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| Image: Archer TV FX |
He found this commission for us and negotiated everything down to the letter. I never really understood why he brought me along on the job but he said, “We were tadpoles together. We were frogmen together. What’s a few more months watching businessmen make sure they don’t get themselves killed?”
He had a point. By SEAL standards, this was a walk in the park. U.S.-Honduran relations had never really recovered after the Iran-Contra scandal in the late 1980s but that didn’t really effect America’s lust for global economic domination, but the current political climate in Honduras shaky to put it mildly. So we followed around business diplomats to make sure that everyone took them seriously.
“Isn’t that the President?” Les asked over the com.
I was standing at the door inside of La Infuega, an upscale restaurant inside of the capital city Tegucigalpa. Today I was basically a glorified bodyguard.
“You think I know what he looks like?” I replied.
“Castonette doesn’t brief us on anything,” he said. “It’s starting to piss me off.”
I made my way around the perimeter of the restaurant. Its large dining room overlooked the entire city from the eleven-foot tall windows covering the southern wall. It was a ritzy place. The table linins were expensive looking and I absently wondered what this place would look like during the lunch rush. At present it was vacant except for the wait staff, the cook, excuse me ‘chief,’ my client and his guest. I stopped before the windows, taking in the view.
“Jumpy Les?”
“It’s a high value target, Bishop. I’d rather not sit out here scratching my balls when political dissidence could be around any corner.”
“- it’s a simple exchange, Mr. President,” Roger Castonette was saying. He had the kind of charisma that took people far in business; an honest face and the gumption to follow through on the plans he made. The gray hair that streaked his temples seemed to lend the man more credibility as though pointing out a flaw to highlight his honesty. “You look the other way and my associates can assist you with your little media fiasco.”
“I am already a very rich man, Siñor Castonette. What makes you think I can’t buy my way out of this,” the President said in a thick South American accent.
“It’s him alright,” I said over the com.
Manuel Zelaya was shorter than I thought he would be. He wasn’t the worst guy as far as politicians were concerned but the political winds were blowing and he didn’t look like he had much of a chance.
“Let me be blunt, Mr. President,” Castonette began, “I have a lot at stake here. My clients are not exactly forgiving men and there are potential competitors everywhere.”
“I am a man of my people, Siñor Castonette. This is exactly the kind of operation that I want to keep out of my country.”
I walked to the kitchen as the server came out with their food and stopped him.
“Déjame hacer—”
“Silencio,” I interrupted, checking his badge. Guns let you do the talking. Everything checked out so I waved him on.
I wasn’t in charge of food tasting or anything. This was just a personnel issue. He gave them their entrées then glared at me on his way back to the kitchen.
“You ever get the feeling Castonette isn’t exactly running a moral organization?” I asked, continuing my patrol of the room.
“You think he would need to hire ex-Navy SEALs if what he was doing was moral?” Les said. “Ever hear of a guy making millions hob-nobbing outside the country just having lunches and meeting dignitaries?”
He was right. I didn’t really like the guy, but his checks always cleared. Six months out here in a third world country was rough. It wasn’t anything like Iraq or Afghanistan though. There you’re in a tent, you’re in a temporary barracks; here though, we lived in the lap of luxury while people lived in wooden shacks and dumped their sewage in their drinking water. On deployment you make accommodations: you see people living like that and you can relate, you’ve got the budget of the U.S. Military behind you so you also have indoor plumbing but here I slept on a pillow-top mattress and stood at the bow of yachts watching for pirates.
“Well there’s illegal then there’s immoral,” I said.
I walked back out to the windows, watching the landscape. It was a beautiful city, if you’re into that rustic, old world kind of thing. We were sitting high atop the metaphorical Mount Olympus, gods looking down upon mere mortals. I saw motion from down one of the side streets.
“We’ve got movement in the eastern sector.”
“I’m on it.”
I quickly walked back toward the table where the two men sat making small talk over their lunch. “Sir, we’ve got movement. I’d like to get you and the –”
Windows shattered as bullets crashed through them. I pushed both men down under the table before propping it up as a shield. “Shots fired, Les.” As soon as the gunfire stopped, I peered over the top with my rifle primed, ready to light someone up. There was no motion in the streets. The shock of sudden violence quieted the room. After a few agonizing, seconds three shots rang out from below.
“Tango down,” Les said.
I breathed a sigh of relief and helped Castonette up who then reached out a hand to help up President Zelaya. I went back over to check the windows. Les waved to me from an ally behind an abandoned commercial block.
“He gonna get his virgins, you think?” I asked.
Les scoffed. “This isn’t Iraq, Bishop.”
“You think Muslims are the only ones who like virgins?”
“What are they talking about up there?”
“They don’t pay me enough to listen.”
“You’re not even curious?”
“You know what they say about the cat.”
“So we have a deal then, Mr. President?” Castonette asked from behind me. I turned to watch the two check themselves over. The glass shattered two of the eastern facing windows; the manager pushed his way through the restaurant staff that huddled in the kitchen doorway in shock of the damage done to the dining room. He ran his fingers through his hair, his wide eyes staring down at the glass covering floor and tables, cursing under his breath.
“You haven’t given me much choice, Roger.” Zelaya replied.
Castonette’s wolfish smile was ear to ear. He reached out and shook Zelaya’s hand. “Excellent. I’ll make sure my associates are in place by this evening.” He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it to Zelaya to sign a document he placed at the end of the table.
Castonette waved me over after dismissing the President of Honduras. “You two do excellent work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The President will be staying with us outside the city for the remainder of our stay.”
“Yes sir.”
He smiled and walked toward the kitchen, speaking with the staff. He’d obviously made progress in his business dealings because the weight of the world seemed to have slipped from his shoulders.
“Whatever it is,” I said to Les, “I don’t like it.”
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