Quest for redemption, p.1
Quest for Redemption, page 1
QUEST
FOR
REDEMPTION
DAVID TINDELL
QUEST FOR REDEMPTION
Copyright 2023 © David Tindell
All rights reserved.
www.davidtindellauthor.com
Cover art by Tanja Prokop,
www.bookcoverworld.com
Formatting & typesetting by Graciela Aničić,
graciela.anicic@gmail.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ASIN: B0CGKMWN4T
ISBN: 9798858884507
To my mother, Sandra Sue Tindell.
She dedicated her life to her family,
showing us the redemptive power of love.
Hell is yourself, and the only redemption is
when a person puts himself aside
to feel deeply for another person.
Tennessee Williams
Love has within it
a redemptive power.
Martin Luther King Jr.
ALSO BY DAVID TINDELL
The MEN OF HONOR series
The Man in the Arena
The Heights of Valor
The QUEST series
Quest for Honor
Quest for Vengeance
The WHITE VIXEN series
The White Vixen
The Red Wolf
The Bronze Leopard
The Silver Falcon (coming in 2024)
PROLOGUE
Peru — Spring 2015
The coca was everywhere in the valley. Esteban worked from noon to dusk in a processing plant, always wearing a mask, helping turn the plants into the powder that would be shipped north to the gringo addicts in North America and beyond. It was monotonous work, but it was work, and in this part of Peru, having reliable work was everything.
That was how it was for Esteban and his brothers, anyway. Julio and Emilio also labored in the coca trade. Julio, the oldest, was working his way up in the movement that controlled the trade here in the Valle de los Rios Apurimac, Ene y Mantaro, which Esteban had seen as VRAEM on maps. It was one of the most isolated regions of Peru, and therefore the soldiers and police of the government in Lima rarely ventured here. The movement, the Militarized Communist Party of Peru, had about a thousand soldiers and controlled every aspect of life in the valley. Including Esteban’s, which he was not very happy about.
So it was that when his father, Juan Mendez, started talking about the old Shining Path days, Esteban listened carefully to the stories. Julio, not so much, and Emilio was now fifteen, a year and three months younger than Esteban, and was coming into that time in which a boy often thought his father to be loco. Still, he respected—feared, really—his older brothers, so he listened to their father. Maybe he picked up on some of it.
But the stories resonated with Esteban. His father was fifty years old now, an old man in this part of the world, but he was a young man when Sendero Luminoso launched its revolution in 1980. They would overthrow the corrupt government in Lima and replace it with what Father called “New Democracy,” like what was happening in China. Indeed, this was what the advisers sent by Beijing taught in the classes that Juan and his comrades attended. Mao Zedong had conquered all of China with this revolutionary philosophy—and lots of guns from Russia, Juan had said with a wink—and so it would certainly work in much smaller, weaker Peru.
Except, of course, it hadn’t. The movement’s brutality caused the government to crack down with increasingly harsh methods. When Shining Path’s founder, Abimael Guzmán, was captured in 1992, that was the beginning of the end. Juan himself had barely escaped the police. He had come to this valley, married a young woman and begun a family, producing these three strapping sons and a cherished daughter, Rosa. He had become one of the leaders of the MCPP, but as the years went by the group turned its attention from communist revolution to capitalist pragmatism. There was simply too much money to be made in the cocaine trade. Being a revolutionary never paid well, unless your side won and you became a member of the new ruling class. It had worked that way in Cuba and to a lesser extent in Nicaragua, but not here in Peru. First, your side had to win, and Shining Path had lost. The splinter groups that survived, well, Esteban thought they didn’t have much of a chance, no matter how much they boasted in their meetings.
Whatever. Esteban didn’t pay attention to politics. He had his job, and his schooling, and his secret hope that when he turned eighteen he would be able to escape this life, and this valley, for good. In his most private moments, he dreamed of going to Lima and joining the Ejército del Peru, the Peruvian Army. Perhaps even the Espiritus Negros, the special forces troops of the Peruvian Marines. He had seen them marching one day during a parade in Cusco, thrilling and terrifying in their camo fatigues, black face paint and berets, with rifles that appeared so much more powerful than the hand-me-down AK-47s wielded by the paramilitary troops of the MCPP. His father hadn’t joined in the cheers of the crowd as the troops passed, but he’d given them a grunt and a brief nod of respect, something his son had carefully noted.
Esteban was beginning to steel himself to the likelihood that when he left this valley, he would never return. His mother had died giving birth to Rosa, so he would not miss her any more than he already did. As for his brothers, he realized that he might one day see them above his gunsight. That would be a very tough moment, one in which the sons of Juan Mendez would find out who had made the better choice in life.
Esteban finished his shift at the plant and cleaned up before walking home. Tonight there would be homework, and then tomorrow he would do it all again. Classes in the morning, work in the afternoon, dinner around the rickety table at their modest home and then studying. When would it end? Soon, he kept telling himself. Be patient. Keep your head down, stay out of trouble, and then go when the chance presented itself.
