Deadly Intent

by Brent Towns

  Thurston shook her head. “No, sir. We believe that they were taken away from the warehouse alive, but so far that’s it. There is a good chance that they are dead.”

  Jones’ expression was grim. “I’m sorry, Mary. Kane was a good man. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m promoting Billings to team leader and Arenas to her second.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Also, I’m meeting a hopeful replacement here, if that’s OK, sir?”

  Curious, Jones asked, “Who might that be?”

  “Brick Peters. I thought, with your permission, that I could bring him onto the team.”

  The general nodded but remained silent.

  “I do have another request, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Thurston said, “It’s for more assets for the team.”

  “You’d best just tell me, Mary, so I know what I’m in for.”

  “Sir. I would like a couple of Black Hawks, an HC-130, two UAVs, and other drones that we might need.”

  “Don’t you have access to that already?”

  Thurston nodded. “Yes, sir. But not when we require them. I’d like the Black Hawks at my fingertips. The HC-130 will be a good asset to have when we have to fly out of the continental US. We can load all of our gear on it and be gone within hours.”

  “Roger that,” Jones said. “I almost hesitate to ask, but, is that it?”

  “Armored Humvees and Tahoes?”

  “You’re killing me, Mary.”

  “I want us to be as independent as possible, General.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “One more thing.”

  Jones sighed. “There would be.”

  “Luis and I are of the same opinion that all of what has happened to us of late is the work of Juan Montoya.”

  “What brings you to that conclusion?”

  “Ever since we left for Ecuador, we’ve been walking into one shit storm after another. Then there’s the thing with O’Brien and the militia. All of this happened after they broke out of prison using Collins and his mercenaries. I know he’s involved somewhere, sir. Have you heard anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What about the ambassador?”

  “She’s going to live, thanks to Peters. Plugged her wound with his fingers and stopped her from bleeding out.”

  “Are there any clues who was responsible?”

  “Without a doubt, it was cartel related. We just don’t know which one.”

  A knock at the door stopped their conversation, and when it opened, Peters was shown in. He looked at the two generals and asked, “Am I in some kind of trouble, sir, ma’am?”

  They both shook their heads. “No, son,” Jones said. “Quite the opposite. We have a job for you.”

  Chihuahua

  Mexico

  A thin-faced Mexican set up and tested the camera to make sure that it was working. Behind him stood Juan Montoya and Ward Collins, both men watching him work. They were in one of the cartel boss’ many safehouses. For one kilometer in every direction, he had men positioned to warn of any incursion into the secure zone.

  “Is it ready yet?” Montoya asked.

  “Soon, Jefe. I just need to make sure that the Americans cannot trace it back to us.”

  The cartel boss seemed satisfied with the explanation and nodded abruptly. He then turned to Collins and asked, “Are the equipos ready?”

  “The teams are in place. In a few days, when the time is right, my men will pick up the package and take it to where it needs to be.”

  “What about the other jobs. They must be completed over the next couple of days, so the gringos are looking towards Mexico, not in their own patio trasero.”

  “It will be done.”

  “Good.”

  The Mexican who’d been fiddling with the camera cleared his throat and said, “It is ready, Jefe.”

  Montoya turned and walked over to stand in front of the camera. He straightened his white coat and brushed off his white pants. Stroking his manicured goatee, he nodded to the man. “I’m ready.”

  The man leaned over the camera, pressed a button and nodded back.

  Montoya cleared his throat and started to speak. “My name is Juan Montoya, and I have a message for the imperialistas north of our border.”

  The Pentagon

  Washington D.C.

  The door to General Hank Jones’ office opened, and a young first lieutenant entered. “Sorry for the intrusion, sir, but you need to see this. It’s being streamed live onto the internet.”

  Jones, Thurston, and Peters glanced at each other while the young man brought it up on a flat screen hanging on the wall.

  “ … your prison could not hold me, and your government is useless against me. My reach from my beloved Mexico is beyond what your leaders even realize.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Jones growled. “I’d like to put a bullet in that prick’s brain. Where is this coming from?”

  “We’re not sure, sir. But we figure it has to be somewhere in Mexico.”

  “ … my country is for my people, not for imperialist gringos who think they can come down here without permission and do as they wish. This will stop. If not, then you will see more of what happened to the puta you call your ambassador.”

  Montoya paused thoughtfully and then smiled. “Maybe you should come. Yes, why not? I would welcome all of you who do, with bullets and bombs. And to the dictators in the big house who think they are the gods of all, you cannot touch me. This is Mexico, it is my country, not yours. Stay the fuck out!”

  The picture disappeared, and the screen went black. Thurston stared at Jones. “You want me to put my team on alert?”

  “No. I’ll get onto Alex Joseph. He can have one of his SEAL teams put on standby. Once the intelligence guys nail this bastard down, we’ll send them across the border. When the president sees, this he’ll start breathing fire. That Mex bastard just stood there and fed us a big old shit sandwich. Surely he realizes we won’t let this stand.”

  “Sir, request permission to be put on that team,” Brick said.

  “No. You’re now a member of Team Reaper, son. Mary’s your boss now.”

