Pleasure.
That’s what you told the TSA officers a few hours ago, when they asked you the purpose of your visit to Puerto Rico. You wish it was the truth.
Not that there can't be incidental pleasures along the way, you assure yourself as you steer the rental car onto PR-52—the highway that connects the island's northern and southern coasts. There will be time to indulge in little detours, for instance, to sample the famous ruta del lechón in Guavate, for instance, or the lechonera ...
You shake your head and try to concentrate on the drive, and on the job ahead of you. The ring on your right hand sparkles in the sunlight—a reminder of the long-delayed, never-fulfilled quest that has taken you to many tropical islands and countries. And now, to your surprise and disquiet, it has taken you home, to familiar skies and landmarks, familiar sounds and tastes ...
And it is after noon, and you haven't eaten yet ...
So your mind can't help but wander as you weave over the spine of the island, reminiscing about the lechón your cousin Yomar used to make back in Santiago—but blasting a mix of salsa, reggaetón and latin-urban fusions rather than perico ripiao—with a guava mojito to slake your thirst and a dish with half-eaten crispy pork skin—el cuerito, as you knew it, and, surprisingly, so did the locals ... and spicy morcilla ...
But it's not a very long drive, and before you know it you're at the rendezvous point. You park by the side of the road, and the swish of racing traffic fades to a background noise as you lean against the trunk of your rental, gazing out at the green and hazy landscape.
Summer is ending, but in the Caribbean it’s always hot. It begs for hip-hugging shorts, a sleeveless tank top, your long black hair on a ponytail; and you yielded. The mountain breeze leaves you yearning to vacation here—a yearning you can never satisfy as much as you would like, though your work as a consultant for a New Jersey police department gives you some time off. And you've been away too long. Your Caribbean cousins, when they flirt with you, do so with phrases you've never heard. (Though you especially liked the one where they compared the sway of your hips with your cooking—who'd have known that boricuas also liked rice concón?—and you cracked a laugh when you finally understood the meaning of como mastica ese mella’o, prompting the younger locals to burst into the song that made the phrase popular.) Some, of course, couldn’t help but make indecent proposals, despite the ring you openly wore. Other than the accent and a few other things, it almost felt like you'd made a trip back to the country of your parents’ youth, inviting you to stay a little bit more.
But the business that brought you intrudes all too brutally when a Jeep rolls up beside you. "Tanto tiempo," you call as Ricardo climbs out. He is already prepped for action, in combat boots and a bandanna, heavy denim jeans and a white tank top. He is tanned, and there's dark stubble on his cheek.
"Solo un par de años, Mireya," he says. Then, switching to English, "You want to look at the equipment?"
"Of course."
He unzips one of the two duffel bags in the back of his Jeep, and you grin at the ordinance: a couple of high-power rifles, three magazines for each with armor-piercing rounds, and other firearms. "You sure it’s here," you ask, "or are you just trying to get on my pants?"
"Both. But it's a good scoop."
"They live mostly in dry regions."
"It's a good scoop," he insists. Then, "You're not still shaky after Brazil, are you?"
"That was a slip-up, and I was never 'shaky'." You heft one of the duffel bags onto your shoulder. "Are you shaky after what I told you happened?"
"No, I'm excited. I love first times." He grabs the other duffel bag. "First time with a rifle, first time in a new car." His coffee-dark eyes lock with yours. "First time with a woman." The moment hangs by a thread before he cuts it with a pearly grin. "First time with a kill."
"If it doesn't kill us first."
"You survived Brazil."
You don't reply.
--
Ricardo has already done the legwork, pinning the rumored basilisk's location outside Ponce. You are a little unnerved by its implied proximity to the PR-2 highway, and the area—near an abandoned petrochemical facility, and the island’s most notorious jail—has a foreboding quality. But you make straight for it, and early the next morning—to beat the suffocating daytime heat—you are starting your hike in.
