The fourth of the five jump team missions had been a no-show, which had disappointed her at first.
“Actually,” Joe had explained, “that’s good news. It means that word was getting out that there was a hard crackdown by police in progress. That’s one of the reasons we try to plan multiple assignations and why we also make sure that we’re arrested as well. We don’t want the bad guys waiting until we’re gone; we want them to think this area sucks for business and then shut down their operations. We’ll spend tomorrow doing training sessions with the local forces on how to set up stings like these. Hopefully they’ll keep it going too.”
“Won’t the traffickers just pop up somewhere else?”
“Not twenty-three of them. And probably not a bunch of others. Wouldn’t make bets, but the perimeter of the Free Trade Zone in Colón, Panama is going to be a much less popular place for sex-traffickers for a long time. And buyers are going to be warned off by the locals talking about the heavy police presence, so it should decrease overall.”
It gave her some hope…and made her feel guilty as hell for sitting safe in the quiet town of Portobelo each night.
Tonight it wasn’t Duane who sat with her out on the balcony overlooking the sunset-painted harbor, but rather Carla and Melissa.
“I’m not sure I’m happy with the change.”
“What change?”
Sofia looked at Melissa, wishing she hadn’t given voice to her thoughts.
“World view change? If that’s it, then the last two days sucked,” Melissa sounded grumpy.
“Us for Duane,” Carla spoke with entirely too much insight as she slouched low enough in her wicker chair to prop her crossed feet on the railing.
Which made Sofia sound like a trivial airhead for caring more about the man than the young girls who were still hurting her heart.
A brilliantly red-blue-and-gold Amazonian parrot fluttered down to cling to a roof eave and inspect them.
Sofia showed her empty hands. No food. No idea what comes next. No idea about anything.
The parrot chittered at her then swooped away in a glory of color.
“Duane Jenkins,” Carla said thoughtfully as if tasting her Atlas cerveza and finding it particularly tasty, even though they’d already agreed it was the lamest beer they’d ever had.
“Heck of a fighter,” Melissa agreed.
“You have to forgive her,” Carla turned to Sofia. “She’s born and raised Canadian which make her far too polite. Vancouver, BC which is even worse. I’m surprised she even said ‘heck.’ Lord knows I’ve tried to teach the blonde wench better.”
“Whereas you pride yourself on being a foul-mouthed girl from the wilds of the Colorado mountains,” Melissa shot back.
“Fuck yeah!” Carla raised her beer in a toast. “What about you?” she turned to Sofia.
“What about me?”
“Come on, Sofia. You’re like this total rich bitch from Oregon. What the hell are you really like when you aren’t being all Agent of ISA? Are you really a Miss Hoity-Toity under your ISA skin?” Carla said the last in a fake English accent.
“That Ms. Hoity-Toity to you,” Sofia snapped back more fiercely than she’d meant to, but she didn’t like her past being bandied around.
“She’s rich?” Melissa asked in surprise.
“Top tier,” Carla answered before Sofia could stop her. “But don’t tell the boys. They’d get all weird about it.”
And, Sofia realized with some surprise, Carla was treating her exactly as she had since the first day. Sofia wasn’t used to her money making no impression on someone.
“Just rich? Or there’s-a-bridge-I-want-to-sell-you rich?”
“Bridge category,” Carla answered for her.
“Sweet. Sounds wonderful.”
“It has a few moments,” Sofia admitted. “But most of them sucked.”
“Yeah, like we believe that shit. So what are you doing slumming with us anyway?”
“Duane’s rich, too.”
“He is?” Carla and Melissa echoed each other as they turned to her in surprise.
Sofia didn’t know what to do with that. They’d been together for over two years as a team and she’d been around for about four days. How could they not know such a simple thing about him?
“Only person he ever talks to is Chad. I mean we’re supposed to be the silent warriors, but Duane really takes it to a whole other level.”
