Ready to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  “Okay,” Nathan said. “Let’s make sure we’ve got this right. On the right side of the road, the prominent buildings are the church, some larger homes, Mateo’s place, a vacant lot, the general store, and then the motel. On the left, we’ve got the Laundromat, the post office, the tavern, an abandoned building, and a small gas station. The northeast quadrant of town is where the ore-processing plant and lumber mill are located. Farms and ranches surround the outskirts all the way out to the river. It may only be a stream by most standards, but let’s call it the river. At the river’s south end, about two hundred yards from the wooden bridge, it looks like there’s a sizable pond created by a dam that doubles as a crossing. It looks kinda marshy in these photos near the water’s edge, so let’s be sure we check that out before getting bogged down in the mud. Although the church isn’t the commercial center of town, it’s the geographic center, so let’s call it our zero and vector all other buildings from there. Everyone aboard with my assessment?”

  Nathan received nods.

  “Estefan, anything you want to add?”

  Their friend pointed to a curved line heading away from the river to the ore-processing plant. On the other side of the plant, it curved back to the river, but it looked wider on the south side. “That’s the supply canal to the sluice boxes in the ore-processing plant. Freshwater enters the plant; silted water leaves. The exit canal has to be constantly dredged to keep the flow going.”

  “Can we get across the canal?” Harv asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t advise going across the exit side—it’s muddy and soft from the constant supply of silt runoff. Lots of miners pan for residual gold along the exit side because the sluice boxes don’t catch all of it. Some slips through.”

  “When we enter the valley, drop us here.” Nathan pointed to a spot below the wooden bridge. “Harv and I will head up this mountain to the east and find a place that overlooks the town. The trees look thick down by the water, but the north-facing slope higher up looks less dense. We’ll find a good spot to hunker down and watch your back. We’ll be in constant radio communication with each other. We’ll wire you for stealth—”

  Estefan’s cell rang. “It’s my wife. I asked her to call around six thirty. I should take this. I’ll be right back. Two minutes.” With his phone still ringing, Estefan left the dining room.

  “What do you think?” Harv asked.

  “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m not real thrilled about this op.”

  “Me either.” They remained silent for a long moment. “Look,” Harv said, “I know you don’t want to interrogate anyone, but we need a lot more information than we found in the letters. If greasing some palms doesn’t work, we should consider . . . alternatives.”

  Nathan didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Harv was right. There was more at stake than either of them wanted to admit. Even though no national security issue existed, it didn’t diminish the fact that Raven was a product of their training. They created him, and they now needed to destroy him. He was their responsibility. Why else would Cantrell have sent them down here? As Nathan had noted in the armored SUV after they’d landed at Dulles, Cantrell had Central American assets available to her. Younger and better trained—

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You were gone,” Harv said.

  “I felt a brief lapse of faith. It was unsettling.”

  “Cantrell?”

  Nathan nodded. “I dismissed the thought. She’s not withholding anything we need to know. I’m certain of it.”

  “I admire your resolve, even though I don’t share it. Don’t get me wrong, she’d never betray us, but she’ll never be completely honest either. She can’t—her job description doesn’t allow it.”

  “On that, Harv, we agree.”

  Estefan reentered the dining room and apologized for the interruption. He said his wife was coming home around 7:30 PM, which gave them another half hour to study the aerials.

  Before leaving, they grabbed a few more things that might come in handy. Estefan’s camera and telephoto lens topped the list. They wouldn’t be taking any photos until daybreak tomorrow, but it couldn’t hurt to bring it along. They split up the grenades Sergeant Lyle had given them and secured everything in their packs. To make room for all the tactical stuff, they removed their civilian clothes and put them in one of two spare backpacks that Estefan had. They loaded the other spare pack with canned food, fruit, and bottled water. Finally, Estefan added a few more camping items, including a charcoal water-filter kit and a small folding shovel.

  “If you’re planning to bury Raven,” Nathan said, “you might want something a little more substantial.”

  Estefan shrugged. “I’ll let him rot. The ants need food too.”

  Five minutes later they were on their way.

  CHAPTER 16

  This had to be one of the worst traffic jams Caracas had ever seen. Juan Batista, Venezuela’s minister of basic industry and mining, couldn’t believe the timing. If this mess didn’t clear up soon, he’d miss his flight to Managua. What a pain in the ass. He’d have to charter a jet, assuming his staff could even find one available. The Central American summit was two days from now, and it would be very bad form to arrive late.

  There must have been some kind of accident ahead. He looked at his watch—a little after 7:30 PM. The traffic shouldn’t be this snarled. His limousine was stopped dead, and his lane of traffic hadn’t moved more than ten meters in the last half hour. Tempers were short. Horns were blaring, and the collective din added to his irritation. At least he didn’t have to brave the heat. The air-conditioning kept his environment at a comfortable 20 degrees Celsius.

  He pulled his cell and made a call.