Ricardo's investigation has picked out a small cave as the most promising starting point. It is high up on a scrubby hill, and when you reach it after some hours of hiking, it proves to be a crevice only large enough to crawl into. After examining it at a distance, Ricardo goes scouting for a blind from which to watch while you stake a pound of fresh meat outside the entrance.
But something about the area bothers you. Basilisks possess claws strong enough to tear stone, and you see no such telltale marks, either outside the entrance or inside, when you creep up to peer inside with a halogen flashlight.
Maybe it's just another urban legend a'borning, you muse. Puerto Rico, after all, is the home of the chupacabra and the vampire and the gargoyle, which is why you were skeptical when Ricardo contacted you. Only as the details built—the accumulating animal carcasses; the sightings of a lizard big as an alligator; finally, the account of a man dying from a wasting disease that ended in necrotizing gangrene—did you decide to investigate.
Or maybe this is just the wrong cave, and you should be looking for another.
You scout the hillside, and note a survey marker and, in some loose dirt, the clear imprint of a hiking boot. So this spot isn't as off the beaten track as you'd assume. Perhaps the locals have pegged this cave as the beast's lair because it's the one cave they know of.
Ricardo is so well-hidden when you circle back that only a soft whistle from the bush lets you find him. You settle in next to him, and in a whispered conference voice your doubts. He urges you to be patient.
You've not long to wait, though, before he nudges you and sits up in an alert crouch. You sit up too. He pushes aside a branch, and peers out.
You just have time to make out a blur of movement in the brush beyond before something buzzes and whines past your ear.
You and Ricardo both fall back even before the thought Bullet! can form.
You and he stare at each other with wide eyes, but you are both listening, and you both react to the rustle of underbrush on the other side of the blind. You peer between the branches and unholster your pistol—a Smith & Wesson, Model 640, chambered with .357 Magnum rounds. A man in dusty green camo is just disappearing behind a boulder on the other side of the clearing. A rifle glinted in his hand.
You give Ricardo a long, querying glance. He grimaces back, and after chambering a round, shouts, "mira, ¿a quién tú le tiras, canto 'e cabrón?"
Then he throws himself backward, and the answering bullet, zinging a leaf by his head, misses him by inches.
Okay, you think, they know what they're doing, and are shooting to kill.
The cave ... the stories ... the carefully cultivated details ...
This is an ambush.
So when another figure, also gripping a rifle, dashes across the open ground for that same boulder, you don't hesitate to drop him with a single shot. His arms and legs fly out, and he sprawls senseless on the scraggly grass.
You gesture at Ricardo, and with a nod he scrambles backward from the blind and into a bush farther back. You edge from the side, putting the hillside between you and the boulder where the first sniper is crouching. Once out, you turn to watch the crest and farther slope of the hill. If there's enough of them, and they know what they're doing, they will try to come at you from behind. You find a sheltering boulder of your own, from which you can watch both the blind and the perimeter.
Ricardo, out of sight, interrupts the hillside peace with occasional bursts of staccato fire. Then, after an answering volley, he goes quiet.
You wet your lips and look around. There's a dry creek bed nearby, and in a crouch you rush for it. From that position you can crawl farther up the hillside while remaining under cover. But it also leaves you blind, so your heart goes into your mouth when a series of sharp rifle shots go off behind you. You poke your head up, and are relieved to see Ricardo, hunched almost on all fours, running over to join you.
"Got two of them as they charged the blind," he gasps as he falls into the creek bed beside you.
"Who was your source?" you ask him. "Who told you there was a—?"
"Don't worry, I'm gonna have a word con ese hijo de la gran puta."
There's no more sounds from the direction of the blind, but you and Ricardo—who drops his rifle for a Beretta M9A4 loaded with hollow point overpressure 9mm ammo—take turns moving and covering each other as you clamber up and around the hillside, dashing from one point of cover to another. You end up belly-crawling onto a ledge that overlooks the glade that fronts of the cave.
And there you see the last sight you expected: a man with tousled gray hair, crouched over two men in camo who sprawl face up, their throats gushing blood. He is calmly cleaning the blade of an enormous knife on their jackets.
He looks up, and squints directly at you.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author