by Brent Towns
While he waited for her to appear from wherever she was, Swift queued up some photos. He didn’t necessarily need the visual aids to make his report, but it would help. When Thurston showed up and stood beside his chair, he was ready to roll.
“All right, Slick,” she said, her eyes so bleary and bloodshot that he thought about offering her some of his Visine. “What’s so important?”
He took a deep breath and said, “I don’t think the terrorist attacks are random.”
“Why are you looking into the attacks at all? World Wide Drug Initiative, that’s what the sign above the door says.”
Swift almost pointed out that there was no sign above the door but thought better of it. Somehow, he doubted Thurston was in the mood for smart-aleck comments.
“World Wide Drug Initiative,” she repeated. “Four words, and not one of them has anything to do with terrorism.”
Swift shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of downtime while the team runs around shooting people, so I thought I would filter the data through one of my analysis programs.”
Thurston folded her arms. She looked like a schoolmarm getting ready to scold a problematic student. “Reaper put you up to this, right?”
“Negative. This was all my idea.”
“You’re full of crap, Slick.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely not. When Reaper gets back, we may need to have a chat about operational protocol during missions.”
“I never jeopardized—”
She cut him off. “Just tell me what you found.”
“Like I said, the attacks aren’t random. In fact, I’d bet my next paycheck they’re related to the cartels.”
“Trying to justify taking your computer off the reservation?” Thurston asked.
Swift shook his head. “Not at all. Just hear me out.” He punched a button, bringing up the first photo. It showed a middle-aged Italian man with slick-backed hair, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit.
Thurston studied the screen. “I don’t recognize him.”
“No reason you should,” Swift said. “Meet Vincent Gianelli, a midlevel mobster with an old-school flair.”
“In other words, he’s watched The Godfather too many times.”
“Exactly. Anyway, he and his mistress were on the Norwegian Gem when it was attacked and are now confirmed dead. According to reports in the DEA database, Gianelli oversees a significant portion of the coke-trafficking business in the lower Manhattan area.”
“I thought the mob didn’t mess with drugs.”
“Back in the seventies, they didn’t,” Swift replied. “They stuck to prostitution, gambling, loan sharking, stuff like that. But when the eighties cocaine boom hit, they didn’t have much choice but to expand with the times.”
“Okay, but I don’t get how a dead mobster killed in a terrorist attack links into the cartels.”
“You will. Just stay with me.” Swift pulled up another photo. This one showed a Russian man who looked to be in his late thirties. One of his eyes drooped badly, making the other eye seem oversized and slightly bulging by comparison. “Kirill ‘Popeye’ Popov,” Swift announced. “Alleged to have ties to the Russian mob. He, his wife, his eleven-year-old daughter, his sister, and two nieces were all aboard the jet that got blown out of the sky at La Guardia.”
“Popeye?” Thurston said. “He might be a good for nothing gangster, but that’s still pretty cold.”
“Hey, I didn’t give him the nickname,” Swift protested. “That’s what it says in the DEA files.”
“He’s in the DEA database too?”
“The feds suspect he’s part of a pipeline, using his private jet to shuttle coke back from the Florida Keys where he picks it up from a Cuban supplier.”
The light bulb blazed to life behind Thurston’s tired eyes as she started to catch on. “So, two terrorist attacks, two dead drug dealers.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“Who’s next?”
Another tap of a key, another photo. A clean-cut young man, close-cropped black hair, with blue eyes and wide shoulders. All the stats accompanying the picture as well as the words “DEA” emblazoned across the top made it clear this was an official photo.
“Shawn Potter,” Swift said. “Gunned down in the Central Park attack, along with his one-month-old daughter.”
“A DEA agent.” Thurston scanned the information on the screen. “And from the looks of it, a really good one.”
“A rising star,” Swift agreed. “Potter had only been with the agency for three years and had already racked up an impressive arrest record.”
