Man of War

by Sean Parnell

  One senator in particular, a man named Miguel Alba, became very valuable to their organization.

  Alba was a local legend and devout Catholic who donated generously to the community. However, Los Urabeños weren’t the only show in Ciudad del Este. The Russians had decided that the death of Escobar was the perfect time to get into the cocaine business.

  But the Russians had their own style of play. They offered Alba triple what the cartel was paying him, and just to make sure he couldn’t refuse, they kidnapped his wife and daughter. West was hired to take care of the situation.

  It took him three days to find Alba’s family. They were being held in a hacienda by the river and guarded by a group of tough-looking professionals. West didn’t learn that they were Russians until he grabbed one on his way into town.

  “Who hired you?” he demanded.

  The Russian knew the game. He wasn’t saying a word. West wasn’t a fan of torture, because it took too long, and in his experience a man would tell you anything he thought you wanted to hear to make the pain stop.

  But there were other ways. West made a call, and an hour later he heard the vehicle pull behind the empty shop he was using as a makeshift prison. To his surprise, the person who got out carrying a brown paper sack from a local pharmacy was a young woman. The cartel had all types of people on their payroll, but this one wasn’t the usual thug. She was well dressed and carried herself with a quiet confidence. Instead of the gaudy jewelry the cholas loved, she wore a few simple gold pieces.

  “Where is the patient?”

  “In there.”

  “How far along is she?”

  West smiled. The world made sense again. She was a doctor, most likely an OB-GYN, and she assumed that the oxytocin he had requested was for a woman in labor.

  “Not that kind of patient.”

  “I see.”

  West knew she didn’t.

  “I’ll take it from here. Wouldn’t want you to ruin your shoes.”

  Before she was in the car, West was drawing up the injection. Oxytocin was used in labor and delivery either to start contractions of the uterus or to stop bleeding, but it had a more sinister application. Scientists called it the “trust drug” because of the way it affected the brain. West had used it in place of sodium amytal, the so-called truth serum, and found it much more effective.

  He gave the Russian twice the recommended dose and settled back on his haunches to enjoy a cigarette and wait for the drug to kick in. It didn’t take long.

  “O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick,” he said.

  “What did you say?” the Russian slurred in Spanish.

  “It’s from Shakespeare, but don’t worry about it,” West replied in kind, getting to his feet. He switched to Russian when he was closer. “You and I have more important things to talk about. Let’s start with your name.”

  “Aleksandr, but my friends call me Sasha.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “It could be,” the Russian replied with a shrug. The big man was flushed and tipsy, as if he had just left a bar. He leaned forward with an embarrassed look and whispered, “Your face is rather hideous. Were you burned in the war?”

  “No. The war hasn’t started yet, Sasha, but it will, and very soon,” West replied.

  “I went to war. I was with the Spetsnaz in Grozny, do you know where that is?”

  West nodded. “Yes. It is in Chechnya.”

  “We did horrible things there. Our commander told us that the rebels were not human and we should not feel bad. But I did.”

  West knew all about the atrocities the Russians had heaped upon the Chechens, mostly their women and children. It was a savage war, reminiscent of Stalin’s purges, but West planned on doing much worse when the time was right.

  “Tell me about the family at the estancia,” he said, checking his watch.

  The oxytocin had turned the ex-soldier into a babbling drunk and he willingly complied with West’s commands. Nate took notes while the man spoke, and Sasha even helped him draw a map of the estate.

  Thirty minutes later, when the drug finally wore off, he was not so jovial.

  “You have been a big help, Sasha.”

  “What did you give me, you asshole? My head is pounding.”

  “Yeah, that’s the drug wearing off,” West replied. “You want something for the pain?”

  Sasha glared at him and looked like he was going to tell him to piss off, but decided an aspirin couldn’t hurt.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” The pistol appeared out of thin air. West drew so fast that Sasha didn’t have time to blink before the round punched through his eyeball and blew his brains over the dusty floor.

