The Devil's Due: Redemption

The

Devil’s Due

REDEMPTION

Howard Goode

Copyright © 2012 Howard Goode

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7770-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7771-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4497-7769-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922528

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WestBow Press rev. date: 12/10/2012

Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Also by Howard Goode:

FROM THE ASHES OF GLORY

Serving as senior pastor of a growing church on the outskirts of New Orleans keeps me quite busy. My days are spent in counseling, meetings, and preparation for our multiple church services on the weekend. As a result, reading time is usually reserved for theology books, leadership books, church growth books and of course my favorite book, the Bible. Recently, however, I was privileged to read a novel written by a man with an extensive background in aviation and with law enforcement experience. The book quickly grabbed my attention and simply would not let go! Mr. Goode combined his experience in aviation and knowledge of law enforcement to develop a story with intriguing twists and turns. The plot held me spellbound. The main character had made some poor choices in life and it wasn’t long before he was deeply entangled in a web of tragic consequences. Survival seemed an improbability and changing the course of his life seemed an impossibility. It was as if he would never finish paying the devil’s due. However, God had not given up on His goal of redemption for this man, and through the help of old Alaskan bush pilot, a God-fearing Christine, the goal is finally met. Through nail biting plane crashes, shootouts with drug dealers, and corruption in high places, Mr. Goode paints a vivid picture of the epic battle between the forces of good and evil. Relationships are lost and new relationships are formed, but more importantly is the relationship the main character finally finds with God and the surprising way in which God redeems this man’s life and skills. A must read for anyone who has ever wondered if there is such a thing as redemption!

Dr. Larry T. McEwen

Senior Pastor

Northshore Church

Slidell, LA

Chapter I

The makeshift landing strip had been built by bulldozing away the scrub brush at a place where the rainforest gave way to an open expansion of grassland. The location was the thinly populated Northern Plain of Guatemala, a few miles south of the Mexican border.

The small puffy clouds, floating aimlessly across the powder blue sky, gave no hint of relief from the stifling tropical temperature. The occasional gusts of wind felt like a blacksmith’s bellows, intensifying the almost unbearable heat. Although long shadows proclaimed late afternoon, the sun still beamed down with an unyielding vengeance. It was late fall of 1985, and Guatemala was in the grip of a prolonged hot, dry season.

Two men waited in the shade of a small tree, near their twin-engine Piper Aztec. The pilot, Ray Gentry, and his boss, Jack Reed, had come to one of the most isolated places on earth to do business—the felonious business of smuggling contraband across the Gulf of Mexico to Mississippi. The contraband: cocaine.

Ray was a rather handsome man. Although he had been out of the Army several years, he still had the well-trimmed look of a soldier. His six-foot frame carried his 180 pounds with all ease. His eyes were hazel, and he had a deep tan from many hours flying a spray plane with an acrylic enclosed cockpit, which gave full exposure to the sun. Long hours in the sun had also put blond streaks in his brown hair, but his well-trimmed beard was dark brown, almost black. As usual, he was dressed casually, wearing blue jeans, t-shirt, sneakers, and a baseball cap.

On the other hand, Ray’s accomplice, Jack Reed, was a little on the pudgy side at five feet, eight inches tall and 235 pounds. He also dressed casually, but somewhat ostentatiously, in very expensive clothes. He wore a large diamond ring on his right hand, and an Ole Miss class ring on his left. His black hair was graying around the temples, and his smooth complexion gave the indication that he had spent very little time exposed to the elements in the out-of-doors. He usually wore a Rolex watch, but for reasons unknown to Ray, he had stopped wearing it on the trips to Guatemala.