Sofia remembered the helicopter pilot teasing him for speaking in whole sentences. “He speaks to me…”
“Other than bragging about being rich? Is that how he was trying to get into your pants?”
“No. He was explaining…something.” He’d been talking about why he’d chosen to go Delta, but it was as if he’d never quite finished the story. Instead, that kiss had happened. Using “kiss” to describe the groping, full-body clench that had swept over them wasn’t right. Duane had elevated “kiss” to a duende—a mad passion, as if they’d been creating art between them.
“Explaining things?” Carla sounded worried. “Melissa, you’d better call a medic. I’m thinking Duane Jenkins is unfit for duty if he’s actually explaining things.”
“On it,” Melissa raised her beer in acknowledgement but took no other action.
“How can you not know this about him?”
“You know,” Melissa was watching the flight of pelicans swirling down onto the water, this must be their standard nighttime habitat. “It makes him and Chad even more of an odd couple than you’d think at first. What with Chad being a street kid from Detroit and Duane being an Atlanta rich boy.”
“Coca-Cola,” Carla stated.
“There’s more to Atlanta than Coca-Cola,” Sofia found herself echoing Duane.
“I guess. Never been there.”
“But,” she sighed, “you’re right. His Dad is a Coke exec and he was supposed to be one also.”
“Why would a man like that go Delta?” Melissa asked the descending night.
“Why would Ms. Rich Bitch here go Activity? Bored with her prom dresses and BMWs?”
“I will not be telling you about my BMW Z4 Roadster then,” one of the few things she’d taken with her when she left Oregon—currently parked in her condo’s garage in Maryland.
“Present from her sweet mummy and daddy on her sixteenth birthday,” Carla cooed at her.
“Actually, a present from my kick-butt grandmother on my sixteenth birthday.”
“Kick-ass,” Carla corrected her. “Serious car envy while I’m at it.”
“Now that’s a grandmother,” Melissa nodded.
Sofia couldn’t agree more.
“Shouldn’t we be including the women?”
“You’ve lost it, bro! Did you see them together?” Chad pointed back in the general direction of the aging casa they were all staying in. “I’m sure not gonna mess with that level of shitstorm.”
Duane had seen them. Carla, Melissa, and Sofia sitting together on the balcony, beers in their hands, and talking too softly to be overheard. Maybe clearing out was a good idea.
Fred Smith was back from wherever he’d been the last two days and was leading all four of the guys into the small town. He walked right past Restsaurante Casa Vela, which smelled just fine for dinner—had a number of tourists who looked like they were enjoying themselves. Chad was definitely eyeing the ladies, but Smith didn’t stop. Past three tabernas and a half dozen small hotels along the water front.
There wasn’t all that much to Portobelo. It was about three blocks wide and barely a kilometer in length—mostly strung out along the waterfront. That included the two historic forts. At this rate they’d run out of town and be tromping in jungle shortly.
“Hey!” Chad called out in protest as they passed another target-rich restaurant.
“Thought you guys might enjoy this one,” Smith ducked through a battered door of a covered marina slip—the boathouse framework so aged that it was a miracle it still stood. The next heavy rainfall�
��which happened all the time in the tropics—might bring it down.
“Wow!” Richie sounded as if he was going to give birth to kittens on the spot. Duane’s eyes finally adapted to the shadowed interior.
“Cripes!” He felt as wholesome as Richie, but Duane didn’t know what else to say.
The boat inside the shelter was long and low. Actually, it wasn’t that low, but it was so long it was difficult to get perspective on it. It was a hundred feet of sleek. Its three decks—waterline with portholes plus two upper decks—were swept like a racing car. A racing car made of an equal mixture of carbon fiber and evil.
“Any particular reason you wanted us to see this one?”
“Why are you always so damn practical, Kyle?” Chad opened his arms wide to the boat. “Come to Daddy, you sweet thing.”
“Leave it to Chad to be horny for a piece of Kevlar.”
