Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

  “I’m not sure,” King said, shrugging. “It’s just a feeling. Hell, I could be wrong. But...”

  “Spit it out!” Lyons snapped.

  “I get the feeling he’s lost his way. He identifies way too much with these people. And there’s another complication. Escobar’s got this woman. Name’s Nikki Vargas. She was a black swan. We never expected her to pop up. But here she is. And Escobar welcomed her with open arms. We’re not sure what to make of her.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “She’s been on the scene for about two years. She seemed to have popped out of nowhere. She started doing little jobs for the guy. Next thing you know, he’s brought her into his inner circle.”

  “He boning her?” Lyons asked.

  King grinned. “What do you think? That’s not the issue.”

  “So what is the issue?” Schwarz asked.

  “Ortega’s pretty taken with this lady.”

  “Aw, shit,” Lyons muttered.

  “Yeah, ‘aw, shit.’ And, unfortunately, I tried to sound the alarm in Washington. I told Ortega’s supervisor about it. They blew me off.”

  “You think she’s working Ortega? Maybe she knows what he’s up to?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” King said. “If me and the kid—” he nodded at the other technician “—had our way, we would have been pulled out of here six months ago when all this started happening. Mark my words—she’s bad news. She’s bad news and now Ortega’s up to his neck with her.”

  Schwarz let out a low whistle.

  “And even if she wasn’t going to betray Ortega,” Schwarz said, “if Escobar finds out, he’ll have Ortega’s ass for it anyway.”

  King nodded. “Exactly. No matter what, the guy didn’t just step off the reservation; he set it on fire, stole a car and drove six states away.”

  By now, Lyons’s cheeks and neck were flushed red with rage. He slammed an open hand down onto one of the consoles, causing the monitors on the wall to shudder. He shot up from his chair, the top of his head just missing the van’s ceiling.

  “Damn it,” he said. “And we have one of ours in there? I knew this was a bad idea from the start. Never should have signed off on this.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  “Really? Well, here’s what I do know. If I get even the slightest inkling that Ortega’s dirty, I’ll deal with it myself.”

  King looked at him and scowled.

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “It won’t be pretty. Let’s just say I’ll solve the problem.”

  King turned away from the Able Team warriors and fixed his gaze on the computer monitors. “Yeah, I don’t think I want to know any more about this. Look, we’re trying to scoop up as much information as we can here. Our guys, they took their cell phones and put them in a soundproof safe. Castillo’s smart; he’s vibrating the windows just to prevent us from snatching sound from the windowpanes. We have to go by whatever Ortega and your buddy can wring out of the place.”

  “If they get out of there,” Lyons said, scowling.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Castillo lived in a penthouse overlooking downtown Mexico City.

  Blancanales and Ortega arrived just before noon. A couple of Castillo’s thugs greeted them at the door. Ortega entered first, nodding at both men and moving past them. One of the guys grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. He took a step back and held up his hands in a surrender motion.

  “Hey, what’s the problem?”

  Blancanales watched as Ortega complied. A goon, his black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, patted him down from head to toe, checking for weapons. A second gorilla, this one with a pockmarked face, ran a black wandlike device over him, probably checking for microphones or transmitters. When they finished, Mr. Ponytail turned to Castillo, who was seated at the bar and said, “He’s clean.”

  Castillo nodded and gestured at Blancanales with his chin.

  “Check that stupid bastard next,” he said.

  Blancanales raised his hands. “You are going to find a Beretta 92 on me, in a shoulder holster,” he said. “But you aren’t going to find any wires. Leave the gun where it is.”

  Ponytail grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around and began patting him down. Before Blancanales knew it, the guy had slipped the Beretta from his shoulder holster. He heard metallic clicking behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the thug eject the magazine from the pistol. He then worked the slide and took the round from the chamber. With a couple more deft movements, Mr. Ponytail disconnected the slide and handed the gun to Blancanales in two pieces. The American took the pieces and looked down at them as they lay in his palm.

  “There’s your gun,” he said, sneering as he pocketed the magazine.

  Scowling, Blancanales put the slide in his right jacket pocket and the rest of the pistol in the left pocket.

  “Thanks,” Blancanales muttered.

  “Our new friend is clean, too.” The second thug had swept the Stony Man warrior for bugs even as the first guy had frisked him and relieved him of his pistol.

  Castillo pushed himself from the stool and strode across the floor toward his visitors. The man was tall and slim, but with wide shoulders. He seemed to have more swagger in his movements than actual confidence. He wore black dress pants with a sharp crease down the front of each leg. His white button-down shirt gleamed under the artificial light. His shiny black wing tips clicked against the floor.

  When he got close to his visitors, he held out his hand to Ortega, who took it. They shook hands. “It’s good to see you,” Castillo said. Despite the words, Blancanales detected no real warmth in the man’s voice.

  When they released hands, he turned and offered his hand to Blancanales.

  “Any friend of Mr. Ortega’s is a friend of mine,” he said as they shook hands. “Sorry about the Beretta, Mr. Perez. You can’t be too careful.”

