looked on in horror as his brains lay splattered against the front windshield. The second and third shot obliterated both of their heads, leaving three headless men sitting in the cab of the lead truck with no place to go. The Commander jumped back into his jeep, and told his driver to drive through the barrier.

The mercenaries sitting in the back of first three trucks finally realized that they were being fired upon, as they watched their Commander's jeep crash through the check point, and race down the highway. They took cover in the drainage ditch that ran alongside the highway, but there was no place to go, there was only one way in or out of the wet lands, and they were pinned down on both sides of the road. One by one they were being picked off while lying in the ditch. The Commander finally stopped his vehicle, after traveling about two hundred yards, and took cover behind his jeep, carrying a set of binoculars.

The Shooter had positioned himself on top of a hill, approximately 500 meters away, and he knew that his next shot would give away his location, but he shot the Commander anyway. He wanted to add to the chaos that the ambush had created.

Half of the men in the ditch began to climb out, trying to outflank the sniper on the hill a few hundred meters away. But moving through the swamp was slow at best, leaving them totally exposed, and they lost seven of their numbers before they had gone a hundred yards.

The fourth truck pulled out of line, and drove around the first three vehicles, and then crashed through the shattered gate to continue on towards Palmares, and several men spat on the body of the Commander as they passed by.

The Shooter was picking them off as quickly as he could, but he knew that it was just a matter of time before his position would be outflanked. He told the Shot Caller that it was time to go, and they went down the backside of the hill, running, slipping, and sliding to the helicopter already prep to go. They were in the air in a matter of seconds, and watched the mercenaries over run their previous position as the helicopter gained altitude and headed for Palmares.

A CIA drone, circling above their heads at a thousand feet, had been recording everything that had transpired that day, starting with the negotiations at the checkpoint. It had been tracking the GPS signal emitting from the Shot Callers thigh. The live video feed had been received at the CIA lily pad station in Columbia, and the Shot Caller's position was relayed to the Operations Officer on board the lead Chinook helicopter out over sea heading for Brazil to extract the Shot Caller.

Two hours later, the Chinese Commandos arrived at the check point, but there were no Brazilian military personnel on the scene, and the mercenaries were attending to their wounded, which consisted of only two men, but there were also twenty two body bags, lying side by side, along the side of the highway. The battle scene would suggest that whomever the mercenaries went up against were clearly professionals, and far superior in tactics, if not numbers, and the execution of the ambush was very effective to say the least. The mercenaries were obviously out maneuvered, and a lack of enemy bodies on display suggested that there were none. The Chinese captain contemplated the situation, and then concluded that perhaps there would not be a need to commit Seppuku after all. After the Chinese Commandos peddled their bikes a safe distance, the Captain ordered his men to pull over to the side of the road, and assemble their automatic weapons. Then they remounted their bikes with a new sense of purpose and resolve, and peddled even faster towards Palmares.

It didn't take long for the Shooter to find the warriors from Palmares. They had gathered at the end of the highway that led to Palmares. He sat the helicopter down next to the road, and sought out their leader, who turned out to be the same man whom they first met the day before when they had first arrived in Palmares. The man's name was Tiago Gomes, a farmer, now turned leader of the defenders of Palmares. He greeted the Shooter as Exu, and was glad to see him. He didn't pay any attention to the Shot Caller. The farmer warrior's numbers had swelled to over 3500 men, but they still lacked enough modern weapons. The Shooter told Tiago to put most of his men out of sight in the jungle bush about a half mile in country, and to leave two hundred men with guns on both sides of the road, hidden in the bush, and another hundred men, in plain sight, to act as decoys on the highway to greet the mercenaries when they arrived by truck. When the fighting begins the hundred men on the road will fall back into the jungle, and the four hundred men, posted on either side of the highway will open fire as the mercenaries dismount from their trucks to chase after the decoys. The mercenaries will have no place to go but to chase after the decoys. The mercenaries should number about a thousand men, all of them well armed with automatic weapons. But once they get into the jungle they will be crowded and confused, and the four hundred warriors will push them forward and gather their weapons as they fall. The mercenaries will be unable to use their weapons effectively because of the close quarters and fear of hitting each other. By the time they reach the main body of warriors, they will be totally confused, and that's when the main force will fall upon them. Three thousand farmers, with primitive weapons, against eight hundred well-armed mercenaries sounded ludicrous, but the Amazon jungle would take its toll on the mercenaries, and hopefully make up the difference. This was the farmer's home territory, and they knew how to use the jungle against them, and in the end it sounded like good odds and so they were.

When the mercenaries finally showed up for battle, they were on foot, having marched from where they left their vehicles, a half mile behind. They had learned their lesson from the check point ambush fiasco, but it didn't make a difference. As soon as they saw the warriors in the middle of the road, they immediately forgot about discipline, and took off after them, and were cut to pieces by the warriors lying in ambush, on both sides of the road. Then the ambushers melted into the jungle. The mercenaries took off in pursuit of the decoys, but it wasn't too long before they became lost, and found themselves at the mercy of the farmers. They were being attacked as they went along, and those who became separated were set upon, and destroyed completely. The main body of troops were led into a trap. They were being forced towards a three hundred foot water fall drop, with no cover on either side. And the farmers were waiting for them. Three thousand black warriors, with knives, spears, and machetes, fell upon them: it was a blood bath. Hand to hand fighting took place on a primeval level, and mercy was not shown on either side. It was a fight to the death, and the surviving mercenaries were forced to jump over the waterfalls to a certain death.

The victorious farmers gathered at the largest Quilombo, and their celebration went on into the night.

Before the first mercenary set foot in Brazil, a deal was made with the Brazilian Military Commander for the defense of Northeastern Brazil. He was paid one million reais, by representatives of Tombias to look the other way, when the mercenaries advanced on Palmares, and another two million reais to send five thousand troops in to help the mercenaries conduct cleanup operations. One could assume that being annihilated would suffice as the necessary threshold having been reached to implement that part of their agreement. An emergency request for a supplemental payment of one million dollars USD, to be transferred to the General's Swiss bank account solidified the deal and the troops were on their way before daylight.

The Shooter and the Shot caller were celebrating the victory in the Big House at the original Quilombo de Palmares, with the leaders of the impromptu farmer's army, when word came in that Brazilian troops were on their way to suppress the Palmares uprising. The troops were still over a hundred miles away, but were expected to be at the outskirts of Palmares by dawn.

The residents of Vidigal had all but been forgotten, and their caravans were clogging the highway to Palmares. The troops could not go around the caravans and there was no place for them to pull over.

The Drug Lord of Vidigal had been in contact with the village elders of Palmares by cell phone, and he had over two thousand armed boys and young men at his disposal. The African culture teaches that a boy of thirteen becomes a man, when he takes on the duties of a man, and the primary roll of a man is to defend his family and village. The commander of the first column decided to just go through them. The drug Lord stopped the caravans, and the women and children went into the forest to hide. His troops, such as they were, doubled back on the first column of Brazilian soldiers, which consisted of 500 men in transport trucks. The Drug Lord's army was well disciplined, which was not too surprising, after all they had been fighting the Rio de Janeiro Special Police Forces, the Bopi, for years in the favelas. Their main tactic was hit and run, which was perfect for the terrain of the Amazon forest. They had surreptitious surrounded the trucks before open firing, and the troops were caught by surprise by their tenacity and willingness to take on casualties to press their assault. They acted like combat veterans and so they were. The boy soldiers were well armed with the latest in weaponry, including RPG's and hand grenades. The Brazilian soldiers were being dealt with and pushed back, to the surprise of their unit commanders. They had to call for reinforcements, who were ambushed on their way to rescue the first units that came under fire, and they themselves got pinned down, and slowly but surely, were being overrun. The field commanders called in for air support and were sent two Blackhawk helicopters that had been retrofitted with air to ground missiles and fifty caliber machine guns in the door way. To everyone's surprise the first helicopter got shot down by an RPG upon its arrival, and the second one had to withdraw because of damage done to the fuselage by small arms fire. The military column had grind to a halt, because of the actions taken by the favela army. The commanders were beside themselves, and couldn't believe that their units had been bested by a ragtag army of boys from the favelas. The army had a mechanize unit stuck at the rear, consisting of two Abrams tanks, that were still on board transport vehicles. They were ordered to move forward and clear the highway, which was easier, said than done. The tanks were ordered to go off road, which proved to be a mistake. It wasn't long before they became bogged down, and were set afire by bottles of pure grain alcohol, thrown by the favela kids. They were use to attacking armor vehicles in the favelas, and were not afraid of the tanks. They picked off the tanks crews as they emerged from the burning wreckage.

The Chinese Commando Captain, in charge of the Bicycle Squad, had received a message with coordinates to where the Shot Caller had been stationary for the past eight hours. They were only twenty minutes away and were determined to finish their mission. The commandos were an odd sight, as they rode through town, especially at that time of the morning. Fortunately for them there was hardly anyone around as they passed through the debris left by the all night celebration from the night before.

Their luck ran out when they approached the Big House. The sentry on duty challenged them when they came within twenty yards, and two other sentries joined him with their weapons leveled at the eight bicyclists, when they were asked for their papers. The two sentries were quickly overcome, but shots were fired at the third sentry as he took cover behind a water cistern in front of the house. The Shot Caller and the Shooter were on the second floor sleeping when they heard shots being fired outside. There were about thirty men inside the Big House at various stages of consciousness, but all of them came awake when a stun grenade was tossed inside the front door.

The Shooter tossed the Shot Caller a Glock semi-automatic pistol with a 33 round magazine, the same kind as he carried. The first Chinese Commando through the door got an arrow through his neck and fell dead to the floor. Three commandos right behind him dove to the floor, shooting as they went down and shot the archer dead. A machete welding teenager had managed to slice one of the three across the face before being cut to pieces. The Shooter opened the door to the main room on the second floor, and the door was shot off of its hinges, and a grenade tossed into the room. The Shot Caller kicked the grenade back out of the room and it immediately exploded, killing two commandos. The Shooter tucked and rolled out of the room and took cover behind one of the dead commandos, while firing down the steps. There was a lot of gun firing going on downstairs, and the Shooter motioned for the Shot Caller to move towards an open window down the hall. Two farmers came out of a room to the left of the Shooter, firing over his head killing two more commandos. The Shot Caller made it to the window and climbed out onto the roof, and then dropped to the ground. Several dozen warriors were running towards the Big House, and two of them grabbed the Shot Caller and pulled him to the side, out of the line of fire. "You no go back to Big House" one of them finally said in broken English. "Exu's orders, keep you safe. No fighting".

