Right to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  “I’ve got two full magazines and two partials.”

  He reached into his waist pack and produced a box of fifty rounds. “Let’s top off our partials. We have no idea what we’ll be facing up there.” As he pressed the bullets into the magazines, he said, “Kilo One, status? Ignore if engaged.”

  “You’re partially broken . . . I’m in the recycling center, still in pursuit.”

  “Delta Lead?” Harv asked.

  “All quiet.”

  With LG in tow, Harvey approached the stairwell door.

  He turned, received a nod, and entered the same numbers into the keypunch.

  CHAPTER 18

  A loader came roaring out of the twenty-foot opening, forcing Nathan to pivot around the corner. He flattened himself against the wall as the vehicle sped past, mere feet away. He took off behind the loader and followed it over to the line of trucks. The loader kept going and dumped its load of clear glass into a recycle bin.

  The sound was incredible as thousands of bottles clinked, clanged, and shattered.

  He eased between the trucks and saw Bustamonte heading for the northeast corner of the property. Beyond the wall, the Expo line would provide darker cover than the street to the south. That could be the reason Bustamonte chose to run this direction. He could also be trying to retrieve his car before the cops arrived. In any case, Nathan knew the guy planned to hop the wall.

  Not wasting any time, the loader’s operator executed a Y-turn, drove back through the line of trucks, and disappeared the way it had come. Nathan pivoted his NV down, and began a full sprint as Bustamonte climbed atop a huge stack of cardboard bales and disappeared over the wall.

  “Delta Lead, do you still copy?”

  “Affirm. We can still read you.”

  “I’m about to leave the recycling center. I think my mark is running along the Expo line. I’m in pursuit. He knows I’m on his tail.”

  “Copy, Kilo One. Good hunting.”

  Nathan knew it could become a long run down the tracks. There was no denying Bustamonte was faster than he was. The real question became, how long could the guy keep it up?

  First things first. Right now Nathan had to get up and over the block wall to reacquire his prey. He angled to his right and climbed atop the same stack of bales. Problem was, he’d make himself a juicy target if Bustamonte hadn’t fled down the tracks. Running atop the cardboard, Nathan played the odds, believing Bustamonte wouldn’t stop and try to ambush him. When he reached the wall, he looked east down the Expo’s barren line of tracks and saw no sign of his mark. A scan in the other direction revealed Bustamonte sprinting back toward Stewart Street, where they’d entered the recycling center. Good news and bad news.

  The good news: He wasn’t going to be ambushed.

  The bad: Bustamonte had an appallingly long lead.

  Nathan wasted no time.

  He lowered himself into the easement, then took off again in pursuit, running down the middle of the left-hand track. He wasn’t worried about a train showing up at this hour, as this was a local commuter line, not an Amtrak or freight route. Bustamonte kept looking over his shoulder, which caused him to nearly lose his balance and fall.

  Less than half a click ahead, Nathan saw the Stewart Street crossing.

  He estimated he trailed Bustamonte by ten to fifteen seconds.

  Would Bustamonte keep following the tracks, or turn right toward the dealership?

  He felt some relief when Bustamonte went straight through the street crossing. The guy obviously believed he could outrun Nathan, his first tactical error. When Nathan reached the crossing, he glanced both ways before hustling across.

  Bustamonte kept looking back. Perhaps he was hoping Nathan would give up and call off the chase. Sorry, pal, that’s not happening. You’ve got a date with Cantrell’s people and I don’t want to deprive you of the experience.

  It didn’t look like the man intended to hop the fence and find cover in the buildings lining the left side of the tracks. The right side was a major street with a landscaping strip in the middle. Olympic Boulevard. He’d seen its proximity to the Expo line on the aerial. He estimated the next intersection lay some five hundred yards ahead. As he settled into a sustainable pace, Nathan made up a running-cadence song, a trick he’d learned in the Marine Corps.

