Tropic of Fear by Ron Terpening

Author:Ron Terpening [Terpening, Ron]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: revolution, political thriller, suspense, action adventure, Paraguay, thriller
Publisher: Cliff Edge Publishing
Published: 2013-01-02T07:00:00+00:00

“What color are my eyes?”

“What?” He tried to look but she had covered her face.

Hell, he never noticed eyes. “Brown.”

She dropped her hand, a smile of victory on her face. “That settles it then. My eyes are light blue. Even you wouldn’t recognize me. If the sister can arrange it, I’m going in.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was when he turned away from the bar of the Excelsior Hotel that Harrington noticed the men—at least ten, maybe fifteen, all dressed in business suits. They appeared to have filtered out of the Golden Room, where a large wedding reception was being held. Like everyone else in the crowded lounge the men were shouting and gesticulating as if in animated conversation, only these men held no drinks in their hands.

Harrington looked for the judge, who had asked him if they could meet here. He was nowhere in sight. Probably held up in court.

One of the men in the group from the Golden Room stopped in front of him and said, “Are you señor Harrington?”

Ah, the judge had sent someone to find him. Harrington stretched his neck and adjusted his bow tie. “Yes, indeed, I am. Jolly good of you to have picked me out. I say, don’t tell me the judge can’t make it?”

The other men surrounded him as he spoke, tightening the circle, blocking his way out. He saw it then in their faces, a ferocity that sent a chill up his back. A half-smile appeared on the lips of the man who had tricked him.

Harrington’s jaundiced eyes registered a quick understanding of the situation. He knew who they were and what they wanted. Too many of them for anything but the worst. He looked for help from someone who might know him—another judge he’d bribed, a businessman, a lawyer who might have argued a case for Samcon, a banker. But the men pressing in on him cut off his view.

Suddenly, before he could react, hands closed around him from behind. He opened his mouth to scream: he wasn’t going to be easily taken—not him; if these men got him alone, he was dead—and he couldn’t stand the thought of torture first. But when the scream was still deep in his throat, another man jammed a thick wad of cotton in his mouth and yet another slapped a piece of tape over the cotton. A quick taste of hot, salty blood.

They were moving him through the room then, laughing and talking over the music, a solid force like the prow of a barge cutting upstream. Happy revelers parted to each side, oblivious to his plight.

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