The rear of the Big House was on fire, and there was still shooting going on. They had three of the commandoes trapped in the back room, where the fire had stared. The Shooter made it down to the first floor where there were bodies everywhere. Suddenly the back door opened and the last three commandoes came out of the room firing and yelling something that the Shooter didn't quite understand. They were all cut down before they made it ten feet. The captain's last words were "No Hari Kari". Their bodies were searched, and the only thing found was a picture of The Shot Caller. They all looked like Chinese Nationals, and the Shooter recognized a commando when he saw one. The Shooter said out loud "I'll be damned, A Chinese hit team going after my boy. Will wonders ever ceast." This attack meant something but he didn't know what. There were more pressing things at hand, like five thousand troops moving in on them, but he got word from the Elders that the Drug Lord from Vidigal, had stopped the Brazilian army in their tracts, and there was still much fighting going on. The Shooter knew that someone in the Company had betrayed them, someone with direct access to highly classified information. Ten thousand miles away Special Operations' Officer Jack Crush was thinking the same thing. That morning the US Coast Guard Cutter Alex Haley had reappeared, and the Captain could not explain where the ship had been for the past four days. The Captain didn't even know that his ship had been under torpedo attack. He was immediately relieved of duty, pending further investigation. He didn't know a lot of things that needed to be answered, and Jack Crush needed to know who told the Chinese that Alex G Gomez was on that ship, and if they knew about Gomez than they also knew about Operation Harvest Moon.

The Vidigal caravans had managed to break free from the fighting and were heading once again for Palmares. The Drug Lord's army was keeping the Brazilian army from making any rapid advances, using hit and run tactics, but it was just a matter of time before they would be put on the defensive. The Brazilian army's break out came when they put two bulldozers in front to push the automobiles off the road. The Army fielded a thousand men to clear both sides of the road of ambushers hidden in the jungle bush, and the Vidigal army melted into the surrounding forest to regroup and catch up with the caravans.

The Brazilian army was on the move now, and they wanted revenge. They had been humiliated by a ragtag army of kids. The first elements of the Brazilian brigade to reach the outskirts of Palmares went on a rampage. They began burning houses and destroying farms. Anyone that they came upon was executed on the spot. The farmers had been regrouping, and many of them did not know that the Brazilian army was sent to put down a rebellion. By nightfall four thousand men had gathered at a sanctuary deep in the forest. They were angry to find out that they had been labeled traitors and insurrectionist, and had resorted to rebellion to keep land that was no longer theirs to keep. A lot of men had died fighting the mercenaries, and the survivors were committed to fighting the government troops, to the death if need be. A group of men had gone to the Big House to seek council with Exu, their spiritual leader and defender of the faith. The Shooter had gone into a back room on the second floor, to meditate, and he did not want to be disturbed.

There was a commotion out on the streets, as the caravans from Vidigal arrived in town. They were welcomed as heroes, and as brothers and sisters who found their way back home. They did not come empty handed. They brought with them 2000 automatic rifles and ammunition. And enough explosives, MPG's, and hand grenades to supply a small army.

There was a knock on the door, and before the Shooter could answer the door opened, and Lady Manu walked into the room. "Come Exu, we must prepare for the coming battle" she said and held out her hand and the Shooter took it.

She ordered a tub of hot water to be brought to the room and seven large white towels. Three men carried a large wood tub into the room and placed it in the center of the floor. Four women brought eight large pots of hot water and poured the water into the tub. The Shooter hesitantly slipped into the water and three women began to wash him from head to toe. They poured scented oils over his body, and then shaved his whole body from head to toe. They dried him with the seven white towels, and then dressed him in a white cotton shirt and white cotton pants. He slipped on a pair of white leather loafers, and Lady Manu handed him a red silk bandana to wrap around his head. Then she handed him a white Fedora.

Several thousand people had gathered in front of the Big House, and when the Shooter walked out of the house and stood in front of people a hush went through the crowd, and cries of Exu has returned rose from among the gathered throngs. The Shooter had transformed himself once again into Exu, the Lord of the Cross roads, and protector of the faithful. He began to speak and the crowd became quiet, and everyone's hearing was strained to pick up every word. Do not worry about the descendants of the Portuguese slave masters. They have been sent here to receive just payment from the children whose forefathers refused to bow their heads and abandon their gods. They refused to worship the white man's god or to suckle their children, while their own children starved. They refused to bear fruit for the white man's table, while their own families starved. They shook off the whip and chains to come to this land to claim as their own. They gave their lives so that you can call this land your own, and now it is your turn to defend it and pass it on to your children. We will not fail; all of the gods are with us this night, and I am here to guide you in this struggle. I am here to cast a spell on the non-believers; I am here to show them the way, and you are here to send them to hell.

The drums began to beat again and hundreds of people danced around a bon fire started in the middle of the street, and when their numbers had swelled beyond the confines of the town they rushed off to find their enemy; now they were twenty thousand strong, and Exu was at the front of them.

Major Aviaries thought that he heard drums beating off in the distance, and the closer he got to Palmares the louder they became. He was nervous he had never been in combat. He didn't know how he would respond. And that was the main problem with the Brazilian army. None of them had been in combat. Brazil hadn't been in war for over two hundred and forty years. That may sound good to diplomatic ears but it was a shot in the dark as far as military affairs were concern. When men start to die around you become faced with your own mortality, and all that you want to do is live. The farmers had nothing to lose. It was now or never, and even the women joined their men, they all were ready to go down fighting. The Brazilian army had spread out, and chose to move on Palmares from all sides. There was to be no tactical maneuvering or strategic planning, this was putting it all on black; victory or death with one roll of the dice.

Tiago asked Exu what was the plan and he told him, "Find them and kill them where they stand". Five thousand soldiers spread out to take a city the size of Palmares where not deep enough to say the least. The closer they got to Palmares the more resistance they encountered, until finally they were fighting on all sides, they were surrounded. They fought all night and through the dawn, and if they were fighting on flat land the soldiers may have stood a chance. But they were fighting in the wet lands. Twenty thousand plus warriors fell on them like a pack of dogs, and the lighter it got the worse it became. Now there was no place to hide. Exu used his machete, he never fired his gun, and by the time daylight had come he was covered in blood. His white clothing had turned to red. Isolated groups of soldiers had tried to surrender, but they were immediately cut to pieces; no mercy asked and no mercy shown. A few hundred soldiers had managed to make it back to the highway, and some of them ran right pass their own trucks, they were in full retreat and there was no time to stop for anything, they were running for their lives.

By the time Exu and the Shot Caller returned to the Big House it was surrounded by CIA operatives. The sixty Special Forces soldiers had taken up defensive position all around the compound. Within minutes they were surrounded by hundreds of returning warriors. A Captain with the group wanted to see The Shooter and The Shot Caller, and demanded that they be brought to them immediately. Tiago laughed out loud and told them that they were in no position to demand anything, and added that they knew who they were, and that they were no friends of the people.

The Shooter had gone to another house to wash and change his cloths, and he brought the Shot Caller with him, who did the same. By the time they returned to the Big House things were beginning to get out of hand. There were a couple of thousand warriors surrounding the house, and they wanted to kill the Special Forces who they believed had come to take Exu into custody. When the Shooter stepped forward he had changed back to his combat fatigues, and many did not recognize him. He told the crowd that the soldiers were his friends and that there was nothing to fear.

The leader of the group approached the Shooter and told him that they were there to extract him and Mr. Felix G Gomez. The Shooter told him to tell his men to stand down, and before they could go they had a party to attend. They had to celebrate a great victory. Then the Shooter put his arms around the Special Forces captain, and the crowd let out a cheer.

The Special Forces lowered their weapons, with the safeties off, and they kept their distance for the most part, but they maintained a ten man squad among the Shooter and Mr. Gomez. The people partied all night long, with songs and dancing around a bon fire in the square, and there was a lot of shooting in the air, which the Special Forces took in stride. Just before dawn they slipped from the crowd, with the Shooter and The Shot Caller in tow. They were in the air as the sun rose over Palmares, and headed straight for Columbia over land, of course without permission.

Special Operations Officer Jack Crush, contacted the Shooter in flight, and told him that he was glad that everything turned out OK, and told him that they would transfer to waiting jet when they got to Columbia, and that he would meet them at the plane, when they landed in the states. "You have been very busy, but you protected the package, and in the end that's what matters" Jack Crush said and then he hung up the phone.

**************

# Chapter 8

# The Harder They Fall

The US Navy's P-3 Orion Submarine Chaser had begun patrolling a search grid 130 miles off the coast of Brazil one hour after the US Coast Guard Cutter Alex Haley was reported missing. First report indicated that the Alex Haley had been fired upon with two torpedoes that most likely came from a Chinese Attack Submarine that was known to be operating in that general area. A long range fully armed MQ-5 Reaper drone replaced the unarmed P-3 Orion on station, after it ran low on fuel, and the drone continued the search for the submarine throughout the night, and the following day, without success.

Twelve miles off the coast of Praia de Guadalupe, Brazil, the ocean was perfectly calm and perfectly still, creating conditions that allowed a billion stars to dance across the water throughout the night, mirroring the cosmos from below. As the first light of day slipped past the star studded night, the sun's own image came to rest upon the waters, as a submarine's periscope quietly broke the surface.

The horizon shimmered in the distance as the fiery orb took the promise of a new dawn higher, and shed its light upon a group of local fishermen, waiting in the pre-dawn darkness for the new day to begin. One fisherman poised to cast his net was shock to suddenly see a strange object cutting through the water that appeared to be a dorsal fin, coming straight at him. He shook his head and shut his eyes then opened them only to discover that the the object was gone, leaving him dumfounded and confused, but also tremendously relieved. Perhaps it was his imagination or maybe he had drunk too much rum the night before, because now he was hard pressed to convince himself that he had seen anything at all, for there was not even as much as a errant ripple on the water. Then the fisherman in the boat next to his asked him point blank, "Did you see that?"