  That night West rescued Alba’s family, leaving nothing behind but a stack of bodies and a note for the Russians to clear out. The job set his reputation as a man who could get things done, and after that he found his skills in high demand. There was so much work that he started charging exorbitant rates for his services, but there was always someone willing to pay.

  The command post in Spain was an old villa that had once been white. The sun and elements had taken their toll and some of the terra-cotta tiles were missing. It sat on the peak of a low hill and had an excellent view of the road. The jeep climbed the steep drive and paused at an iron gate bolted to a crumbling brick wall. Two armed men guarded the entrance beneath camo netting they had stretched over a machine-gun position.

  West carried the bomb inside, where cots were lined neatly on the tile floor. The men not on duty were cleaning their weapons, and near the far wall a communications area had been set up. West handed the pack to Villars and walked behind the radioman, checking the map pinned to the wall.

  “Ghost 2 is set. Ghost 1, returning to base,” a voice came over the net.

  “Roger, 1,” the radio operator replied.

  West looked at the map. Blue pushpins marked the overwatch position the recon teams were using. It was in a depression on the downslope of the hill. A good spot, West thought. From there the team had a clear line of sight to their east and were able to observe the gravel drive that paralleled the rows of olive trees before dropping into the low ground.

  At the end of the road lay the final piece in West’s plan, and once he had it, he was going to make the United States bleed.

  Chapter 45

  Málaga, Spain

  It was midafternoon and the Mediterranean sun lay low in the sky when Steele and Meg arrived in Málaga and walked out of the train station. Keyhole had picked up a weak hit on West, but the signal was mobile and the program lost the track. While Steele didn’t have an exact fix on his mentor, Keyhole confirmed that he was in the area.

  “Is this the right place?” Meg asked, looking up from the travel guide she had bought on the train.

  Steele glanced at the page. It showed a professional-grade photo taken from the citadel—a big difference from the row of apartments peering above an eight-foot wall in front of them.

  He could feel her disappointment and looped his arm over her shoulder. “This is the industrial area. Wait until we get the car before being too hard on her.”

  Málaga was one of the oldest cities in the world, and from the train station it appeared grimy, like a rumpled suit. Meg slumped her shoulders and followed Steele toward the rental lot. He angled toward a row of luxury vehicles glinting in the sun, digging his passport from his pocket. He had arranged a car while on the train, booking it under the import/export company Max Sands owned and operated out of Paris.

  “Buenos días,” he said, handing his passport to the man in the glass vestibule. The man smiled, checking Steele’s name against a piece of paper on a battered clipboard. He took a set of keys from a board and, after comparing the picture on the visa to the man before him, handed them over.

  “Your keys, Mr. Sands,” the attendant replied in Spanish.

  “Gracias. This way, darling,”

  Meg appeared to perk up at the sight of the brand-new
Land Rover. They loaded their bags and got inside.

  Steele started the engine and left the train station, heading toward the commercial district. They drove east, and just like he’d said, the view changed accordingly. The architecture was a perfect blend of Old World charm, whitewashed adobe, and swaying palms, mixed with the new style of mirrored glass. When they were close to their hotel the Med appeared off to the right, crystal clear, just like the picture in Meg’s guidebook.

  Steele pulled the Land Rover up to the Room Mate Larios Hotel and hadn’t put it in park before a valet was running toward them.

  “Good evening, señor y señorita, welcome to the Mate Larios,” he said, opening the door. “I hope you had a pleasant trip,” he stammered.

  Steele, now Sands, nodded and got out of the SUV without saying a word. He was an important man here on business and didn’t talk to peons like valets, but he was a good tipper. He handed the valet a hundred-dollar bill and walked around to open the door for Meg. With enough cash you didn’t have to be polite, and Steele knew that Max Sands could drag a body through the hotel foyer and no one would bat an eye. This was the swagger he had been trying to impress on Meg.