“So, we’ve got two dead drug dealers and a dead DEA agent who was putting a serious dent in the city’s drug trade,” Thurston said. “Interesting, but given the high-volume nature of the attacks, it could also just be random coincidence.”
“We’re not done yet.” Swift brought up the next photo, a young Hispanic male. “Meet Alejandro Lopez. Killed in the church bombing. Just so happens he was a local snitch for the DEA.”
Thurston pursed her lips and said nothing, but Swift could tell the gears were turning in her brain as she processed the information.
“And last but not least,” he said, keying up the final photo, “we have Santiago Rodriguez.” The picture showed an older Hispanic man with gray hair and narrow eyes, wearing a pinstriped suit. “Owns several grocery stores in Manhattan. DEA suspects him of being one of the biggest importers of Mexican cocaine, using his stores as a front, bringing the drugs across the border in produce trucks.”
“Let me guess, he died in the fifth attack.”
“He was on the bridge when it went down,” Swift confirmed.
“So, three drug dealers, a DEA agent, and a snitch,” said Thurston. “Five terrorist attacks, five people in the DEA databases end up dead.”
“Among thousands of others… but yeah.”
“Why would Islamic extremists target people associated with the narcotics trade?” Thurston wondered.
“They wouldn’t,” Swift replied. “But someone else would.”
“So you think somebody gave the terrorists their targets.”
“Not just somebody—Miguel Sanchez.”
“The same Miguel Sanchez that Reaper is currently hunting in Colombia?”
“That’s the one.”
Thurston looked thoughtful. “Explain your theory.”
“Think about it,” Swift said. “All these targets came from the DEA database and it just so happens that our current mission involves the DEA forming an alliance with Sanchez and his cartel cronies.”
“How do the terrorists factor in?”
“My guess is that the cartel is funding them in exchange for being able to select the targets. The cartel eliminates their obstacles—competitors, snitches, et cetera—making it easier for them to monopolize the cocaine traffic in NYC and hides the targeted kills behind the smokescreen of the terrorist attacks.”
“First the DEA in bed with the cartels, now the cartels in bed with terrorists. I need a new job.” Thurston shook her head. “Okay, so how do we prove any of this?”
“Follow the money,” Swift replied. “I’ve already accessed Paul Jacobs’ banking records, so we know he’s been receiving large sums of money from an offshore account, which we can logically assume is owned by Miguel Sanchez. I’ll access Sanchez’s account and see where else he’s been sending large sums and maybe that will point us in the direction of this Johnny Jihad.”
“Are you going to have any problem hacking into an offshore account?”
Swift rolled his eyes. “Please.”
Thurston smiled. “Fair enough. You work on that, and I’ll call Jones and brief him on this, then I’ll let Reaper know we need Sanchez alive if possible.”
“Gonna torture the dirtbag for information on Johnny’s whereabouts?”
Thurston’s smile grew tight and cold. “I prefer to call it doing whatever is necessary to save lives.”
&nb
sp; “Wasn’t an objection,” Swift said. “You can yank Sanchez’s guts out his asshole for all I care.”
“We’ll save that for our backup plan,” Thurston replied. “Maybe it won’t be necessary, as long as those golden fingers of yours can get us the information we need.”
Swift pulled his keyboard closer and got ready to go to work. “I’m on it.”
The Sanchez estate
Razor found Sanchez in his bedroom, still wrapped in his bathrobe. He hadn’t bothered knocking. The news was too important for formalities. “They hit the compound,” the enforcer said without preamble. “Lab, warehouse, barracks… all gone. Total loss. This Team Reaper seems to have a scorched earth policy.”
Sanchez paced the room, rubbing his face wearily. “They’ll come here soon. It’s their next logical choice.” He looked at Razor. “Double the patrols, then go to the village and promise them a reward for their heads. Any of their heads. Those worthless peasants know the jungle better than we do. Perhaps they can track down these Americanos.”
“The villagers have no love for you,” Razor warned. “They are more apt to help the Americans than kill them. Enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that.”
