This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described here are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher.
Mortal Eclipse
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2004 David Brookover
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press
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Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to
Outskirts Press, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to my wife, Mary,
for her support and inspiration
and to my friend, Janis “John”,
for his unwavering belief.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Chapter 1
As Juan Ramos's two eccentric passengers filed past him into the helicopter, it was as if a shadow had corrupted his soul. The pilot shivered and crossed himself. Being an experienced soldier, he was familiar with the aura of death.
The Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter banked away from Bogotá’s uneven skyline and soared above the eastern Cordillera of the Andes Mountain range, a jagged scar slicing through Columbia. The helicopter's shadow was a distorted specter pursuing it across the bleak, rolling landscape that framed the jungles blanketing the valley floors like tightly woven, emerald tapestries.
Its passengers, a man and woman, leaned into each turn without complaint. Juan, a Marxist Rebel pilot, cocked his head slightly, raised a bushy black eyebrow in mild surprise at their composure, and turned back to guide them through the scrolling, toothy peaks unfolding before the helicopter.
The helicopter hugged the lower mountain peaks to avoid government and American DEA radar. This was one of many clandestine missions Ramos had flown, shuttling important associates of the Cali drug cartels into the backcountry for major conferences. Failure to avoid surveillance meant a torturous death for him and his family. Nobody failed the cartels twice. Even his rebel compatriots wouldn't defend him against the cartels in that situation. Only the crazy Americans dared to openly oppose the drug lords, and they were waging a losing battle without inside assistance from the Colombians who were deadly afraid of the consequences of resistance.
The woman passenger moved her mouth close to her companion's head to be heard above the Bell Ranger’s engine. Ramos shifted slightly against the seatbelt constraints to catch another glimpse of his strange passengers. Outwardly, they were the ultimate odd couple. The man wore a flowing, loose-fitting umber monk robe, and sat with his head bowed and his face hidden in the generous folds of the cowl. Even his hands were concealed. Contrasting his religious apparel, the man seemed to radiate a soul-chilling evil.
The woman was oriental, though he couldn’t place her heritage, and looked to be in her late twenties. The petite, lithe form was tightly wrapped in a black spandex jumpsuit. Her eyes were alert brown almonds, and her high-cheeked countenance was exotic. But it was her mouth, wide and voluptuous, that entranced and aroused him. He quickly averted his glance to the controls. Like her companion, she, too, appeared to be something she wasn't. A demon seductress in a whore's body, perhaps.
Sweat beaded at his receding hairline, and then dribbled down his forehead and stung his eyes. Ramos brushed the smarting moisture away. Ten more minutes and he'd be rid of them. Let the cartel deal with such wickedness. He was only a pilot who had a wife and five children to support.
Despite his burgeoning fear, Ramos's sense of loyalty to his employers weakly urged him to return his passengers to Bogotá. He felt a twinge of guilt about transporting such evil to unsuspecting house of celebration. It was Hector Delahoya's daughter's sixteenth birthday, and being the proud father he was, his guard would be down. His habitually suspicious nature would be at bay. Ramos blinked away more sweat. But he had a family of his own to think about. The sooner he dropped his passengers, the safer he'd feel. His wife was too young and too beautiful to be a widow.
Juan squeezed the stick, checked the gauges and scanned the landscape for the Cuaca River. It marked the safety zone where the cartel-financed Marxists controlled the sky and ground with the most sophisticated firepower money could buy.
He angled the helicopter sharply south, and the sprawling Cauca River appeared beyond the passing ridge, a twisting swath through the Cauca Valley. Seven minutes later, the DelaHoya's 110 room, white palatial mansion appeared like a pearl in a jade setting. It sat like a crown atop a meticulously landscaped plateau overlooking Delahoya's forty thousand-acre cocaine and heroin farming and production empire. To the naked eye, the green expanse appear as unbroken jungle, but much of the farming occurred beneath expensive camouflage netting that prevented American satellite and spy plane surveillance from pin-pointing exact crop locations for destruction. The drug refining operations were hidden underground or deep within the mountain range.
The guest accessible helipad sat at the southeast edge of the plateau. Delahoya's private pad was a hundred feet behind the mansion, wedged between the shimmering, Olympic-sized swimming pool and a half-dozen moss green, clay tennis courts.
Despite his jangled nerves, Juan deftly maneuvered the Bell Jet over the bull's eye rings and made a perfect descent. The helicopter bounced once lightly, then settled. Fifteen heavily armed security men wearing green and brown fatigues surrounded the helipad. A white limousine was parked at the end of a carpeted walkway that led to a redbrick drive that snaked up the plateau to the mansion.
Without turning, Juan announced, "The limousine will take you up to Senor Delahoya's mansion."