"Secure periscope, and prepare to dive; take her down 200 feet and hold her steady. On my mark; dive, dive, dive" the Captain yelled, and the crew sprung into action. The crew manned battle stations and the submarine driver eased the steering wheel forward. The Chinese Attack Submarine, The Long March, had responded flawlessly, and Captain Zhang Wei braced himself against a forward bulkhead, with his eyes glued to a digital instrument panel that recorded real time and rate of decent, located above the public address system. The submarine went into a steep dive for exactly 90 seconds, and then leveled off in the depths of the cold blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean, ten miles inside Brazilian territorial waters at a depth of 200 feet, and four miles from the terrorized fishermen.

Eight Chinese commandos, wearing wet suites and oxygen tanks, were packed inside a double door pressure chamber that was built for four, but they still managed to turn on each other's air supply, as cold sea water quickly filled the pressure chamber. Once the pressure inside the chamber matched the outside water pressure the outer door could be open.

The commandos left the chamber one by one, each of them following a trail of bubbles up to a depth of fifty feet below the surface, where they all rendezvous to begin the two mile swim to shore. Their orders were to find and kill Felix Geronimo Gomez at all cost. They didn't have an exit strategy, and they didn't need one; they were expendable, and this they all understood. But Captain Zanghi, the leader of the squad, thought that strategy hadn't been thought all of the way through. What if they succeeded in their mission and no one, other than the target, was killed. Then what? Were they all supposed to commit Hari Kari? No, that wouldn't do. That would be a cultural insult, they were Chinese not Japanese, and they hated the Japanese. They still had time to devise an exit plan, he would think of something.

The Commandos had opted not to procure local transportation, for fear of raising an alarm, but they did received tactical assistance in the form of eight long distance bicycles and rider outfits, supplied by Chinese undercover agents from Rio de Janeiro. How the agents managed to get there so quickly, with the gear in toll, was a mystery. The Commandos still had to travel 80 kilometers to reach Palmares, where their target had been sighted, along with another man who appeared to be a voodoo High Priest.

The commandos headed out from the beach, single file, along highway BR101, looking very much like a local bicycle club out for a morning ride. Each of them carried a disassemble assault rifle in a sack attached to their bikes and a side arm hidden under their riding suite in the nap of their backs. They all were in great shape, and were expected to reach Palmares before night fall. They were told before they left the submarine that the outcome of this mission would determine the future of China for the next hundred years.

An Aqua Negra caravan of forty Duce & quarter trucks passed them by on the highway, and each of them filled with heavily armed mercenaries bound for Palmares. There was only one access road through the Amazon, leading to Palmares, which was highway BR101.

The government had staggered checkpoints along the highway, to stop lumber poachers, but the mercenary trucks would bribed their way through the check points, and the Chinese cyclist made their way around them.

As dawn approached, 3500 warriors, made up of farmers and just plain folk, had responded to Exu's call to assemble at a coconut grove three miles outside of Palmares. The farmers were armed with machetes, swords, bow and arrows, spears, and other potentially lethal weapons, including farming tools, and a few old rifles and pistols; they would be hopelessly outgunned. But each of them was prepared to fight to the death for their homeland. Their superior numbers could only take them so far, but the mercenaries didn't have a secret weapon named Exu on their side.

The Shooter pulled the Shot Caller to the side and told him that he had a mission for him. "So now you got a mission for me. You haven't talked to me for the past eight hours. I thought that you had gone Native on me. Ok, so what's the deal, I owe you". The Shooter showed him his M-40A3 Sniper Rifle and told him that he needed a spotter. "You need a spotter for what? Awe man, I knew you was a killer. But damn, you got skills Bro" the Shot Caller said as he looked over the rifle in more detail. "Where did you get this thing? Damn Bro, there ain't nothing up close and personal about this thing" the Shot Caller said in awe. "I sent one of the men back to get it from the helicopter. I got 12 hundred rounds of ammunition to go with it" the Shooter said as he took it back from the Shot Caller. "There is a check point about ten miles outside of town, with a hill about a quarter mile away from it. We flew over it before we landed. "I figure that Tombias henchmen will be coming in trucks, straight up the 101. "The Elders of the village told me about their last contact with the Agua Negra henchmen working for Tombias, and it wasn't pretty. Most of them aren't even Brazilians. They come from all over South America working as hired guns. A few of them got combat experience from working in Africa; they already got blood on their hands, and a little more won't matter to them. They can do whatever they want out here. The fix is in; the officials in Pernambuco don't like the Quilombos. They don't pay their taxes and they do whatever they want, just as they always have done. Their ancestors were runaway slaves and they stopped running when they decided to carve this niche out of the jungle, some 400 years ago, and defend it to the end. And they have been fighting to keep it ever since then. They were the ones who planted the trees, way back then; they planted the coconuts trees and the Palm trees, and the banana trees. They refused to plant soybeans because the soy beans took over everything, and strangled the other crops. The soybeans depleted the soil, and created a need for ever expanding farm land. But the people said no, well, most of them did. A lot of them had their land stolen from them, and were tricked into signing their land away for next to nothing. If you don't have land to work on, and feed yourself and your family, then you have to move and go on chasing a dream, which a lot of them did. They moved down to the big cities, like Rio and Sal Paulo, and ended up in the favelas selling their bodies and dope, selling anything to get by." The Shooter had said a mouth full, more than he had said the entire time that the Shot Caller had been with him, and he was impressed.

"So, what is the plan? The Shot Caller asked. "Well first, we got to stop them from killing us all. No need to plan beyond that for the moment, first things first" The Shooter put it succinctly.

The CIA had two Chinook Helicopters in the air, outbound from their Columbian Lily Pad (remote staging area), carrying sixty six Delta Force troops heading for Palmares to extract the Shooter and the Shot Caller. But they had a problem, they couldn't get permission to fly over Brazilian territory, so they had to add on an extra thousand miles distance and time to refuel, and go out to sea, around Brazil, and come in from the ocean and make a direct approach at tree top level to reach Palmares. There was going to be plenty of political flack to deal with after the deed was done, but the Company could not afford to lose The Shot Caller at this stage of the game. Come hell or high water they were going to get him out. The CIA had put in a request to have a satellite reposition over Palmares, but it would take 24 hours to get it done. In the mean time they had two drones, armed with Hell Fire missiles, circling overhead, which didn't do much good, because the Amazon forest canopy hid everything down below.

"So tell me something Shooter? Why are we doing this? The Shot Caller quietly asked. The Shooter took off the white Fedora and scratched his head. "To tell you the truth, I don't know why. I always had an affinity for these people, and their ways" the Shooter replied." I even dress up like one of the high priest when the situation accommodates it. When I am working in Brazil it allows me access to people and things that otherwise I couldn't get to, without a lot of unnecessary bull shit. I am telling you trade secrets now, and I might have to kill you when I am done." The Shot Caller took a hard look at him. Not knowing if he was joking. The Shooter kept a straight face for a second or two, and then burst out laughing. "Yea, I had you going" the Shooter said before laughing out loud again. "That's not funny, man. I know you are no joke, but shit man please don't do that again. I almost shit in my pants." The Shooter told him that he hadn't talked to anyone like this, probably because when he meets new people, it's on the job and they don't last too long. The Shooter continued "I am not a religious man but there is something to this Quimbanda and the black arts. When I get all dressed up in white and I pull down that brim on the Fedora, I am no longer myself, it's as if someone or something has taken over. When I find myself in that state of mind I can do no wrong, and I am unstoppable." "Damn man, it's like that" the Shot Caller said in wonder. "When I came home from Viet Nam, I was a changed man. I was already working for the Company and doing my thing, and nothing else mattered. All that I did was kill people. It didn't matter who else got hurt. Men, women, children, they all had to go, and I was good at it, maybe too good? It got to the point that nothing mattered, not even my life, and one night I was in Fortaleza, in Northeastern Brazil, tracking this drug dealer. He had gone home to visit his family. He was on the run, and he knew better. But he still went home and I was waiting for him.

His family lived in this shithole, in the hills, about an hour outside of town. When I burst in I was ready to do them all, but this little girl took one look at me and yell out Exu it's you, and she ran to me. She had her arms wrapped around my legs, and I had a nine mm in my hand, and then I notice that they were holding a black mass ritual. All of them were sitting around a table with red and white candles burning on top of it, and drinking rum and Cachca. They also had a doll sitting on the table, and the little girl said that it was me, and that she knew that I would come, and that I would not hurt her big brother. The drug dealer just stood there, and looked at me, pleading with his eyes, for me not to do it. He knew that if I did him then I would have to do them all, his mother, father, sisters and brothers, eleven of them in all. The little girl said that they were praying that Exu would change his mind because they knew that they could not harm Exu. I had been standing there, way too long, maybe two minutes. I didn't know it then but I know it now, I had already made up my mind not to kill them.

In fact I did feel like a god. I had the power of life and death over these people that I didn't even know, and then something clicked inside my head; if indeed I was a god to them, then I had the power to forgive them as well and let them live, and be damn what others had to say about this situation. And I went with it. I had always thought that the ultimate power was to take a life, but suddenly I realized that anybody can kill anyone, so the ultimate power had to be the power to give life not to take it, only a chosen few had the power to give life.

Needless to say, I let him live, and in a way I also let myself live. Now I had a choice. I am telling you all of this because my first assignment was not to babysit you, but to kill you, and I chose not to." The Shot Caller sat there dumb founded. "So tell me, are you going to change your mind again. I am just saying. I need to know where we stand, for the duration" the Shot Caller asked, not knowing what the response would be. "We are good from here on out" the Shooter said and he meant it. "Damn Bro, you know how to shake a brother up. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but I am with you. And from what you told me I think these brothers need all of the help that they can get, but I don't want to die in the process. You feel me? "Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die, yea brother, I feel you" the Shooter said and handed the Shot Caller a box of ammunition.

***************

# Chapter 9

# They All Fall Down

#

Jack Crush was Special Operations Deputy Chief for the CIA's Clandestine Unit, which was top secret for those with a need to know, and after two years holding down that position, he was still in the process of wrapping his head around certain fact based realities that came with the title, the number one fact being, don't trust anybody.