  “We will be down in thirty minutes. Have the car ready,” he said in Spanish.

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  Steele helped Meg from the SUV, looking at her legs as he did. “Make it an hour,” he said to the valet with a wink.

  “Will you stop?” she said, blushing.

  “Just playing the newlywed part, my dear.” Steele leaned in close to whisper his final instructions in her ear. “The manager’s name is Tano. He is going to make a big scene. Just remember who you are supposed to be and, oh yeah, what size do you wear?”

  “Huh?”

  “What size clothes do you wear?”

  “Oh, I wear a six.”

  “Shoes?”

  “An eight, why?”

  Steele didn’t answer. Tano had seen him through the door and immediately begged the pardon of the young European couple he was speaking with and came skimming across the marble floor.

  “Ahh, Señor Sands, what a wonderful surprise.”

  Tano was short and balding, dressed in a dark blue suit with a smiling but pockmarked face. He mopped his brow with a white handkerchief before extending his effete hand. “This must be Caroline. Enchanting, just as I imagined.”

  “Excellent to see you, Tano,” Steele said, dropping his bag. The manager searched for a bellhop and Steele gave Meg a gentle nudge. “You don’t carry your own bag anymore,” he whispered.

  Tano found who he was looking for and snapped his fingers at the closest bellhop, and Meg dropped her bag as bidden.

  “This is my nephew, Mateo. He will take excellent care of you. Shall I show you to your rooms? I am sure that you are very tired.”

  Tano chattered like this all the way to the rooms, which he unlocked with a keycard, stepping out of the way to let Meg in first. Steele had booked the best rooms and smiled to himself when she walked to the open balcony and stepped out to look at the ocean.

  “She is very beautiful, Señor Sands.”

  “Thank you, Tano. I ordered some clothes. Have they arrived?”

  “They are already in the closet.”

  Steele tugged the wad of dollars from his pocket, stripped two crisp hundred-dollar bills off the top, and pressed them into the manager’s hand. “I need you to send the shopgirl up with what she has in a size six for the clothes and eight for shoes.”

  “Very well, Mr. Sands. Will you be dining with us tonight?”

  “No, we have an engagement.”

  “A girl could get used to this,” Meg said, throwing herself on the bed and stretching out.

  Steele thought she looked beautiful lying there, and Meg flashed him a hungry smile. He found himself at the edge of the bed looking down at her. Meg rolled over on her stomach and reached out for his belt, pulling him close.

  “What are you looking at, Mr. Sands?” she asked.

  “I’m looking at you.”

  Eric lowered his face to hers. He could smell her perfume, feel the warmth of her skin on his. The kiss was passionate, charged with the intensity and fear of the unknown. Steele traced his hands down Meg’s back and she sat up, raising her arms over her head so he could take off her shirt. He tossed it on the floor and Meg wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him on top of her.

  “A girl could really get used to this,” she whispered into his ear.

  Chapter 46

  Director Styles plotted all the way to the White House. She had put off the briefing for as long as she dared. What a fucking asshat. Styles hated the Vice President despite their shared past. Though she’d never admit it aloud, the root of her rancor was simple.

  She was jealous.

  Rockford had come to an Agency in flux, desperately in need of a hero. The Cold War had mired the CIA in scandal after scandal and new blood was desperately needed to brighten its tarnished reputation.

  “I had to work for everything I got, and he comes in and everyone thinks he’s a goddamn war hero,” the Director grumbled to herself.

  Styles blamed both the Program and Rockford for her current woes. Rockford had forced her into a corner and the damn Alphas had cut her out of the operations loop.

  In hindsight she admitted she had made mistakes, but action was always faster than reaction. Going up against the Program had been ill-advised and the only way she was going to live to fight another day was by forcing Rockford to back down. She hoped threatening to expose the Alpha operation in Europe would do just that.

