Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

  She needed to contact them, yeah. But first she needed to get away from Escobar. She knew without him saying a word that her cover was blown. Given enough time, he’d kill her. She didn’t plan on giving him that much time.

  She needed to get out of here. Fast.

  Before that could happen, though, she had to help Perez.

  * * *

  AS THE ELEVATOR carried her to the first floor, Vargas felt sweat gathering on her palm. She tightened her grip on the Glock. Before leaving their quarters, she had donned a light jacket to cover the shoulder holster she wore. She had slid the Glock into her shoulder bag so she could hide it from the surveillance cameras. Once the shooting began, she knew she’d have a minute or two before Escobar’s men realized what was happening and came for them.

  Two minutes. Not much time. But she’d have to make it work.

  The elevator door slid open. She eased through the opening and swept her gaze over the main lobby of the building, looking for threats. Through a set of glass doors, she could see a pair of guards standing outside. One was smoking a cigarette, the other was staring at the screen of a smartphone.

  Vargas crossed the lobby and moved to a black security door on the back wall. She punched a code into the keypad to unlock the door and passed through it into a short hallway.

  She slid the Glock from her bag and glided along the wall. The smell of cigarette smoke registered with her and she heard a man cough. A few yards ahead, a second corridor would branch off from this one. That was where she’d find Perez.

  Pausing at the edge of the doorway, she glanced around the corner and saw one of Escobar’s guards, his back to her, staring at a wall and puffing a cigarette. She’d met him earlier in the day. His name was Enrique, and he’d boasted that he would be chief of security in six months.

  Maybe not.

  She went around the corner, leveled the Glock at his back and squeezed the trigger. A pair of 9 mm slugs drilled into the guy’s back, severing his spine and tearing through his heart. Blood burst from his chest and splattered on the wall. He wobbled for a stretched second before his knees buckled and he crashed to the ground.

  It’d been years since she’d killed someone. The last time, it had been a kill-or-be-killed situation, where a Hezbollah operative had drawn down on her and she’d taken him out with a bullet to the forehead. This time she’d shot a man in the back, and she knew it’d bother her. For the moment, though, she forced herself to ignore the crumpled form on the floor, the gleaming crimson sunburst covering the wall, and instead head for the cell door.

  She hesitated. She’d have to enter a security code to unlock this door, too. That meant Javier and anyone else in the room would hear the electronic beeps as she punched in the numbers. They’d be expecting someone to enter—just not her.

  She hoped.

  She entered the code, unlocked the door and shoved it inward.

  Javier stood next to Perez, clutching a handful of his hair, waving a scalpel in his face.

  A guard—a muscle-bound man she’d seen earlier—was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, head turned toward the door. For whatever reason, when he saw it was her, he started to smile. Even though Javier was threatening Perez, the guard had a gun, making him the bigger threat. He needed to be neutralized first.

  She raised the Glock and his smile faltered. The pistol coughed once and a 9 mm slug pounded into his forehead, snapping his skull back hard.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see Javier let go of Perez’s head and sprint for something.

  Nikki didn’t wait to see whether he was dead. She swiveled ninety degrees, locked Javier in her sights and fired twice.

  One of the bullets lanced into his chest and released a geyser of blood before it tore through his torso and punched a grapefruit-size hole in his back when it exited.

  When she turned her attention to Perez. He eyed her warily.

  “I’m here to help,” she said.

  He nodded once. “Okay,” he said.

  “Where are the keys to your handcuffs?”

  He shook his head. “Not sure. I was unconscious when they put these things on.”

  Cursing under her breath, she moved to the table and quickly picked through the surgical tools, scalpels and other implements lying there. Finally she found a set of keys under a saw and unlocked his cuffs.

  Blancanales hauled himself from the chair and headed for the downed guard. Kneeling next to the corpse, he grabbed the AK-74 that had slid from the dead guy’s shoulder and onto the floor.

  Vargas watched as his hands moved expertly over the rifle, working the bolt to make sure a round was in the chamber. He unhooked a web belt bristling with ammo pouches and a combat knife, slipped it from the dead guard’s waist, cinched it around his own and uncoiled from the floor.

  Something had changed in him. Gone was the confident, too slick gunrunner who’d tried to curry favor with Escobar. Instead his eyes looked flinty, his mouth set in a grim line. This man wasn’t a criminal. He was a warrior. He looked ready to spill blood.

  He took a couple of steps toward her and she tensed, unsure what was coming.

  “We need to get out of here,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “First, you answer questions.”

  “What? There’s no time for that.”

  “Make time.”

  She looked over his shoulder at the open cell door.

  “They’re going to come for us. What if they see the dead guard on security cameras?”

  He shrugged.

  “Lady, you were part of the crew that snatched me from Mexico City, brought me to this hellhole, crawling with Hezbollah. Now I’m supposed to believe you suddenly want to help me? Sorry. I need something to go on.”

  “You’re going to get us killed!”

