Right to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  CHAPTER 9

  The woman ran her fingers up her date’s thigh but stopped short.

  He tensed with anticipation. “Why’d you stop?”

  “It’s not midnight,” she said.

  What were the odds he’d meet a woman like this on New Year’s Eve and end up in a hot tub with her? Not that low, he told himself. Wealthy men got all the beautiful women. It was the way the world worked. Funny thing was, he hadn’t been looking for a date tonight. He’d gone to the country club for a few drinks, like he frequently did, and spotted this gorgeous brunette across the room. She’d offered a friendly smile and . . . here they were. He fancied himself an excellent lover. Admittedly, it wasn’t all that difficult. Massage and kiss the right places and the cork pops free.

  “Next year can’t get here soon enough,” he said.

  “I’ll make it worth the wait. It’s only . . .” She glanced at her Rolex Ladies President. “Four more minutes.”

  “Nice watch.”

  “Thank you. It was a Christmas gift from my brother.”

  He raised a brow. “He must be doing pretty well.”

  “He died a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s okay.”

  “It’s just that you haven’t told me anything about yourself.”

  “I’m a good listener.”

  He smiled. It seemed that was all he’d get. Besides, she seemed comfortable with small talk. If he pushed, it might spoil the mood. “I like your Spanish accent.”

  “Really? You aren’t just saying that?”

  “It’s sexy.”

  She leaned over and gave his neck a long kiss. “You Americans . . .”

  He moaned and tilted his head back.

  “Is it true Americans shoot guns into the air on New Year’s?”

  “Not too many around here. This is Hollywood, not Jerkwater, Alabama.”

  “There’s no such place,” she said. “Is there?”

  “It’s just an expression for a rural area. I didn’t mean to pick on Alabama. Every state has its rednecks.”

  “Rednecks?”

  “Another expression.”

  “I’ve never shot a gun.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She nodded. “Is it scary?”

  “I suppose it could be if you don’t know what you’re doing. Guns are perfectly safe in the right hands. Believe it or not, driving is far more dangerous.”

  “Now you’re teasing me.”

  “No, I’m completely serious.”

  “Will you take me shooting sometime?”

  “Sure, it’s easy. You’d like it.”

  “I’m not sure about that, but I’m willing to try.”

  “I’ve been out here on New Year’s before. We’ll hear a few guns go off.”

  Her expression changed to fear.

  A quick recovery was needed. “It’s more likely you’ll win the lottery than have a bullet land on your head.” He snuggled up to her. “Besides, you’ve got me protecting you.”

  She kissed him again and climbed out of the tub.

  The view from water level was beyond exceptional.

  “I need to use the little girls’ room. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s almost midnight . . .”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time.”

  He watched her walk toward the pool house. Man, that’s some motion. Halfway there, she turned back and blew a kiss. He felt himself stir.

  Alone in the tub, he fantasized about the rest of the evening. Such pleasures were rare in life, regardless of wealth. He’d worked like a sled dog to get where he was. His independent oil company had just secured a five-year lease in Venezuela’s Orinoco Belt. The price of crude would eventually climb out of the toilet. He wasn’t worried. Raised in Texas, he’d been an oilman his entire life—third generation. Oil futures were just that. Besides, he had another business going on the side, an equally lucrative one.

  This woman easily made him forget all that. She possessed charm equaling her beauty, a rare combination in any part of the world. She could’ve gone home with any man in the room, but she’d chosen him. Granted, most of the old farts at the country club were bald, wrinkled, and married but, given the opportunity, they’d slobber all over this woman. Sure, she could be on a fishing expedition . . . but so what? If she considered him a catch, who was he to argue?

  He frowned at an odd sound.

  Is that a swarm of bees? His whiskey-dulled mind wondered if bees flew at night and he was pretty sure they didn’t.

  Whatever it was, it grew louder.