Ray hated waiting. Over an hour in the oven-like temperature was beginning to make him edgy. He gathered a handful of small rocks and threw them out onto the landing strip, at nothing in particular. The small puffs of dust, kicked up by the bouncing rocks, dissipated as quickly as they appeared. His display of boredom was short-lived as the sweltering discomfort only increased with activity. He returned to the shade and sat down, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to meander back over the happenings of the past year, and back to the day he failed to heed the timely advice of a good friend. He remembered how Cliff Boyles had been right with his subtle warning about Jack Reed. Cliff, in a fatherly way, had told Ray he should stay clear of Jack Reed because he would only bring trouble into Ray’s life. Ray had since grown to loathe both Jack and the job, mainly because of an inner prompting by his conscience each time he made a flight for Jack. He had always tried to be a good person and do what was right, but his love for flying, plus the large amount of money offered, and the intense excitement of smuggling had clouded his judgment.

Both men had been quiet for several minutes when Jack broke the silence. I don’t much like this, Ray. We’ve never had to wait this long before.

Yeah, I’m getting a bad feeling about this place. I think we should get outta here, replied Ray.

I agree, said Jack. He stamped out the cigarette he had smoked down to the filter, and continued. But I sure hate to come all this way on a dry run. We’ll give ‘em a few more minutes.

After another ten minutes Ray spoke. Jack, I’ve been thinking a lot about what we’re doing. It’s just not right, and all this money we’re making won’t do either of us any good if we…

His statement was cut short by the sound of approaching vehicles. A cloud of dust appeared across the makeshift airstrip, and soon a jeep and two pickups appeared from out of the swirling dust.

It’s about time, Jack exclaimed, more to himself than to his companion.

Ray’s only reply was a slight grunt, and a nod of the head. He had missed another chance to tell his boss that he was quitting, and that this would be his last flight.

The jeep drove to within a few feet of the two waiting men before coming to an abrupt stop, causing even more of the yellowish-white dust to fill the air.

One of the pickups, an older four-wheel-drive of undeterminable make, stopped near the plane. The truck’s cargo bed contained a large, square-shaped aluminum tank, equipped with a battery-operated pump and several feet of flexible hose. The second truck, a shiny new Ford, circled wide and stopped a short distance from the plane’s right wing. Several military-type, olive-drab duffle bags could be seen in the cargo box. Ray had hauled many such bags in the last year. They had become the standard container for handling cocaine. Each bag could hold up to twelve two-kilo packages, and made transfers quick and easy.

The passenger in the front seat of the jeep was a short, fat man. He appeared to be of Spanish descent, although his skin was much lighter than most of the Hispanics the two North Americans had seen in the area. He was dressed less pretentiously than the people with whom they had previously done business. There was neither the display of heavy gold chains nor fancy clothes. Instead, he was dressed conservatively, with loose-fitting white cotton pants and shirt. The two top buttons of the shirt were open, exposing a thin gold chain on which hung a simple cross of the same metal.

The boyish-looking driver was dressed much like the fat man, but the third man, seated in the rear, looked as if he had been cast as a Mexican bandito in a western movie. He wore dark clothes and a red kerchief on his head. He held an AK-47 assault rifle, and wore a pistol belt around his waist which supported a holstered automatic pistol and several ammunition pouches.

Only after both trucks had come to a complete stop, and the dust had cleared, did the fat man move. Good afternoon, gentlemen, he greeted in accent-free English as he stepped down from the Jeep. My name is Torrez.

He failed to extend his hand for the customary handshake with which his predecessor had always greeted the two. Jack quickly withdrew his hand as he returned a verbal greeting. Good afternoon, sir. My name is Reed, and this is my pilot, Gentry.

Ray only nodded a greeting.

Are you ready for my man, Pepe, to fill your fuel tanks? Torrez asked, directing the question to Ray.

Yes, Ray answered. And tell him to make sure the nose tank is full, referring to an illegal forty-gallon tank, which added nearly three hundred miles to the plane’s range.

After giving directions in Spanish to the man called Pepe, Torrez turned his attention to the two North Americans. Gentlemen, there have been many changes since you were here last. The men with whom you have been dealing are no longer with us.

The other two men in the Jeep laughed, and ‘Bandito’ said in broken English, They no longer with anybody.

That’s quite enough, Roberto, Torrez said in English, followed by several harshly spoken words in Spanish.