  “I’m stuck in traffic a few kilometers from the airport,” he told his secretary. “See if you can book me on a later flight tonight. If nothing’s available, find me a charter-jet service. I want to be in Managua tonight.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  He ended the call and turned to his aide. “What’s the expression? Shit happens?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you there on time for tomorrow’s reception breakfast. Carmen’s a resourceful woman. She’ll take care of everything.”

  “I guess this is the price of progress.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  Juan looked out his tinted window. The entrepreneurial spirit was plainly evident. Dozens of street vendors were taking advantage of the stopped traffic. Children were selling gum and other trinkets, and they seemed to be doing well. Juan smiled, knowing no tax would be collected from these cash sales.

  Selling bottled water from their waist packs, two bicyclists worked their way toward Juan’s limousine. They didn’t look especially young, maybe midtwenties. Juan smiled. The lead bicyclist had the jump on the guy behind him. The first guy stopped at the SUV in front of their limo and made a sale. The SUV’s driver handed a bill to the cyclist and received two bottles in return. The street vender approached and rolled to a stop at Juan’s window. Juan knew the young man couldn’t see inside the tinted windows—all he’d see was his own reflection.

  Juan leaned over, removed his wallet, and rolled his window down. Warm air assaulted his face. “How much for three bottles?”

  “For you, minister, they’re free.”

  Minister? Juan doubted a common street vendor would recognize him. But he had been on TV a lot lately, so perhaps being recognized wasn’t too much of a stretch.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Of course I do.” The young man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  When the vendor reached into his waist pack, Juan saw a forearm covered with expensive tattoos. A street vendor could never afford something like that. It looked like gang ink.

  “I think I’ll pass on the water.
Thank you, though.”

  The man’s smile widened. “But I insist.”

  Before Juan could roll the window up, the man pulled an odd-looking brick of tan clay from his waist pack.

  What the hell are those wires? Juan thought.

  The man pressed something attached to the brick.

  Then, as casually as throwing birdseed, the guy tossed the brick through the open window and sped away.

  That’s when Juan saw the batteries.

  “Shit! It’s a bomb!”

  His aide reacted quickly but fumbled with his seat belt.

  “Throw it out the door! Hurry!”

  Five seconds after the device entered the limo, it detonated.

  Juan’s mind couldn’t register the event. He had a vague sense of searing heat and impossible pressure.

  Two pounds of plastic explosive tore him apart, vaporizing most of his flesh.

  In a millionth of a second, the warm air entering the limousine reversed its course.

  The explosion ripped through the sheet-metal floor and careened off the concrete.

  As if suspended by an invisible cable, the limo lifted off the road. Before it came back down, fire erupted from every window, including the windshield.

  Juan’s driver had managed to get his door open, but it was too late. The force of the blast sent his charred body cartwheeling across several lanes of cars.

  Tempered glass from hundreds of car windows shredded flesh. Storefronts blew inward, awnings went up in flames, and scorched pedestrians tumbled down the sidewalks.

  Ten seconds after the blast, an eerie calmness descended, broken by blaring car alarms, the crackle of flames, and moans of agony.

  Bill Stafford knocked on Cantrell’s door before entering. Seeing she wasn’t on the phone, he told her there’d been an explosion in Caracas. “Some kind of car bomb. Local authorities are saying it was a limo.”

  “A limo?”

  Stafford nodded. “It went off in the middle of a traffic jam.”

  “Contact our station chief down there, and see what he knows.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Anyone claim responsibility?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How many?”

  “At least several dozen.”

  “When was the last major terrorist bombing down there?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “Keep me updated.” Cantrell turned on her TV and started channel surfing. Most of the cable networks were covering it. A helicopter shot showed a circle of destruction at least a hundred feet wide. A black smoke column leaned toward the ocean. She picked up her phone and called the director of national intelligence. She had to wait several minutes until he came on the line.

  “We’re on it, Rebecca. It’s probably overkill, but I’m going to recommend that Secretary Martinez quietly lock down the embassy there until we sort this out.”

  “How many marines do we have guarding it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll also ask her to increase the number just to be on the safe side. The last thing we need is another Benghazi. I want to be able to tell the president we took immediate action to secure the place.”

  “Any official statement from Caracas?”

  “Nothing yet . . . Rebecca, I’ve got to take another call. I’ll get back to you once I hear something.”

  She hung up and tapped Nathan’s phone number.

  After ten rings, she sent a text.

  call me asap

  CHAPTER 17

  At 8:25 PM, Franco stepped out of his hot tub, toweled himself dry, and strolled toward his house. Compared to his boss, he lived in a modest place, but it still ranked inside the top 1 percent of Managua’s elite homes. The plantation-style villa was surrounded by exotic landscaping, complete with ponds and small waterfalls. He’d paid a small fortune re-creating the old-growth forest that once thrived here. Although his trees were significantly smaller because they’d been grown in a nursery and transplanted to his yard, they were still the correct species. Following the path of flagstone pavers, he glanced toward the lights of Managua below. He didn’t resent civilization; he just didn’t care for it much. He wondered if he could be just as happy living in a remote cabin with no bills to pay, cars to maintain, or telephones to answer.

