by Brad Taylor
His appearance could not be ruled a simple coincidence.
Luca typed on the computer and said, “Don’t fucking blame me. It’s not my fault we’re here. I told you we could handle both of them. You’re the one who contacted higher. And got us into this god-forsaken jungle mess.”
Their boss at Wagner had switched teams, under the simple theory that if the Russians could recognize the Americans, the same was also true. Thus Luca and Simon had been given the ethics lawyer, the target package passed off in a seedy hotel.
The target had been headed to a vacation in the Amazon when the package had been passed, along with his wife and eight-year-old son, and so Luca and Simon had followed, ending up at a jungle lodge that had no connectivity at all, save the thatched-roof bar and reception area that maintained a Wi-Fi connection that was decidedly slow.
Luca watched the other family enter up the steps, the mother and father nodding and smiling like everyone else did at this backwater location, proud to be “roughing it” at a five-star lodge that had every amenity on earth, and making Luca want to show them what it really meant to live in the jungle. Where one was not only struggling against the elements for survival, but was actively fighting other humans on the hunt. Not one living in a sheltered luxury lodge with air-conditioned rooms, expansive buffets, and tours that gave a taste of the wilds without actually entering the wilds.
They took a seat across from him on the couch, the two kids scampering down the steps to a billiard table. Luca made sure his computer screen was hidden and kept working. The wife asked, “Are you two going on the Cayman search expedition?”
Simon gave a lukewarm smile and said, “I think so. Well, at least I am.”
They’d been at the lodge following their target for four days, each split by two tour events. Luca and Simon had traveled with the lawyer on canoe trips, excursions to native villages, Amazon jungle hikes, and boat explorations deep into the Negro River basin for wildlife sightings. All had offered several opportunities to eliminate their target, but they had been on hold since the sighting of the Americans, which had been decidedly frustrating. Simon felt they should be allowed to continue here, since the threat was in Salvador, but he’d been overruled, his command stating that a single sighting didn’t mean a single threat, and there was a plan in place to stop all of them, seen and unseen.
Given that, tonight was the last chance at this venue. Tomorrow the executive and his family were taking a seaplane back to Manaus, forcing a complete reset on the attack. This compelled them to begin anew, and Simon didn’t like it. The Amazon lodge was the perfect location. All he needed was the execute authority.
The small sitting area became crowded with people and the nighttime wildlife beginning their catcalls while Luca still worked the VPN to his headquarters. A guide entered the reception area wearing rubber boots and holding a large battery-powered spotlight. He said, “Let’s go find some wildlife.”
Luca ignored him. He looked up from the screen to Simon and whispered, “We’re a go. The guys in Salvador have been neutralized.”
Simon said, “How?”
“I don’t know. The boss said they took out the command and they’re no threat. Either way, we’re finally a go.”
The group around the table stood to leave and Simon looked around, saying, “He’s not here.”
Luca cursed under his breath and said, “He’s leaving tomorrow. This is it.”
The guide passed out life vests in the light of the reception area, and the group stood to leave, following the native down the narrow path to the dock at the Negro River. Simon sat with his life vest in his hand, hesitating, and they both heard a man shout, “Hang on! Wait for us.”
They saw the target arrive with his wife and child. The guide smiled, tossed them a few life vests, and Simon stood, saying, “I’ll keep them in sight. You have two hours.”
Luca smiled and said, “I won’t need that long.”
Luca waited until they’d been gone for twenty minutes, drinking a vodka and cranberry juice from the bar. The bartender asked why he hadn’t gone on the boat trip, and he’d simply said, “I have some packing to do.”
He left the reception area, walking in the darkness to his bungalow on the narrow path. He entered his room and went straight to his suitcase, pulling out a barometric explosive device. He checked that the settings were correct, then wrapped it in a box, complete with paper he’d stolen from the small gift shop on the outskirts of the compound. Satisfied at the camouflage, he left the room, slinking back down the dark path.
