"We didn't murder this man..." Brognola protested.
"It's more complicated than that," Blancanales explained. "The Feds have an informer in a gang. The informer gave us this information about Marchardo getting a Texas offer. So we hired Marchardo to bodyguard a drug shipment, so that we can watch him, monitor his phone conversations..."
"The Feds?" Lyons shook his head. "Now the Feds are running drugs? They need money that bad?"
"Lyons, it's a scam, honest," Brognola told him.
"Best way to know the trade is to get in the trade," Blancanales continued. "And it works out. Now we take the shipment north, Marchardo makes his connection in the Caribbean, and he that's me goes back to Texas with you two as the other two guys in the routine last night. Perfect."
"How well do people know Marchardo?" Gadgets asked Brognola. "The Pol looks like him, but does he sound like him? Does he act like him? If Marchardo has friends in Texas..."
"We don't know about the friends," Brognola admitted, "but the physical aspects are right. We intended to switch Blancanales for Marchardo, so we videotaped him, sound-taped him, everything."
"Do they know what happened?" Lyons pointed at the corpse. "I mean, he has friends there, and they're in mourning, and then the Man himself shows up..."
"That is one thing we're positive of," Brognola stressed. "No one knows of Mr. Marchardo's demise."
"Whoever had the shotgun knows," Lyons said.
"We already checked that. All he knows is that he killed a hood with a pistol. No one stayed around to check id. No one knows Marchardo's dead. Positively no one."
"I hope so." Lyons looked down at the corpse. "Otherwise we will be positively dead."
"Nah," said Brognola softly. "The real danger is the Caribbean connection coming up. We got two agents in it already. You're gonna have to watch your pretty asses up there, all of you."
* * *
Jorge waited in the shadows of the doorway. He hoped the four men would leave the old house before the afternoon light faded. He already had photos of the four as they entered the La Paz house, but he wanted more. He had reloaded the camera so that the second set of photos would be on different negatives. It was important. It meant money.
Now that his fear had passed, he could think of the money. When the colonel called the night before with the orders, Jorge thought the job only routine. Wait in the doorway until men from a drug gang went to the house... A simple job. Nothing difficult.
There had been a shooting at one in the morning. All the people on the street knew that. He bought that information when he arrived an hour later, though they would have told him for nothing. Then the waiting began. The night passed.
Would they return? He waited from two in the morning, shivering all through the night in the doorway. Day came and with it, fear. What if he had slept on his feet and not seen them? What if they had tricked him and gone over the roof? What if he had to tell the colonel that they did not return? The colonel did not like excuses. Soldiers who made excuses never became officers.
Now, he had a future. He had the photos. First, the two North Americans. Then the two who looked Mexican. Or Cuban. European? It did not matter.
He had the photos. Others would identify the gangsters.
But the second roll of film meant money. Perhaps enough for a motor scooter, or a television, perhaps a new parade uniform.
Voices! Jorge braced his shoulder against the wall and found the opposite doorway through the view-finder. He pressed himself far back in the doorway, waiting until the first North American appeared.
The motorized 35 mm camera caught the gangsters as they emerged. Full face, profiles, hand gestures, each man with the others in a group. Jorge took thirty-six exposures in a minute. Then the men got into a chauffeured limousine.
As the black Mercedes pulled away, Jorge leaned out for a last shot. He wanted the limousine's license number. But he had no more exposures in the camera.
Too bad. At least he had two sets of photos. One for his colonel, the second for the feared El Negro, warlord of the cocaine armies. El Negro paid very well and remembered those who helped him.
And who knows, Jorge thought as he walked to the boulevard, perhaps the colonel might fall from grace with the government. Perhaps the government would restore El Negro's rank and position. Jorge could be an officer to any colonel...
* * *
Running his hands over the leather upholstery of the Mercedes limousine, Gadgets commented: "Nice car. Government workers have it made down here."
"This car isn't government." Brognola pushed a button, opened the limo's bar. He took orange juice from the tiny refrigerator. "It's one of our gang's cars. They use it to..."
"The United States government bought this monster?" Lyons looked around the leather and rosewood interior. "Someone's got new ideas about law enforcement."
"Actually, I saw in the report that they traded several kilograms of cocaine for it. So there was no expense to the taxpayer." Brognola held out crystal wineglasses to the others, offered them orange juice. Lyons pushed his away; Brognola smiled. "And then when the trader went North, they tipped the Colombian authorities. And the Colombians took him. Again, at no expense to the American taxpayer."
Lyons laughed. "That's more like it. Cost-efficient law enforcement." He took a crystal glass, poured orange juice for himself. "Plus fringe benefits."
"Enjoy it quickly," Brognola told him. He glanced outside as they approached the metropolitan center of La Paz. "You start work in a minute."
"What are we doing?" Lyons asked.
"You have the identity we prepared. You're the world-weary mercenary. The good soldier who came home from the war, found your wife and the town mayor in bed, killed the mayor. You've been running ever since, one false name after another. And you, Schwarz..."
"...Suspected of killing my superior officer in Vietnam, hounded from job to job by federal investigators until I finally skipped the country," Gadgets recited.
"And I'm Pete Marchardo, international punk," added Blancanales.
The limousine slowed to a stop. They peered outside, saw modern office buildings, crowded sidewalks, shop windows displaying European fashions. The chauffeur left the driver's seat and walked two steps to a waiting taxi. The taxi sped into traffic.
"Speaking of Marchardo," said Lyons suddenly, "what happens with his body? We can't have him being claimed by his relatives."
"He got a thermite cremation two minutes after we left." Brognola pointed to the driver's compartment. "Up front, Lyons. Time to work."
"I'm driving? I don't know the laws here..."
"Standard limousine routine," Blancanales answered. "You own the road."
"See you, Able Team, in a few weeks." Then Brognola stepped out and immediately merged with the afternoon crowd.
"So be it," Lyons commented as he took the wheel. He found the switches of the German luxury car. He flipped the intercom switch. "Where to?"
* * *
Tapping on the window of the closed photography shop, Jorge got the attention of the owner, Senor Brillas. The elderly man waved him away. Jorge beat on the window with the film canister. Angry, Senor Brillas shuffled to the door, pointed to the "Closed" sign. Then he recognized Jorge. He opened the door for the young man. He knew why Jorge was there. "This is for El..."
"Silence, boy!" Senor Brillas glanced in both directions, saw no one out of the ordinary on the narrow street of shop fronts and apartments. He clutched at the youth and pulled him inside.
"What do you have for him?" The old man would not mouth the warlord's name.
"This." Jorge held up the can holding the roll of 35mm film. "Photos of North Americans. They went to a place where..."
Hands like bare bones clutched the film, then pushed him out the door. "It is not important I know. I will send the photos to him. You give him the information."