And things had just spiraled from there.
Raising his left wrist, Salazar checked the face of his watch to realize that half the day had passed since then. The sun that had shined so bright was now a distant memory.
The dinner his wife had planned for them was just another set of canceled plans he would be forced to apologize for.
In their stead, the half-eaten remains of a plate of rice and beans rested on his desk beside him. A few feet away, an untouched plate of the same sat in front of Isabel.
On the opposite corner of the desk, a third plate was completely clean, scraped free of even the slightest residue. Two feet beyond it sat the man that had taken down the meal with aplomb, General Renzo Clega.
Far removed from the front lines, it took nothing more than a glance to understand the empty plate before him. More than twice the width of Isabel, his form seemed to wobble on the narrow chair beneath him.
In his early fifties, his hair and mustache were dyed coal black, the color made even more pronounced by his ruddy cheeks.
Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, he had kept his napkin from dinner, using it to wipe sweat from his face.
“And that was all that was said?” Clega asked.
“Yes,” Salazar replied. “A few veiled comments, but nothing that would rise to the level of an outright threat.”
Salazar had listened to the recording of his conversation with President Underall more than a dozen times since hanging up. Each time he had strained for some hint of overt hostility. Something that would make his next step an easy decision.
And each time, it had been just as he’d reported to Clega.
A whole lot of innuendo, but nothing more. The sort of thing the American was famous for.
Saying a great deal without actually saying anything at all.
“I see,” Clega said. Nodding, he ran the napkin along the side of his neck. The look on his face appeared to intimate queasiness. “But you seem to think otherwise.”
Salazar flicked his gaze to Isabel. Received just the tiniest of nods in return.
“I do. Edgar Belmonte might not be affiliated with us, but he is still looking to incite violence – or at the very least hatred – on the heads of Americans.
“There’s no way they can let that stand.”
In his five years in office, Salazar’s dealings with Underall had been virtually non-existent. Given the state of affairs in his own country, there had been little reason to extend much effort beyond their own borders.
And as Venezuela posed little advantage to the western world, they had been largely ignored by the outside powers.
Still, not once had he ever deluded himself into believing that wouldn’t change quickly if the need arose.
“No,” Clega said. “Given their interaction with other parties around the globe, they’ll want to be especially certain not to allow another faction to pop up against them.
“If ISIS has taught them anything, no movement is too small to become a thorn in their side.”
Turning his chair sideways, Salazar nodded. Just that afternoon, he’d had that exact thought, the reality of it putting them in a very peculiar situation.
“So we agree they didn’t come out and say anything overt,” he said. His tone indicated he was thinking out loud more than engaging in conversation, the other two recognizing it and remaining silent. “And we also know they won’t sit back and allow things to escalate.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Each thought on things in silence, superimposing what they knew with what they suspected.
The cumulation of which didn’t seem really appealing to Salazar.
“General, I asked you here this evening for your counsel, and because if something were to arise, you would be our first line of defense.”
To that, Salazar added nothing more, allowing Clega to infer the rest.
Nodding slightly, the general seemed to do just that. He pressed his lips tight, taking a moment, before tilting the top of his head to either side.
“With all due respect Mr. President, I think you are right once, but wrong twice.”
A tiny flare of animosity rose in Salazar. It was not often that such things were said to him, especially while sitting in his office.
Flicking his gaze to Isabel, he saw a similar look of surprise cross her features.
Just as fast, they both squelched the reaction. They had asked the general there for his advice. They at least needed to hear him out, even if they did later choose to ignore it.
“Please,” Salazar said. He extended a hand and waved his finger toward himself, signaling for Clega to continue.
Clearing his throat, Clega adjusted his bulk on the chair, the wood straining slightly.
“I think you are correct in that the Americans will not let this go. They have never been a country to employ a wait-and-see approach, and their style of diplomacy is something akin to – what is the expression – a bull in a China shop.”
One corner of Salazar’s mouth flickered as he nodded in assent. The words weren’t exactly what he would have chosen, but there was no way to even insinuate that they were wrong.
Never had he heard the Americans accused of being overly delicate.
“But I think you are incorrect if you believe my men will be the ones to deal with it,” Clega continued. “If past history is any indicator, they will not use full military force. To do so would be ugly, would provide too much fodder for their eager media.”
Aligning points in his head, Salazar could see where Clega was going.
And that he was right.
“So they’ll bring in a small contingent,” he said. “Look to nudge things in their favor without making a big deal out of it.”
“Nudge might be a bit of an understatement,” Clega said, “but yes, that is what I believe.”
Again, Salazar glanced at Isabel.
Again, his cousin nodded in agreement.
The logic was solid. In the wake of the earlier call, he had waffled between incredulity and uncertainty, which had clouded his thinking. Hearing it now laid out so clearly, things were pretty obvious.
