by Evan Graver
Oscar rode the stolen motorcycle to Caracas and went in search of a black-market money lender he had met several years ago while stationed in the city. He asked if the lender could identify who had put the money into the account Mendoza had circled. The lender pointed him to a hacker who Oscar paid with the cash from the safe, laughing at the irony of the traitor’s own money being used to find his blackmailer.
Several days later, the hacker sent a text to Oscar, asking him to come to his apartment. Convinced the police were waiting to arrest him, Oscar told the hacker to meet him at a busy café instead. Oscar scouted the location, and when he didn’t see any police or military presence, he got himself a coffee. He sipped it until the hacker arrived. He was a slim youth, barely eighteen years old, with a wide smile and curly black hair that fell over his eyes. The boy dropped a folded scrap of paper on Oscar’s table as he approached the counter. A moment later, Oscar rose from his seat and tucked the paper into his pocket. Sirens filled the air as he took a last sip of coffee. He sprinted up the street, not bothering to look back.
Oscar disappeared into the slums and made his way to where he’d left the motorcycle. He got on it and rode east out of the city. When he finally stopped to read the hacker’s note, the only thing written on it was a post office box number in Road Town, in the British Virgin Islands.
Oscar crossed Venezuela to the tiny fishing village of Macuro and traded the bike for passage to Chaguaramas, Trinidad, where he stole a sailboat. Whoever owned the postal box was the next man in the chain of command.
Mendoza and his team were dead, and Oscar wanted revenge.
Chapter Eleven
Present Day
Ryan, Emily, Mango, Jennifer, and Scott sat transfixed by the Venezuelan’s story. They glanced at each other before returning their attention to Oscar as he finished. Ryan had heard similar tales told by other military men in San Antonio Prison. They’d also tried to stop drug shipments, and either the drug cartels or troops loyal to President Maduro had ambushed them. Rumors swirled among the servicemen that the president had ordered his generals to help facilitate the movement of drugs through Venezuela and that his administration helped launder money for the drug cartels.
“Did you find out who owned the post office box?” Emily asked.
Ryan sensed she had built a rapport with Oscar, and he let her do the talking.
“Paul Langston,” Oscar replied.
“So, you staked out the post office and followed Paul back to St. Thomas?” she asked.
Oscar nodded. “I followed him around for several days until he left on his sailboat. I thought he might be on his way back to Road Town. I went to his house and there were men there, tearing it apart. Then I followed them to his office, where they did the same thing. I stayed there because they left a watcher, and I thought maybe he would lead me to whoever Langston was working for. Then you guys showed up.”
“And you want to find the person who ordered the deaths of your men by studying the bank records Paul kept?” Emily said to clarify.
“Whatever is in the box has to be a lead,” Oscar said.
Ryan considered Oscar’s efforts to help his mentor and to find his enemies. It was something he could definitely relate to. Oscar seemed like an honorable man who’d been wronged by his government. A government in bed with the Russians, the Iranians, and the Chinese as well as Colombian drug dealers and Cuban military leaders, if the reports he’d heard were true. Whoever Oscar was searching for could be a member of any one of those factions.
The U.S. embargos and sanctions against Venezuela were headlines across the Caribbean because Venezuela had, at one time, held treaties with all of them to provide oil and financial support. Now that the money had dried up and the oil had slowed to a trickle, it was up to other nations to step in and backstop the tiny Caribbean islands.
Ryan had also seen stories on the Internet about the U.S.’s hunt for Venezuela’s corrupt politicians and former military leaders who had fled the country and taken billions of dollars with them, stripping Venezuela for their own survival. Another news headline had said that U.S. authorities had indicted President Maduro and members of his cabinet on charges of drug trafficking, money laundering, corruption, and narco-terrorism.
Oscar faced an uphill battle to bring his team’s killers to justice. Whoever had ordered the hit must have plenty of political clout.
