The Lookout

‘We’re running out of time,’ said the wiry youth as he looked out over an increasingly choppy incoming tide from his vantage point at the edge of the cliff. ‘I reckon we’ve less than ten minutes until the rendezvous.’ 

‘We better get down there,’ Pedro instructed his three compatriots. They slung their weapons over their shoulders and, with the aid of a single head torch, squeezed into the narrow crevice in the rocks and into the tunnel below. Progress was slow as they followed the markings painted on the rock face. 

‘Watch your footing,’ warned the leader. The slippery granite gleamed in the dim light as they progressed ever deeper. 

‘They’ve rounded the headland,’ came the faint voice from above. As the group picked up the pace, Feram, who was bringing up the rear, lost his footing and slid, feet first, knocking Pedro into the rock face, splitting open the bridge of his nose.  

‘Hey. You could’a killed us,’ said the leader, wincing in pain as blood poured down his sun-beaten face and onto his neck. Feram got to his knees, breathing heavily.

‘Sorry, boss.’ Pedro spat at his feet. 

‘We gotta keep going. If we’re late, they’ll move on. Then who’ll pay The Carlitas?’ he screamed. 

As the tunnel narrowed, the men turned sideways, squeezing themselves through the narrowest of gaps, their hair brushing against the rock above them. Below, the power of the sea was building as the storm gathered in intensity, each wave flinging white spume against the towering cliff. 

‘Two minutes.' The youth’s voice echoed down the tunnel. 

‘When we get to the beach, hide on the left and wait for further instructions,’ said Pedro. 

They reached sea level, and the tunnel widened into a cave, the salt laden air filled their nostrils. They kept close to the side, one eye on the person in front, the other on the horizon. As the approaching vessel crowned the crest of each wave, its light shone ever closer, heightening the sense of urgency.  

‘Come on,’ shouted Feram. ‘It’s nearly high water.’ 

‘Don’t panic,’ Alfonso pushed him in the back. ‘We’ll make it.’ 

‘You always say that. How many times I gotta tell ya?’ hissed Feram. 

‘Shut up. Don't be a downer. I don’t know why Pedro keeps you on?’  

‘Come on, bastards. Enough.’ Pedro commanded.

Open to the night sky with the full force of the weather upon them, the gang’s feet sank into the heavy sand as they made their way to a group of rocks on the left of the inlet. 

‘Crouch there. Have your bags open and ready. Five each. No more.’ Pedro instructed, pulling his balaclava over his face. ‘When I raise my hand, we go.’ 

Further along the coast, a sergeant, accompanied by two subordinates, followed the base of the cliff and monitored the fishing boat as it progressed slowly landward. 

‘Sergeant. We have about five minutes before we’re cut off.’ said one of the men. ‘The cave fills at high tide.’ 

‘If there’s no sign of them in three minutes, we retreat.’ The sergeant held his finger to his lips, summoning silence. Their unspoken signals were a well rehearsed routine employed over months of coastal surveillance. 

As the vessel entered the inlet, the skipper cut the engine and extinguished the lights, rendering the vessel virtually invisible in the inky swell. Tossing the anchor aft, the hull gouged deep into the shingle, bringing the boat to a halt, Pedro raised his right hand and the gang entered knee deep into the freezing water. The two younger members catching the bundles one at a time, stuffing their haul like forcemeat into a chicken. 

Within seconds, shots rang out in the dark, echoing around the cliffs. Feram flung backwards by the force of the bullet flailed on the shoreline. Alfonso clutched his right hand in agony. 

‘Quick. Get in the boat,’ ordered Pedro, dragging his wailing compatriot by the collar. ‘Haul in the anchor,' he screamed. 

The skipper put the engine in reverse and, helped by the rising tide, the boat moved slowly away from the beach, its stern rising skyward on every wave.  

‘We go to Praia de Luz next.’ announced the skipper, opening the throttle and steering up the coast to the east. 

Exhausted, Pedro leaned against the gunwale with his head in his hands. Now his trouble had really started. With no cargo to deliver to Senhor Carlita, there’d be no money to pay the men and nothing for this family. The bailiffs would come knocking at the end of the month, leaving him, his wife and three children homeless and at the mercy of the mob.  

‘Serg! Serg!’ shouted the younger of the two privates. ‘We gotta get out. The cave’s filling.’ They pulled their comrade from the waterline and hoisted his waterlogged arms over their shoulders, dragging him between them to the safety of the rocks above the waterline away from the inlet. 

Lying him on his back, the sergeant examined the wound on his leg. 

‘He’s lost a lot of blood. We gotta get him to the hospital.’ He took a knife from its sheath, cut a strip of cloth from his own shirt, and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet to stem the flow. 

‘Get to the car and radio the chief.’ 

They didn’t spot the young man high above them on the clifftop spying on their every move through a pair of binoculars. He sat in the shelter of a patch of scrubby bush watching the fishing boat round the promontory and enter a wide sandy bay of Praia de Luz where, despite the weather, a bunch of youngsters were partying on the beach, ever hopeful of a rare drop off. Two men broke away from the group and filled backpacks with the rain sodden packages. 

He reckoned they had five, maybe six, between them, leaving nine or ten for him. 

To his left, his attention was broken by ‌an ambulance which stopped several hundred yards away and minutes later a stretcher bearing one of the guards was lifted into the rear before speeding away in the direction of the town, followed closely by the sergeant’s car. 

Alone, the young man pulled his waterproof tightly around his shivering body and he crouched in the undergrowth to wait for low tide.  

As dawn broke, the screech of a pair of gulls startled him out of a fitful sleep. The storm had blown through, leaving a hazy sky and the hope of a calm day. On the low tide mark, he could just make out several gray packages floating gently in the water, banging rhythmically against the rocks to one side of the inlet. He lowered himself into the crevice and slowly maneuvered his thin body into the damp tunnel and finally out onto the fresh surface of the newly washed sand. 

He opened his canvas bag and collected the seven remaining packages, pulling the cord tightly before slinging the haul onto his back. 

As if from nowhere, a familiar voice ordered. ‘Hands up.’ The butt of a rifle jabbed him squarely between the shoulder blades. ‘Move.’ Pedro growled, and he shoved him towards the path. 

‘Come on, man. We’re running out of time.’