Sanchez smiled coldly. “Then give them a demonstration of what happens to those who give aid to my enemies. As the Americans say, a picture is worth a thousand words. Paint them a picture in blood.”
Colombia
Dawn broke as Team Reaper crouched on the slope of a hill overlooking a farming village, hidden by the thick trees and underbrush. They were sweat-soaked and bone-tired, having spent the last several hours trekking seven kilometers from the destroyed compound through the unforgiving jungle. And they still had three more kilometers to go to reach Sanchez’s villa. Now that the sun was on its way up, the heat and humidity would only intensify.
Kane sipped tepid water from his canteen as he studied the collection of weather-worn huts and watched chickens scratch in the dirt between ramshackle fences. Sanchez’s fortified estate lay to the west. They would skirt the village and continue toward the target. Reaper had no quarrel with the villagers and no reason to advertise their presence.
Shortly after they began their hike from the burning compound, Thurston had called him on the satellite phone and explained Swift’s cartel-funded terrorism theory. She told him to take Sanchez alive if possible. Kane had promised to do his best, but deep down he seriously doubted the drug lord would allow himself to be taken into custody.
As he put away his canteen, he heard an engine approaching. A minute later a black Hummer with oversized tires and a grill guard that looked heavy enough to serve as a medieval battering ram entered the village and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. A bald man wearing jungle fatigues exited the vehicle and without preamble grabbed the nearest girl, a slender young thing who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She was carrying a basket of eggs, which fell to the ground as the man snatched her. The cracked shells leaked runny yolks into the dirt.
Kane recognized her abuser from the mission’s intel: the psycho named Razor. The man confirmed his identity by whipping out his namesake weapon and laying the wicked edge against the side of the girl’s neck. It wouldn’t take much movement or pressure to cut her carotid and uncork a whale-spout of arterial blood.
The villagers gathered around the unfolding drama as Razor spoke loudly, his words carrying all the way up to where Team Reaper hid on the hillside.
“Mr. Sanchez sends his greetings!” the cartel cutthroat shouted.
The throng suddenly parted as a hysterical, weeping woman rushed toward the Hummer, wailing and reaching toward the girl in Razor’s grasp. She babbled in Spanish and Kane gathered that she was the mother of the girl, begging for her daughter’s life. She might as well have begged a hungry jaguar not to kill a crippled monkey.
Razor waited until the wailing woman was almost on top of him, then pivoted slightly and fired a brutal sidekick into her midsection, his boot sinking deep into her abdomen. The quick, merciless strike drove the woman backwards, the air exploding from her lungs. She collapsed on the ground, clutching her stomach and whimpering in pain but still pleading for him to spare her daughter.
Up on the hill, Axe moved up next to Kane. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Reaper, we’re not just gonna sit here and do nothing, are we?”
“No, we’re not.” Kane motioned Cara over, then asked both of them, “Can either of you put a bullet in that bastard from up here with the HK?”
“Why not just go down there and take him?” Cara suggested. “We’ve got him outnumbered.”
“He could cut her throat any second,” Kane replied. “Not sure we’d make it down there in time. Besides, as soon as he saw us coming, he’d kill her.”
“He’s got a point,” Axe said. “Cara, you take the shot.”
She looked worried. “Can’t promise this ends well.”
“If we don’t do anything, it doesn’t end well for that girl,” Kane replied. He knew they couldn’t just stand by and watch Razor carve open the village girl’s windpipe. But the range was nearly three hundred meters, a tough shot with the HK416 carbine. With her M110A sniper system, Cara could have shot a gnat’s legs off at that distance; with the HK, there was a 50/50 chance she would hit the girl instead of Razor. But it was a chance that had to be taken because if they sat on their hands, the girl was dead anyway. Cara was capable of tough shots. Kane just hoped she could pull one off now. He didn’t want her to live the rest of her life with an innocent girl’s death on her conscience.