  Blancanales swung the AK-74’s barrel up and locked the muzzle on her stomach.

  “Start talking or Escobar’s the least of your worries,” he said, his voice steady and sure.

  She studied him, searching his eyes for signs of a bluff, but saw only determination.

  “You’d kill me? After I saved you?”

  “All out of gratitude,” he said. “Now, talk. Who are you?”

  “My name is Abaigael Katz. I’m an Israeli.”

  “And you’re hanging with Escobar because...? You have a fetish for Latino men? Or are you Mossad?”

  Damn! “Mossad,” she muttered.

  “And Mossad’s interested in Escobar...why?”

  She scowled. “Israel’s not exactly on good terms with Hezbollah,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place is crawling with them. You saw the flag, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “So you got close to Escobar to keep tabs on Hezbollah?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you were cozying up to Ortega...why? You thought he was Hezbollah?”

  “I thought he was part of Escobar’s organization. I had no idea until today he was an American agent. If I had known...” Her voice trailed off. “I thought he was a criminal until today.”

  “And when you learned otherwise?”

  She cursed under her breath and a sudden urge to avoid his stare overtook her. She looked down at her shoes.

  “When I learned otherwise,” she said, “it was too late. Okay? He was gone and all I could do was help you. Now, I’m starting to wonder what the hell I was thinking.”

  She could feel him looking at her. She raised her eyes and met his stare.

  “Doesn’t help that Escobar’s going to kill you, does it?”

  She inhaled sharply. “You’re a bastard,” she said.

  “I saw it in his eyes. One way or the other, he knows you betray
ed him. You think he knows you’re Mossad.”

  She shrugged. “Anything’s possible,” she said. “But I doubt it. I’ve been under a long time. It’s been ten years since I’ve even been to the Middle East.”

  “He made Ortega.”

  “Ortega was a fool. Now, do you have enough information? Can we get out of here?”

  He shook his head no.

  “You go, if you’d like. In fact, it’s probably for the best.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to kill Escobar.”

  “There’s no way,” she said. “Those Hezbollah troopers you saw upstairs? There are ten more somewhere on the property. And Escobar has fifteen guards in his personal entourage. Some of them are damn good. Former Mexican military, some of them were trained by U.S. Special Forces to fight the drug wars.”

  “What’s his end game?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But it’s much bigger than what we’re seeing here. These thugs here? That’s just a small part. Even Escobar’s just a small piece of something much bigger. I haven’t been able to wrap my arms around it. He plays it all so close to the vest. But, knowing him, knowing the people involved, it’s something awful.”

  She fell silent. The American stared at her for a couple of seconds. Finally he jerked his head at the door.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “I don’t need your protection,” she snapped. “I rescued you, remember?”

  “Not protection,” he said, shaking his head. “You can take care of yourself. But if the information you have is that important, we need to make sure you don’t end up dying here.”

  “I’m not going to die here.”

  The American smiled. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “You might actually get out of here alive. What’s the best way out?”

  She thought about it.

  “Helicopter,” she said. “There’s a helipad on the northern edge of the estate. There’s a helicopter waiting there to take the Iranians back to the airport.”

  “Is it guarded?”

  She shook her head.

  “The pilot hangs close by in case Escobar gets the urge to fly out of here at a moment’s notice. A couple of mechanics, too. Nothing too heavy.”

  “You could force the pilot to take the helicopter and fly out of here?”

  She nodded once. “I could.” She gave him a hard look. “What about you?”

  “We can’t just walk out to the helicopter and ask for a ride. Someone has to stay behind and keep these bastards busy. Otherwise, neither one of us would make it to the helicopter. You have the information, so it only makes sense that you get the first shot at leaving this place.”

  She pressed her lips into a thin line and considered this for several seconds.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll go. If I can make it to the chopper.”

  * * *

  BLANCANALES TRAILED THE woman as she retraced her steps out of the basement, where his cell had been located. She stayed close to the walls. Her movements were economical and confident. Blancanales guessed it wasn’t just because she knew her surroundings. She obviously was a professional warrior. She’d just taken down three men and if it bothered her, she gave no outward signs of it.

  When they reached a pair of double doors, she gestured for him to stop and he did. She took a couple of steps forward and pressed an ear to the door as he looked on.

  Raising her pistol so the barrel pointed skyward, she pressed her other hand on the release bar and pushed gently against it, easing the door open. Blancanales felt himself tense as the door swung wide. He pointed the AK-74 at hip level and moved up on the door as it came open.

  She pointed at the doorway and held up two fingers. Blancanales took that to mean there were two guards waiting in the lobby. Acknowledging her with a nod, he stepped up to the door, peered through it and saw two guards positioned there. One sat on a folding chair, right ankle crossed over his left knee, and smoked a cigarette. The other was talking on a two-way radio.