  A single object about the size of an umbrella materialized out of the blackness. It came to a hover thirty feet away. He sat up a little, his curiosity turning to anger at the intrusion. It was one of those eight-bladed drones. An omnicopter or some other dipshit name.

  If this was a prank by one of his neighbors, it wasn’t funny.

  He climbed out of the tub.

  The craft moved closer and he gave it the middle-finger salute.

  The machine rocked back and forth like a waltzing dancer.

  He heard it then, a different sound, also coming from the drone. A bizarre chuckling, like that of an old laughing bag toy from the seventies. It started as a low chitter and grew in volume until it overpowered the blades.

  Yeah, right. Very funny, asshole.

  The laughing stopped.

  A voice from behind startled him.

  “Happy New Year, my love.”

  He turned.

  The woman he’d brought into his home stood ten feet away with a leveled shotgun, its menacing form tucked under her bikini-clad breast like a coddled newborn.

  Gunshots began crackling from the surrounding neighborhoods.

  “What are you—”

  His mind registered the discharge, heard the boom, and told him his chest cavity had just been destroyed.

  The impact thrust him back and he plunged into the water.

  He tried to reason a way out of dying, but knew it was wishful thinking. So this is it? This is how I die? Seriously?

  Strange how the mind worked at a time like this. The third-generation oil baron hoped the police would find his body before this damned hot tub turned him into stew.

  Tomas Bustamonte pulled the tarp away from the drone. A beautifully engineered craft greeted him. Nothing but the best for the great Daniel Cornejo. Tomas had conducted dozens of missions, but this was definitely a first. He found it amusing that America’s FAA was only now realizing the harm and damage that irresponsible drone operators can cause. New laws were in the works, but as with all government intervention, they would be too little, too late.

  The good thing about drones? They ignored property lines. An inane thought, he knew. Drones didn’t do anything without their operators.

  After a quick preflight check to make sure all its components and parts were secure, he removed the drone from the back of the SUV and set it on the street. No one could see him; the neighborhood was quiet and dark.

  He felt the stirring of excitement as he turned on the remote controller and flipped the drone’s power switch. He settled into the passenger’s seat and thumbed the altitude button. He was rewarded with a humming buzz as the device lifted off the ground. Its eight blades working in unison, it hovered in a stable position, awaiting orders.

  His twin sister Ursula loved working with small engines, electrical motors, and servos. It had been a fairly complicated task, linking the night-vision scope into its camera system, but, as with all things, her perseverance had paid off. It was now a simple matter of transmitting the drone’s video feed through his laptop, via a cell-phone hotspot to Cornejo.

  He piloted the drone to an altitude of approximately one hundred feet and sent it in a southerly direction. Prior to the mission, he’d used the Google Earth program to memorize the terrain and houses between himself and the target. Familiar landscapes and l
andmarks scrolled across his laptop’s screen. When the drone crossed Park Oak Drive, he began slowing its speed and dropping its altitude.

  The terra-cotta roof of the target residence appeared and, a few seconds later, the backyard pool area materialized. He zoomed the camera and found his mark right where he should be.

  Tomas used the hands-free feature of his phone to call Cornejo, who’d insisted on watching the action live. Tomas thought his boss’s order a little eccentric, but it fit the arrogant man he’d known for years. There were, after all, personal vendettas to be settled. Not his concern. Tomas got paid the same, audience or not. Based on the money Cornejo threw at him, coming out of retirement hadn’t been a difficult decision. Besides, he’d worked for worse people . . . actually, come to think of it, maybe not.

  “Mr. Cornejo, are you receiving the feed?”

  “Yes, thank you for going to all the trouble.”

  “Do I have a green light to proceed as planned?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well, sir. Stand by . . .”

  “I like the night vision.”

  “Thank you. Ursula gets the credit. She’s quite the technician.”

  “This is great. I think we’ll do this again. It’s exciting.”

