Arms Race by Dom Testa

Author:Dom Testa [Testa, Dom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-16T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The ride could not have been more uncomfortable. I sat in the back seat of a Chevy pickup truck, wedged between two of Escobar’s silent soldiers. The road wasn’t exactly a road; it was more of a rutted trail between the trees, washed out in many places and generally worse than the roads in Cleveland, if that was possible. More than once I felt like my head was going to bounce off the top of the truck’s cabin. My ass ached after the first 10 minutes.

Just to entertain and distract myself, I made conversation with both of my back seat companions while they sat there like Medusa victims draped in camo. I couldn’t tell if they spoke English—although I suspected they knew some—but I regaled them anyway with stories of my days as a different kind of football player, embellishing my performances because why not? They’d never know I actually sat the bench for most of my high school sports career, primarily because I couldn’t control my mouth. Coaches always get the last laugh.

In the front seat, the driver occasionally threw a tired glance at me in the mirror, probably wishing I’d shut up. In the front passenger seat, an eagle-eyed lookout scanned the road and the trees to each side, watching for trouble. I got the distinct impression that, even if he couldn’t show it, he was enjoying my show. That made two of us.

Escobar rode in the truck trailing behind, along with Dyess and three more soldiers. Even though I felt like I’d bonded with the Honduran lieutenant, he was content to have me ride in the lead truck, the one that would take the brunt of any surprise attack. It also gave him an opportunity to press Dyess for information about his cocky new American visitor.

We were bound for another encampment, an hour away. All I’d been told was that I’d find soldiers stationed there who could describe the firefight with the hombre mecánico. They’d faced it and survived. Five others had not been so lucky. Our sources had said two, which showed you how reliable jungle intel could be.

The last 20 minutes of our ride down the rugged trail was cloaked in complete silence. I’d run out of bullshit, because even I have a limited reservoir. I tried enjoying the scenery but gave up after every mile looked identical. Seeing more than 10 feet into the trees was impossible. While we caught patches of the late afternoon sun on most of the trail, the canopy overhead shielded the depths of the jungle floor, casting it in a perpetual twilight. Branches smacked the windshield every few seconds, and at any moment I expected us to come around a bend and find a jaguar or a crocodile planted in the middle of the trail. I’d once seen a man lose a leg to a crocodile. That’s not something you ever cleanse from your memory.

I didn’t know we’d reached the camp until we braked to a severe stop and the doors flew open.

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