Stone-Cold Vengeance

A Covert Action Thriller Stone-Cold Vengeance The Jake Stone Files Peter B. Dunfield Stone-Cold Vengeance Copyright © 2023 by Peter B. Dunfield This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. ISBN 978-0-2288-9155-0 (Hardcover) 978-0-2288-9153-6 (Paperback) 978-0-2288-9154-3 (eBook) ALSO BY PETER B. DUNFIELD Middle-Grade Storyline Adventure Series: Pirates’ Gold The Magic Realm Jack Through Time For Mary Berg and Tammy L. Houts. Without your relentless positive encouragement, this book may never have been written. Chapter 1 The street—if you could call it a street—was abandoned except for a group of feral dogs packed together farther down the rutted dirt trail. As I stepped out of the air-conditioned rental car, the heat hit me in the face like a baseball bat. My shirt tightened against my body like the casing on a breakfast sausage sizzling in a frying pan. A soft breeze fluttered in my ears, but rather than bring cooling relief, it only hastened the internal cooking of my body. The acrid stench of stale urine assaulted my senses. I gagged as it infiltrated my nostrils and clung to the back of my tongue. The multiple stains running down the structure’s outer walls showed this was the apparent source of the foul smell. The local clientele and stray dogs clearly used the building to relieve themselves. A faded sign over the door indicated this was the place I was looking for—the El Patrón Taverna. Unfortunately, like the rest of this so-called town, the taverna left much to be desired. The El Patrón was a broken-down adobe shack with a red and white sign for a national brand of beer hanging at a sharp angle from a single chain on a post near the front door. The other chain had long ago rusted through, leaving the sign to swing precariously in the gentle breeze. Thermal waves rose from the old corrugated tin roof. The place looked more like a solar-powered oven than a tavern, and I wondered what I would find baking inside. It had been a week since I last heard from my daughter, Gabby. I’ll never understand what prompted her to come to this God-forsaken place for a vacation. Despite her mother and me trying to talk her out of it, there was no changing her mind. Even though I still thought of Gabby as my little girl, she is a thirty-year-old woman with my adventurous spirit and her mother’s stubbornness. Once she made up her mind, there was no changing it. So, we settled on a non-negotiable pact. Gabby would call home every other night when she returned to her hotel. No exceptions. This agreement worked well on her previous escapades into other foreign hinterlands, so I had little reason to believe it wouldn’t work again. She had called in faithfully for the first week to update us on her adventures. Then several days went by with total silence and no contact. On the fourth day, without hearing from her, I tried phoning, but she didn’t answer. The calls went straight to voicemail. That worried me, and of course, her mother, Gloria, wouldn’t accept my attempts to explain why she hadn’t called in. I told her, ‘Things like this happen all the time. I’m sure she’s fine and probably just forgot. We’ll hear from her anytime now, and she’ll tell us she’s having the time of her life.’ None of that worked with Gloria, who was inconsolable. The obvious solution, according to Gloria, was for me to pack a bag and get on the first flight down to Colombia to find our daughter. Less than two hours ago, I had checked into the only hotel in town and pre-paid for three nights. The mouse-faced clerk at the front desk wasn’t much help when I asked where I could find Gabby. He claimed there was no one registered at the hotel by her name, even though this was where she told us she was staying. The kid was a terrible liar and didn’t hide it well. The signs were obvious, like not looking me in the eye. His constant fidgeting with his hands and shuffling his feet were also clear giveaways. I slipped him fifty bucks and asked him again. He looked around as if he was being watched and stammered that for any information in this area, I needed to talk with Don Juan Patrón. Apparently, he owned this taverna and this entire shithole excuse for a town. Mouse boy told me the man I was looking for would be here, in his namesake bar every day at this time. It was time to meet the man and find out where I could find Gabby. I climbed the rotting wooden steps, careful not to break through into God-knows-what below, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. I’m not sure what I expected—air conditioning would have been nice—but no luck there. A solitary overhead fan squealed and complained as it tried unsuccessfully to move the thick heat around. The place looked deserted, except for a girl behind the bar. She cast me a nervous glance, then quickly looked toward the back of the room. I guess the guy I’m here to see is back there. I followed her gaze and moved in that direction. As I descended deeper into the dimly lit tavern, I couldn’t help but notice the strange collection of heads mounted on the walls. It was the typical shit one might expect to see