Randy White - Hunter's moon

“Only portions. It was a long flight.”

“Where is my recorder?”

“I have it. I’ll return it-tomorrow. When President Wilson says it’s okay.”

Waters nodded, letting it sink in. “Did Tomlinson steal it? Or did you?”

I nearly smiled. Wilson had said that no one expects a former U.S. president to break the law. “What does it matter?”

“I thought you might admit it. Tomlinson’s too religious and Kal Wilson wouldn’t have the nerve. You’re different, Ford. Nerdy and industrious-like setting out food for everyone. But underneath, you are one very damn cold customer.”

The woman stopped, relit the joint. Inhaled a couple of times, holding it like a cigarette, then offered it to me once again. When I refused, she said, “Boy Scout, huh? I don’t think so. You and I have a hell of a lot more in common than either one of us is likely to admit. Scary, huh?”

She turned her back to me and began doing something-unbuttoning her blouse, I realized. I replied, “When you put it that way, yes.”

“I can’t imagine what you think of me after hearing what’s on that recorder.”

“Don’t worry. I averted my ears when it got personal.”

She laughed. “Like a boy who covers his eyes when a western gets too romantic.”

“I didn’t hear any romantic parts.”

“That’s because I’m a realist, not a romantic.” Waters slid her blouse off, unsnapped her bra. With the practiced immodesty of an actress, she tossed them above the tide line. Then, using fingers to brush her hair back, she turned to face me. Curtis Tyner and Juan Rivera shared the same fixation, and their interest was not unwarranted.

“Ford? You should let your hair down. Because I’m getting my hair wet. After the day we’ve had, we both deserve it.”

The woman shimmied out of her slacks and panties and I watched her walk into the sea.

Use a predator to lure a predator…

Kal Wilson had said it about a hammerhead shark that was shadowing a barracuda. Cayo Costa, five days ago.

It seemed like five weeks ago. I should’ve felt tired after so little sleep and so much travel. Instead, I felt energized.

I am not fanciful when it comes to speculating about emotion attributed to creatures not of my species. When people say their cat, or dog, “believes he’s human,” I attempt to smile as I edge away. But I have speculated-fancifully, I admit-that the single-minded focus of a shark might be the purest sensation in nature.

That’s how I felt. Single-minded.

I was sitting high in a tree, back braced, sniper rifle in my hands, as I watched political luminaries assemble for Panama City’s Independence Week ceremony.

It was 11:05 a.m., Wednesday, November 5th.

I was more than a hundred yards away. Even with my glasses clean, the crowd was a blur-people socializing and finding their seats on a stage decorated with bunting and flags. But when I pressed my eye to the rifle’s scope, individual faces came into focus, filling the lens, as I moved crosshairs from person to person searching for the assassin that Kal Wilson told me would be there.

He was not the only one expecting trouble. Security around the stage was intense. Panama’s special assignment cops wear black. There were dozens moving through the crowd, using bomb-sniffing dogs and metal detectors at the two public entrances cordoned off by rope.

Political ceremonies attract political activists. There were several protests under way: clusters of people carrying signs, already chanting slogans. Elections were approaching. U.S. economic sanctions against Panama was a volatile subject, and so was Indonesia Shipping amp; Petroleum’s control of the canal.

Some despised the yanquis. Some despised the IS amp;P. Discontent on other issues was scattered throughout. There were many issues because Panama is like no other country in the region.

Panama City was part of Colombia until the U.S. dug the Canal, then protected its investment by backing independence. They named the new nation “Panama.”

Panama was an invention of the Canal Zone, and the canal’s construction spawned a population assembled from cultures around the world. It was not considered a Latin country until the 1950s for the simple reason that its citizenry was so varied.

Kal Wilson had referred to Panama as an Ark. He had been stationed at nearby Albrook Air Base and he knew the people and the country well.

Once again, he was right.

The Apocalypse could start here.

I paid close attention to a large and vocal group of protesters to the north. Signs they carried identified them as members of Jemaah Islamiyah, an Indonesian faction devoted to creating an Islamic state in Southeast Asia and joining Middle Eastern Muslims in Holy War.

Ramadan had just ended, so there was a big turnout. Many wore traditional Muslim dress, loose robes, shawls, kufis. Women kept their faces covered with scarves, or burqas- a full-face veil with only a slit showing the eyes and bridge of the nose.

I moved the rifle’s crosshairs from face to face.

Praxcedes Lourdes was a theatrical man. It was a costume he might enjoy.

I checked my watch: 11:10 a.m.

I expected to come face-to-face with Lourdes very soon.

We had arrived in Panama City at dawn and I had neither seen nor spoken to Kal Wilson. An hour after landing, I left Vue and Tomlinson in the lobby of the El Panama Hotel so it was possible they had made contact. I didn’t know. There was no reason for me to speculate.

Wilson had given me simple but specific verbal instructions plus the sealed envelope. I had not opened the envelope until I was alone in the suite we’d rented.

The president’s note included a final, unexpected order. I felt numb as I read, then reread it. There was no mistaking what he wanted me to do. Question was, could I?

When I had read the card twice, I burned it and flushed the ashes.

I knew what was expected of me, even though I still didn’t know what Kal Wilson had planned. The president shared information only on a need-to-know basis.

My only clue was what he had said on Cayo Costa: Use a predator to lure a predator…

But who was the barracuda? Who was the shark?

What I knew, apparently, was enough. I had orders. I would carry them out.

I knew how to view a parade ground or a motorcade route as a killing field and I knew how to reconnoiter that killing field. Where were the unavoidable intersections? The unobstructed walkways?

They were “X spots.” Good places to kill.

A shooting post that would appeal to a skilled assassin would also appeal to me. I could identify those spots and secure them. More difficult was anticipating the scrambled behavior of an amateur.

I have done similar surveys other times in my life. It was the reason I had been in Colombia the day they fired a rocket at Wilson’s motorcade.

I spent an hour jogging the area-joggers being as common as stray dogs and no longer drawing attention. I was already familiar with the Balboa and Quarry Heights sections because I’d spent a lot of time there with Zonian friends before the U.S. transferred control. By the time I was done jogging, I knew it better.

The Canal Administration Building, where the ceremony was to be held, is located at the base of Ancon Hill, a bunker-shaped mound that’s forested, topped with radio towers and a giant Panamanian flag.

Five hundred feet below the Administration Building is an E-shaped fortress, separated by woods, canal housing, and gardens, all built on a steep incline. The Administration Building is museum sized, four stories high, built of rock, marble, and redwood, all from the U.S.-Teddy Roosevelt’s way of marking this small country with his own spore.