  Chapter 15

  The Gates of Hell

  Isla del Volcán, Peru

  The Gates of Hell! It was aptly named. A large stone-built prison seemed to rise out of the thick green jungle surrounding it. Serving as a backdrop to the seemingly ancient structure was a towering slab of rock; the long-extinct volcano from which the island got its name.

  Edging alongside a rundown dock, the boat stopped but didn’t tie up. Instead, one of the armed guards stepped forward and said, “Final de la línea.”

  Kane frowned. “What?”

  “He wants us to get off,” Spencer said.

  “I know what he said. I want to know why they aren’t coming with us?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “You’re the spook. How about you tell me.”

  “There are no guards here,” Spencer explained. “The prisoners roam free on the island.”

  “You’re shitting me. How do they keep them here?”

  “We’re a hundred fucking miles from anywhere,” Spencer hissed. “What are they going to do? Swim?”

  “What’s to stop anyone coming to get them? The cartels?”

  “Peruvian navy.”

  “I thought this was some kind of secret place.”

  “They have a rapid deployment force which is sent out whenever someone breaches the ten-mile exclusion zone.”

  “Rápido! Rápido!” the guard said animatedly.

  They stepped ashore and almost immediately the boat drew back from the dock. Kane said, “They didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “That’s because they are scared.”

  “What are we meant to eat?”

  “There are food drops once a week. If we last that long.”

  Kane stared at him. “How do you know a
ll this shit, and no one else has ever heard of this place?”

  “Like you said, I’m the spook.”

  “I can’t believe something like this exists.”

  “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “Really?”

  “Reports are that most of them are split into factions. Like the cartels, Mexican, Colombian, FARC, Dominicans, Haitians, gangs out of Brazil. It’s a veritable fucking melting-pot of hardcore criminals. If any of the countries in Central or South America want to get rid of their worst cases, they hand them over to Peru. The Peruvian government just dump them here and let them sort themselves out.”

  “Could be worse,” Kane pointed out. “They could have guns. Come on, let’s get out of here. That boat was bound to have drawn attention.”

  Indeed it had, for no sooner had the words escaped Kane’s lips, when the first signs of life appeared from near the prison. Reaper nudged Spencer. “Let’s get into the jungle.”

  They began a slow jog towards the end of the dock and then veered left. Their track had them on an oblique angle away from the prisoners. A shout drew their attention, and they saw that their observers were now moving in their direction at a good clip. They were armed with what appeared to be spears and clubs.

  “Shit!” Spencer exclaimed. “Look!”

  Ahead of them, another group of prisoners materialized. These ones were different. They were dressed in mottled green fatigues. “I’d say they’re FARC!” Kane said to Spencer as they skidded to a stop.

  Like the others, the FARC prisoners were armed with spears. Their leader looked to be a tall, solidly-built man with a full beard. Beside him, a slimmer man pointed in the direction of the island’s latest arrivals.

  With a wave of his arm, the leader sent his men forward. Kane figured that there were probably twenty of them. With shouts and yells of excitement, they surged towards Reaper and Spencer.

  Then a shout drew their attention once more, and they saw a lone figure standing on a low rise at the edge of the jungle, waving to them. He signaled them to run his way with urgency.

  “Could be a trap,” Spencer said.

  “I guess we’ll find out. Move!”

  They started running again, this time towards the man. The closer they got to him, the narrower the gap became between the FARC and the others, whoever they were. The ground was uneven and damp, which made it all the more difficult to keep up a fast pace. Spencer slipped and almost fell. He would’ve if Kane hadn’t steadied him with an arm.

  “We’re not going to make it!” Spencer exclaimed.

  He was right. The gap had narrowed exponentially, and the last part of their passage was about to shut.

  Slamming a shoulder into the first snarling recidivist, Kane used such force that he heard ribs snap. A cry of pain confirmed his suspicions as the man reeled away.

  He’d been armed with a blade of some descript, more than likely manufactured on the island, and Reaper felt the sting of its bite.

  Gritting his teeth, Kane turned to meet another assailant. This one had a spear made of a branch with a sharpened piece of metal at its tip. The Latino drove it at Kane’s face, but he leaned back, and it slid harmlessly past his nose, missing by only a few inches.

  Reaper took it in a firm grip and twisted the weapon free. He then reversed it and drove the point into the would-be killer’s throat.

  Wrenching it free in a spray of blood, Kane twisted to meet the next assault. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spencer break the neck of a man with a heavily-tattooed face, then watched on as his friend was struck from behind by a large man with a bald head. The glint of sunlight on steel preceded a spray of blood as a wicked homemade blade exploded from Spencer’s chest.

  The CIA man’s mouth dropped open and more blood poured forth. Kane cursed and threw the spear at Spencer’s killer. The tip ripped through his throat, and the man gagged as he tried to stem the flood from the ghastly wound.

  Then something strange happened. A gunshot sounded. A head exploded, and then everything stopped dead. Kane whirled to meet the new threat and was stunned to see Anatoli Petrov, one of the most wanted men in the world, standing there with an MP-443 Grach in a rock-steady fist. Even with the gray beard, he was recognizable.