  Rockford silently waited for Director Styles to finish, his eyes focused on the face staring up at him from the Interpol notice. It was Eric Steele.

  The picture was enough for Rockford to realize that Steele had been right about the leak.

  He could fade a Blue Notice, brush it off until after the meeting, then make some calls. The immediate problem was with Director Styles. Rockford glanced at his chief of staff sitting silently in the corner. Lansky’s face was impassive, but Rockford knew he was trying to figure out the Director’s angle.

  “You play cards, Director?” he asked. Dropping a title was an old-school power play, a verbal cue that Rockford was in charge and Styles was here to answer questions.

  “Are you asking if I gamble?” Styles replied, brushing off the barb.

  “Sure.”

  “Depends on the game and the dealer.”

  “I get it. Control as many unknowns as possible. But you are familiar with the adage ‘the house always wins’?”

  Rockford watched Styles’s eyes slip to the picture before her. He put himself in her shoes. She is pretty sure Steele is an Alpha, but can’t prove it. If she could, we wouldn’t be here.

  Publishing the Red Notice could potentially sabotage a major operation and open the Program and the Cole administration to all kinds of trouble. To hang the Director, Rockford would have to prove that Styles knowingly leaked classified information, which would be hard to do. It would be even harder still to prove that the Director of the CIA had committed treason.

  “My job is to protect the United States of America from foreign threats no matter who is pulling the strings. I have reason to believe that this man”—she tapped her finger on Steele’s picture—“is part of an off-the-books kill team whose mere existence is unconstitutional. I also believe that President Cole has authorized you, a dutifully elected official, to run this team.”

  Dammit, the State of the Union address is tomorrow night, isn’t it? Rockford had been so caught up in what was going on with Steele that he had totally forgotten. The timing makes sense now, little snake.

  “Let me get this straight,” Rockford said. “The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency suspects that the President of the United States has a top-secret unit that somehow has managed to stay off the radar of everyone in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would President Cole
want the liability that comes with such a unit? If anyone found out, he would go to jail.”

  “You tell me,” Styles said.

  “Well.” Rockford leaned back in his chair. “I would assume that if such a unit existed there would have to be one hell of a reason. Maybe certain people realized a long time ago that the CIA has its head up its ass and didn’t realize there was a revolution brewing in Algiers. What do you think, Ted?”

  Lansky shrugged. “The only thing I know is that in the last week the CIA lost a team in Tunis, and a safehouse and SOG team in Algiers.”

  “That is ridiculous. The CIA—”

  “The CIA what?” Rockford demanded, sitting forward in his chair and lasering in on Styles. “The CIA thinks that it is a good idea to put a Red Notice on a man who may or may not be tracking an untraceable nuclear weapon that could be headed anywhere? Hell, Robin, it could be heading to the States for all we know.”

  Styles went bone white with anger. “Don’t you dare lecture me. President Cole is running his own unsanctioned kill team and you want to lecture me? Give me a fucking break, John. You can sit around kissing Cole’s ass and pretending that no one knows about the Program all you want, but guess what. It is all bullshit. The Program is real and it is illegal as hell, and this”—Styles jabbed her finger at the Red Notice—“proves it.”

  “Robin, are you sure you want to play it this way?” Rockford asked.

  “I am ready to play it to the bone. Are you? Is Cole?”

  “Fair enough,” Rockford said, getting to his feet. “But whatever happens to you after I put this in the President’s hand is on your head.”

  “Well then, you better be getting a move on, boy,” Styles sneered before turning to the door.

  Chapter 47

  Meg and Eric decided against going out for dinner, ordering room service instead. Afterward, neither one wanted to leave the room, knowing what lay outside the door. But finally they had to go.

  Steele piloted the Land Rover toward the docks, while Meg basked in the salt-laden air coming through the open window. Overhead a passenger plane swooped in, the air passing over its extended flaps with the whine of incoming artillery.