  “Heard from them?” the guard was saying. “No, I haven’t heard from them. The little freak is torturing someone. You think they’re going to come up here and give me a progress report?” The guard paused and Blancanales assumed he was listening to the person on the other end of the line. “Go down and check on them? ¡Dios mio! The further I stay away from that little creep, the better.” Another pause. “What? Escobar said to check? No way, man. Okay, I can do it. I’ll call back.”

  He took the radio down from his ear and muttered a curse.

  The smoker looked up from his cigarette. “What?”

  “Gotta do a prisoner check,” the guard replied.

  “Prisoner check? That guy’s not going anywhere.”

  The other guard shook his head.

  “They aren’t worried he’ll escape. They’re worried Javier might kill Perez. Guess he loves his work a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

  The other man snorted. “Freak, that’s what he is, a damn freak.”

  “No kidding. I guess Escobar brought him in to interrogate someone a few months back. He ended up killing the bastard. Escobar was livid. He doesn’t want a repeat of that fiasco.”

  “Go ahead,” the other guard said.

  The guard who was standing made a disgusted noise, turned and took a step in Blancanales’s direction just as the Stony Man warrior came through the door. The guy clawed under his jacket for some hidden hardware. Blancanales stroked the trigger of the Kalashnikov and a quick burst of autofire lashed from the weapon’s barrel. The volley chewed into the man’s torso and caused him to jerk to a halt in midstride, stumble and crumple to the ground.

  The second guard’s mouth gaped open and his cigarette fell from it. A Glock autoloader lay on the table in front of him. He made a desperate grab for the weapon, slapping his open palm down on top of it. A small black hole appeared in his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose, before it tunneled through his skull. His now-limp body slammed down hard onto the tabletop.

  Blancanales glanced left and saw Vargas standing there, her Glock gripped in both hands, smoke curling from the sound suppressor. Blancanales gave her a nod. He scooped up a discarded radio and slipped a jack into his right ear so he could eavesdrop on any radio traffic between Escobar’s shooters.

  She stared at him and he knew she was struggling over the decision to leave him behind.

  “I’ll let them know you’re here.”

  He almost told her not to bother. Barring a miracle, he doubted he’d live through the next hour. The odds were not on his side.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded and dashed toward the nearest exit. Blancanales stared after her. Had he made the right decision? He hoped so. He’d seen the look Escobar had given her. There was no doubt in the Able Team warrior’s mind that Escobar planned to kill the woman the first chance he got.

  Blancanales owed it to her to make sure she had a shot at escaping. He knew he was at least partially to blame, having jabbed Escobar about her relationship with Ortega. And she had saved his life when she should have been running as far as possible from Escobar’s estate.

  In the meantime he’d try to buy her some time and, hopefully, kill Escobar in the process.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lyons trudged through the dense jungle, occasionally swinging a machete to clear cable-like vines and other growth blocking his way. Schwarz walked a parallel path about ten yards to his right, maintaining distance so they weren’t too bunched up if someone started shooting at them. A military helicopter had dropped Lyons and Schwarz about two miles from Escobar’s stronghold. Togged in jungle fatigues, their faces striped with green, brown and black combat p
aint, the pair had already trudged most of that distance. A glance at his GPS unit told Lyons they were about two-tenths of a mile from Escobar’s place.

  Within minutes of killing Castillo, Lyons had called Stony Man Farm and asked for intel about the stronghold. Other than some satellite photos, there’d been little data to mine. The training camp was in the middle of nowhere. Obviously whoever had built it hadn’t filed architectural plans with local city authorities. Any sewage, water and electrical infrastructure had been paid for by the owner and built privately. The only paperwork the cyber team had found was a deed from when Escobar apparently had purchased the property through a front company ten or so years ago.

  In other words, Lyons and Schwarz had no idea what they were wading into. More guards, more guns, at least one hostage. After that, it was a big question mark.

  Schwarz’s voice sounded in Lyons’s earpiece. “Almost there,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Lyons replied. “Keep your eyes peeled. I have to think Escobar’s expecting us or someone like us to hit. He has to have sentries working outside the fence.”

  “If he has the manpower.”

  “Assume he does,” Lyons growled. “And stay hydrated. It’s stinking hot out here.”

  “Yes, mom,” Schwarz replied.

  Lyons could feel sweat gathering on the back of his neck, his shirt sticking to his back and chest, sweat darted down the length of his thighs and along his calves before being absorbed into his socks. He guessed it was ninety-plus degrees with humidity levels off the chart. The canopy of trees overhead kept the sun off them, but also trapped the heat and humidity like a greenhouse.

  Since they’d chartered a plane from Mexico to Paraguay, the Stony Man warriors had kept most of their weapons from the hit on Castillo’s ranch. Playing a hunch, Lyons had switched out the Masterkey on his M-4 and replaced it with a grenade launcher, which was loaded with a fragmentation round at the moment. He’d also added a .357 Desert Eagle as a backup gun.

  They’d walked another two minutes when Lyons heard something up ahead; the sharp snap of someone stepping on a branch. He stopped. A glance at Schwarz showed he’d done likewise.