But this night would be unlike any other in the Mendez house, because Juan told his sons to come outside with him as Rosa cleared the table. As always, she would set the dishes aside for one of the boys to wash; tonight, it was Emilio’s turn. Too bad for him, and Esteban elbowed him in the ribs after Juan reminded them of the chores. After his wife’s death, Juan had made it clear that their sons would have to do what many men in the village scoffed at as women’s work, but it was work that had to be done. Even now, with Rosa on the cusp of her teenage years, the boys still had chores. It was just part of their world. Juan Mendez had taught his sons that when there was work to be done, they would do it, and there was always work to be done.
“What is it, Father?” Julio, who had just turned eighteen, burned with a fire these days, but it was not necessarily the flame of revolutionary spirit. No, Esteban thought it was a flame lit by Alessandra, the doe-eyed beauty who lived on the other side of the village. Julio must have a date, Esteban thought. No wonder he was fidgeting through dinner.
Juan gave him a look. “Sit down, boys,” he said, pointing to the bench in front of the house. Dutifully, his sons sat. Emilio was paying attention tonight, Esteban noticed. Maybe it was one of the days in which he didn’t think Father was a stupid anciano. “You have all done well,” Juan began, surprising Esteban. Praise from Juan Mendez was a rare thing, especially since his wife’s death. Except, of course, for Rosa, who was obviously his favorite. Esteban had long ago accepted that as a logical consequence of their mother’s sacrifice in bringing his sister into the world. “Now, I have good news for you. The leadership of the Party has chosen me, Juan Mendez, to perform a very special mission, one that will bring glory and wealth to our valley. And I have chosen you to help me fulfill that mission.”
Well, this was indeed news to Esteban. He’d known his father worked for the Party, of course—how else could he support his family, even though his sons all gave their wages dutifully to him every payday—but at what, Esteban had never been quite sure. “What is the mission, Father?” he dared to ask.
Juan looked at him and smiled. “The leadership has decided to strike at the corrupt bosses in Lima,” he said. “It is to be a complicated endeavor, my sons, but our part will be straightforward.”
Even Julio was paying attention, for he now asked, “What are we to do?”
“You are aware of the many Norte Americanos who hike the Salkantay?”
Julio nodded. “They come here to hike the trail and visit Machu Picchu,” he said.
“Yes. Well, these tourists, they are from all countries, but most from the United States. And they all have one thing in common: they are all rich.”
“Like all the North Americans,” Julio scoffed.
“Exactly. And so, my sons, we are going to visit some of them on the trail, and we are going to find out exactly how rich they are.”
Esteban didn’t like the sound of that. Kidnaping? Holding people for ransom? How would that bring glory to the movement? The government would hunt them down like wild pigs. The tourist trade was vital to Peru’s economy. Even at sixteen, Esteban knew that. He had seen all the white-skinned gringos in Cusco. He ventured a question, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Father, how is this going to help the Revolution?”
“A reasonable question, my son,” Juan said, showing surprising understanding. “We are going to s
ee how rich they are, yes, but more than anything this will bring the eyes of the world to Peru, so that we can tell them of the corruption in Lima and of our struggle to lift our people up from poverty.”
Julio was nodding. Julio didn’t talk much to his brothers these days, but when he did talk it always seemed to be about two things: girls, and the Revolution. And even though the Revolution had been stuck in neutral since before they were born, Esteban thought, there were girls here in the village, right now, drawing his older brother’s attention. And indeed, Esteban had felt those same stirrings in his loins more than once. There was the time when he saw Carmen, the fifteen-year-old girl who worked three tables down from him, at the stream, taking off her clothes to bathe…
“Esteban! Pay attention!”
His father’s command snapped him back to the here and now. The heated memory of Carmen in the stream would have to wait till later, when his brothers were asleep. “Yes, Father.”
Juan glared at him, then said, “That is all for tonight, my sons. I will have instructions soon from the leadership about our training. But I must warn you, this is not to be spoken of, with anybody. Even with your closest friends here in the village. The corrupt bosses in Lima have spies everywhere. Remember what happened to Luis Alvarez.”
Esteban shuddered. Alvarez, a man from the village, had been caught spying for the government earlier that year. That was what they accused him of, anyway. Alvarez had loudly declared his innocence. His trial was held in front of the whole village, and so was his execution. The message had gotten through loud and clear. To oppose the Revolution meant death. The whole ugly scene had convinced Esteban more than ever that escape was the only answer. It had taken all of his self-discipline to keep from running away right then.
Someday soon, though, he would be ready. He only hoped his chance would come up before he had to point a gun at anybody hiking the Salkantay.
CHAPTER ONE
Northeast Illinois — May 2015
Jim Hayes had a problem. Actually, he had several on his plate right now, but the one in front of him was the largest and most immediate. Ron Engels was six-three and a solid 240 pounds, and it wasn’t for nothing that people often mistook him for a certain wrestler-turned-actor, from the shaved head on down. Engels had the attitude that made him dangerous on the training mat, but also made him very effective as an operator for Odin Security Services. He had the skills and training to back it all up, and even though he and Jim were friends, Engels didn’t let up when they were on the mat.
“Had enough, old man?”
