Rolling Thunder. Don Pendleton

are you going?” Brinquel asked.

      “To have a talk with our friend about his horn,” Miguel said.

      “Best make it a short talk,” Brinquel said. “They can probably hear that horn all the way from here to the roadblock.”

      Miguel got out and circled the front of the truck, holding the gun behind his back as he approached the car. He was right. It was a late-model Fiat. The driver was a man in his forties, wearing a designer shirt and white slacks. He looked to Miguel like some sort of businessman, but when he raised his voice and shouted for the truck to move, the driver cursed at him like a longshoreman. All the while, he kept the heel of his right palm planted against the car’s horn.

      “I’m running late, damn you!” he shouted. “Get out of my way or I’ll report you to the—”

      The man suddenly fell silent. Miguel had brought his pistol into view. Before the man could react, Miguel pulled the trigger, putting two rounds into the driver’s face. The man’s head snapped back from the force of the rounds, then he slumped to one side.

      Miguel holstered his gun, then leaned into the car, reaching past the driver and shifting the Fiat into gear. As the car began to move forward, Miguel turned the steering wheel, then backed away. The Fiat quickly veered off the road and headed for the guardrail.

      When the car hit the barrier, there was a dull crash and the sound of snapping wood. The railing’s uprights gave way, and seconds later the Fiat disappeared over the side. A series of small explosions marked its swift descent to the bottom of the gorge.

      Miguel turned and headed toward the rear of the truck. Brinquel had already backed the rig up once and moved forward, but he was still nowhere close to completing the turn.

      “Back up again!” Miguel called out. “I’ll tell you when to stop!”

      As Miguel moved toward the partially collapsed guardrail, one of the trailer home’s windows opened. Two men peered out. Like Miguel and Brinquel, they both wore berets. One of the men brandished an M-14 carbine and bore a close resemblance to Miguel, though he was bearded and wore his hair longer. It was Jacque Rigo, Miguel’s younger brother.

      “What’s happening?” he called out.

      Miguel quickly explained the situation, then said, “Close the window and stay put.”

      “Are you sure we can get around the roadblock?” Jacque asked.

      “Let me worry about that,” Miguel snapped.

      Jacque was about to retort but thought better of it and withdrew inside the prefab along with the other man.

      Miguel moved back to the guardrail, then signaled to Brinquel, who slowly backed up. Once the truck was again within a few yards of the barricade, Miguel waved his arms and shouted for Brinquel to stop. The older man put on the brakes, then shifted gears and pulled forward. He had to repeat the maneuver a second time, but finally he’d managed to complete the turnaround.

      “What did I tell you?” Miguel said as he got back in the cab and slapped Brinquel on the shoulder. “You’re more of a truck driver than you thought.”

      “Maybe so.” Brinquel’s face had broken out in a sweat. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then pulled a fresh cheroot from his pocket. Miguel lit it for him, then they drove in silence, heading back the way they’d come. Brinquel had to steer wide several times to avoid oncoming cars, then, after a quarter mile, Miguel pointed out the windshield.

      “Turn up there.”

      Brinquel frowned. “That road dead-ends at Lake Pabal. What is the point of going there?”

      “You’ll see,” Miguel told him. “I’ve come up with a better plan. The roadblock wound up working in our favor.”

      “Are you sure?” Brinquel sounded skeptical.

      “Positive,” Miguel responded. He quickly divulged what he had in mind, concluding, “This way it will be even more difficult for them to realize we’ve pulled a switch on them.”

      Zacharias still wasn’t convinced but he wasn’t about to argue. He drove on, and once he reached the turnoff, he guided the rig onto an even narrower dirt road that led down a steep, winding incline. He had to downshift to keep the vehicle under control, and soon there was yet another obstacle to contend with.

      They were entering a fog bank.

      Brinquel slowed the truck to a crawl and leaned forward in his seat in hopes of getting a better view of the way before him. It helped a little, but soon his visibility had been reduced to less than five feet.

      “Maybe Luis was telling the truth about the fog,” Brinquel murmured.

      “I doubt it,” Miguel said.

      After another few yards, the road straightened and began to level off. Suddenly Miguel held his hand out, motioning for Brinquel to stop.

      “Turn off the engine and kill the lights,” he said.

      “Why?”

      “Just do it!”

      Brinquel obliged, planting his foot on the brakes to keep the truck still. In the wake of the engine’s constant roar, the sudden silence seemed almost deafening. But soon Brinquel was able to make out the sound Miguel had apparently heard moments before. It was a mechanical droning, sounding from overhead.

      “A helicopter,” Brinquel whispered.

      Miguel nodded, putting a finger to his lips. He had his gun back out, and he reached to the floor of the truck, then handed Brinquel a 30-mm AGS-17 grenade launcher. The weapon, with its thick stock and barrel, had the look of a futuristic rifle out of a science-fiction movie.

      As Brinquel cradled the launcher on his lap, a faint beam of light appeared ahead of them, probing into the fog from above. The fog was so dense, however, that the beam was barely able to penetrate it. As the shaft of light swept toward them, Miguel kept an eye on the hood of the trunk. If light reflected off the hood, it would likely mean the truck had been spotted, forcing their hand.

      Seconds crept by slowly, then the beam washed faintly over the truck. The fog blunted the light before it could reach the hood, however, and soon after the light disappeared, the sound of the helicopter began to fade, as well.

      “They missed us,” Brinquel whispered.

      “I hope so,” Miguel responded. He quietly opened his door again. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

      Brinquel was about to ask where Miguel was going, but the door closed and Miguel vanished from view into the fog. Brinquel’s cheroot had gone out. He reached for some matches, then changed his mind and contented himself with chewing on the end of the cigar.

      Less than a minute later, Miguel appeared out of the fog and returned to the truck. He’d left the door open and he reached in, pulling the transceiver from under the dashboard as he spoke to Zacharias.

      “Shift into Neutral and point the wheels straight,” he said. “When I tell you, take your feet off the brakes and make sure the truck keeps going straight until it reaches the water.”

      Brinquel couldn’t hold back his reservations any further. “I can’t believe you talked me into doing this.”

      “You’ll be fine,” Miguel insisted. “Just remember to keep your window down and lay down across the seat once you hit the water. After the explosion, wait a few seconds, then you can go ahead and swim out through the window. We’ll be waiting for you ashore.”

      “You make it sound so simple,” Brinquel said. “Maybe we should trade places.”

      “If that’s what you want,” Miquel offered.

      Brinquel thought it over, then shook his head. “No, I’ll do it,” he said warily. “But I have to tell you I don’t swim very well.”

      Miguel