The woman fumbled with the man's seatbelt. Finally, she looked up. "I'm having no luck with this, and poor Thomas is no help," she said in perfect Spanish. "He's got arthritis so bad in his hands."
Ramos swallowed hard. The last th
ing he wanted to do was get closer to the evil man under the robe. But he had no choice. He sighed, unbuckled himself, and stepped into the shadows at the rear of the helicopter. Lowering his head to the man's chest, he quickly parted the buckles. Stupid passengers. The seatbelt release worked flawlessly.
A scaly claw shot out from the sleeve folds. Long, crooked talons clamped his throat and dammed his screams. Ramos's eyes bloated from their sockets as he gaped at the hideous, tawny scales.
His lips moved silently, like a guppy gasping for air outside a fishbowl. Evil eclipsed his soul. He shivered as death's chilling breath flooded his lungs.
With a sudden twist, the powerful talons pierced his soft flesh and ripped away Ramos's throat, flicking the bloody gristle and skin to the floor beside the twitching corpse.
"Hey, what's going on in there!" a guard outside shouted.
Thomas threw back his hood, opened the door and stuck his head out. "Having trouble with the seatbelt. It will only be a moment," he replied in Spanish. Juan Ramos's Spanish. With Juan Ramos's perpetually anxious face.
The burly guard with a Castro beard nodded curtly. "Be quick about it, Ramos. Senor Delahoya is waiting."
The man nodded and closed the door.
The woman smiled. "I will have the helicopter ready to fly upon your return, Thomas," she said in English, and kissed him hard.
He reached beneath the seat and lifted a plastic case to his lap. Snapping it open, he examined the connections to the C-4 explosives with the razor points of his talons, and then set the timer. The red LCD numerals silently winked their deadly countdown.
His coarse laugh filtered through the cowl. "Time to exterminate these Colombian cockroaches."
The oriental woman's eyes narrowed to slits. "They have outlived their usefulness."
"Amen." With that, Thomas stepped outside projecting a new identity, tucked the bomb under his arm and strode past the armed guards to the limousine.
Chapter 2
As the white stretch limousine wound its way toward the Delahoya mansion, one of Delahoya’s private security men stepped into the shadows behind one of a dozen potted palms lining the front edge of the immense terrace spanning the entire width of the structure. The bearded man unplugged his earphone jack from his assigned security radio clipped his camouflage belt and connected it to a smaller, high-tech radio hidden in his pocket.
“Wolf man, come in,” the security man hissed into a miniature microphone clipped to the underside of his black shirt collar. He wore green and brown camouflage pants, a matching cap, and standard issue black combat boots.
There was no static burst as Wolf man responded clearly, “You got company comin’” the husky voice responded.
“You got him in your sights, Davey?” The voice identified as Davey chuckled. “Clear as The Andy Griffith Show reruns out of Bogotá.
“Good.” Luis fingered the Uzi slung over his shoulder and parted the palm for a better view of the new arrival.
“Here he comes, Luis. Keep a good eye on him. He received a VIP clearance to land here. He must be someone important,” Davey said.
“No shit.”
The limousine tires crunched to a stop on the red gravel. Luis was so intent on identifying the VIP that he failed to detect another security guard approaching from behind.
“What are you doing here?” the security guard Chafe demanded in Spanish. “You’re supposed to be stationed along the steps to protect our guest from sniper fire.”
Davey observed the exchange between the two guards through the high-tech electronic cameras perched on the rocky ledge above him. He and his gear were concealed in dense mountainside jungle two miles from Delahoya’s estate, effectively cloaked from land and air reconnaissance, but not from the insects that persisted in swarming him. Even a liberal coating of the best repellent the defense department had to offer was little more than an appetizer for the mosquitoes. The insects and the steamy air made his assignment a living hell. He longed for a swift return to his icy, mosquito-free apartment and a vigorous massage from his girlfriend, Stacy.
Davey returned his thoughts to the monitor where Luis managed to hide his surprise at the other guard’s sudden arrival. He watched, as Luis’s eyes narrowed to slits below bushy black eyebrows. Davey stiffened, wishing he were there to back him up. If Luis was forced to take out the guard to resolve the situation, the mission would have to be scrapped, and a lot of sweat and blood would be shit down the river. This mission was critical for the success of their continuing drug war against the southern cartels.
Finally, Luis’s lips moved.
“If you’re in such a hurry to die like a pig, you cover the steps yourself,” Luis snapped through clenched teeth. “Me and my ass are keepin’ this palm company. Comprende`?”
For a long moment, Davey thought the guard was about to rat Luis out, which meant instant death for the guard. Luis would silence him quickly and quietly. It was his specialty.