Oscar interrupted Ryan’s train of thought. “I have answered your questions. May I ask some of my own?”
Ryan nodded.
“Who are you, and why are you helping the Langstons?”
“That’s what we do,” Ryan said. “We help people in need.” Ryan then introduced the team using only their first names.
“Where are the Langstons now?” Oscar asked.
“They’re supposed to go to a friend’s house and we’re to meet them when we finish here. I plan to turn them and the paperwork over to Homeland Security for their protection.”
Oscar nodded. “May I have some water?”
Scott went to the galley and returned with several bottles of water. He handed one to Oscar, who opened it and took long swallows before he wiped his chin with the backs of his still bound hands.
“I want to look at those records before you hand them over,” Oscar said. “If I can find a lead, I’ll continue with my hunt, and you can do what you want with them.”
“Why?” Emily asked. “The chances of you finding the real culprit are nearly impossible.”
“I agree,” Oscar said, “but I swore an oath of loyalty to my homeland; to defend the constitution and the entire population. If I do not follow through with this, that oath means nothing, and my men will have died for nothing.”
“Why can’t the troops there do something?” she asked. “Why not overthrow the government if things are so bad?”
Oscar shook his head sadly. “I wish it were that easy. The troops don’t dare do anything. They are constantly watched. Their calls are monitored. Any person suspected of acting against the regime is immediately detained and questioned.” He motioned toward Ryan. “Your friend knows what the SEBIN does to people they suspect are traitors. The prisons are full of dissidents.” He made eye contact with Ryan. “I am right, am I not?”
“You’re right,” Ryan said. “They’re full of people whose only crime was trying to survive.”
“I asked you why you help the Langstons? Was it not because you felt some duty to care for those less fortunate, those who are weaker? We are military brothers.” Oscar looked at each man in turn. “We may not have served the same country, but we defend our homelands, our families, our brothers. I don’t ask you to take up my cause, and I don’t ask you for help. I ask that you merely allow me to read those documents and continue on my way.”
Oscar’s plea was certainly charged with emotion. Ryan knew how he felt, having been in the man’s shoes, chasing terrorists because it was a just and noble cause. He flicked open his folding knife and sliced the tape that bound Oscar’s hands. “All right, Oscar. Let’s see what’s in the box.”
The Venezuelan rubbed his wrists. “What about the man you were torturing downstairs?”
“He was afraid of needles,” Scott said.
“Needles?” Ryan said.
“Yeah, I brought some new stuff to play with,” Scott said. “The drugs put a person into a twilight state, slowing the connections in the brain. I dosed him up, and he fell asleep.”
“What was all the screaming about?” Oscar asked.
Scott shrugged. “It took me three tries to stick him because he kept thrashing about. Mango had to practically sit on the guy’s arm.”
“Can we talk to him now?” Ryan asked.
“Sure.” Scott led the way to the salon where Terrence Joseph lay bound and gagged on the sofa. His skin looked ashen, and his dreads hung over his face. Scott sat the kidnapper up and patted his face. “Wakey wakey, Terrence.”
The gangster’s head lulled on his neck.
&
nbsp; “Come on, buddy. Wake your ass up,” Scott said, slapping Joseph harder.
“Wh-what do you …” Joseph heaved an enormous sigh.
“Tell me who you work for,” Scott said.
Joseph licked his lips. “I’m my own playa.”
“You sure are, buddy. Why did you try to kill Paul Langston?” Scott prodded.
“’Cause I’m gettin’ paid.”
“Who paid you?”
Joseph shrugged. “Got a phone call. Mon … money in my account. To get the documents.”
“Who wants them?”
“The man on the ph ...” Joseph’s head lolled again.
Scott smacked the gangster’s cheek. “Does this guy have a name?”
Joseph shrugged again. “He said to kill Paul and destroy the documents.”
“How did you get paid?” Oscar asked, squatting beside Scott, and watching Joseph’s sleepy face.