Duane felt the same, but he was duty-bound to harass Chad. The boat was part James Bond-villain gunmetal-gray with tinted windows as if no light could ever escape, and part Bond-girl hot. It lurked in the dim interior of the floating boathouse. It was a dangerous, sexy thing of shadows and suggestions.
“How fast?” Chad punched his arm.
“Mid—”
“Fifty-three or four sustained,” Richie cut off Smith. “Range of about a thousand miles. This is an AB Yachts 100, the GoldenEye—spelled as one word just like the James Bond movie, with a capital E, at least the second one. The first and third are still lower case.”
As if they couldn’t see her name painted right there on the hull.
“It’s the fastest production super-yacht anywhere. Might be the fastest period.” Richie sighed happily. “Way more than just a speedboat, the inside is seriously high-end.”
“Why show us?” Duane found himself echoing Kyle’s original question.
Smith paused and gave an answer that didn’t strike Duane as his first thought. “I watched Richie nearly wet himself over some of the abandoned boats anchored here at Portobelo. We can’t go on this one, but I wanted to watch you guys drool a bit.”
Duane didn’t buy it for a minute, but didn’t see any use in trying to call an SOG agent on his shit. They’d already learned just how slippery Smith could be.
Though he did sound as if watching them drool was a close second reason and that he enjoyed rubbing it in their faces as he continued. “Valued at over eight million—that’s Euros, not US. It’s been parked here for almost three years. Someone’s paying every month to have it kept up but hasn’t visited it once.”
Richie groaned with the travesty of the waste.
“I was amazed myself, when I found it here.” Smith led them out of the boathouse and deeper into town, this time away from the waterfront. Maybe Smith was trying to show them he was just “one of the guys” even if he was CIA.
They had gone several blocks, one more and they’d be in the jungle, when Smith turned in. There wasn’t any obvious sign at the door—it looked like any other. A two-story building, painted white with a red tile roof, and an aged wooden door. Inside was a taberna—not one intended for tourists. This was obviously where the natives came to get away from the tourists. Nine locals were lounging around mostly open tables—slow night. There was a lazy card game going on at one. Somebody else was plucking a wandering melody on an undersized guitar.
At a small bar in the back, Fred Smith simply said “cinco” to the bartender as he held up five fingers. “Y empanadas” he pointed at a greasy-looking stack of the turnovers on a plate that was probably cleaned every Christmas…and now it was October. With a nod, the five of them headed to an open table well away from the others.
“Not the most subtle of places to meet,” Kyle observed as they all jockeyed to end up with their backs to the walls and facing the entry.
Duane gave up first and sat with his back to the room. He’d just keep his eyes on Smith—who had claimed the best seat—and when Smith reacted, he’d know it was past time to get moving.
And still only he and Smith were seated while the others jockeyed for the strategically safest position.
“You’re doing a shit job of blending in, guys.” At Duane’s statement, they finally settled. Kyle next to Smith, Chad and Richie to his own left and right.
“Not a real subtle place for five gringos to hang out,” Chad kept twisting around to check out every noise. “Why here?”
“Good beer,” Smith answered with his normal cheeriness as the bartender delivered five, liter glasses. “And the best chicken empanadas this side of Guadalajara.”
The bartender merely grunted his appreciation as he set down a big plate of them.
Duane tried one—and his eyes nearly blew out of their sockets. “Holy shit!”
Smith took one and bit down on it and chewed. “Good, aren’t they?”
Duane grabbed for his beer to put out the three-alarm fire in his mouth.
“After the first bite or two, the heat settles to a dull burn. Then you can really taste the flavors,” Smith cheerily kept eating.
Warned by his example, the others took a firm hold of their beers before carefully tasting an empanada. The first round of beer disappeared quickly, but the empanadas were really good, once you got over the surprise and the pain.
“What happens to the girls after OPC frees them?” Duane was the first to recover.