Jack Crush possessed a bit of notoriety among his fellow spooks, although they would never acknowledge it. As a matter of fact they would never admit that they had seen certain after action reports marked, classified information, let alone acknowledge that his personal technique for administering cunnilingus was the number one topic of discussion on more than one occasion. His alleged escapade, involving two female Bulgarian attachés, was the stuff of legend along Embassy Row, and a hot topic of discussion among the alphabet spy Agencies in Washington DC. No one was surprise, everybody knew that the government couldn't keep a secret.

Jack Crush had a reputation as being a ladies man, and was known as the human elixir, an enabler extraordinaire. It was rumored that he was able to reduce a female inhibitions, with verbal suggestions, that prodded the target's subconscious to stimulate the pituitary gland to release endorphins into the blood stream, which rendered the person amenable to suggestions, like human putty in the hands of a master sculptor, on the level of a modern day Leonardo.

In his presences people forgot who they were talking to, and revealed things that ordinarily they would have taken to the grave, rather than reveal to a perfect stranger, and five minutes later they couldn't remember exactly what had just transpired. He understood simplicity and subtle manipulation, and he communicate with shared whispers, innuendos, nods, and winks, and sometimes a flattering pat on the ass. He also knew how to put fear in men, and doubt into the hearts of those who should have known better, and he relied on the fact that a chain was only as strong as its weakest link.

The brass operated from the position of cover your ass and plausible deniability, which was an unspoken caveat attached to every operation run from the clandestine unite. Ignore this fact, and you put your own ass at risk, which didn't bid well for ingratiating oneself to the powers that be.

It took an overabundance of mental agility to assuage ruffled feathers on a raging bull, and the first step to accomplishing this amazing feat was to acknowledge that there did exist a bull with feathers, raging or otherwise engaged, you still had to learn to ride it.

Jack Crush's self-confidence agitated the brass, but they also realized that they had to answer to the three wise men, it was a double edge sword, nobody had ever seen them, and that they really had no choice but to appease them in the end. He kept the three wise men happy with his continued success, and timely altruistic discretion.

So when it came time for them to look the other way he incurred no resistance. The top brass became less intrusive than three porcelain monkeys sitting in a gift shop, hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. He compensated the powers that be for any minor transgressions by being a natural born killer and a master tactician with flawless execution. Manipulation and deceit came to him as easy as tears to a child, and he appreciated the fact that he was able to keep his superiors dumbfounded, believing that he would rather die than betray the chain of command. So far, karma and good fortune, had resisted putting his professed loyalty to the test.

His line of work afforded him the opportunity to fulfill a deep seeded need to be the tip of the spear, to draw first blood, and to strike fast and deep. Even when the shit hit the fan, like a mad dog with a bone, he wouldn't let go until he was done with it, and then he would bury it deep, and like a good covert agent, he made it all disappear, without leaving a trail to follow or trace evidence, and that's why the three wise men loved him so.

He was no stranger to Andrews AFB, which served as home base for Air Force One, which actually consisted of two identical Boeing VC25As jet aircraft. One plane served as the designated primary aircraft, and the second plane, with identical equipment, served as a redundant mobile command center, for the President of the United States. Andrews AFB also played host to the private fleet of several government agencies, prominent among them being the CIA.

Security personnel boasted of having 1800 surveillance cameras set up within the base perimeter, recording everything that moved in real time from several different angles. Security was the top priority on the military base, and security measures with less than 100% effectiveness would not be tolerated.

The vehicle cresting the top of the hill was immediately detected as moving too fast, not by a high tech camera, but by an Apache Indian. Master Sergeant Johnny Onelightfoot was a full blooded American Indian, and a member of the Apache Nation, with eighteen years of service in the United States Air Force. In spite of the consternation of Father McGinnis, who ran the Christian English language school on the reservation, he joined the service when he turned 18 years old. He was a young Indian buck, who always had his head in a book. It was his way to escape the confinement of the reservation. The adventure books that Father McGinnis gave the young boy to read took him around the world without ever leaving tribal land, and one day the boy decided that he wanted more, so he tore a page from a recruiting magazine and hitch a ride to town, and joined the US Air Force. Father McGinnis told the young boy that he would never be a pilot and fly one of those jet planes that he was always talking about, and he never did, but for what it was worth, he did get to see the world, and 18 years later he was two years shy of racking up twenty years of active duty service.

He watched the vehicle from the check point below, as it accelerate to 50 mph in a 25 mph zone, which only exacerbated the situation. He walked out to the median strip, and posted up squarely, and then he waited for the vehicle to arrive at the fork in the road.

The driver had unwontedly brought attention to himself, not to mention putting his activity on point. He clearly did not understand the ramifications of attracting attention in a high security zone, such as Andrews AFB. Especially while on duty in the service of the CIA. The act of drawing attention to oneself, through carelessness or inappropriate behavior, was tantamount to committing treason. The driver was part of a culvert unit, and the commencement of play should not be announced by the ringing of a bell. Some old school operatives would have had the driver duck taped and removed from the scene permanently, removing all doubt about his loyalty. But in today's post-cold war theatre of subterfuge mimicking the sublime, codifying acceptable behavior in the shadow game was a bridge too far in conceptual thinking; no one was held accountable for one's own omissions, notwithstanding plausible deniability in the assessment of collateral damage brought about by friendly fire.

Master Sergeant Onelightfoot recognized the vehicle as belonging to the CIA. It was not the first time he had notice the license plate ending in ICU moving around base, and the speeding offense was not as serious as it could be made to be, but he did have a conflict of interest. He didn't want to ruffle the feathers of the CIA, yet he had superiors to answer to, if that came to be, and he had witnessed the speeding violation, arguably not a capital offense, but one that had to be dealt with immediately. Seven security cameras had recorded the incident, and no doubt, multiple I-pads and WiFi tablets were monitoring the situation at that very moment. What the Indian did next would be downloaded, scrutinize, and perhaps twisted beyond recognition much later.

Even minor traffic violations, left unaddressed, could lead to unexpected complications. Andrews AFB was a high security conscious military installation, with a heavy concentration of upper echelon types, both foreign and domestic, traversing the air base all hours of the day and night. The belief in equal application of the law was a fundamental asset or a clever rouge in securing the trust and cooperation among such a diverse group of talented people, which also help to keep the base operations running smoothly, with complaints and whining held to a minimum.

The semblance of law and order had to be maintained or at least the propriety of justice being served without public vetting of cumbersome compromise or answering awkward questions pertaining to mitigating circumstances. A matter of perception can be easily misinterpreted, especially if your actions are the recipient of undo revisions of routine events, manipulated by opportunist with self-promoting agendas. Performing one's duty in a fish bowl environment didn't necessarily preclude one from taking discretionary measures, but it didn't promote full disclosure either. To do nothing could be taken as a sign of weakness or worst yet as a sign of missed opportunity, and in the world of work place politics, as practice in a small but highly stressed military environment, the later was a much more damnable offense.

Master Sergeant Onelightfoot stepped forward, and held up his hand, which brought the careening vehicle to a screeching halt. A cursory inspection of the operator's driver license, satisfied the air policeman's perfunctory duty, and although it had no bearing on the matter at hand, the Master Sergeant had recognized Special Operations Chief Jack Crush of the CIA, sitting in the front seat of the SUV, on the passenger's side. Jack Crush never opened his mouth, nor did he have cause to communicate with the sergeant as he conducted his inspection.

Ten seconds later the sergeant raised the check point barrier and waved the vehicle through; possible future consideration won over strict adherence to the letter of the law; and if his decision left him in a favorable light with the Special Operations Chief, then the cameras be damned.

The vehicle began to move forward, and Jack Crush gave the sergeant a faint nod of appreciation and a wink of recognition, and the guard delivered a smart salute in return. Master Sergeant Johnny Onelightfoot begun honing his ingratiating skills, after the last time that he was skipped over for promotion.

He had come to the conclusion that perhaps he would never learned how to get respect from the white man, but now he would rely more on Indian ways. It wasn't necessary for the tail to wag the dog, just because the opportunity presented itself, and the white man expected him to do it.

As the Air Policeman began to fade in the rearview mirror, and also in Jack's own short term memory, Jack asked himself 'Who was in charge" a rhetorical question in deed, but none the less, one that needed answering. Recent events had begun to test his not so endurable faith in the ability of the CIA to implement a new world order. He had been with the agency long enough to know of its extraordinary capabilities and unfortunately to have participated in several of its most intractable accomplishments.

The lacked of plausible deniability, often laid bare its highly demonstrable capabilities that far too often exceeded its mandate. It was a known fact among the world's spy agencies that the Company had a heavy hand in changing the fate of countless countries around the globe, and he realized that the Company had more than a finger on the scale of history, and its legendary prowess had not merely been limited to manipulating Banana Republics or Coconut regimes in the southern hemisphere, but had played a major role in the most coveted prize of all, that of manipulating the down fall of the Soviet Union. But this thing that was happening in Brazil was on another level altogether, one that he had trouble fully comprehending.

Loose ends that harbored empirical knowledge of clandestine operations would not be tolerated. And now he was on his way to exert the Company's will upon the two individuals who were key elements to the success or failure of Operation Harvest Moon.

The vehicle began to pick up speed, and the driver manage to navigate the remaining distance to the flight line without further incident. They eventually came to a stop in an isolated area, across the road from a chain link fence that separated the flight line from the rest of base operations. An asphalt road ran parallel to the flight line for over a mile in either direction, without a twist or turn to slow a vehicle down or to give pause to a properly motivated driver, the kind of rookie candidates that the CIA attracted in droves. Considerations would always be made for the candidate that showed that extra effort of self-motivation, the kind that would jump at the chance to chase jet aircraft down a runway like a dog chasing cars, just because he did what he was told to do. This type of mind set was what the Company looked for in its most promising recruits, those who wouldn't hesitate to jump out of an air plane a mile high in the sky and go kill another human being without asking his name.

Some say it all started when the CIA began using human spotters, riding in fast cars, to chase the U2 spy planes down runways upon landings, to communicate with pilots who could not see the edge of the runway, because of the location of the cockpit and the unusual long length of the U2 wings, that actually overlapped the edge of the runway where the pilots could not see.

At Andrews AFB, the runway and the asphalt road ran side by side, separated by fifty feet of underbrush, directional lights and dirt, for over two miles, long enough for a slightly deranged individual to chase a jet to get that adrenalin rush before the jet plane leaped into the air, leaving him behind in near post coito bliss.