  “Are you just going to stand there with hand on cock, or fucking move?” he growled in heavily-accented English.

  Kane didn’t wait for a second invitation. He moved to stand behind the notorious Russian arms dealer. “I’m kind of glad to see you.”

  “You are American?”

  “Yes.”

  Petrov snorted. “Should have fucking left you.”

  “You have gone too far this time, Anatoli!” snarled a Latino with tattoos and a thick beard. “Manuel will surely kill you this time for shooting his brother.”

  A mirthless chuckle escaped from Petrov’s throat. “Tell him if he asks nicely, I might let him suck my dick.”

  A surge of anger rippled through the group.

  Then Petrov turned to the FARC group who, for some reason hadn’t engaged in the melee. “What about you? You want some too?”

  With a few muttered words they turned away and walked off.

  “Now it is your turn,” Petrov said to Thick Beard.

  “This is not over,” he hissed. “Your days are numbered, Cabrón.”

  With that, they also turned and walked away.

  Kane hurried over to Spencer and crouched beside him. Mercifully the CIA man was dead. With the wound he had, if he’d survived, his death would have been slow and agonizing. “I’m sorry.”

  Kane stood back up to be confronted by Petrov. His face was a mask of anger as he spat, “I can’t believe that I fucked up everything because of a son of a bitch American.”

  Kane said, “I can’t say I’m unhappy.”

  The Grach came up, and Petrov growled, “Maybe that will change when I shoot you in the face.”

  Isla del Volcán, Peru

  “This is where I live,” Petrov said with a hint of pride.

  Kane stared at the wreckage of the Antonov An-124 transport aircraft. It was a strategic airlift jet which could transport up to five hundred thousand pounds of cargo. One of its wings had been sheared off, and it had three holes in the fuselage. The tail was broken off also. Already the jungle had begun to envelop it with its tangled tentacles.

  Kane said, “Looks like it came down hard?”

  “You would too with full load,” Petrov said.

  “A full load of what?”

  “Jelly Beans,” he said with a voice laced with sarcasm. “What the fuck you think? You know who I am.”

  Nodding at the gun in Petrov’s waistband, Kane said, “Weapons.”

  “Of course.”

  “What happened?”

  The Russian shrugged. “I was taking a load of arms to customer. Dumbshit pilot flew into fucking storm. Lightning hit wing, and next, we are going down. This is where we crash.”

  “What happened to all the weapons?”

  “Well, after first contact with prisoners, we hide them.”

  “Before they fell into the wrong hands?”

  Petrov nodded.

  “How?”

  The Russian’s face contorted and he snarled, “What is this? Fucking twenty questions?”

  “I was just curious is all. How long have you been here?”

  “What year is it?”

  “Twenty-eighteen.”

  “Three years.”

  Kane was surprised. “You’ve been here that long?”

  “Yes. No more questions, or this time I do shoot you in face. We go inside before it rain.”

  As if on cue, a crash of distant thunder sounded. “All right, lead the way.”

  Inside, the Antonov was pretty much stripped bare. Petrov had divided what remained of the fuselage into sections as one would a house with walls. “Where is everyone else?” Kane asked.

  “They are dead.”

  “What happened? Did they die in the cr
ash?”

  “I kill them.”

  Kane stared at the Russian. “Why?”

  “They know secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “If I tell you, then I have to kill you too,” Petrov explained. “And I may need your help.”

  “What for?”

  Petrov grew angry. “Do you think that our friends will leave us alone? Not Manuel Ortega. I kill his brother. Because of you. He will come with his soldados. To kill me and to kill you. To stay alive, I need your help. What is your name?”

  “Kane.”

  “Get some rest, Kane. You will need it.”

  Isla del Volcán, Peru

  The Prison

  The old prison was damp and cold, especially without sunlight. A large fire blazed in the center of the open room, and around it sat four men, one man each from the four most powerful factions on the island.

  Manuel Ortega represented the cartel faction, Carlos Andreas was from the FARC syndicate, Janjak, the Haitians, and Jasiel, Dominicans.

  The prison itself had last been fully guarded in 2010. In June of that year, there had been a riot in which eight guards had lost their lives. The Peruvian army was brought in to retake control of the island with bloody ferocity. When they were finished, fifty prisoners were dead. Then a bright politician suggested that they let the prisoners have the island to themselves. The army withdrew, and The Gates of Hell was born.

  “I want to hear what you all have to say,” Ortega said to the others.

  “You are suggesting that we form a truce for the time being, all because of one man?” Jasiel asked.

  Ortega nodded. “That one man killed my brother. Besides, he is hiding something. I know it.”

  “How do you know it?” Janjak asked. “What secret could he possibly have?”

  “What about his guns?”

  “Rumors,” Carlos Andreas mocked. “Nothing but rumors. All he has is that handgun that we see.”

  “Do you not want to find out?” Jasiel asked thoughtfully.

  “I don’t care about him finding out,” Ortega snapped. “I just want him dead.”

  “Well go up there and kill him,” Janjak said matter of factly.