“OPC has an aftercare system all set up. Runs them through medical and psych evals, arranges counseling if necessary, then tries to either get them back to their families or placed in a good home if they can’t. Recidivism is under five percent. They get their lives back.”
Duane could see joining up with them after he was done with Delta. He probably still had a decade to go but, with the notable exception of the colonel, Delta was not an old man’s game. Kyle might stick it out, try to follow in Colonel Gibson’s footsteps, but Duane was enough of a realist to know that wasn’t him. The Unit didn’t have a lot of field guys past forty, or even their mid-thirties—the toll on the body was just too high.
“Why are we here?” Chad held up his pastry. “Other than the joys of a near-death experience. Your mouth made out of iron, Smitty, or what?”
“I wanted to get your read on the last two days.” His beer was barely touched as he reached for a second lethal pastry.
“Operation Prime Cause’s tactics were good,” Kyle started. “From seeking initial leads through setup and execution, they’re pros. Even maintaining the after-action debriefing, they’re solid. Can’t see much I’d change of OPC’s operations, they—” Smith cut him off with a gesture abrupt enough to earn him a dangerous scowl from Kyle. He appeared to not notice the imminent threat of destruction, but a CIA field agent couldn’t be that oblivious.
“Their operation is no longer our concern.”
Duane looked around the table but no one seemed to have any idea of what Smith was after.
“You want our reactions?” Duane tossed out. Knew he was right as soon as he said it. “That’s what you’re after.”
Smith nodded and, for once, held his silence.
Duane wasn’t sure where to go next.
“You’re on a roll, bro,” Chad nudged his elbow into Duane’s ribs almost hard enough to topple him over into Richie’s lap.
“If you want to know what I think about what they’re doing, I thinking they’re god damned brilliant. The look in those girls’ eyes when they got even the least sliver of hope was amazing.”
Then he recalled what had been said at their first meeting with Smith and Colonel Gibson.
“Oh fuck!” Everyone turned to look at him. Again, Smith uncharacteristically nodded and kept his mouth shut.
Duane rubbed at this face. He took a swallow of beer. He foolishly grabbed another empanada and bit into it without thinking. But the roaring in his brain made it so that he barely noticed the blazing heat on his palate.
“What is it, Duane? What am I missing?” It wasn’t like Richie to miss making connections a
nd it always made him crazy. Duane knew he wouldn’t put this together because he was too sweet a kid at heart. Maybe that’s what had swept Melissa off her feet—the sleek blonde warrior and the truly decent geek.
What would sweep Sofia off her feet? She wouldn’t be—
Everyone was still looking at him. He half expected Richie to start tugging on his sleeve in his frustration.
Duane flashed two fingers at Smith, then three.
His slow nod confirmed Duane’s guess, but left it for him to explain to the others.
“At lunch,” Duane started slowly. “Colonel Gibson said that OPC heard about problems that they couldn’t address. Maybe they couldn’t get agreement from the host country or couldn’t find a reliable contact—like the corrupt lieutenant on that first job. He could have gotten OPC’s, or our, team killed. Imagine a whole country of that shit.”
The lightbulb went on for Kyle and he looked ill.
“Panama is a Tier 2 country,” Smith filled in, holding up two fingers in imitation of Duane. “Good laws in place, trying to make convictions that will stick. Maybe not the best at finding the bad guys. Some corruption going on. That’s Tier 2.”
Chad and Richie both had furrowed brows still.
“Venezuela,” Duane picked up the tale, “recently fell off the next lower grade, the Tier 2 Watch List. That placed them solidly in Tier 3. Heinous abuse of citizens. Rampant trafficking as drug mules, slave labor, and bigtime into the sex trade. And based on the laws they don’t have, it’s all effectively government sanctioned and…”
But Smith was shaking his head, actually smiling that Duane had gone off the track.
Wild Justice (Delta Force Book 3) Page 13