Before he reached the reception lodge, he took a right, walking up a set of wooden stairs and continuing into the darkness until he was at a bungalow all by itself, one with a view of the jungle, much larger than the room he had. It was the best the resort had to offer, which worked out for him, because it was separated from the lowly huts of the other patrons.
He approached the door, his head on a swivel in the darkness, the bungalow illuminated faintly by trail lights set into the earth. He saw no one. In thirty seconds, he had the cheap lock of the bungalow picked and was in the room. He went straight to the suitcases on the floor, all three mostly packed, with a scattering of clothes about the room. He found the gift that the target had purchased earlier—a handmade sculpture of wood now bound in a box just like the one he held in his hand.
He removed the gift, replaced it with his own, and then heard, “What are you doing here?”
He snapped upright, seeing a maid holding a trash bag. He cursed inwardly, not believing his luck. He’d forgotten about the trash removal.
The plumbing at the lodge was not strong enough to take toilet paper, forcing the guests to place their wiped waste into the trash can next to the toilet. Because of it, maids came multiple times a day to empty the trash, when the residents were known to be on a tour. It was an amateur mistake, but one that had to be dealt with.
Luca said, “Hey, sorry. These guys are friends of mine and I’m just leaving them a gift.”
“How did you get in?”
“They left me a key.”
“They can’t leave you a key. There is only one.”
Luca walked toward her, seeing no fear. Yet.
“They left me their key.”
She nodded, and he slapped a hand over her mouth, bringing her to the floor. She tried to scream, but the only sound that escaped was a muffled gasp. She began fighting, and he wrapped her up in his arms, his enormous muscles shrouding her in the death he was bringing. Her eyes went wide, and she began bucking. He snatched a towel off the floor, the moisture from a shower still prevalent. He looped it around her throat and began torqueing it tighter and tighter. Her skull snaked back, her arms slapping him in the face, and he lowered his head, all the while holding a hand on her mouth.
Her body went into a frenzy of spastic flailing, but he kept the pressure, his head tucked into his shoulder against her thrashing arms. Eventually the thumping grew less frantic, until it was just a twitch. Luca stared into her eyes, knowing that was the key. Her lungs fought for air, pumping desperately for life, and then her eyes went from wide-eyed fear to half-lidded, like she had passed out drunk. He cinched the towel tighter, held it for another twenty seconds, then let her go, her head smacking the floor and lolling to the side.
He sat up, assessing the situation. The primary mission was to cause the death of the target without suspicion. And he’d now caused suspicion just because the maid was dead.
But the family was due to leave tomorrow morning. Their death would happen at ten thousand feet. All he needed to do was separate the maid from the bungalow. Give himself some space.
Luca was not an in-depth thinker. He was a killer. A guided missile that didn’t think about what he was doing or how. He was the man one pointed at a target, and he would execute. He could do the mission assigned, but he didn’t spend a lot of time anticipating second- and third-order effects. For the first time in his life, that lack of attention would work.
He went back to the suitcase, made sure that the package he’d created was the same as the one he’d taken, then hoisted the maid on his shoulder. He opened the sliding door to the bungalow, walked out on the balcony, and unceremoniously dropped her over, hearing the body crash into the jungle below.
He left the room, circled around the lower ledge of the bungalow, and found the body. He hoisted it onto his shoulder again, the weight no more to him than a bag of dog food, and walked into the jungle until he was about a hundred meters away, the lights from the lodge like fireflies in the darkness. He dropped the body into a draw, seeing it sag into the hole, one hand appearing to cloy the ground to prevent the tragedy. He kicked it away, then slunk back up the hill, going to his room.
Two hours later Simon returned to their bungalow, and Luca was now in bed. Simon asked if there had been any trouble. He said no, and rolled back over to sleep.
