It was pitch-black when Gable drove the F-350 truck in second gear across the dusty field with lights doused, and put the nose of the truck into the break of the riverbank scrub. There was a dilapidated fisherman’s shed made of irregular sheets of corrugated tin at the river’s edge. Lachs peeked through a gap in the metal and shook his head. Empty. Ruvo shoved five Sabot shells into the 890, jacked the slide, and clambered up onto the roof of the cab. He did a 360 turn and whispered okay. Gable and Lachs put their pistols into their belt holsters at the smalls of their backs. Silently cursing Gondorf, Gable went knee-deep into the mud, pulling the wire rope off the spool, while Lachs stood beside the winch, holding the remote controller. A tactical flashlight between his teeth, Gable waded to the nearest case, put the snap hook onto one of the metal handles, and waved to Lachs. The truck swayed a little, but the ninety-five-hundred-pound pull of the winch broke the suction and the case slithered up the bank. One down, eleven to go.
An hour later, there were three more cases left, but Lachs had to get in up to his thighs to help Gable dig away mud so they could clip on to a handle. The two of them were on either side of a partially buried case, flashlights in their mouths. Lachs’s back was to the black river. Then it happened. A warning shout from Ruvo came seconds before a fourteen-foot Nile crocodile erupted out of the water behind Lachs in an explosion of spray, jaws open. Unable to move in the mud, Lachs could only throw himself across the top of the muddy case. Gable never moved faster in his life. He drew his pistol and pumped all seventeen 9mm rounds into the croc’s cotton-white mouth, but it only shook its head and slammed its jaws down on Lachs’s buttocks. Perhaps distracted by Gable’s light, the croc miraculously did not bite down on flesh, but rather hooked an eye tooth on Lachs’s hip holster, tore his cargo pants down to the ankles, shook its head, spit out the gun, and turned to bite again.
Ruvo’s shotgun barked from the bank. A two-inch spot between the croc’s eyes spouted blood and the croc collapsed in the mud, its tail whipping twice, its walnut-sized brain vaporized. The sounds of the shots echoed over the river and across the fields. A dog began barking. Gable looked at Lachs, who gave a thumbs-up. They both looked at the black water, specifically at two more gray shapes moving toward them. “Fuck this,” said Gable, who quickly threaded the snap hook through the handles on the first, then the second, then the third case, and gave Ruvo the sign. The winch groaned, the handles bent, the cases groaned and popped, but all three broke free and slid up the bank. Gable and Lachs pulled each other onto dry land, the grunts of crocs in the river behind them. Lachs was pantless and muddy to his chest.
“First time I ever saw a croc give someone a wedgie,” said Ruvo.
“Thanks for getting that fucker off me,” said Lachs. “Slug went right by my left ear.” Ruvo had snapped the twenty-yard head tap with a shotgun’s iron sights, in low light, from the upper bank, a remarkable shot.
“I was gonna wait to see how big a croc’s dick was, you bent over like that,” said Ruvo. Lachs flipped him the bird.
They finished loading the filthy cases onto the truck when the sound of an approaching jeep came out of the night, its headlight beam bouncing as the jeep jounced over the dried furrows in the field. Militia.
“Heads up, ladies,” said Gable out of the side of his mouth. He seated a new magazine into his Glock.
“None of these fuckers goes home,” said Ruvo, holding his shotgun slightly behind his leg.
The jeep pulled close, its engine windmilling until it fell silent. The four men in the jeep wore a collection of watch caps, kepis, and berets. The Americans stood in the light of the single working headlamp. The driver stood up in his seat and said
“That guy likes your package, Gil,” said Ruvo.
“These fuckers are all loopy, chewing