  I am going to catch that man, he’s not going to foil my plan.

  If I fall and tumble down, I’ll get up without a frown.

  He silently chanted the lines over and over, saying a word every other stride. The last time he did something like this, he was in Nicaragua, running up a steep dirt road after a formidable enemy.

  If he could close the distance to fifty yards, he might stop, take a knee, and attempt a wounding shot. Bustamonte wasn’t wearing a vest so anything above the waist was potentially fatal. For now, his best bet lay in outlasting the man in a prolonged footrace.

  Every so often, Nathan passed an upright metal cabinet of some sort, probably an electrical or other underground conduit access point for the rail system. He tried not to become distracted, concentrating instead on breathing, taking a full breath every fourth stride and a full exhalation four strides later. Creating consistent breath-to-stride pace was key to maintaining a prolonged effort.

  He heard another transmission from Harv and LG, but some of it was broken and unreadable. Nathan figured in another half mile or so, he’d be completely out of range. He still had his cell phone, which reminded him to turn it on. He reached into his waist pack and held the power button for several seconds. Its glow wasn’t a concern now; Bustamonte didn’t have night vision. He also made sure it was set to silent mode.

  Somewhere off to the south, he heard the rumble of a diesel engine, but he couldn’t see the source. Other than the slipstream of cars on I-10, the neighborhood remained quiet. A few gang tags were present here and there, but it didn’t look like the neighborhood had been infested, which meant gunshots would be immediately reported.

  From what Nathan could determine, there were no residences in the immediate area, but there were bound to be some people in these larger buildings, and he couldn’t discount the possibility of a security patrol, either on foot or in a vehicle.

  He continued to sing the marching song. He liked the way the Marines did things—time-tested methods of creating warriors. His blood pumped, his lungs heaved, and his muscles burned, all feelings he loved. This was now a battle of wills and Nathan intended to get under Bustamonte’s skin and whittle away at the man’s will to resist.

  His prey appeared to be fumbling with something. Perhaps he’d forgotten to load his handgun, or was checking to make sure its safety was off. If the guy turned to shoot, Nathan wouldn’t hesitate to return fire, but he’d keep his shots low. Whatever Bustamonte had been doing, he finished and returned his focus on running again.

  The next intersection lay just ahead.

  Nathan had detected a pattern in the man’s routine. Every five seconds or so, Bustamonte turned to check on his pursuer.

  Nathan timed his move perfectly. He waited until Bustamonte was fifty or sixty yards from the crossing and slowed to a stop, then, keeping his head just high enough to watch his target’s reaction, he bent over, put his hands on his knees, and acted as if he were totally winded. He wanted Bustamonte to continue straight and not leave the tracks.

  Come on, Boosty, look back . . .

  Any second now . . .

  Like clockwork, the man looked over his shoulder. When he saw Nathan’s staged pose, he slowed to a medium-paced jog, passed over the next intersecting street, and kept following the tracks.

  Perfect.

  Nathan resumed his pursuit.

  The next time Bustamonte looked back, Nathan sensed the man’s primal panic.

  This pursuit wasn’t over; it had begun anew.

  How do you like me now? Thought you were going to outrun me? Well, think again.

  Nathan had reserve energy to spare.

  After another hundre
d yards or so, one thing had become clear: Bustamonte was proving to be a worthy prey. Nathan hadn’t been able to close the distance. Every time he sped up, the guy matched his speed. For the first time during this foot chase, Nathan experienced a small pang of doubt. He didn’t want to risk an all-out burst of speed. If it didn’t work, he’d be spent and lose the contest.

  Over the next five hundred yards or so, the Expo line gradually gained elevation as it passed over Olympic Boulevard. It forced Bustamonte to remain inside the right-of-way because of the vertical drop-offs on both sides. At the highest point of the overpass, Bustamonte fumbled with his gun again and Nathan fully expected a handgun fight, but it never came.

