EIGHT

Sierra Rico awoke suddenly to a rather desolate view of passing countryside. He found himself sitting in a front passenger seat, his face pressed against the dusty glass of the window. The scenery crept by him slowly on the other side of the muddied windscreen as the old, faded-green VW Combi van chugged its way down the seemingly endless stretch of road. The laboured droning of the engine suggested that the vehicle was on the verge of breaking down at any moment.

“This is your captain speaking,” his friend Vincent announced cheerfully from behind the wheel. “We are now officially one hour out from Panama City, and counting down!”

“Mierda, Vincent,” called a big drunken man from the van’s rear compartment. Bullshit. “You said the same fucking thing three hours ago!”

“Hey, cool it, Marco,” the drunk man’s friend chuckled on the floor beside him. “It’s not Vincent’s fault we’re lagging; that fat arse of yours is probably slowing us down!”

“Was I talking to you, Esteban?” Marco grumpily took another mouthful from his bottle of cheap tequila. “No! So shut the fuck up!”

“Try to go easy on that stuff, Marco,” Vincent laughed. “I’m sick of you drinking all my shit. Buy your own for once!”

“Fuck me sideways, you’re such a cheap arse, Vincent!”

“Cheap or not, I will never fuck you sideways. Nor any other way for that matter, you lump of crap.”

“Seriously, you should give the drinking a rest, Marco,” the man named Esteban poked his big friend in the ribs. “You have enough trouble getting women to dance with you as it is. And even if you get a pity dance, the chances of it turning into a pity fuck are about on par with you going to the moon and getting a blow-job from Neil Armstong.”

“Multa, lo que sea,” Marco muttered, rolling his eyes. Plenty of fish in the sea. “Fuck the both of you!” But then, no doubt taking the words of his friends to heart, he sealed the bottle and passed it across the floor to Esteban.

Sierra looked around the van at his three friends, smiling to each of them as they caught his eye. It had been such a long journey for all of them, up through the ruined cities and heated battlefields of Paraguay, Bolivia, and finally Chile. It had taken them the longest part of two years to escape the Lost Continent and they’d overcome many hardships together. While on the run from the cartel they had carried out countless jobs and assignments for whichever drug runners or local warlords were willing to pay for their services. And having recently earned themselves enough money to buy their way aboard a military ship that had left for Panama from the coastal ports of Chile, they were now finally free to start a new life.

Sierra’s eyes shifted across to Esteban Sancho in the back. Esteban was considered the pretty-boy of the group, but in all honestly that was not saying much. Back in San Lorenzo he had always been one who mingled in well with crowds and had a good time; that was his gift; Esteban could strike up a conversation with just about anyone he met, as though they were lifelong friends.

The next man along was Marco Suarez, who was tall, bulky and probably the moodiest bastard on the face of the earth. Marco had formerly made his living as a nightclub bouncer back in San Lorenzo and had always whinged about being disrespected by the other gunmen in the cartel. Outside of Sierra and Esteban, Marco had never had all that many friends. Hardly surprising given how much of a prick he could be whenever he was drinking, which as it so happened was most of the time.

Sierra’s eyes finally rested on his friend, Vincent Perez. Vincent was a man with dark Latino skin, a fuzzy afro hair style and a naturally smug-looking face. The man had been Sierra’s best friend for as long as he could remember, believing his life to be in Sierra’s debt. On his very first job working for the cartel, Vincent had frozen up during a gunfight and Sierra had been forced to take a bullet to save his life. Ever since that day Vincent had always been there to offer Sierra support whenever he needed him.

It was to come as little surprise then, after the fallout of that horrific night in the San Lorenzo slums when Lana had been murdered by his rival Mickey Toma, Vincent had risked his own life to break out Sierra from the cartel’s captivity. Even though Sierra had been totally out of it and only conscious for small parts of the rescue, Vincent had apparently shot dead Hector Chilavert and left countless cartel gunmen lying in his wake, even getting hit in his arm while carrying Sierra away to safety.

Although Sierra didn’t recall any of the shooting, he did remember Esteban popping out the bullet from Vincent’s wound in painstaking detail afterwards when the two of them had met up later with Marco and Esteban in the nearby city of Limpio. From there the four of them had set about planning their escape from the Lost Continent together.

“You really think I have trouble picking up women, Esteban?” Marco snorted and somehow managed to burp at the exact same time. “Well, I think you’re forgetting about that cute girl we meet back in Jaque. She definitely would have taken a ride on my pole if she’d the chance.”

“You mean that girl with the doll? She was like 6 years old!”

“Idiota! I mean that woman on the beach with the green bikini and the nice fake arse.”

“Oh, her,” Esteban stifled a laugh. “Sorry to break it to you, hombre, but she wanted nothing to do with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even when she was talking to you, her eyes kept wondering over to me the whole time. It was clear who she really wanted.”

“Mentiras!” Marco roared. “She wanted me, Esteban! She wanted me bad!”

“No, Marco, she was playing you, just like you play with that small dick of yours every night when you think the rest of us asleep!”

Sierra looked over his shoulder as a commotion started up in the back of the van. Marco and Esteban had suddenly started rolling around on the floor, throwing punches and screaming insults at each other like a pair of boys in a schoolyard scrap.

“Damn, that escalated quickly,” Vincent turned to Sierra with a smile.

“They’re just bored, Vincent; blowing off some steam,” Sierra said. “I kind of feel like joining in myself.”

“Hey, take it easy, Guerrero. I don’t think that would be a fair fight.”

A few minutes of silence passed as they sat listening to their two friends brawling.

“You know, Sierra, I can tell you’re sceptical, but I’ve heard good things about Panama City,” Vincent said. “The whole place has been thriving these past few years; a land of opportunity for unskilled losers like us. Way I see it, the place is in need of some people willing to break their backs for some quick cash, and our backs need breaking, right?”

“Sure,” Sierra nodded. “You’re in charge, Vincent. This is your show. Hell, I wouldn’t even be alive today if it wasn’t for you.”

“Right back at you, hombre.”

Another brief moment of silence passed between them.

“Do you still think much about the past?” Vincent asked. “Your old life, I mean.”

Sierra sighed. “I’m fine, Vincent. Really. Stop worrying about me.”

Vincent just shrugged, clearly not convinced.

“Who gives a shit.” Sierra reached down beneath his black coat and purple button-up shirt. “It’s all water under the bridge now.” He felt around his neck for Lana’s crucifix, clutching it tightly as he found it. Then he rested his head against the window and closed his eyes, letting his thoughts transport him back to a time that had long passed; a time when Lana was still alive.

Lana. Try as might, Sierra could still not stop thinking about her. But how could he explain that to the others? Nobody could ever understand what he had had with her. Not even Vincent.