“And the second thing I was wrong about?” Salazar asked.
To that, Clega’s first response was a thin smile. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees before looking to Isabel and Salazar in turn.
“The second is thinking that our only course of action here is purely as a response.”
Chapter Sixteen
The feed coming up from South America was a bit better, though the mood in the room was no less somber than it had been a night before. Whereas in that meeting, Charles Vance had been the centerpiece of the proceedings, this time he was relegated to the sidelines.
Nothing more than an observer as President Underall and Director Joon stared at the blank television monitor. Wheeled into the office for that specific purpose, the video transmission had ended a few minutes prior, though nobody had said a word.
The events of the previous night were unmistakable. Burning a flag bore a symbolism that was universal. There was no greater representation of a country than its colors.
No greater disrespect than to burn them in effigy.
Tonight was a different tenor. It didn’t only speak of deep-seated animosity for America as an ideal. Lashing out at the products it produced and exported was a clear casting aside of everything it stood for.
And if the crowd reaction was any indicator, it was a notion that everybody present seemed to be in full agreement with.
“Well now, that was...” President Underall began, seeming to search for the proper word. “Something.”
Seated in the same chair he’d used for most of the day, he had one leg folded across the other. His blue suit showed a few wrinkles behind the knees, but was otherwise unmarred.
“It was,” Joon agreed, if only so that somebody responded to the comment.
Flicking a glance between the two men, Vance then looked to Hemmings and Rowe, finding bot
h to be staring at the table. Each looked to be intensely avoiding eyes contact at all costs.
They had officially reached the point in the day where giving advice and collecting information was over.
It was now time for the senior officials in the room to make decisions and everybody else to carry them out.
“Tell me, what was the reaction tonight versus last night?” Underall asked.
Tracking his focus to Joon, Vance waited until the Director matched the look, only then realizing that the question had been aimed in his direction.
“The crowd was smaller,” Vance said. “This was a baseball stadium, so it didn’t hold near as many people. At the same time, this was a markedly different demographic.”
The president shifted slightly. He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his chin on his palm.
“Go on.”
“Last night,” Vance continued, “they were catching everybody by surprise. Nobody showed up expecting anything more than a standard speech, so you had – to put it bluntly – a standard crowd.
“Older folks, families with children, your average voting demographic.”
All of this he had gleaned from extensive conversations with both Manuela Ramirez and John Farkus in the wee hours of the morning, his two assets inside the stadium.
“And you have to consider the element of surprise. They weren’t expecting a damning statement like that, so it took a while for everybody to realize what they were seeing.”
“Right,” Underall said. “And tonight brought out the crazies. They were looking for a show, and he gave them just that.”
Vance nodded. “Which begs the question...”
“What happens tomorrow night,” Joon finished, seizing back control for their side of the table.
Content to let him do just that, Vance slid his attention to Underall. He watched as the president debated things in silence, wrapping his mind around what they knew.
Which was that a situation had gone from non-existent to escalating quickly in record time.
“When he has his third speech in as many nights scheduled in the nation’s capital,” Underall muttered.
“In a stadium as large as the first two combined,” Joon said.
The looks and tones used by the men brought a tangle of emotions of Vance. To the positive, their trepidation validated his decisions and swift actions.
To everyone’s detriment, it presented a very contentious situation they all were now forced to deal with.
Removing his chin from his palm, Underall extended his left arm before him. Folding it back at the elbow, he checked his watch.
“Okay, it is now half past nine. If we’re going to do something, we have to get moving. Give me the full list of options once more.”
Already they had been through the list twice, but the latest stunt by Belmonte had elevated things tremendously. What had previously been a conversation in the ethereal was now as real as the room they were sitting in.
“Option A,” Joon said, “we do nothing. We continue to monitor the situation, hope for the best.”
Vance knew that not a single person in the room put even a tiny bit of faith in such an approach. Just as the president had said to Salazar that afternoon, once anti-anything sentiment was implanted, it never managed to recede.
If they allowed Belmonte to continue on this path, they would be forced to deal with it at one point or another.
The only question would be how large it had gotten by that time.
“Option B,” Joon said. “A press assault. We go on the airwaves and attack Belmonte and his rhetoric. We offer support to Salazar and his regime and trust that will be enough to stem this thing.”
This one Vance recognized as Joon merely going through the motions. There was no way the Director had any interest in such an approach, but he had to at least mention it before going forward with the third option.
“And Option C?” Underall asked.
Raising his eyebrows, Joon said, “Option C is, we do something a bit more proactive.”
Part III
Chapter Seventeen
Five years ago, I lost my wife and daughter.
Actually, a more accurate way of putting things would be to say, my wife and daughter were forcibly taken from me.