At nine in the morning, they both went to the breakfast buffet at the open-air restaurant. While eating, they heard the seaplane land, the patrons in the restaurant all talking about how neat it would be to take a plane instead of the three-hour van trip back to Manaus.
Simon looked at Luca and said, “You sure that thing will work?”
Luca said, “I didn’t design it. I’m sure it’s packed.”
They heard the plane take off, with most of the patrons rushing to the edge to see it go. And they got much more than they wanted.
The plane rose into the air, lazily circling the jungle, then a small explosion puffed out of the starboard side. The plane fought to regain control, trailing smoke, but it was a futile endeavor. The entire breakfast entourage watched the aircraft dive into the jungle, exploding on impact.
The patrons began screaming, everyone running amok, and Simon said, “Well, that’s one target down.”
Luca said, “That’s not the target I want. I want those fucks from Switzerland.”
Chapter 8
Knuckles ended the call on his cell phone and stood for a moment, letting the masses of people swirl around him, lost in thought, still having trouble assimilating what he’d heard. A man walked in front of him holding out a cup, and he shook his head. The man wandered away, and Knuckles entered the Mercado Modelo once again, winding his way through the myriad of stalls and ignoring the vendors thrusting all manner of things in his face. He took a left onto a set of stairs to the upper level, then threaded his way through the tourists and locals, heading toward the balcony restaurant. He nodded at the hostess, then returned to his table, seeing Brett looking at him expectantly.
He took a seat and said, “This is going to end badly.”
Brett laughed and said, “Because we have to go home before you find some female companionship?”
“No. Because that call was from Pike.”
Knuckles saw the next laugh die. Brett asked, “What did he say?”
“He said we stay.”
Brett took that in and said, “We can’t stay. We’re flying home tonight. We got the order from Kurt. This is done.”
“Pike says the order didn’t come from Kurt. He wants us to stay. The entire Taskforce is on stand-down, and he wants us to hold in place.”
“Huh? He can’t countermand Kurt. We got the order.”
Knuckles looked at him and said, “It didn’t come from Kurt. Kurt is . . . Kurt’s dead. Pike just told me. He’s gone.”
Brett’s eyes went wide, and he said, “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you serious?”
Kurt had been the only commander of Project Prometheus since its creation, and both men valued and respected him. The blow was as hard as could be imagined, not the least because of the way Knuckles had learned. A simple phone call. No warning. No preparation. As harsh as it was, both of them had experienced combat loss in the past multiple times, learning to compartmentalize the pain. A friend next to the shoulder in one instance, then the life gone, the body slammed to the ground by the unforgiving gods of war. There would be no histrionics, but the psychological learning curve didn’t make the news any easier.
Knuckles said, “Yeah. I’m serious. Apparently there was some kind of car accident. I don’t know any more than that, except Pike doesn’t think it was an accident. He thinks the men who did it are tied into some assholes here, in Brazil. We didn’t get an order from Kurt. We got an order from the Taskforce.”
Brett took that in, then said, “That makes no sense. How did it happen?”
“I told you. He had some sort of accident in Charleston. At least the police are saying it’s an accident. Pike doesn’t think so.”
The waitress arrived and they fell quiet. She cleared their plates, leaving the bill. Brett waited until she was walking away, then said, “If what you say is true, we should definitely go home. We’re out here on a limb, without a mission. The Taskforce has control, and they’ve told us to go home. Hezbollah will have to wait.”
“What if Pike is correct? What if it’s not an accident, and we’re sitting near the men responsible?”
“How on earth would Pike know that?”
Knuckles redirected the conversation. “Didn’t you say you thought you recognized a guy at the airport when we flew into Salvador? That guy with the mountain of muscles?”
“I was just spitballing. Making a joke. He looked like a member of the team we took out in Switzerland, but come on. The odds of that are astronomical.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“We haven’t seen them since. If they’re here doing something that’s tied into Kurt’s death, wouldn’t we see signs? We’ve done nothing but have a vacation.”