“Wire transfer. Playa wanted cash, but the man said no.”
“Where’s his phone?” Ryan asked.
“On the counter.” Scott pointed to it.
Ryan picked up an Android smartphone and tried to open it. “What’s the password?”
“Seven-eight-nine-one,” Joseph recited.
Ryan unlocked the phone. “What’s your username and password for the banking app?”
Joseph looked up and shook his head. “I ain’t gonna give it to ya, playa.”
Oscar grabbed a handful of the man’s dreads and jerked downward. Joseph screamed as the hair tore free from his skin. Oscar threw the hair into Joseph’s face. “Tell me or I’ll do it again.”
Tears ran down the gangster’s face. “Okay, okay.” He recited his account information while Ryan typed it on a note-taking app, then he entered it into the banking app’s log-in fields. The app unlocked and he clicked on the checking account. A deposit of one hundred thousand dollars had come through several days ago. It stood out from the other smaller deposits, all of which were under ten grand.
“Who paid you?” Oscar demanded, grabbing another handful of hair.
“I don’t know!” Joseph shouted. The pain of having his hair ripped from his scalp had sharpened his senses, but his brain was still slow to respond. “They paid me to destroy the documents, that’s all.”
“Why? You don’t even know who’s paying you, so why risk kidnapping Diane?” Emily asked.
“A playa gotta handle his business.”
“I found a SWIFT code and an account number for where Joseph’s payment came from,” Ryan said.
Oscar stood and came to look over Ryan’s shoulder. “We need someone to track it.”
“Do you think Paul can do that?” Emily asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Ryan said. “Let’s go ask him.”
Chapter Twelve
The sun hadn’t risen yet when Ryan tripped the hook on the Viking and set the anchor on the floor of Turquoise Bay. The wind was still blowing, and the waves that rocked the large vessel in the unprotected waters made it a struggle to get the rigid hull inflatable dinghy into the water. Ryan had to make two trips to shuttle everyone between the yacht and the small beach on the narrow neck of land leading to Cabrita Point. It was barely two hundred feet wide, with a ribbon of tarmac separating the beaches of Turquoise and Muller Bay. Even shrouded in darkness, it was a beautiful setting.
Paul Langston met them with the van that Mango and Scott had left at the parking garage. Scott having tossed them keys as he passed Paul on the dock at American Yacht Harbor. The team climbed in and drove away, leaving the dinghy on the beach. Ryan called the Virgin Islands Police and told them where to find Terrence Joseph, who they wanted in connection with a string of crimes on the island. By the time they would find him, the drugs Scott had injected into Joseph should have worn off, and he’d have little to no memory of what had taken place during his short boat ride.
Emily sat beside Ryan in the van’s rear, their backs pressed against the steel side, and they braced themselves with their hands to keep from bouncing around or falling over into the other passengers.
Five minutes later, the van stopped, and Paul shut off the engine at a rental home he’d quickly organized for them. Ryan popped open the latch on the back door and slid out into the cool morning. The rest of the crew disembarked and carried duffle bags into a ranch home set into a hill with a walkout basement. Tiled living spaces, a modern kitchen with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances rounded out the home’s interior, and the owners had furnished the entire place with cozy rattan furniture. From the back deck, they could see American Yacht Harbor across Vessup Bay. Using a pair of binoculars, Ryan surveyed the marina and checked on his sailboat.
“What now, Great Leader?” Mango asked, joining Ryan at the railing.
Ryan stifled a yawn. “I could use a nap.”
“Me, too, bro, but Oscar is itching to get to work. He’s already digging through Paul’s papers.”
“Let him.”
“All I saw was a bunch of bank accounts and routing numbers.”
“I’m sure Paul has a system to know whose money he was smurfing.”
“Have you talked to anyone at Homeland about getting protection for the Langstons?”
“Not yet. It’s next on my agenda—after a nap.”
