* * * * *
The young man calling himself "Miguel Morales" led the way, jumping over the low adobe wall of the bordertown cemetary. It was Juanita Cierva, a CIA asset from Brownsville, who had guided them most of the way to the border, after aiding in their escape from Tampico. But, now, they were on his home turf (so to speak).
Besides which, he had the flashlight and the Colt M-1911. While she had been given charge of the duffel bag containing the vital evidence required by the Company.
He signaled for them to stop, so he could check on his middle-aged partner.
"Pepe? Usted bien?"
"Yeah, s'alright!"
"Miguel" could not help smiling. It was not that the Senor Wences imitation had been particularly good. It was that, despite his present condition, the older man still preferred his English-as-a-second-language over the younger man's (admittedly limited) fluency in Spanish.
"OK, Juanita? Hand me one of the walkie-talkies. I'll go look for that grave marker we were told to wait by...what's the name, again?"
"Don Sebastian Estevez."
"Right! And, hopefully, our contact will signal us on time."
At thirteen past twelve, he had accomplished his objective. Two minutes later, "Miguel" heard some footsteps crunching on the gravel near the cemetary's main gate. Following which, a flashlight started blinking on and off.
It was flashing the letters "C" and "Q," in International Morse. So, he promptly replied the same way, spelling out the password he had been given.
"M---I---C---K---E---Y!"
He then waited for the counter-sign. It was not long in coming.
"M---O---U---S---E!"
"Miguel" momentarily stiffened. He then traded the flashlight for the .45 caliber Colt, as he hissed into the walkie-talkie.
"Juanita, scram! Back the way we came. It's a trap!"
The impostors must have sensed they had given themselves away. For, almost immediately, the night sky above the cemetary became as bright as midday from the explosion of a star-shell flare!
It was by that light that "Miguel" saw a dozen men, dressed like Ku Klux Klansmen, charging forward from the other three directions. All of them armed with silenced M-3 "grease" guns!
BURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!
Dirt and gravel flew up, as "Miguel" assumed a fetal position behind the tombstone. When there was a momentary lull in the gunfire, he retaliated.
BLAM! BLAM-BLAM!
One of the attackers went down. Causing his comrades to stop advancing and open fire a second time. By that point, however, "Miguel" was hunched over and running towards the back wall of the cemetary.
Seeing this, the pseudo-Klansmen from his left and right flanks began moving toward him, trying to trap him in a pincer movement. That is, until three of those on his right suddenly stumbled and fell, flat on their faces.
And, with black-painted arrows sticking out of the smalls of their backs.
"What the frig...?" muttered the young spy.
He then saw a fourth attacker go down, with a black arrow buried in the right side of his neck!
His two comrades, to his left, turned and fired their weapons in the direction the arrow had to have come from. Inadvertenly allowing "Miguel" to down one of them with shot to the left side of his head.
BURRRRRRRRRRRRP!
Once more, "Miguel" had to assume a fetal position behind one of the headstones.
"Tovarich! Tovarich!"
This sudden exclamation caused the attackers, coming from the young spy's left, to turn as one. And, subsequently, take an arrow in each of their chests.
"Eight down, four to go," he muttered.
Three of those remaining four, who had been guarding the main gate, came running up to reinforce the last pseudo-Klansman. A moment later, however, they were joined by a fifth! Had "Miguel" miscounted?
It became obvious he had not, when that fifth one used his grease gun to kill the other four. Nor did the young man's astonishment decrease when their killer took off "his" hood, and revealed herself as Juanita Cierva!
"Hijo de perra!" he could not help screaming at the top of his lungs: "Are you out of your mind, girl?"
"It worked, didn't it?" she asked, rhetorically, as she jogged back toward him.
"Never mind that bullshit," he retorted: "Where's the duffel bag?"
"I've got it."
They turned and aimed their weapons, as one. The black-clad Japanese-American confronting them held a compound bow in his right hand, and the duffel bag in his left.
"Relax! I'm your real contact. Anjiro Watanabe; Staff sergeant; U.S. Army Special Forces. Currently on loan to the Company."
"Oh, yeah?" replied Juanita: "Prove it."
"M---O---U---S---A!"
Juanita looked at "Miguel," who nodded. That was the proper counter-sign.
"Who were these guys?" the latter asked.
"Sea Bears. Soviet Naval Infantry commandos, similar to our raider marines. If the KGB sent them after you, on American soil, they must be really desperate to get back whatever it is you brought out of Cuba."
Juanita smiled: "That...is an understatement."
She handed her grease gun to "Miguel," then marched over to the duffel bag and reached inside it. She had to admit it; she got quite a lot of enjoyment at his drop-jawed facial expression.
"Sergeant Watanabe? Meet Jose-Maria Garcia y Lopez.
The four-inch tall man in her hands bowed, before adding: "Just call me 'Pepe.' "
tbc
Giantess World
Author's Chapter Notes:
TERLINGUA, TEXAS, OCT. 25, 1962 (12:01 AM/CT)