Jim was leaning over, hands on knees, sucking in breaths and trying to avoid thinking of how his artificial knee, just six months old, might not exactly appreciate this type of thing. Problem was that the knee wasn’t the only body part telling him to get off the mat before anything broke. He had a couple inches of height on Engels but was a good fifteen pounds lighter. Also, older. “I’m fifty-four, and that’s only ten years older than you are,” he told Engels. The younger man threw his head back and laughed. Sweat glistened his ripped upper body, and the man’s thighs were straining his gray sweatpants. Engels had tossed his tee shirt aside early in the workout, disdaining the company rule that required all employees to wear something above the waist, at least outside the locker room.
Jim decided to buy a little more time. “My brother won’t appreciate it when I tell him you’re going topless again,” he said.
Another laugh. “Don’t pull that brother-card shit on me,” Engels said. “I know he’s the boss, but he’s upstairs and we’re down here, so quit your stalling and let’s go. You said it would be two out of three, and we’re even up.”
Indeed, they were, but Jim suspected that Ron had been taking it easy on him, allowing him to score a point in the sparring match within sixty seconds of the start. Engels had come back on him with a stepped-up degree of intensity, and Jim had to yield a point when he couldn’t block a turning side kick. Luckily, Ron had pulled the kick just enough to avoid cracking a rib. Now, the next clean punch or kick would settle the matter, or if it went to the mat, a submission would do it. Jim definitely didn’t want to go down there with Engels, with the knee not quite yet at a hundred percent. His orthopedist probably would’ve fainted if he saw Jim right now. He didn’t need the doc to tell him that another injury would be a calamity; a month from now, he’d need that knee, both of them in fact, at a hundred percent for the trip. For a moment, he thought about quitting the match. Why risk it?
You need to be ready, a voice told him. You need to show Gina you’ve still got what it takes, and show yourself, too.
Jim shook his head, silencing the voice. That was happening far too often lately. Was it his conscience? His “inner Jim” voice? Whatever, he was getting tired of it. He stood up straight, took a breath, dropped into gyoroogi seogi, a classic taekwondo fighting stance, and brought up his gloved hands. “All right,” he said, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
They met in the center of the mat, touched gloves, and Engels spun to his right, launching a turning sidekick that would’ve broken multiple ribs had it connected. Jim’s block deflected the kick just enough so that Engels’ bare foot barely grazed Jim’s side, giving him an opening to strike back at his opponent’s exposed butt or back. But this was a competition, not a street fight, and those targets were out of bounds today. Instead, Jim stepped around him and next to his planted left foot, brought his hip up against Engels’, pulled the extended right arm—bad form, Ron should’ve kept it close in—and pushed into the space between the shoulder blades, levering Engels over the hip and down onto the mat with a crash. Ass over tin cup, as Jim’s late father might’ve said.
Engels looked stunned, and Jim took a step forward, bending over, ready to go down and put an arm bar on him, but Engels suddenly reached back and grabbed Jim’s right ankle. Too late, Jim realized what was happening, but he couldn’t stop it. Engels pulled hard and Jim’s legs flew out from under him. He crashed down on the mat, taking most of the impact on his tailbone, but his shoulders and head took some, too. Enough so that one small part of Jim’s brain, the part still able to function without being distracted by the pain, knew that in a street fight it would be all over now, Gina would be a two-time widow in another few seconds.
“You okay?” Engels stood above him, extending a hand.
Jim allowed himself to be hauled upright. Engels hardly seemed to be making an effort. The man’s strength was legendary among the OSS operatives and now Jim knew why. He might be taller than Engels by a couple inches and five pounds heavier—well, closer to ten, these days—but the younger man was definitely more powerful. “Didn’t mean to bring you down so hard,” Ron said.
Jim wondered about that, but said, “It’s okay.” He tried to straighten himself, felt a shooting pain through his buttocks. Cracked tailbone? That would be just great. Those things were a bitch to heal. Maybe it was just a bruise.
Engels stepped to the edge of the mat and retrieved his shirt. “Let’s call that one a draw,” he said. “Good hip throw, there. Were you thinking arm bar after that?”
“Yeah,” Jim said, taking a couple tentative steps. “But thinking and doing are often two different things.” He placed his hands on his hips and stretched backward, then forward, clutching his buttocks. “Ouch!”
“Looks like you’ll have to tell Gina that playing grab-ass is out for a while,” Engels said, laughing.
“Right.” Jim shook his head, feeling the touch of anger. That wouldn’t be a problem. Not these days.
***
The drive home normally took about a half hour, but tonight Jim had to stop at a convenience store for gas and a gallon of milk. Taking the extra fifteen minutes or so was okay, considering there’d probably not be a lot waiting for him at home. Gina had told him she’d be working late again tonight. The hospital in Burlington was keeping her busy, lately very busy. Lots of staff turnover for her to manage in the nursing department, she’d said. She planned to have it straightened out in a few weeks when some new people would be up to speed. He hoped so. They were due to leave on their trip in, what, a month? He took out his phone, touched the calendar app and saw that June 12 was their departure date. Five weeks from tomorrow.