The two men walked into the living room where Emily and Oscar sat on the sofa, Paul’s papers spread across the coffee table in front of them.
“Where’s everyone else?” Ryan asked.
“They went to bed,” Emily replied.
“Come on, Oscar. Let’s get some shuteye,” Ryan prompted.
The Venezuelan looked up from the papers. “I have work to do.”
“It can wait. We need to sleep, or we won’t do anyone any good. I’m sure you’ll go cross-eyed looking at those if you don’t get some rest.”
“No.”
“Let’s do this,” Emily said. “When we get up, we’ll make copies, and Paul can explain exactly what he was doing. Without a guide, you’ll never decipher these numbers.”
“Okay,” Oscar relented, gathering the sheets, and placing them back in the box. “But I keep the box with me.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Ryan said. “We want to help you, and we’re on the same side. Just don’t screw me by taking off with the box.”
“Scott is an impartial third party,” Emily said. “We’ll put the box in his room, and he can safeguard it.”
Oscar glanced back and forth between them before reluctantly agreeing.
They carried the box to Scott’s room and knocked on the door. He answered it in his boxers and a T-shirt.
“You’re guarding the box,” Ryan told him.
“Roger that.” Scott took the box and pushed the door closed, and they heard the lock click into place.
Ryan put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Get some sleep, amigo. Tomorrow, we’ll find another piece of your puzzle.”
Oscar nodded. “Where do I sleep?”
Emily pointed to a door farther down the hall. She and Jennifer had worked out the sleeping arrangements when they’d first arrived. “You’re at the end. Ryan and I are across from you.”
They went into their separate rooms, and Ryan went to the sliding glass door that overlooked the pool patio and checked the lock. Then he removed his clothes and crawled into bed. Emily snuggled in beside him, and it wasn’t long before he was sound asleep.
The next thing Ryan was aware of was the sound of running water.
He rolled over and looked out the door at the bright sunshine beating down on the shimmering water of the pool. Mango stood by a grill with tongs in one hand and a beer in the other, wearing swim trunks and an apron.
Ryan sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his head, then dug his palms into his eyes. After a moment, the fog cleared. His watch told him it was past noon. He’d gotten six hours of sleep, but he still felt groggy.
He heard the water shut off and, a few minutes later, a blow dryer
turned on. Levering himself off the bed, he took his turn in the shower and, feeling refreshed, went to join the others on the patio.
“Where’s Oscar?” he asked, sitting beside Scott at the patio table.
“Looking at the bank records,” Scott replied, handing Ryan a beer from a small cooler.
“We need to copy them.”
“Already done,” Scott said. “Ashlee Williams put together a little kit for the Trident teams to use in the field, with cameras, a hand scanner, and a laptop. Anyway, I scanned everything this morning before I gave the box to Oscar. I also told him that if he tried to run, I’d put a bullet in his brainpan.” Scott patted his concealed pistol and took a long pull from his bottle.
“Good. I wasn’t sure how we’d copy them.”
“As you know,” Scott said, “we run across docs in the field all the time. It’s standard practice to scan them.”
Greg Olsen, owner of Dark Water Research, had stepped down from his post as president of the commercial dive and salvage firm and started Trident, a private military contracting business. He had teams working around the globe with both the U.S. government and the private sector. Ryan had worked with several of the teams on various operations, and Greg was always trying to bring him into the fold full time, but Ryan didn’t want to live in Texas City. He preferred the anonymity of being an independent contractor, although he liked the title ‘salvage consultant’ better, a term coined by the infamous Travis McGee.
“Now that they’re digital, it should make it easier to run a search of the docs,” Ryan said.
“I thought about that last night, so after I scanned everything in, I ran a search for the numbers we retrieved from Terrence Joseph’s banking app.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet. I didn’t tell Oscar that I’d scanned the docs, so he thinks he’s doing all the work.”
“What do you think about helping him track down his boogeyman?”
