The Geronimo Breach by Russell Blake

in and cut her out.
    Take her current project: a simple cook who had slipped on his paperwork and found himself experiencing a minor misunderstanding with local law enforcement. He’d been an occasional client of her place – maybe three times a year, likely birthdays or other special events – but was a decent sort in need of help, and with cash in hand. So what to do?
    Rather than charging him an exorbitant fee for a relatively straightforward service, Carmen had offered a solution to him for forty-five hundred dollars. That was a bargain for what she was offering: guaranteed safe passage to Colombia, escorted much of the way by a highly-regarded member of the diplomatic corps. Obviously, the cost would have been triple if he’d wanted to come the other direction – most questionable traffic tended to move north through Panama, not south – however, she avoided that trade; preferring to leave it to those who were more comfortable with the increased risk. So Carmen pocketed a grand, paid the border patrols near the rendezvous point a few hundred each to get busy for a few hours, and arranged for a guide to meet her client and get him into Colombia. No questions asked. And of course, the eighteen hundred for her friend Al to shepherd the client south ensured his trip would be uneventful and uninterrupted. Money well spent.
    It was a win-win deal for everyone. A nice little sideline to her prostitution business. She was owed many obligations by grateful clients on both sides of the border, and this provided a means to monetize her favor bank . And all for just a few phone calls. It was perfect.
     
    Ernesto sat in the downstairs bar, fortifying himself with Seven and Sevens as he waited for word he’d be departing that night. The bartender’s black slacks and tuxedo shirt, fitted with a black vest and bowtie, reinforced the formality of the room. There were worse places to kill time – the scenery was first rate; a steady stream of exceptionally beautiful young women in various stages of undress moving through the lounge, trolling for clients among the exclusively male patrons seated at the circular white marble tables. The gold brocade and velour trappings created an aura of quiet sophistication for the drinking gentlemen.
    At first he’d balked at the cost of getting across the border, but upon consideration he’d realized it was unlikely he’d find a more reasonable or dependable avenue. Carmen was top notch – he’d get his money’s worth – and at the end of the deal he’d still have almost $1500 left when he landed in Colombia; more than enough to support himself while he got a job in Bogota or Cali or Medellin.
    The price was steep, but it beat the hell out of rotting in prison for a year or two.
    That choice was no choice at all.
     
    Carmen presided over the scene like royalty, greeting new entrants and thanking departing customers. A striking brunette with an eerie resemblance to Salma Hayek, she wore a long, red silk sheath with a slit up the side that almost reached her hip – a suitably provocative yet elegant ensemble that somehow resonated with the decor. Carmen fancied herself the consummate hostess – her charms weren’t for sale; rather, she was the mistress of ceremonies.
    As Al entered the foyer, she waved and blew him a kiss, disengaging from the two men she’d been entertaining.
    “Alberto, Amor , welcome again. You look thirsty,” she said, smiling warmly.
    “It’s hotter than usual out. Easy to get parched with this weather,” he conceded. “And you look ravishing, as always.”
    “Let’s get you something cool to drink and slip upstairs to talk business.”
    “I like the way you think, Carmen,” he flirted, eying the bartender. He crossed the room in a few strides and ordered a double vodka tonic; easy on the ice and tonic.
    Carmen waited until he returned, tumbler in hand, and they climbed the curved stairway to a room at the far end of the third floor – all the other