Bandito mumbled something, which to the two men who understood little Spanish, sounded much like an apology, which Torrez ignored as he again directed his attention to the two visitors. I will explain the changes, but I must be brief. We have no time to waste. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped heavy beads of sweat from his brow before continuing. We believe that Martinez, the man with whom you have been conducting your business, has been apprehended by our competitors and we fear that he has been killed. It now falls upon others of us to reorganize our operation in order to protect the interests of all concerned.

Torrez stopped talking while he walked to the shade of the tree where the two men had previously waited. There are things your people should be told, but we believe our organization has been infiltrated by those who would like to destroy us, and we are sure that our lines of communication have been compromised. Tell your people that we are in the process of setting up new channels of communication. This is the last time we will make delivery here, as we feel this place is no longer safe. They will soon be contacted by messenger concerning alternative plans for delivery.

The fat man again wiped his face with the handkerchief. Now, shall we get down to business? Give me the money and I will count it while my men load your cargo.

Having to deal with total strangers, plus the change in routine, caused Ray to grow apprehensive, the same feeling he had so often experienced in Vietnam when he had to fly into hot combat zones. There had been rumors of people coming to Central America to purchase drugs, carrying large sums of money and never being seen or heard from again. The two smugglers had often talked about what they would do if such a threatening situation should arise. On the first few trips both men had armed themselves with automatic pistols, but they had always been treated courteously and there had never been a sign of trouble. Ray had soon abandoned some of his caution, and on the last few trips he had not bothered taking his weapon out of the plane during their time on the ground.

Jack, on the other hand, was always armed, even when he was back in Mississippi. His Browning automatic was stuck under his belt at the small of his back, where he had positioned it when he first got out of the plane.

Jack attempted to gain control of the situation by addressing the fat man. First, Torrez, he said, ineffectually trying to give his voice a sound of authority, let us look at the goods. Then—if we are satisfied—you may load the plane. That’s when you get the money. You can’t expect us to buy a pig in a poke.

I do not know what that means, ‘a pig in a poke,’ said Torrez, with a threatening resonance to his voice, but I am telling you to hand me the money so we can conclude our business, or I shall have my men take it from you. I do not think either of us would want that.

As if anticipating trouble, the young driver, now holding an MP-5, a short, stubby, fully automatic weapon, stepped to the ground on the opposite side of the jeep from the others and stood, like a soldier at parade rest. The man in the rear of the jeep remained seated, but turned more toward the three men in the shade. The AK-47 had been placed across his lap in a position from which he could quickly bring it into action.

Reed made another attempt to take charge. Look, man, we’ve always been trusted and treated with respect by the people down here. Now what’s the problem?

The problem, Senor, said Torrez, his face changing from light olive to a deep red as he reverted to a slight Spanish accent, is that you are not dealing with the same people. I do not have to trust you, I do not have to be nice to you, and I do not have to like you. You are acting like we want to rob you. The fact of the matter is, if we wanted to take your money, we could do so and send you back to your country with your tails between your legs. Your lives could also be taken if I wished it to be. So don’t try to play games with me. Hand over the money.

Just as Torrez finished the statement, there came the CRACK—CRACK—CRACK of rifle fire from among the trees across the field, followed closely by a staccato of rapid fire weapons. As Bandito stood up to jump from the jeep, there was a sound like a baseball hitting a catcher’s mitt. A dark red splatter of moisture erupted from the front of his shirt as he fell backward, firing a short burst from the fully automatic AK-47 as he hit the ground.

Chaos and confusion seized the moment. The chatter of automatic weapon fire increased all around as Torrez’s men frantically fired back at the unseen targets across the clearing. The zing, zing, zing of ricochets from incoming fire was occasionally accented by the thud of a bullet meeting solid resistance.

The strong odor of cordite filled the air as the firing intensified. The jeep driver threw his weapon to the ground and ran for cover in the jungle underbrush, apparently making good his escape. Pepe had disappeared, but his helper and the three men from the other pickup continued firing their