By the hired henchman of a Russian drug czar I didn’t even realize my DEA team and I were investigating.
I don’t bring that up to try and invoke sympathy or to demand that any amount of leeway be given to me. At thirty-six years old, I am responsible for my own actions.
More than a year ago, I finally tracked down the men that killed my family. In the ultimate of ironies, I wasn’t even looking for them. Rather, they came looking for me.
And I’d venture to say the outcome was surprising to everybody involved.
Again, that’s not the point of things. Neither the beginning nor the ending is the reason why I bring up the event, but rather the five years that transpired in between.
After burying my family, I spent two months in what the DEA deemed a mandatory paid leave, which was the nice way of saying they refused to accept my resignation until enough time passed that they knew I was serious about it.
If all the days I spent staring alternately at a bottle of Jim Beam and a loaded Glock 19 were any indicator, I was.
Luckily for me, I didn’t succumb to either one.
What I did do was trade in my badge and cash out the meager retirement savings I had. Went north to Yellowstone and translated the decade of government training I had into a profitable business.
And did everything I could to stay as far off the grid – and away from social interaction – as I could.
There are still plenty of times when I have to put on the face and go through the motions. I wouldn’t be worth much as a guide if I couldn’t act pleasant and smile at all the appropriate moments.
Over time, I’ve even learned to let my guard down enough to pal around with Kaylan. But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s a reason my off-season home is a one-room cabin eight miles outside of a Montana town of just over three thousand people.
All meaning that for a man like me, stepping off an early morning flight into the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport is only a step up from being in hell.
Even at nine-thirty in the morning, the place was a veritable zoo. Food courts and shopping options beckoned from every available inch of floor space. People were lined fifteen deep to get their daily shot of liquid caffeine.
Frazzled parents and screaming children seemed to have been ordered in bulk and positioned in every empty seat.
With my travel duffel on one shoulder, I walked through the terminal, the world a cacophony of sound and energy around me. Setting my jaw, I let the look on my face part the crowd before me, leaving it in place until the very last possible moment.
At which point I let it fall away, replaced by a smile I only hoped appeared sincere.
“Mr. Rembert,” I said, finding my client perched on a stool that was entirely too small for a man his size. One of just a handful of clients in the makeshift sports bar, a plate of eggs and bacon was on the table beside him.
The last remains of a Bloody Mary was in his hand.
Upon hearing his name, the man turned in surprise, the look lasting for just a moment before recognition set in. Dropping the glass back to the bar, he stood, extending both hands before him.
“Damnation! Hawk!” he said. He clasped both hands around my right, his enormous paws enveloping it completely and shaking vigorously. “So good to see you.”
Turning toward the bar, he said, “See, this is the guy I was telling you about.”
A few feet away, a middle-aged woman in a white dress shirt and auburn curls gave me a quick once-over. Seeing the beard and shaggy hair, she offered a dismissive shrug and said, “What’ll it be?”
Whether the clear disinterest was a product of my appearance or just annoyance with Rembert, there was no way
of knowing.
Probably fair to say, a little of each.
“Oh, you’ve got to have a Bloody Mary,” Rembert said. “Got to.”
“Oh, no thanks,” I replied. Not once in my life had I ever had one, the last minutes before a fifteen-hour flight not seeming like the best time to start.
Never mind the fact that it was still technically breakfast time.
“Mimosa?” Rembert asked. “A beer, maybe?”
Already I could tell it was going to be a long eight days.
“Cranberry juice,” I said, the woman again shrugging before setting off to fill my order.
Her disdain was palpable.
“So,” Rembert said, slapping a heavy hand against my shoulder as he lowered himself to his seat, “how was your flight?”
“Early,” I replied. Sliding my bag from my shoulder, I took the stool beside him.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Rembert replied. “The only other option would have been for you to come in last night, and with short notice and all...”
“No worries,” I said. “I had to be around yesterday to help my partner get things up and running for the season anyway.”
I didn’t. Kaylan was more than capable of handling everything at this point, but there was no need to tell him that.
We were about to be spending eight solid days together.
And I actually did like the man. I just needed to get out of Atlanta and back to someplace a little more my speed.
Someplace with trees and water and a whole lot of silence.
Or at least a lot less people.
Lifting his fork, Rembert pushed around the last scraps of his breakfast as my cranberry juice arrived. Nodding thanks, I took a sip as he thought better of eating any more and shoved his plate away.
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I could barely sleep last night. It was like I was six years old waiting for the swimsuit edition again.”
Considering that my night had been about three hours of rest in a cheap hotel outside the Bozeman airport, my experience had been a bit different.
But I knew the feeling he was referencing intimately well. The winter had been long and hard, as most tended to be in Montana. Living the way I do necessitates a certain level of being outdoors, but there comes a point when the wind chill forces one inside.
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