  Blancanales forced a smile. “Of course.”

  Castillo took a couple of steps back and gestured at a pair of leather couches.

  “Find a seat and we can talk some business.”

  Castillo turned and headed for the couches. The two Americans followed him and found seats. Blancanales ordered a Scotch, while Ortega ordered a double. The federal agent shot Blancanales a defiant look, and the Able Team warrior turned and stared out one of the big windows that overlooked Mexico City.

  “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “I understand you run a very private enterprise. The last thing you want is a stranger coming to your door and trying to buy products from you.”

  “We don’t usually do it this way. However, you come highly recommended. We figured we should at least hear you out.”

  The brute with the pockmarked face returned with a tray of drinks. He set the tray on the coffee table and left it there. Blancanales and Ortega leaned forward and picked up their cocktails. Ortega downed half of his in a single swallow and held the glass on his lap with both hands. Blancanales set his on the table and kept his attention focused on Castillo.

  “So what exactly is it I can help you with?”

  “I thought Ortega already filled you in.”

  “He did. I want you to say it. What are you after?”

  “Fair enough. Maybe you know this, but I have customers in South America, good customers. They’re people who need the kinds of products you have to offer. I’m talking everything from rifles and pistols to shoulder-fired rockets.”

  “If these are such good customers, you already had a pipeline, right? Why suddenly seek us out?”

  Blancanales gave the guy a benign smile.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “I had a supplier. A couple of days ago, someone hit his warehouse in Paraguay.”

  “Hit?”r />
  “Blew it up.” Blancanales leaned forward, plucked his drink off the table and sipped from it.

  “Somebody planted a bomb in the warehouse?”

  Blancanales shook his head. “No, I mean they blew it up. Somebody hit it with a missile from out of nowhere. The owner had paid off everyone in Paraguay so I don’t think it was their government.”

  “Okay,” Castillo said.

  “A missile came out of nowhere, hit the place and burned it to the ground. Now it’s gone. The man had some customers in the Middle East. I’m thinking the U.S. probably hit him with a drone strike.”

  “And he has no product left to sell after this? He had just one warehouse?”

  “He’s dead. He was on the premises when the missile hit.”

  “I see.”

  “And I have a customer in Colombia. A militia. The group has financial backing from a cocaine kingpin in the country. It has tons of money to spend. But I have no inventory, no access. And to top it all off, they’re getting more exotic with their demands.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Castillo’s lips. “Exotic?”

  “Crazy shit. A week ago they asked me to find them a drone. Apparently the leader of the militia has this grand plan to decapitate the Colombian government. Right now he doesn’t even have a helicopter that actually will get off the ground. But he asked me to find him a UAV. Then I heard that maybe you guys might be into something like that.”

  “Like?”

  “Drones.”

  “You’ve heard wrong.”

  A smile ghosted Blancanales’s lips. “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me. You’re wrong.”

  Blancanales shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “But I have money.”

  “If you didn’t have money,” Castillo said, jerking his head at the door, “I’d never have let you in here.”

  “And if I thought all you had to sell was a few crates of AK-47s, I wouldn’t be here. I could go to a bazaar in Afghanistan and buy that kind of shit.”

  Castillo gave him a cold look before he turned to Ortega.

  “Did you know this?”

  “He had no idea.”

  “I didn’t ask you. Shut the hell up. Did you know this, Ortega?”

  Ortega shook his head no.

  “The guy seemed legit to me. I had no idea he wanted this kind of stuff...”

  “Which we don’t have,” Castillo said, his voice emphatic.

  “Of course,” Ortega replied.

  Blancanales slapped the tops of his thighs and stood.

  “Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure meeting with you. But I need to find someone who actually has weapons to sell.”

  “We have weapons,” Castillo said.

  “Like I said, if I wanted to buy AK-47s, I’d go to a gun show. You two enjoy not selling anything.”

  Blancanales stepped past Ortega before the agent could uncoil from his seat. He’d made it halfway between the couch and the front door when Mr. Ponytail stepped into his path. The goon put his hand on Blancanales’s chest to stop him.

  * * *

  BLANCANALES KNOCKED THE man’s hand away. His left hand lashed out in a roundhouse punch that collided with the guy’s jaw. The thug grunted but bulled forward, grabbing a handful of the Stony Man warrior’s shirt and pulling back his fist. From the corner of his eye, Blancanales saw the second thug stepping forward.

  Blancanales stomped hard on the arch of Mr. Ponytail’s foot. The guy moaned and Blancanales buried a hard right in the man’s stomach. His adversary fell to the ground, gagging.

  The commando wheeled at the second thug, who apparently had less of an appetite for brawling. He’d produced a .45-caliber pistol and was aiming it at Blancanales.

  Brilliant, Blancanales thought.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  It was a woman’s voice to Blancanales’s right. Some of the certainty drained from the thug’s eyes, but he didn’t lower the gun.