About seven hundred feet down the runway there was an auxiliary road, used by fire trucks, to gain entrance to the runway in case of emergency. For a quarter mile a vehicle could actually race a plane on the runway, side by side, and exit back to the main road before the plane achieved lift off. It was dangerous, but that's what separated the men from the boys, but what separated the sane from the demented, was the ability to take it a step further. It was rumored that in the early days a couple of fools had actually started at the opposite end of the runway, in a game of chicken, trying to achieve nirvana before the jet plane achieved lift off.

The vehicle turned right, and just as fate would have it, a jet plane was just beginning its roll, gaining speed with every mille second, trying to break free from the runway and gravity. The driver, definitely a rookie, had been primed with the U2 folklore back at Langley. He resisted every impulse to stomp down on the gas pedal and just go for it, but he was of that new breed, well-educated and highly polished and only capable of breaking the speed limit to demonstrate his rebellious nature, ever fearful of the consideration that his boss was sitting in the seat, right next to him, so he just cooled it.

Jack Crush was not a bona fide bureaucrat, and lately self-doubt was nibbling as his self-image of a diehard field agent. The truth be told he was one of the fools, who played chicken on this very same runway, so many years ago, and now he sat there wishing that just for once he could pick a winner who would have the balls to say to hell with it and just go for it, and perhaps then he would have found a kindred soul in all of this chaos, and then it started to rain.

The rain was threatening a deluge all night long, and finally delivered on its promise. It drenched the entire area with a steady downpour that threaten to summon the animals in pairs, and rendered the driver's view of the road as reliable as eyes on a bat in broad daylight, and even with the window washers going full blast it was all the driver could do to stay on the road, but still he failed to heed the warning of the rain to slow the vehicle down. But as with all inequities in life, fate chose not to make an example of him, but chose instead to reinforced the cliché that God protects babies and fools.

The runway was shut down by the rain for the most part, and all but deserted except for a stand by ground crew left milling about with nothing to do, until they got the call to meet an inbound corporate jet, now on finale approach to Andrews.

The men inside the SUV's were well trained and ready to rock and roll, but their assignment was a simple escort, pick up, and delivery. They had been trailing the first vehicle, acting as escort, since before the check point stop. Even though they had been told different, the word had gotten out that they were to pick up two bad hombres that had been extracted from a firefight down in South America, involving the Brazilian Army. Wither or not they were rogue elements or Company assets caught in the mix, remains to be seen. But somebody upstairs wasn't taking any chances, and the agent were told that the passengers might be armed and dangerous, and not to be taken lightly. The men put on their game faces as the vehicles approached the parking area reserved for private aircraft.

The wind had picked up considerably, which turned the rain into diagonal sheets of water and ice that blew fiercely across the flight line with chilling affect every time the storm brought thunder and lighting. The vehicles finally arrived at the aircraft parking area, which consisted of a new tarmac surface, recently poured and packed within the past twenty four hours. The scent of fresh tar still hung heavy in the air in spite of the rain, and the men made adjustments to their breathing as best they could, while they waited for the plane to arrive.

Jack Crush watched from the front seat of his SUV as a corporate jet was directed by illuminating light wands waving in the dark, to a spot directly in front of him. The plane was immediately surrounded by agents standing in the rain, wishing that they could shoot something, while they waited for the jet's engines to shut down and the passengers to disembark. As soon as the cabin door opened, two men were hustled from the plane, right pass two customs officials waiting on the tarmac, soaking wet, and hurriedly ushered into one of the SUVs, that immediately sped off into the night as soon as the front door slammed shut.

"Welcome home Boys" Special Operations Officer Jack Crush of the CIA said over his shoulder, while looking very much like a soccer Mom picking up her children, who had just returned from a sunny Mediterranean vacation. The greeting apparently fell on deaf ears, for no one replied.

The Shooter looked off into space as he slowly rotated the brim of a white Fedora hat that he held in his hands. He seemed unfazed by events unfolding around him, and continued to focus on an imaginary object suspended in space somewhere in front of him. Jack Crush started to say something, but then thought better of it, and continued to wait in silence, as the black man with the white Fedora hat continued to meditate, undisturbed, in his wrinkled white suite. His companion had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as he sat down in the van. Prior events and the stressful trip had taken its toll, and now he was completely exhausted and out of touch with his surroundings.

The vehicles proceeded off base at a high rate of speed, past the turnpike entrance a half mile down the road, and continued to gobble up the blacktop road as they ran parallel to the airbase for another quarter mile. Both vehicles maintained a constant speed of 70 mph, with ten foot spacing between them. Maintaining a high rate of speed, while transporting passengers, was an anti-terrorist tactic meant to impede any terrorist from doing what exactly, always remained a mystery to the man in the wrinkled white suite, better known as the Shooter.

It wasn't as if they could out run an RPG, he reminded himself as he sat in the back of the SUV looking out the window, his meditation done for the day. The two vehicles moved as one, and quickly disappeared into the night. The Shooter recognized that they were following protocol, as practiced by every security apparatus in the Middle East. Everything was done by the book, which also told The Shooter that the CIA thought they were in eminent danger, a high risk priority target, and anything could go down, so he had better stay alert.

"I can only assume that somebody wants us dead. And this is your feeble attempt to thwart any move poised against us. I think that I would be better off if you just pulled over to the side and let me out." The Shooter said to Jack Crush as seriously as he could. "And you probably would be right, except that you are still on a mission to protect the Shot Caller" agent Crush answered, with just as much conviction.

Protect me and the Shot Caller. Otherwise why the heighten security measures The Shooter said, finally breaking his silence, but got no reply. Instead he got 5 minutes of Stand Up, courtesy of the CIA. Life is a bitch and then you die. "Why hello Mr. Exu, aka the Great Protector of the disenfranchise masses of Brazil. I see that you have decided to share your physically and mental presence with us mere mortals.

I understand that there wasn't much time for you to dilly or dally or even change your clothes when the extraction team came and got you out of Palmares. It seems as though you two guys have been involved in one improbable situation after another, not to mention a number of international incidents that if brought to light, would have compromised clandestine operations for years to come." Jack Crush started in all nice and easy and then continued "If any one of a number of hostile groups aligned against the United States could have gotten their hands on you, and mind you they were trying, you would be in some hell hole right about now, drinking your own urine, and begging them to just put an end to it. The number of times that Brazil's domestic and international boarders have been violated by you two guys or somebody chasing you in the past seven days would make a Copacabana Whore's track record look like an itemized deduction on an application for the nunnery. One more border incursion and Hugo Chavez would have had been forced to throw himself on the mercy of the United Nation's Security Council begging for UN intervention in the name of Pan American unity." "What's this" Felix Gomez broke in, now wide awake "The CIA Comedy Hour? This past week has not been a joke. I didn't know what I was getting into when I first hooked up with you, but god damn, you should have told me something."

"Now, who's joking?" Operations Officer Jack Crush said totally out of character. "You two helped the residents of Palmares. Ordinary farmers mind you. You helped them to kick the Brazilian's army's ass. They out maneuver, out fought and decimate the Brazilian Army Battalion in a face to face knock down dragged out fight. Which the Brazilian army should have easily won, and in the process you aided an indigenous group of farmers, whose ancestors were former runaway slaves, to mount an insurrection in the god damn Amazon jungle. I mean all of this is quite laudable if not quite believable and just too damn funny not to be true".

The Shooter began to speak not at all amused "You hired me to do a job, and in the course of carrying out my assignment shit happened."

Jack Crush cut in "And we have no idea what you did to ruffle The Chinese Secret Service feathers". The Shooter had heard enough and broke in to set the record straight, "The Chinese sent in an eight man hit team to get us in Palmares, and we did what we had to do. And even though I don't have a shred of evidence to prove it, I do believe that we were fired upon by a Chinese submarine while leaving the Alex Haley. Who else had the resources or the nerve to do something so dangerous and so stupid, the Shooter asked Agent Crush. After all, we are not independent contractors. We work for you. So consider the source. "Save that for your debriefing" Agent Crush told the Shooter, apparently the comedy hour was over.

"We didn't know about the Chinese Hit Team." agent Crush said without a trace of remorse in his voice. It was hard to tell who was who or what was going on with all that was going on. A lot of strange things have taken place this past week. But one thing has become crystal clear is that the Chinese have shown a deadly interest in Mr. Gomez, which in turn has earned them our undivided attention, considering Mr. Gomez's role in a highly classified operation that has yet to be confirmed or denied by the Company. They have developed an inexplicable interest in Mr. Gomez's welfare, which can only mean that they know something that they shouldn't know or they believe that Mr. Gomez will lead them to something that will require them to get a bigger boat. This can only mean trouble for us. And it also means that we have a leak. Its one thing to be on the hot list of a foreign power, and quite another to be wanted by our own domestic armed service, namely the United States Navy. They have taken a keen interest in your immediate future, and have summoned you two to appear before their review board at Naval Headquarters in Miami on Friday.

The three vehicles crossed the Virginia state line, and continued on the back roads for another forty minutes before coming upon a CIA suburban safe house tucked away in the woods. The house laid a hundred yards off the main road with 25 foot pine trees lining both sides of the driveway. The house was a two story affair, with a closed in subterranean garage that could easily accommodate six vehicles. All three SUVs entered the garage, and were met by four other agents. All of them carried automatic weapons and side arms. An entrance led from the garage directly into the house. There were three windows from which you could view the outside and you had command of the exterior area surrounding the house, all of the way up to the tree line, about forty feet away. The second floor contained two small bedrooms and a safe room. It was more like a bank vault within a room. It contained its own air and water supply, and it was made of four inches of corrugated steel wrapped in three feet of concrete and all of this sat in a steel framed container sitting on its own coasters. Nobody was getting in or out.

The Debriefing team showed up twenty minutes after they settled in and decided to separate the Shooter and the Shot Caller and interview them separately.

They asked him his name and he simple replied The Shooter. This was his operational code name and the only name that he was known by at the agency. After several attempts to get a different answer Agent Crush stepped in and told them that The Shooter would do. The Shooter began to tell them word for word what had transpired the past seven days and after a couple of minutes they stopped the interview and told the Shooter that they were going off record. The Shooter told them the whole story, and at the end of the interview they presented him with a hand written copy of the interview which he refused to sign.