  To each his own, Tomas thought. The drone operation made his job both easier and more difficult. Easier because he didn’t have to scramble over any walls or bypass any security systems to get a camera on the action. Difficult because the drone had to be purchased, assembled, and all the electronics had to be configured and tested. Again, Ursula’s job.

  Tomas had to admit to enjoying this as well. He especially liked the irritated expression on the man’s face. The evening’s ambiance had been spoiled. Too bad for him. Just wait, it gets worse. Tomas clicked a button on his laptop, activating the laughing sound. He couldn’t hear it, but it had worked perfectly on the test run.

  Cornejo laughed. “This is priceless.”

  Actually, it was quite expensive. Chump change to Cornejo. The man made millions every day.

  Ursula’s date got out of the hot tub and flipped the bird at the machine. If looks could kill. Tomas wiggled the joystick, making the craft rock back and forth.

  At that moment, Tomas heard fireworks crackle and pop. Bigger sounds too—some of them probably from guns.

  His sister entered the camera’s field of view.

  The man turned.

  The shotgun flashed. Tomas heard the report a full second later.

  Arms flailing, the man fell into the hot tub. Water surged over the edges.

  Ursula waved to the machine, then walked out of camera shot.

  “You can expect a large bonus for a job well done, Tomas.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s a shame he received such a quick death.”

  “We were willing to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “I appreciate that,” Cornejo said, “but it’s important to avoid patterns. I trust you’ll safely dispose of the drone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your next assignment in New York City will be much more personal, the way you like it. Do you have any word from La Jolla?”

  “Not yet. I’m expecting a call any minute.”

  “Call me once you have a report. Have a safe flight back east.”

  “Thank you. We will.”

  Tomas gave the drone power, took it up to five hundred feet, and flew it in a westerly direction. Soon the dark shape of the Hollywood Reservoir appeared. He piloted the craft to the center of the water and cut its power. He watched the lake rapidly approach as the machine plummeted to its death. The image jumped from the impact, then went dark.

  He drove the SUV to the intersection of Spring Oak and Park Oak. Draped in a towel, with her clothes concealing the shotgun, Ursula stepped out from a lush line of landscaping and got in.

  She leaned over, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and fastened her seat belt.

  And just like that, they were gone.

  CHAPTER 10

  Nathan and Harv were in the kitchen, chowing down on a pair of Angelica’s famous bacon sandwiches, when Cantrell called.

  “We know who attacked Genneken, and you’re not going to like it. The Bustamonte twins.”

  Nathan watched Harv’s eyes narrow. “Ursula and Tomas,” he said quietly. “Did your guest disclose that?”

  “Yes.”

  Harv said, “We thought they’d retired.”

  “It seems they’ve been reactivated. We think they’re responsible for the recent string of assassinations I mentioned.”

  “How did you break your guest so quickly?” Harv asked.

  “We didn’t get too rough, if that’s what you’re asking. We gave him a sample of what he could expect over an extended period of time if he didn’t cooperate. When he asked for other options, we gave him two choices: he could either spend the rest of his life in Guantánamo Bay surrounded by radical jihadists intent on killing every infidel they could get their hands on, or retire to Belize as a rich man with a new identity.”

  “Good call.”

  “It works in most cases when fanatical ideology isn’t a factor. People don’t like the concept of disappearing forever.”

  Nathan wanted to ask if the guy would end up at Gitmo anyway, but decided it was a foregone conclusion. Cold-blooded murderers deserved a needle, or worse. “You feel pretty good about the information he gave up?”

  “The algorithm makes this kind of intel much easier to corroborate. Plus we got facial-recognition IDs on several of the dead gunmen. Two are Venezuelans here on work visas. Three are Venezuelan Americans with dual citizenship who’ve been in the US for a long time, but as far as our records show, they’ve never pulled anything like this. All are positively linked to the Bustamonte twins.”

  Nathan looked at Harv. “I’m impressed with how quickly your people moved.”

  “We’re highly motivated. Once our guest started talking, we were able to run IDs and verify the info he gave us.”