But it was unnecessary.
Chafe` laughed. “I have a strong passion for life as well, Luis. Neither of us will patrol the steps. If the VIP pig is shot, better his bacon than ours, eh Luis?”
Luis’s dark eyes reappeared, as he returned the laughter. “Absolutely.”
The guard nodded and continued his rounds, hugging the walls tighter than before their conversation. Luis breathed a short sigh of relief and faced the limousine. The chauffeur closed the door behind his guest, who quickly climbed the stairs to the portico. Luis’s expression froze as he recognized the visitor. He had never expected such a big-time guest.
“Wolf man, are you seeing this!” he whispered urgently.
Davey wiped sweat from his forehead and adjusted the focus and clarity of the reception. He frowned, then adjusted the digital feed some more. He shook his head. What the hell was wrong? “Dammit! The damn camera won’t focus on the new arrival.”
“Yeah, right,” Luis snapped. “Cut the shit.”
Davey shifted his slight frame in the canvas stool, and angrily slapped at another buzzing swarm. “I’m not kidding. I can’t get a clear image of the guy.” He glanced at the blurred form on the screen climbing the stairs, and frantically attempted other adjustments. Nothing clarified the reception. The surrounding guards and landscape were perfectly focused, but the visitor was not.
Luis looked up at the foothill where Davey was positioned. “Jesus, I’ve got
United States Senator Hollis Danforth down here carrying a birthday gift under his pompous-ass arm, and you can’t verify the sighting. Is that it?”
Davey zoomed in on the gift. For a split second, the package came into focus. Goosebumps prickled his neck. A black plastic case. A bomb case! “Get out of there, Luis. Your senator is carrying a bomb!”
“Quit jackin’ me, Wolf man. I’m not in the mood for games!” Luis hissed. “Danforth’s carrying a box wrapped in flowered paper with pink ribbon and a pink bow.”
Davey was now extremely troubled. The man reached the terrace and was greeted by Delahoya himself. His image registered perfectly on the screen, but Danforth’s was still fuzzy. Unrecognizable. “Something’s wrong, amigo. Trust me and get the hell out of there. There’s some bad mojo down there.”
Luis clucked his tongue as he watched Delahoya greet the Senator. They disappeared inside, laughing like old friends. “There, did you see? Would Delahoya welcome a man carrying a bomb into his home?”
Davey’s stomach knotted. What the hell was happening? He’d never experienced anything like the blurred image before. Luis and Delahoya saw Senator Danforth clearly, and all he got was a blur with the best video equipment available in the world. It made no sense, yet it was there. It wasn’t his imagination. It wasn’t an electronic anomaly. He was certain of that.
“Abort the mission, Luis,” he repeated. “Something’s wrong.”
“This isn’t like you, amigo. You used to have balls of steel,” Luis said, clearly irritated. “We’ve got a job to do, and I’m not leaving
until our mission’s accomplished.”
Instead of responding, Davey grabbed his satellite phone with his trembling hand and called his superior in DC. It rang for minutes until the connection was rerouted to an associate’s office down the corridor from his superior, Lynn Baker. He explained the dilemma to Todd Borrs, who promised to track down Lynn and have her return the call ASAP. He clicked the phone to stand-by mode and double-checked that the blurred man’s image had been recorded onto the DVD disk.
“You there, Wolf man?” Luis hissed into the microphone.
“Yeah. I’ve recording everything so you can see the problem for yourself. But I swear to Christ, I’m not jackin’ with you, Luis. I have clear images of everyone down there but Senator Danforth. It’s like he’s wearing some sort of cloaking device.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Exactly. That’s why I want you out of there. I’ve got a bad feeling that
Danforth isn’t really Danforth. My gut tells me he’s an assassin.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“I know.”
“I’m going in.”
Before Davey could object, he watched helplessly as Luis headed for the front entrance, but the front door was shoved open before he reached it.
Luis pivoted quickly. “It’s Delahoya,” he whispered anxiously.
Davey checked his monitor. Delahoya’s image was blurred. “Shit!”
“What?” Luis asked.
“Now Delahoya’s a blur on the damn monitor.”
“Time for an electronic overhaul,” Luis responded sarcastically.
Hector Delahoya stopped abruptly and pointed at Luis. “Seize that man!” he ordered. “He’s DEA!”
Luis reached for his Uzi, but he was too slow. Several guards opened fire before he was able to get off a shot. Luis’s body jerked and spun wildly in the burgeoning silver haze, before collapsing against the white stucco wall. The twitching corpse left a thick, blood smear as it slid to a sitting position.
Davey watched the horrific shooting unfold, but it appeared slower than real time.
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