They told him that he had to sign it and he told them that since it was off the record he wasn't signing a damn thing.

Finally they gave in and interviewed Felix Geronimo Gomez aka the Shot Caller. They got basically the same story as told by the Shooter and Felix also refused to sign the affidavit. Agent Crush told the Shot Caller that regardless of what he had experienced this past week he was still an asset for the Company, ands plans had been made that will be carried out. After his appearance before the Naval Board he would be heading back to California. Nothing had changed as far as that was concern. Operation Harvest Moon would go ahead as planned.

On the previous night, two middle age Chinese gentlemen, and a male aide stood in the arrival zone at Miami International Airport, patiently waiting for ground transportation. They had recently arrived from Rio de Janeiro, in a Chinese Government jet plane, with only one piece of luggage that their aide had to contend with. A medium size black leather bag on wheels, never left his side. It wasn't long before a black limousine pulled to the curb, and the Chinese party was ushered into the limousine by two attendants. They were driven to South Beach to dine among the beautiful people at an upscale restaurant by the name of The Villa. The Chinese were treated with the up most care and shown to a sumptuous table covered with sweets and delicacies in an expansive room decorated with finely sculptured marble statues of Centurions and detailed murals of ancient Rome. Four servants attended to them and never left their side. Soon they were joined by a well dress man, who introduced himself as an emissary of their host, who would be joining them shortly.

The aide recognized the man from the limousine ride earlier he had ridden in the front seat along with the limousine driver. Soon they were joined by Anthony Belzoni, the undisputed crime boss of Miami. The Mafioso had a penchant for the good life, and didn't much care about what others thought. What he did care about was making money, and he didn't care who he had to go through to make it.

The Chinese aide spoke perfect English and acted as interpreter. He introduced the Chinese gentlemen as General Lui of the Chinese People Liberation Army and minister Chow Lin Fat of the Chinese Ministry of State Security. The aide told the crime boss that the two gentlemen requested the meeting with Mr. Belzoni to underscore the importance of the subject to be discuss and how it would affect them.

Mr. Belzoni was then given an accurate and detailed description of his own drug organization, and its activities, starting with his Columbian jungle lab connections to the smuggling operations that brought his product to market in the USA. Then he was told about operation Harvest Moon, and all of its implications. He didn't have to be told that he would be put out of business, which also would include his heroin business connection from Thailand. Through the interpreter Mr. Belzoni was told that he was a regional player and that there was nothing that he could do to stop the CIA from implementing Harvest Moon, but on the other hand China had worldwide influence and would be able to tap into its network of operatives. They would be able to stop the CIA before they had a chance to begin, if only a couple of things could be dealt with first.

Mr. Belzoni was a smart businessman, and understood full well the threat that Operation Harvest Moon posed to his organization, but in the end he did not understand what was expected of him, and he told his guess as much. General Lui told Mr. Belzoni, in perfect English, that they wanted him to eliminate Mr. Felix Geronimo Gomez from the equation. Without Mr. Gomez and his family's smuggling operations Operation Harvest Moon could not succeed. They wanted him to kill Mr. Gomez while he was in custody of the CIA, and they wanted him to do it tomorrow. General Lui explained the complications that would ensue if the killing could be traced back to the Chinese, even if there was no hard evidence to support such a position. Even the hint of Chinese impropriety would be disastrous for all concerned, and had to be avoided at all cost. And to facilitate the operation they were prepared to offer four million dollars to Mr. Belzoni immediately, and ten million more when the job was done. Without further discussion the black bag was pushed under the table to Mr. Belzoni's associate, who then laid his hands upon it, after Mr. Belzoni nodded his head, as acknowledgement that they had a deal.

Mr. Belzoni then asked The General a rhetorical question, who could stop him if he decided to just take the four million dollars and walk out of the door. The General looked at Mr. Belzoni and Mr. Belzoni looked back at him. Then the General looked at the minister. Then all three of them burst into laughter. And then the General said, half-jokingly, that a prudent man would not want one and a half billion Chinese people to become their enemy.

The meeting was over and Mr. Belzoni decided to escort the two gentlemen and their aide to their waiting limousine. When the two Chinese gentlemen got up from the table, six other men in the dining room also stood up and walked to their side, and escorted the old men to their limousine as they left the restaurant. It was only then that their host understood that the Chinese gentlemen did not come alone. It also was a testament to the abilities of the Chinese secret service, who had found the location of the meeting place, and managed to put their people in place before anyone else had arrived.

When they got outside a white limousine pulled up to the curb, along with two escort vehicles. Four Chinese body guards got out to assist them. Then all ten body guards got into several vehicles and drove off with their mentors.

Mr. Belzoni stood at the curb with three of his associates, with the black bag on the ground next to him, and as the white limousine blended into traffic, he said to no one in particular that three billion chop sticks was a lot of timber to carry on your shoulders.

The Chinese gentlemen were driven directly to the airport where they boarded a flight to Rio de Janeiro. Once airborne the aide told the General that arrangements had been made to deliver the message to the CIA.

A silent trip wire had been set off at the outer perimeter, located 50 yards into the woods facing the rear of the house. The dogs were set loose and within five minutes their yelping had stopped. Four men were sent from the house to flush out the intruders. A signal had been sent to Langley, and reinforcements were expected to arrive within twenty five minutes.

The men in the house took up defensive positions. The Shooter and the Shot Caller armed themselves and took cover on the second floor, down the hallway from the Safe Room. Both dogs were found unconscious but alive, they had been shot with tranquilizers, but no trace of the intruders could be found. Agents Mike Joiner and Alan Mekiko had circled the compound, and were working their way back to the rear of the house, when both of them were hit with paint balls, and a voice from the bush told them to lay down their weapons, and that they were now confirmed kills. Three men emerged from behind trees, dressed in camouflage uniforms, and armed with what appeared to be automatic weapons, but with one major exception, their weapons were fitted with paint gun attachments. The two agents looked at each other and then leveled their weapons at the intruders, who immediately recognized that their guns were real.

A second search of the perimeter found a third man sitting in a tree, trying to look very inconspicuous, except that his black ninja outfit didn't blend well with the white birch tree that he was sitting in.

They brought the intruders back to the house and after a brief interrogation the intruders told them everything they wanted to know, except that there wasn't that much for them to tell. They didn't know anything. Their leader's name was Dr. Erwin Douglas, he was a veterinarian, and acting president of the Avenging Splat Angels paint gun club, whose members often participated in aggressive combat scenarios on the weekends with other likeminded paint gun club enthuses. They prided themselves on realism, and the authentic approach to executing real life tactics in combat situations, which was taught to them by retired Staff Sergeant McKnight of the Army reserves, who had seen action in the first Iraqi War.

McKnight had been contacted by a man named Fitz, from an organization calling themselves The Ultimate Paint Ball Army Conglomeration. He was told that the UPBAC sponsored regional competition for cash, and that McKnight's group could pocket $5,000 just for showing up. They competed for cash and bragging rights, and were sponsored by paint ball equipment manufacturing companies. They were invited to participate in an attack on a well-fortified command center in the Virginia woods, which turned out to be the safe house. The wining team would win $5000 if they could capture the house and surrounding area, and raise their flag over the command center. They were given a blueprint of the house and surrounding area and briefed on what to expect defensively. But there was no mention of attack dogs. The Doc being a veterinarian, always carried animal tranquilizers with him, and when the first dog appeared he climbed a tree, while the rest of his group left the combat zone in total disarray. The veterinarian shot each dog as they came under the tree, and then he climbed down and tried to make a run for it. But he heard the men in pursuit and climbed the white birch tree, and that's where they found him. He was turned over to investigators when back up arrived from Langley.

Jack Crush pulled the Shooter to the side and told him to meet him in the Safe Room. Once there the Shooter had a few questions of his own for the Operations Officer. "Do you have any idea who is the mole?" the Shooter asked agent Crush. Jack Crush didn't say a word and pointed to the light fixture. They stepped outside of the room and agent Crush told the Shooter to follow him outside. "The house is bugged and someone sent the paint ball army, and that someone has to be an insider with top secret clearance. Someone above my pay grade" agent Crush said while keeping an eye focused on the nearby woods. "Sooner or later they are going to come at us, for real. I figure that it must be the Chinese, but it could be anyone. Once Operation Harvest Moon goes into effect there will be a lot of reshuffling of the deck. More important than the money that illicit drugs generates is the influence that comes with it.

The Shooter held up his hand and Jack Crush paused long enough for the Shooter to say something. "The problem with people who are running the show is that they want it all. They want to control everything, and this, ultimately, cannot be. Karma and the spirits will not allow it. No matter what you think or what you believe, there will always be a Ying and a Yang, a push and a pull in the universe, a beginning and an ending, a time to give and a time to take. Mankind is the only animal that thinks that he can control his own destiny, and he is the only animal that will fall into the same hole twice. You cannot always take what you want and expect to be replenish the next time you come looking sustenance.

Operation Harvest Moon is a template for greed and disaster, and it will not succeed because it goes against the natural order of things. The Americans will have their share, perhaps even the lion's share, but they will not have it all to themselves. My role in this scenario will be limited to what we already have agreed to, and that is to protect Felix Geronimo Gomez until he goes back to Los Angeles and steps back into his role as the Shot Caller for the Mob" the Shooter said what he had to say and turned to go back into the house.

Agent Jack Crush continued talking as if the Shooter had said nothing, "People don't like having their money fucked with, and it tends to bring the worst out of people. We will be completely exposed when we go to Miami for the hearing. After the hearing Operation Harvest Moon will go forward, and Felix Gomez will go back to California to prepare his people to step up their game as planned. That concluded their conversation. Wither or not either of them heard the other is a matter of pure speculation.