  “Obviously the work-visa guys didn’t bring duffle bags full of guns and tactical gear with them.”

  “No, they didn’t. The twins have ties to organized crime here in the US. Here’s where it gets interesting. Do you recall your Venezuelan rescue mission?”

  Nathan did. Another instance of Harv and him being brought out of retirement for a CIA op. They’d rescued Linda’s husband-to-be, Glen. She hadn’t known Glen at the time—only that he was a US citizen being held against his will in Caracas by the Bustamontes. During the operation, Ursula Bustamonte had nearly killed Nathan; her bullet missed his heart by less than an inch.

  Harv must’ve sensed his thoughts because his friend said, “I’m sure there’s a point to all of this.”

  “We’re 99 percent sure the twins are in Daniel Cornejo’s employ again.”

  “And that’s important because?” Nathan asked.

  Harv jumped in. “Because Cornejo’s the front-runner in Venezuela’s special presidential election.”

  “I see you guys are up to speed on Latin American politics.”

  “That’s Harv’s thing, not mine.”

  “Harvey’s correct. Short of a miracle, Cornejo’s expected to defeat acting president Cadenas, who was President Garmendia’s VP.”

  “I’m remembering something in the news,” Nathan said. “Didn’t Garmendia have a stroke or heart attack?”

  “Stroke,” Cantrell said. “The situation’s quite controversial. The Venezuelan Constitution calls for a special election within thirty days upon the death or incapacitation of the president, but Garmendia’s partially coherent. He can answer yes-and-no questions with hand gestures, but he can’t talk and the doctors can’t say with certainty he ever will again. It’s a political mess. To make a long story short, the Supreme Court of Venezuela ruled that a special election is warranted and it’s going to take place in ten days.”

  “And I’m assuming we don’t want Cornejo to succeed,” sai
d Nathan.

  “You assume correctly. Since Hugo Chavez’s death, Venezuelan-US relations have remained strained, but they’ve warmed a little. Cadenas is considerably more pro-capitalist than Garmendia and he’s promised to bring Venezuela back to economic health by repealing some of Garmendia’s failed social-spending programs. It’s more complicated than this, but in a nutshell, rationing, price-fixing, and over-taxation have decimated Venezuela’s economy. To make matters worse, crude oil is near a fifteen-year low and it accounts for 96 percent of Venezuela’s export income.”

  “How much of that 96 percent do we buy?” Nathan asked.

  “Depending on who you talk to, about 40 percent.”

  He exchanged an incredulous glance with Harv. “That has to be tens of billions of dollars.”

  “It is. Again, depending on who you talk to, Venezuela’s Orinoco Belt contains around three hundred to five hundred billion barrels of recoverable heavy crude. That means Venezuela has the largest reserves on the planet. Cornejo, on the other hand, is purely self-interested, a robber-baron type. He’s perfectly positioned to see a huge windfall if he gets control of Venezuela’s national petroleum company. He already owns the biggest oil-drilling company in South America. Nearly all of his competitors are dormant or out of business.”

  “His doing?” Nathan asked.

  “Harv?” Cantrell obviously believed his friend knew the answer.

  “More like natural selection. There’s been too much supply versus demand for some time now, and the Russians and Saudis have no intention of curtailing their production. It’s a giant squeeze play. It wouldn’t break their hearts to see Venezuela removed from the competition.”

  “So much for OPEC unity,” Nathan said dryly.

  Harv continued, “The Venezuelans have no choice. They have to keep lowering their crude prices to compete. It makes a bad situation worse.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Cantrell said. “If the economic situation isn’t remedied, Venezuela could find itself following in Greece’s footsteps.”

  “How bad are things down there?” Nathan asked.

  “If the murder rate per capita is any indicator,” said Cantrell, “they’re in a full-blown crisis. Percentage wise, it’s ten times higher than ours. A murder is committed every twenty minutes.”