Easing away from the men carrying the crates, Rocco followed Vance and the man. He drew close enough to hear them as he slipped in between two cargo containers. Vance led the man toward Dante, as a convoy of trucks filled with stolen guns started their engines.
“First trucks are ready to go. I’m leaving now to escort them to the border. After the guys finish loading the last truck, the rest ofmy crew will provide security at the rear. All trucks will be in route in less than four minutes,” Dante said.
“Good. Call if you run into any difficulties,” Vance said.
Dante scoffed and gave him a cocky grin. “You won’t hear from me.” He jogged toward the SUV and drove off along the dirt road, followed by three of the loaded trucks.
Grabbing his phone, he turned on the camera app and pressed the red button to start the video recording. He captured a view of the trucks leaving the area then focused the screen on Vance and the man from the photo.
Vance said, “You have to admit things have gone smoothly, like we promised. El Sombro’s connections at the border will eliminate any delays with the guns crossing into Haiti.”
His mind raced with this unexpected revelation.
Gang wars on the streets of Haiti had turned much of the country into a civil war zone. Guns were the currency of power. Smuggling weapons from the U.S. was no easy feat since the Dominican government had recently closed the borders. Only military escorted shipments of food and medicines were allowed to move between the two countries. But El Sombro must have moles at the border to get guns into Haiti.
“Don’t be too confident too soon. There’s still a lot of work to do and law enforcement to avoid. The border is trickier now with the military searches,” the man from the photo said.
“The trucks are registered as humanitarian aid vehicles. There won’t be any issues with them crossing the border, that’s for damn sure,” Vance said, then rested a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“And if that doesn’t work, your security team will eliminate any and all obstacles, right?”
“That won’t be necessary. Once you see how effective we are, we’ll expect more lucrative opportunities in the future,” Vance said.
“And you’ll get them,” the man said, then added, “After the gangs in Haiti get their guns.”
Rocco tapped the red recording button. He needed to get to a location where he had cell service to get the video to Proteus. They’d make sure it got to the right agencies to stop the guns from crossing the border. He hated that Dante would get caught along with Vance and the man from the photo, but it couldn’t be helped. It was the life he’d chosen and a risk that always existed.
Pushing the phone into his pocket, Rocco retreated toward the jungle?—
“El Sombro’s connections at the border will eliminate any delays with the guns crossing the border into Haiti.” The sound erupted from his pocket at the highest volume.
“Fuck,” Rocco mumbled, realizing the video recording had was playing back. He fumbled the device trying to stop the replay as he sprinted toward the clearing.
But it was too late.
Vance was in hot pursuit.
He jerked and moved at odd angles hoping to lose Vance but all he lost was the hat that had provided him with a modest cover from being identified. Vance was close behind, his thundering steps pounding against the jungle floor.
The last cargo container came into view. This was his best chance to avoid being identified and elude capture … if he could hide inside of it before Vance emerged from the jungle.
Rocco pressed faster, his breaths heaving as he dove toward the open container door. But he wasn’t fast enough. Vance lunged for him, gripping Rocco’s shoulder and jerking him around. Vance brandished a Sig Sauer in his face.
Staring at him with narrowed eyes, Vance said, “Rocco! What the fuck? What are you doing here?” He paused as his face contorted from confusion to suspicion to deadly.
Ignoring the bastard’s question, Rocco landed a kick to Vance’s shin as he swung his elbow against the man’s outstretched arm. Rocco ducked low as Vance lost his balance, shooting a wayward bullet that ricocheted against the door of the shipping container and left it dangling precariously. Rocco lunged for the gun, knocking it from Vance’s grip. The weapon tumbled across the ground, landing out of their reach.
In a flash, Vance launched at Rocco, his attack a whirlwind of precision and malice landing a flurry of punches to Rocco’s kidneys. Disoriented by the pain, Rocco twisted and contorted his body out of Vance’s reach then countered with a punch to his jaw followed by a hard jab to the neck. Vance took each of the hits without so much as being dazed.
Their feet kicked up clouds of dust and gravel as they traded blows under the dark canopy of the night sky. After trading punches, Rocco landed a powerful blow to Vance’s ribs, sending him reeling back toward the open container.
As Rocco pressed forward, Vance manipulated desperation into opportunity. He twisted his body, avoiding the container, then kicked at the barely attached shipping container door. Its rusted hinges cried out as it teetered, then fell like a guillotine toward the ground.
Rocco had only a fraction to react. His forward momentum had him careening toward the falling door. He spun around, trying to evade the steel slab but it was too late. The door crashed down with a deafening clang, trapping his lower body. The impact sent a jolt through him, knocking the wind from his lungs.
Rocco struggled against the cold unyielding metal, his breaths coming in sharp gasps as he looked up into the smirking visage of Vance looming over him, gun firmly within his hand.
“I guess it doesn’t matter why you’re here if you’re going to leave in a body bag,” Vance said with a bloody smile.