The next day everything went as planned, the three of them, the Shooter, the Shot Caller, and Agent Jack Crush took a flight to Miami without incident. The Company provided transportation from the airport to Naval Headquarters. It was a clear sunny day as the two car motorcade entered the grounds of the Navy Southern Command, and the heat had not yet descended with mugging humidity that would make you wish that you were somewhere else. The Hearing Room where they were holding the Admirals Mast, was presided over by three high ranking naval officers. They were to ascertain the ability of Cmdr. William Burger to continue as commander of the US Coast Guard cutter Alex Haley. The captain was accused of dereliction of duty, when he could not explain what had happened to his ship, when it disappeared on the morning in question, only to reappear three days later. But the captain didn't have a clue as to where they had gone, or how they had gotten there. As a matter of fact the crew seem not to have had a recollection of time lost among them, while on board the Alex Haley. From the moment that the ship disappeared to the moment that it reappeared three days later, the captain and crew all were in agreement that there was no time-lapse, and they all appeared to be in good health without any apparent negative side effects.

The Vice Admiral in charge of the hearing decided not to call on the Shooter or Mr. Gomez to give testimony after reading the After Action report, provided to the court by the CIA. The Shooter's testimony would raise more questions than it would answer, and it was a tradition practiced by those higher up in the chain of command to let sleeping dogs lie.

Cmdr. William Burger was convicted of dereliction of duty, fined $1,500 and he was permanently relieved of command of the Coast Guard cutter Alex Haley, and the proceedings were officially closed.

The only thing left to do was to get to the airport in one piece.

Agent Jack Crush still felt that sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, that was always there when things were about to go wrong. They had a two car escort on the ride to the airport, and the car that they were riding in was bullet proof with half inch armor, but still that sinking feeling wouldn't go away.

****************

# Chapter Ten

# Geechee Nation

Against all odds and the forces of evil that conspired to enslave millions of people, the Gullah of North America Lowcountry succeeded in preserving remnants of African tribal culture whose heritage was tittering on the brink of extinction. The newly arriving slaves were separated by language, dialect, tribe, and tradition, but became united in bondage, and through the foresight of the Gullah people, they were encourage to allow their tribal essence to flow seamlessly into the Gullah's evolving culture, for soon it was to become theirs as well, and as the aberration of slavery continued to fester in America, the Gullah continued to cultivate minds and rice fields in the Lowcountry of Georgia, South Carolina, and the Sea Islands off the coast of the United States.

The Portuguese slave traders gathered their human cargo on Bunce Island, half a day's sailing distance from of the West Coast of Africa. The slave traders had purchased their slaves from African tribes at the borders of the interior, where the slavers were forbidden to enter under penalty of death, which had been decreed by the dominant tribes of the region. The green savannas and wetlands of the interior were home to many tribes that had been captured in battle and territorial raids, and then sold into slavery by the reigning chief of the Kingdom of Kongo. The slaves were put in chains, and marched to the coast, and promptly shipped to Bunce Island to await transport to Brazil. Many of the slaves had lived in the rice growing regions of West Africa, and were sold to rice plantations in Rio de Janeiro and Salvador, because of their rice cultivating skills. The massive influx of slaves from among rival tribes, with different languages and customs, created chaos and discord among the slave population, but it also reminded them that their numbers were great, and that they were once proud warriors born free men. Such thoughts inevitably sowed the seeds of insurrection, and many slaves managed to escaped, and were able to flee to the remote region of the Amazon forest, where they banded together to create the first Quilombos dos Palmares, in 1504, which survived the onslaught of Portuguese colonial authority for nearly a hundred years.

Rio de Janeiro was destined to become the birth place of Macumba, an indigenous secret religion practice by blacks throughout Brazil, with its roots firmly planted in African culture. Rio de Janeiro also became a depositary of sorts for the customs and language of various tribes, whose members were taken as slaves from West Africa. Over the course of time, the rice cultivating skills of these slaves, whose ancestors had been growing rice for three thousand years, became known to the slave traders, who serviced the rice plantations in the Lowcountry of South Carolina and Georgia, and the Sea Islands off of the coast of Georgia. These slaves were highly prized, and in constant demand, and by the middle of the 18th century, the South Carolina and Georgia Lowcountry was covered with thousands of acres of rice fields that had been cultivated by their descendants. African farmers from the "Rice Coast of Africa" brought the skills for cultivation and tidal irrigation that made rice one of the most successful industries in early America.

The subtropical climate that made the Lowcountry such an excellent place for rice production also made it vulnerable to the spread of malaria and yellow fever. These tropical diseases, endemic in Africa, were carried by slaves transported to the colonies by slave ships. Mosquitoes in the swamps and inundated rice fields of the Lowcountry picked up and spread the diseases to English and European settlers, as well. Malaria and yellow fever soon became endemic in the region.

The plantation owners left their African rice drivers, or overseers, in charge of the plantations. Working on large plantations with hundreds of laborers, and with African traditions reinforced by new imports from the same regions of Africa, by way of Brazil, the Gullah developed a culture in which elements of African languages, cultures, and community life were preserved to a high degree as was their Macumba beliefs and traditions, which were first practiced in Brazil. Their culture was quite different from that of slaves in states like Virginia and North Carolina, where slaves lived in smaller settlements and had more sustained and frequent interactions with whites, which resulted in these slaves losing their language, customs, and heritage, and thus their identity. The Golden Isles of Georgia had become a bastion for African heritage in North America, through the efforts of the Gullah people, and through them the black magic religion of Macumba was found to be alive and well on US soil.

The High Priestess Lady Manu was greeted on St. Simons Island like royalty, and that she was. Her words carried more convection than those of a bona-fide African Queen, and true believers would lay down their life for her without hesitation. Her power went beyond the force of a royal edict, for she was the sacred conduit through which the spirits came to do her bidding with the power of the supernatural at her disposal.

The Saltwater Geechee, who came from the Golden Isles of Georgia, had gathered at the Long House, on St. Simons Island, the largest of the four, to witness black magic and secret rituals to be performed by The High Priestess Lady Manu, and they had also come to hear her speak, for she had stories to tell.

Word spread as far away as Charleston, about the battle that had taken place in Brazil, and the faithful numbered in the thousands when the ceremonial drums stopped beating, and High Priestess Lady Manu began to speak. "Today blood runs through the streets of Palmares, like blood pouring from the belly of a stuck fat pig, and our people have willingly paid the price for freedom, defending our faith, and our way of life. Evil came riding a pale horse, being led by a Boo Hag full of trickery and deceit, trying to weaken our resolve and sap our strength, trying to make us forget and deny the teachings of Quimbanda, and blind us from seeing the truth. Fate had decided a long time ago, that we would survive, and that it was time for a new beginning, and gave our ancestors refuge from the Maafa, and set a destination for the lost tribe to go to, so many years ago. Our people were able to build an Empire in the middle of the jungle with nothing more than their faith in each other, and the wisdom to follow the guiding light of Macumba; for there is great strength in numbers, even among the retched of the earth, if they can only believe that it can be done, and stand together. Our ancestors used the cunning of the Fula, Baga, Susu, and Gola to protect the people from their oppressors, and made them remember that their ancestors once built pyramids on desert sand and charted stars across the universe, and they held secrets of the universe and hid them in their native tongue and the teachings of Macumba. Life demands that there will be change in order to survive, but it never demanded to change who we are or changed our thinking, and even to this day, as you think so shall you be.

This time the great evil has grown bold enough to challenge the very existence of our people, and evil minions wants to destroy the Amazon" she said this in English, but then switched to Geechee. "The souls of our ancestors cry out for vengeance, and we must join our voices as one, to summon the spirits to come to our aid. Our ancestors who were kidnaped and died in bondage during the dark years of Maafa, demand that this great evil be driven from our lives, forever, and evil's disciples be forced to pay the ultimate price." When she finished, the drums started to beat again, and she began the secret ritual to summon the spirits to do her bidding.

Dancers moved around a large bonfire that was lit in front of the Long House, with flames leaping high into the air, and a young goat was sacrificed during the ritual, while the voices of a thousand strong commanded the spirits to come forth and do Lady Manu's bidding. The sound of the drums continued to grow, keeping pace with the chant of the faithful that commanded the spirits, once again, to come forth, and make their presence known.

"If you want to destroy the evil serpent, then you must cut off its head" she yelled at the crowd, which drove them to an even greater frenzy, and then she opened her hands to reveal a white dove that took to the air, and circled the throngs below, and then headed north by northeast, straight towards Miami.

Tombias International was a publicly traded American owned multinational agricultural biotechnology corporation, located in downtown Miami, Florida, that acted as a front for the CIA. It is a leading producer of genetically engineered (GE) seed and THC – Tetrahydrocannabino is the main psychoactive substance found in the Cannabis plant, and the herbicide glyphosate, which it markets under the Top Shelf brand. CEO, Robert Samuel Carr received word from agents of Agua Negra that not only had their mission failed to displace the farmers from Palmares, but their forces had been totally decimated.

The farmers of Palmares had proven to be more resourceful than Agua Negra had anticipated or could handle, they were deceptively strong and fearless, and apparently led by experience combat commanders, who were both ruthless and cunning, and willing to endure significant losses in order to achieve important and difficult objectives. This fact alone was a strong indication of the quality of their leadership, displaying resolve, and steadiness under fire. Someone quit unique had assumed the overall leadership position among the combatant, obviously an outsider, and definitely a force to be reckoned with. But Tombias could not have achieved prominence, second only to Mansanto, in a thoroughly cut throat business, without possessing an inherent ruthlessness of its own, and being able to regroup and respond effectively to initial setbacks, was the mark of a survivor. The CIA chose Tombias to implement Operation Harvest Moon because they had Robert Carr as their CEO, who was knowledgeable, ruthless, and still hungry, and as an ex-official CIA insider, he knew where all of the bodies were buried. Tombias had contracted with Agua Negra, a privately own paramilitary force, because they were equally ruthless, and understood the necessity for keeping any involvement with the CIA, within the scope of plausible deniability.

Agent Jack Crush sat in the back seat of the SUV, with Shooter and The Shot Caller by his side. They left the Naval Headquarters with two escort vehicles, still leery of possible ambush, so they were taking no chances on their way to the airport. As far as the three of them were concern this whole exercise had been a waste of time. They weren't even allowed to testify during the court martial of the Captain of the US Coast Guard cutter Alex Haley, for fear that they would divulge far more than the Brass wanted to know.

Special Agent Jack Crush had been trained to recognize subterfuge, in all of its forms and disguises, and where others believed that none existed, he looked twice as hard, and he didn't believe in coincidence, so why had they been summon to Naval Headquarters in Miami, right after the false flag assault on the Safe House in Maryland. He quickly arrived at certain conclusions; he now believed that they had been targeted by people who had access to the most closely guarded secrets at the CIA. There was no doubt in his mind that they had been betrayed by a Company mole.