“There are intruders in the jungle,” Razor shouted at the villagers in Spanish. “An American kill-team has come to our country to destroy Mr. Sanchez. If you find these cabrones, kill them. Bring us their heads, any of their heads, and you will be rewarded. Fail us, and we will slaughter every one of your wives and daughters, young and old.” He paused for a moment to let the threat sink in, then snarled, “Just like this.”
His muscles tensed to slash the girl’s throat…
…just as Cara sent a single 5.56mm NATO round downrange.
The suppressor did its job, but Razor never would have heard the shot anyway.
You never hear the bullet that kills you.
The slug slammed into Razor’s temple with enough force to blow the man’s eyes right out of their sockets. He toppled sideways as the round exited the left side of his skull and hit the dirt with his face a mask of blood and gore. The razor lay in the dust, fallen from the spasming hand of its dead master.
The village girl, splattered with sticky bits of Razor’s cranial muck, ran into her mother’s arms, sobbing in relieved hysterics. She no doubt knew she had been a heartbeat away from a slit throat, only to be saved by an angel with a bullet.
A death angel.
Or rather, a team of them.
All eyes turned to stare as Kane, Cara, Axe, and Ferrero made their way down the hillside and entered the village. They cut imposing figures, decked out in combat gear and carrying submachine guns, and the villagers backed away from them warily.
Kane walked over to the girl and her mother, kneeling in the dirt as they clutched each other. The mother looked up at him, eyes sparkling with tears, and choked out, “Gracias, senor.” Her eyes flicked to Cara. “Gracias, senorita.”
Kane acknowledged her heartfelt gratitude with a nod, glad they had saved the girl’s life. Glad that a mother did not have to bury her child tonight. Sometimes they had to become savages in order to fight savages. Good deeds like this helped balance out the scales. Helped them keep their humanity intact. Helped keep them above the level of the beasts they hunted.
He and Cara helped the woman to her feet, then joined Axe and Ferrero, who were in the process of requisitioning the Hummer.
“No point in walking when we can ride,” Axe said.
“Amen to that,” Cara replied. “I call shotgun.”
“After the shot you just made,” Ferrero said, “you can ride any damn place you please.”
Kane climbed into the driver’s seat as Axe and Ferrero slid into the back, leaving the passenger seat for Cara. As he started the vehicle, an elderly man approached. Kane lowered the window to hear what he had to say.
“You killed the Razor.” The village elder sounded awestruck as if a miracle had occurred right before his rheumy eyes.
Kane gave him a mirthless grin. “Yeah, I guess you could say he lost his edge.”
“Mr. Sanchez, he will punish us.”
“Trust me,” Kane said. “After today, you’re never gonna have to worry about Sanchez ever again.”
With that, he punched the gas and rooster tails fanned from beneath the tires as they raced away from the village. There was death behind them and death before them, and Reaper would have it no other way. That was the life they had chosen. They danced with the devil and enjoyed the tune.
Kane pointed the Hummer in the direction of Sanchez’s estate, following the rough road that put the vehicle’s suspension to the test. They had just saved one child from a grisly fate, but Jeremy Reardon was still in the murderous hands of evil men. Team Reaper would fight to save him until their dying breath.
Or Jeremy’s.
The Sanchez estate
As the Hummer rounded a bend in the road fifteen minutes later, Miguel Sanchez’s luxurious estate loomed into view up ahead, secured behind a high wall with an iron gate, a guard booth tucked just inside to the left. Somewhere beyond those walls—assuming he was still alive—was Jeremy Reardon. But before Reaper could launch a search-and-rescue strike, Kane had to figure out how to get the guard to open the gate.
Turned out the gods of war were smiling down on them for a change. The guard opened the gate as soon as he saw the Hummer, mistakenly assuming Razor had returned. Complacency combined with sloppiness allowed Kane to just roll on in.
“Easiest target penetration ever,” Axe said.
“Thought studs like you appreciated easy penetration,” Cara wisecracked.