  The only thing Bustamonte did with any predictability was look over his shoulder.

  Another street crossing lay ahead. If Bustamonte left the tracks, Nathan might lose him. The right-of-way had narrowed, with buildings lining both sides. If his mark made a left or right turn up there, Nathan would lose sight of him and he didn’t know what the surrounding area looked like. The aerial photo hadn’t extended this far away from the dealership.

  He heard it then.

  It came out of nowhere.

  The high-pitched whine of an approaching car.

  CHAPTER 19

  Three thousand miles away, Rebecca Cantrell picked up her hard line and punched a number from memory. She stared into the foul weather beyond her windows, insulated from the wind and rain. Insulated, she knew, in more than one way. She longed for the world outside this sterile environment.

  DNI Scott Benson could see her caller ID so she didn’t need to identify herself.

  “They’ve engaged,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right about this, Rebecca. I’m still uncomfortable turning McBride loose, US soil or not.”

  Rebecca didn’t interrupt. She sensed a CYA lecture coming from her old friend.

  “Your boys have important friends in every branch of government, I get that, but that leverage doesn’t extend to the failure point. At some point, I’ll have to brief the president and I’d prefer to have this wrapped up by then. Give me your gut: what are the chances McBride and Fontana will succeed?”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  “Fifty-fifty . . .”

  “I won’t blow smoke, Scott, but remember, they have a proven history with us. The Beaumont security teams don’t have half their experience.”

  “I understand, but this has serious blowback potential—engaging on American soil to interfere with a foreign election.”

  “We aren’t doing that. An operation to protect our citizens can’t be seen as interfering in Venezuela’s politics. Facial-recognition identified three of Genneken’s assailants as being from a sophisticated LA gang, more like a crime family, with links to the Bustamonte twins.”

  “Bustamonte . . . Why is that name familiar?”

  “Before Genneken became station chief, she was part of a secret operation we carried out against a Caracas-based cartel engaged in money-laundering in Iran and North Korea. Cornejo was linked to the cartel, though never officially. Ursula and Tomas Bustamonte looked after his interests in the organization. Anyway, after the Bustamontes kidnapped a US citizen, we sent in Genneken to infiltrate the group. She wanted McBride and Fontana for the op, so we asked them to come out of retirement. They got the American out alive, but barely. He was in pretty bad shape. Some months later, he and Genneken ended up seeing one another, and eventually got married. He was killed during the assault tonight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, but it raises a critical question. Do we have any idea how Cornejo or the Bustamontes found Genneken?”

  “If you’re asking whether we have an in-house security breach, I don’t think so.”

  “What about Genneken herself?”

  “I’ve considered that, and I can’t discount the possibility, but I think she’s clean.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Benson said.

  “Could she have dirt on Cornejo? Yes. Could she be blackmailing him? Again, yes. I can’t rule those possibilities out with absolute certainty. But she doesn’t need the money. Her husband makes—made—about a million per month as an investment consultant.”

  “Not too shabby, but some people can never have enough.”

  “I’m not taking anything for granted.” Rebecca let a few seconds pass. “Although the rescue never became public, it infuriated Cornejo, who was Venezuela’s attorney general at the time, corrupt to the core.”

  “If I’m remembering things correctly, one of your Special Activities Division officers was killed in Caracas just prior to the rescue.”

  She closed her eyes and tried to vanquish the man’s face. It didn’t happen. “He made it into the Agency on my endorsement.”

  “I’m sorry, Rebecca. It never gets easier.”

  “No. It still hurts. Pretty much every day.”

  “I’d worry about you if it didn’t.”

  “McBride took a bullet to the chest during the op, which nearly added another star to our wall.”

  “I hear you, Rebecca, and I want you to continue personally handling this one.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve got Beaumont Specialists engaged in other locations tonight, correct?”

  “Yes. I told McBride and Fontana we’d be conducting other ops against Cornejo’s LA assets, but they have no idea we’re using contractors.”