  Blancanales shot a quick glance in the woman’s direction. Even with a brief look, he could tell she was beautiful. She was tall with a dark complexion and black, wavy hair. Her black jeans hugged the curves of her hips and accentuated the taper of her legs. Her fists were lodged on her hips, her legs spread slightly. Her red-painted lips were pursed and she was glaring.

  “Put the gun down,” she said.

  “Lady...” the thug said.

  “Gun. Down. Now.”

  The man shot a glance at Castillo, who wore a bemused expression on his face. Even with the violence exploding around him, he hadn’t bothered to get up from the couch. Instead he’d sat there, slightly twisted at the waist, drink clasped in his hand, as though he were watching a fight on television. In response to the gun-wielding goon’s unspoken question, he gave a curt nod.

  Reluctantly the thug lowered his pistol and stowed it underneath his jacket, but didn’t step back from Blancanales. During all of this, Blancanales noticed Ortega was spending more time looking at the woman than anyone else.

  “It’s all right, Pedro,” the woman said.

  A scowl spread over Pedro’s scarred features, but he took a couple of steps back from the American.

  Blancanales straightened his jacket. Already the adrenaline began to subside and pain registered in his knuckles. He glanced at his fist; saw that the knuckles were red but not split. He’d have to punch harder next time.

  He turned to the woman. “Thank you, Miss...?”

  “Nikki Vargas. But you can call me Nikki.”

  “Well, Nikki, thank you. Good to meet someone with some social skills. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I’m afraid so. What I do have is a lot of money to spend. What I lack is patience to deal with this kind of horseshit.”

  “I’m sorry. Hector is one of Mr. Escobar’s most trusted aides. But he sometimes lacks basic social graces.”

  “Hey!” Castillo snapped.

  She ignored him and crossed the room, heading toward Blancanales. Widening her smile, she extended her hand to Blancanales, who took it. Up close, he got a real sense of her beauty. Her wavy hair framed an oval-shaped face. Her red lips were thick and her brown eyes wide. She raised a hand and brushed back some of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. The move exposed her slender neck.

  “Please stay,” she said. “I overheard part of your conversation and am sure Mr. Escobar would want to know more.”

  Blancanales looked past her at Castillo, who was fuming.

  “Sure, I’ll stay.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Blancanales returned to the couch and sat back down. He picked up his drink and saluted Castillo with it before swigging from the glass. “Thanks for having me, Hector.”

  Vargas sat on the couch opposite Blancanales. She crossed her legs and leaned slightly forward.

  “So,” she said, “you want to buy some drones.”

  He nodded. “Probably a drone,” he said. “Maybe two. I know they’re not cheap.”

  “Not in the least,” she said. “We have a lot of costs wrapped up in them and Mr. Escobar needs to recoup as many of those costs as possible.”

  “Understood.”

  “And you heard about our drones how?”

  Blancanales shook his head. “Suffice to say I found out. It’s a trade secret. I can’t say any more.”

  Castillo leaned forward and growled, “What if we want to know more?”

  “I’d tell you to screw yourself with a tire iron,” Blancanales replied. “But I wouldn’t say that to Ms. Vargas.” He smiled at her. “I’d just say no.”

  She returned the smile. “You are charming,” she said.

  “He’s a jackass
,” Castillo said.

  “He’s a customer,” Vargas countered.

  “Just hear him out, Hector,” Ortega said. “The guy’s good for the money.”

  Still scowling, Castillo rose from the couch with his glass in his hand and went to the bar for a refill.

  “Who are you representing in this deal?” she asked.

  Blancanales shook his head again. “With all respect, I’m not ready to share that, other than to say it’s a Colombian militia.”

  “And the money comes from a drug dealer?”

  “Yes, does that bother you?”

  “Yes. I have no qualms with how he got the money. But let’s face facts, if he’s rich enough to pay this much money, he’s probably also under surveillance by the United States and other governments. Part of that surveillance would include tracking his finances.”

  “And you’re worried his money will put more eyes on you.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s understandable. But, look, he’s thoroughly scrubbed the money and stuffed it into accounts in the Cayman Islands. Then once I get it, I scrub it again before you get it.”

  “It’s not foolproof.”

  “What is?”

  “True.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ortega interrupted. “You don’t want to name the group?” He turned and looked at Vargas. “I didn’t know about this before I came in, Nikki. I’m not sure Escobar would go for that. I’m not sure I’d go for it.”

  Blancanales let Ortega’s protests roll off his back, figuring the guy wanted to deflect any suspicion that he was collaborating with Blancanales.

  “Let me put it to you this way,” Blancanales said. “Do you really want to know? What if these clowns do something awful with the stuff you sell them? Wouldn’t you rather put some layers between your organization and theirs? The last thing you need is cops and spooks all over the world breathing down your neck.”

  “You raise a good point,” she said. “But we’d rather know up front where our stuff goes, especially something like this. The last thing we want is a nasty surprise later down the road.”

  “A nasty surprise like?”

  “There are all kinds,” she said.