Knuckles paid the bill and stood up, saying, “One more day won’t hurt. If Pike doesn’t turn up anything, we can always fly home tomorrow.”
He turned to leave and Brett said, “What are we going to do?”
“What we were going to do before the Taskforce called. Head over to Vera Cruz on the ferry. Check out that old fort. Spend some time on the beach. Whatever we want to do.”
Brett followed him into the swirling masses of the Mercado, saying, “I think your first instinct was right. This is going to end badly.”
Knuckles smiled, and they broke out into the sunshine, the ferry terminal a hundred meters away. In front of them were two groups of protesters shouting at each other and waving signs, police in between them trying to keep the peace.
Knuckles said, “Shit. I thought things in the U.S. were bad. This presidential election is getting out of control. I don’t want to be here when the vote comes down.”
Giving the protesters a wide berth, Brett said, “Well, when your front-runner is told he can’t run because he’s in prison, what do you expect? And you’re just changing the subject. What are we doing here now? What’s the mission? We’re no longer on the Taskforce dime. They ordered us to go home. And Kurt’s dead.”
Knuckles abruptly stopped walking and pointed a finger at Brett, the anger leaking out. “Yeah, he’s dead,” he said. “You don’t give a shit about that, that’s on you. You came late to this game, but I worked with him from day one, and if Pike wants a day, he gets a day. What about you? You want to go home?”
Brett took a step back, recognizing the attack wasn’t against him, but instead was a by-product of the news about Kurt. He said, “Hey, easy.”
Knuckles relaxed, shook his head, and said, “Sorry. Look, just give Pike some time. He’s working something in Charleston. We owe Kurt at least that.”
Brett said, “You know I’m with you. If it’s real, I’m the first through the door, but you have to admit, this is a little strange, and it has the potential to compromise us. We’ve lost the backing of the Taskforce.”
Knuckles forced a smile, no humor coming through, and said, “You haven’t seen what I have. If Pike says it’s real, it probably is, and I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Brett slowly nodded. He said, “I’ve seen it as well. But I’ve also seen that guy go off in a rage. I’m on
your side, but let’s make sure that being on the side of Pike is the right thing. That’s all I’m saying. We have the national command authority telling us to come home, and we have Pike saying we stay. After Kurt’s death.”
Knuckles said, “I hear you, but staying one more day isn’t the end of the world.”
They circled around the protesters and Brett said, “One day. Okay. But this isn’t going to end well. You know it and I know it.”
Knuckles didn’t respond. They reached the ferry terminal just before an SUV pulled up, a prim woman of about thirty-five exiting, wearing designer clothes and holding the hand of a child. She entered the building followed by a hulking bodyguard dressed in a black suit. They followed behind her, entering the line behind tourists and day workers. Right in front of them was a group of four locals, all wearing worn clothing and cheap backpacks, rubbing elbows with the woman and her charge.
Absorbed in the phone call he’d just received, trying to make sense of his new world, Knuckles ignored the line until the security guard bumped him. The man apologized, bringing him out of his funk. Knuckles smiled and accepted the apology, then saw the crowd in front of him—day workers scraping by for a living and a woman with a bodyguard. He enjoyed the contrast, not the least because it was a reflection of his own team.
Knuckles was broad-shouldered and tall, with ropy muscles and a shaggy head of black hair that made him look like a beach bum. His partner Brett was an African American, and a short fireplug of muscle that just crested Knuckles’s shoulder when he stood fully erect, with a close-cropped Afro and a T-shirt celebrating a famous Salvadorian drum troupe. They couldn’t be more different on the outside, but that difference helped them blend in.
The original capital of Brazil, Salvador had the dubious distinction of being the entry port for the slave trade in Brazil’s past. Because of it, the town was a mix of African descendants and Brazilian natives, which meant that Brett looked like he belonged. He was the one who provided the camouflage for the team, as anyone seeing him would assume he was local—and by extension, so was Knuckles.