  “I don’t think they’d care,” Benson said. “Does Vincent Beaumont know who his team’s supporting?”

  “Yes, and he was more than willing to help.”

  “It seems we aren’t the only ones who owe McBride a few favors.”

  Cantrell leaned back in her chair and pivoted toward her muted bank of televisions, all set to different news channels. “I believe the Bustamonte twins will try to flee the country today. We’re attempting to grab them before they succeed. If we can get one or both of them alive, I’m hoping we’ll get what we need.”

  Benson didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Though neither of them wanted the CIA to be seen as interfering with the Venezuelan presidential succession, doing so ranked high on the administration’s list of foreign-policy goals. It wasn’t simply a matter of ideology. Cornejo had long-held business connections with Iran, forged and strengthened during the years in which Iran had suffered nearly universal trade sanctions because of its nuclear ambitions. Recent intel from Venezuela revealed that Cornejo-owned companies were working to procure the type of centrifuges Iran needed in order to refine uranium into weapons-grade material. If Cornejo became president of Venezuela, then Venezuela itself would almost surely be going into the nuclear-weapon production business with Iran. In return, Venezuela would receive much-needed cash for its coffers. Or at least Cornejo would.

  “We go way back, Rebecca, so I’m going to give you some latitude on this. Conduct this operation as you see fit, keep me informed, and pull the plug if it gets out of hand. I’ll leave the definition up to you.”

  “McBride knows the score. If he screws this up, it’s on my watch.”

  “Conversely, if he succeeds, it’s another medal on your chest.”

  “I have no political aspirations.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you did.”

  “You didn’t. Truthfully, this job has taken a chunk out of me. I can only imagine being in your shoes.”

  “You’ve heard the prayer about being able to change what we can, accept what we can’t, and know the difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s absolutely true. Most people have the luxury of keeping their worlds small, we don’t.”

  “My personal feelings aside, we can’t let Daniel Cornejo become Venezuela’s next president.”

  “On that we’re in total agreement. So how much time do we give McBride to get containment?”

  “I would think if we don’t have the Bustamonte twins in custody in the next forty-eight hours, we pursue other options.”

  “Keep me informed, I�
�ve got to take another call. No goodbyes.”

  The call ended. It’s what Benson always said before hanging up. No goodbyes. Obviously, the director of National Intelligence was superstitious too.

  Her thoughts returned to Nathan.

  Every time she talked to him, it could be the last.

  CHAPTER 20

  Harvey felt LG’s hand on his shoulder along with a nudge, a signal she was ready to go. He cracked the door a few inches and peered inside.

  A bright stairwell greeted him. No surprises there.

  Once inside, he put her on hold and listened for sound.

  Nothing.

  He looked up the narrow gap between the rails to verify the stairwell went up to the third floor. It did.

  “We’re moving. Stop at the landing and cover my advance to the second floor.”

  She started up.

  “Stop!” Harvey whispered.

  LG froze in place.

  “Your footsteps.”

  “Shit,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He smiled and gave her a nod to continue. He wouldn’t beat her up over it. It had been years since LG had conducted this kind of op. Her steps hadn’t been overly loud, but in the absolute silence of this stairwell, they were definitely detectable. It was a mistake she wouldn’t make again.

  On the second floor, they found a dimly lit hallway that ran the entire length of the building.

  Barring some secret hiding spot, the entire second floor looked vacant. All of the offices lining the hallway were unlocked and none of the “offices” held more than superficial furniture. No computers, personal pictures, or anything else indicating these spaces were being used, or ever had been.

  Clearly, Cantrell had it right. This entire building was nothing more than a money-laundering mechanism. A sweet setup, really. Harvey wondered how many buildings like this Cornejo owned.

  Halfway down the hall, they located a break room.

  Several cups of coffee sat on one of the small round tables. He felt one.

  “Warm?” she asked.