  Answering the phone wasn’t always annoying because he’d just received an intriguing call from his well-paid insider within NNP’s headquarters. Several years ago, she’d installed a sophisticated tickler program designed to alert her to inquiries on specific individuals. He and Macanas were two of the names she’d linked to her program. The woman was highly skilled, and the program she’d written was nothing short of ingenious. Franco knew his way around computers, but this woman’s abilities were downright scary. She’d called to tell him that earlier this morning someone had accessed the NNP database, seeking personal information on his boss and a second person within the same inquiry. That in itself wasn’t overly alarming, what had gotten the technician’s attention was the fact that the IP address associated with the inquiry was a bogus number in Malaysia. It had looked too suspicious to overlook, so she’d called Franco.

  The second person within the data stream was none other than Pastor Tobias Delgado.

  Franco knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of an inquiry with only those two names occurring at the same time? Hundreds of millions to one? For now, he’d keep this morsel to himself and not share it with Macanas.

  He turned the music down and located his prepaid cell phone. The cheap flip phone had been purchased and registered to a wholly owned Paulo Macanas shell company created by a crafty lawyer who’d left no ties back to Macanas or himself. Franco knew he should drive a few kilometers away from his house before using the phone, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he’d used the phone all over Managua. No single cell tower would show more activity than any other one. He wasn’t worried.

  He opened the phone, powered it on, and made the call to Santavilla. As always, he let the other end of the line ring once before hanging up. Thirty seconds later, he did the same thing again. It usually took just under two minutes before getting a return call. He began locking the house. Methodically moving from room to room, he closed all the windows and left the interior doors in precise yet random positions, depending on their locations within the house. He used the pattern on the hardwood floors to act as a guide. If anyone entered his house in his absence, they might return the doors to their approximate positions, but they’d never be able to get them back into their precise locations. He had a state-of-the-art security system, but as with any electronically based system, it could be defeated. As he’d learned long ago in kilo training, old-fashioned security methods remained the best, and such methods included his two tactically trained Belgian Malinois. The dogs weren’t big, but they packed plenty of punch. They followed him through the house during his routine, having seen it hundreds of times.

  His flip phone rang ninety seconds later. He relayed his instructions to Antonia about thoroughly searching the church. “Call me back within the hour no matter what you find.” He ended the call and looked at his dogs. “Good boys.” Their expressions relaxed.

  In the kitchen, he poured himself an iced tea and leaned against the counter. The call from his NNP insider about the dual inquiry required immediate investigation. Perhaps there had been more to the good pastor than met the eye. He settled into his easy chair, looked at his watch, and turned on the TV. He smiled when he found the breaking news in Venezuela.

  Poor Minister Batista. I guess you weren’t as popular as you thought.

  With twenty minutes to spare, Franco received his return call. Antonia’s search of Tobias’s office inside the church had yielded an interesting piece of information. Someone sharing the pastor’s last name—Estefan Delgado—had written a large check to t
he church, but it hadn’t been cashed. Instead, Tobias had left it sticking out of a Bible like a bookmark. The check was over a year old. If Tobias never intended to cash it, then why keep it? Sentimental value? It had obviously come from a family member. Adding to the mystery, the address on the uncashed check lay only four kilometers from Franco’s own house.

  It was time to do some fieldwork. He grabbed his prepacked tactical bag, locked the house, and drove to Estefan Delgado’s address. His first cruise past the residence confirmed the presence of a security system—a keypad was visible near the front door. Franco also noticed a large dog in a fenced backyard.

  The outer suburbs of Managua were a mix of everything from tin shanties to brick-and-mortar mansions, and this place ranked somewhere in the middle—a modest three- or four-bedroom home.

  With nothing more to learn from inside his vehicle, Franco drove to the opposite side of the canyon and parked in a vacant lot overlooking Delgado’s house. Most of the trees atop the ridgeline were gone, leaving a clear view of the city below. From the type of trash present, it was obvious this place was frequented by party animals and amorous couples. For now, his Range Rover was the only vehicle present. He took a moment to study Delgado’s house with field glasses but saw no movement and no lights on.

  Franco rolled his windows down and listened for any sounds coming from the immediate neighborhood. All quiet. He also inhaled deeply through his nose. Detecting no cigarette odor, he donned a plain black ski mask, grabbed his tactical backpack, and started down the canyon’s slope. The descent was steep, if not particularly difficult, but he found the bottom of the gulley loaded with hazards. A long time ago, the canyon had been used as an illegal dumping site. Before the houses were built on the ridgeline, people had dumped all kinds of trash. Everything from construction debris to abandoned cars had accumulated down here. The thick foliage, coupled with the steep slope, made seeing the smaller pieces of debris difficult. There were hundreds of objects to trip over down here. Once he ascended the other side, he’d emerge at the rear fence of Delgado’s property. He had no misgivings about the danger of tonight’s operation. Going against an unknown opponent held inherent risks, but he had the element of surprise on his side. He didn’t feel overly concerned.