Jack radioed the lead car to take to take the next exit, and Shooter sensed that something was wrong. "What's the matter Jack? You look like you just seen a ghost". No sooner had these words left Shooter's mouth, when the lead car blew up in front of them. "RPG" the Shooter yelled, and then all hell broke loose. They immediately pulled over to the side of the highway, and began taking fire from an overpass, five hundred feet in front of them. The trailing escort vehicle pulled over to the shoulder of the highway behind them, and its occupants were cut to pieces by automatic weapons as they exited the vehicle. Civilian traffic began taking hits as well, and the carnage unfolded right before their eyes. One civilian driver was hit, and his car crossed over the median, into oncoming traffic, and was hit by a tandem trailer oil truck, that exploded on impact, sending a stream of fire along the median, down the opposite side of the highway.

Shooter and The Shot Caller followed Jack into the shrubbery, just off the shoulder of the highway, and began returning fire, as did their driver, who took cover behind their vehicle, with his back to the highway. Several people had been in wrecks, and were walking around in a daze, and one woman walked onto highway, and was struck by a passing vehicle going 70 miles per hour. Their driver was killed when a second RPG struck their vehicle, and they began taking fire from the opposite direction, down the highway. The killers were closing in on them, when they heard the sirens of the first responders. A Highway Patrol cruiser, the first on the scene, went up in smoke, with a direct hit from a RPG. Shooter took out the gunman on the overpass then changed his position to direct his fire at the men coming up behind them. Jack Crush dropped two of them, with a short burst of fire, aimed over the head of The Shot Caller, whose attention was directed at a woman, lying face down, still clutching the hand of her five year old that lay dead beside her. Two police helicopters crisscross the scene, till they began taking fire, and Jack decided that they had to get out of there, before it was too late.

The three of them ran directly across the highway, through the moving traffic, that was just beginning to slow down to look at the carnage. Five men were in hot pursuit, two to the left and three to the right, all of them dressed in black commando outfits, four carrying automatic weapons, and one toting an RPG. Halfway across the highway, The Shot Caller took a hit to his upper left thigh, and fell down in front of oncoming traffic. Shooter was able to pull him to safety, as a car skidded past them, out of control. When Shooter looked up, an assassins was pointing his weapon at them, but he hesitated a millisecond too long, and was gone in a blur, hit by a big yellow U-Haul truck, that didn't even bother to slow down.

Fire and smoke covered the area, as the three of them lay in a ditch on the other side of the highway, waiting to die. The Shot Caller lay exhausted and wounded, but still alive, as they waited for the hit men to show themselves, so the madness could end, one way or another. They heard the helicopter over their shoulders, as an RPG flew over their heads, but missed its target by the grace of god and the pilot's quick hand. A moment later, a CIA Blackhawk helicopter hovered above their heads, with a string of armed men repelling down ropes, who then took up flanking positions on the ground around them. As the smoke began to clear, they dropped the attackers one by one, and then fanned out, looking for more assassins.

The CIA Quick Response Tactical Team held up the First Responders at a temporary barrier erected a short distance away, until Jack Crush and Shooter, lifted the limp body of The Shot Caller on to the Blackhawk helicopter, and was whisk away to a hospital out of the kill zone. Alex Geronimo Gomez was pronounced dead at 11:03 AM, he was shot in the left upper thigh, but the bullet shattered upon impact, sending shrapnel through his body, damaging vital organs along the way. Shooter didn't say a word when Jack Crush looked into his eyes, as the emergency room doctor approached them, to tell them what they already knew, both of them had seen wounds like that before. He nodded his head at Jack, and they both knew that it wasn't over yet. The Company would just change the operation's name, and find someone else to take the Shot Caller's place, and it would be business as usual.

Shooter grabbed Jack by the arm, and told him to walk with him. They took the elevator to the second floor and ducked into the hospital Chapel at the end of the corridor. The Chapel's high stain glass window panes let in a kaleidoscope of light, and one window lay open, letting in a cool breeze, that together transformed the tiny chapel into a space of tempered tranquility. Without saying a word they both slid into the first pew, and Shooter began to speak. "I am not a religious man, but I am a spiritual being, able to recognize evil when I see it. What these people are trying to do will unleash a wave of destruction that will threaten the world as we know it. And I will have no part of it." "That's saying a mouth full coming from you" Jack said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Shooter continued, "The world is a dangerous place, and we both have done our share of despicable things to foster that image, all in the name of God and country, but in reality we were just jerking off, trying to bust a nut on the whole god damn world. But where do you draw the line? We both know that it's all about power and control, and deciding who lives and who dies. Most of my life I just didn't care, I didn't want anything, because I didn't want to lose it, but now I feel a connection to those people in Brazil, and by the will of a power stronger than mine I have been put in a position to do something about it." Jack looked into Shooter's eyes, and he saw something that he had not seen there before; Hope. "So, what do you intend to do about it?" Jack said, and then they both looked up when they heard a flutter of wings above their heads, to see a white dove sitting in the open window.

Support for Operation Harvest Moon, began to collapse like a house of cards, and everybody began running for cover. The Chinese took this opportunity to make a move in Southeast Asia, and secured the drug trade in the Golden Triangle, for themselves, and the US couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Plausible Deniability was in full affect, and mum was the word, but Evil has a way of reshuffling the deck, and it began dealing out a brand new hand, to those who refuse to leave the table.

Deputy Director Jack Crush was called before the three wise men, to explain what had happened, and how was he going to clean up this mess. The three wise men decided to let Jack Crush in on a little secret; after all he was their man, and they didn't want to leave any loose ends.

Apparently, Deputy Director Jim Whipple had been tapped by the three wise men to plan and run the operation from the beginning, and being true to form he set up a plausible deniability scheme to cover his ass, but left the three wise men out of the loop altogether, which inadvertently also give them deniability.

Jim Whipple never had faith in the plan, he thought that it was too ambitious and too damn dangerous, but he went through the motions anyway as best he could, because he still had to answer to the powers that be. He decided to create a viable scapegoat, if one was ever needed, and then the forensic evidence would lead back to that source. Jack Crush was chosen to play that roll, because he had a certain maverick image within the agency, and he was known to take chances, and so far his gambles had paid off, and he had always enjoyed the protection of the three wise men.

Director Whipple was not averse to taking monumental chances; after all he was the architect of Operation Belgrade Warehouse, and even though Whipple had done his best to cover his tracts, nothing escapes the attention of the three wise men. In fact it was his success at implementing that plan that they chose Whipple for Operation Harvest Moon.

During the NATO bombing of Yugoslavia in 1999, an attack file labeled 'Belgrade Warehouse' was circulated for command approval. The plan originated within the CIA, at the direction of Operations Deputy Director Jim Whipple and described the target as a warehouse for a Yugoslav government agency suspected of arms proliferation activities. In this form, the strike was approved by President Clinton. It took balls to pull such a move over on the President.

Operation, Belgrade Warehouse, was carried out against the Chinese Embassy, on the morning of May 7, 1999, when five JDAM precision guided bombs hit the embassy, killing three Chinese reporters, and wounding 20 Chinese civilians. The US government officially declared the attack to be an accidental bombing, and they paid the Chinese victims 24 million dollars in reparation, apologize to the Chinese Government, and then closed the case.

Secretary Chow Lin Fat, head of the diplomatic mission to Belgrade, took personal responsibility for the debacle, because he was also Deputy Chief of the Chinese Spy Service assigned to cover NATO, and he knew that the CIA had planned the bombing of their embassy in Belgrade. His agents had been secretly in contact with the CIA, through back channels, and they were told that the Chinese needed to end their support for Željko Ražnatović or suffer the consequences. Such a direct threat came with the territory, but the Chinese thought that the CIA was over reacting, even though they knew that they were in over their head, going up against NATO in their own backyard. Still the bombing came as a complete surprise, and shocked them to the core, not only had they been played like third world amateurs, but they had lost great face before the world.

Chow Lin Fat vowed to take revenge, and during his ascension through the ranks of the Chinese spy apparatus, he continued to seek every opportunity to strike back at the CIA. He also kept tabs on Jim Whipple's own rise through the CIA because he knew that he was the author of Operation Belgrade Warehouse, and as far as Chow Lin Fat was concern, it was Jim Whipple who told them that there would be consequences.

Jim Whipple maintained his back door channel with the Chinese Spy Service, a useful tool in the spy game, when you wanted to pass on information for one reason or another, even though the information was always treated like radioactive material. Sometimes years would pass before the back door was opened again, but each time the information provided would prove to be interesting, but highly contaminant in one way or another.

The Chinese Spy service began picking up chatter about a big operation that the CIA was about to launch in Southeast Asia, with the main goal of attaining control in the Golden Triangle. Chow Lin Fat smelled a rat. The more the Chinese pursued leads regarding the CIA move against the Golden Triangle, the more Operation Harvest Moon came into focus. The Chinese had been making moves around the world with investments and open door policy that would give their new partners access to their markets in China. It was a two punch strategy that couldn't be ignored. They had their eyes on Brazil for a long time, making deals regarding Brazils new found oil reserves, and they were watching every move that the CIA made in that country, and once again Operation Harvest Moon came into to play. So they got involved in a big way that lead to the shoot out on the Highway.

Jim Whipple's back door channel work both ways, and Chow Lin Fat got a message to Whipple that the CIA needed to back off of the Golden Triangle or suffer the consequences.

Jack Crush met with Shooter for the last time on a back trail at Rock Creek Park. He gave him a list of names of people that should be dealt with, if he was serious about changing things, hopefully for the better. Jim Whipple's name appeared at the top of the list, followed by the CEO for Tombias, and the majority shareholder in Agua Negra, and at the bottom there were three names that he didn't recognize, which were the names of the three wise men. Shooter read the names, and then took out a lighter and set the list on fire. He looked Jack in the eyes and nodded his head, then turned down the brim of his white Fedora, and left Jack Crush standing there on the trail in Rock Creek Park, as a white dove left the trees and flew over Shooter's head as he walked out of the park, like a man on a mission from God or whomever.

