by Mark Greaney
And why not? They had worked together for five years.
The thick CIA man had spent the last two days in Puerto Vallarta, waiting for word from local case officers that the target had been found. He suspected a wet team from the Special Activities Division had moved into the theater as well, but they wouldn’t have any contact with him, nor he with them. Yesterday morning he flew to Mexico City to wait at the embassy for a sighting of the man Langley suspected to be their number one persona non grata ex-employee. The embassy was papered with photos of the guy sliding on the telephone lines above the shoot-out in PV. From just the picture, the thick CIA man in the van honestly had no idea if it was his former colleague or not, but the stunt sure sounded like something Violator would have tried, and like something he could have pulled off.
Hell, the CIA man knew better than to ever bet against Courtland Gentry. When it came to close-quarters battle, when it came to kicking in a door and taking out the bad guys in the room, when it came to sending in a small covert unit against a larger enemy and longer odds, Sierra Six had been the best.
So, the CIA man suspected it was Court; he was here, and he was shooting it out with the narcos.
Lord have mercy on the narcos.
A connection had been made between Gentry and the leader of the GOPES team blown up on the boat as well. Eduardo Gamboa had worked in the DEA for years, and Violator and he had shared a Laotian prison cell for a few weeks more than a decade prior.
Tenuous. Tenuous at best, but not too tenuous for Langley to call the thick CIA man, roust him from his bed and shove him on a Company Lear, race him to Mexico and plop him on his fat ass to wait for a chance to positively identify the target.
So now he rocked back and forth, shoulder to shoulder with a vanload of goons from the Daniel de la Rocha organization, the Black Suits, some seriously bad motherfuckers who claimed to be holding Violator, or somebody who looks a lot like him, somewhere in Mexico City. These pricks didn’t need money, so it wasn’t the reward they were after. It was some quid pro quo worked out high above the CIA man’s pay grade. It bothered him that Langley would play ball with these guys, but Denny Carmichael, current head of the National Clandestine Service, had a boner for Violator, so God only knew how Denny would scratch DLR’s back if he gave up Court.
The CIA man pondered it all.
Court. Violator. Sierra Six. The Gray Man.
The asshole who ruined my life.
The van stopped for a moment. The American thought this was the end of the road, but no, they moved forward again and made a right turn; he swayed along with the men sandwiching him.
If the Agency’s assessment was correct, if this was, in fact, Violator, in a few minutes the American would have the chance to let Gentry know how much trouble he’d caused.
And the CIA man had his orders. He had been ordered to identify Violator, yes, but that was not all.
He’d also been ordered, if allowed by Los Trajes Negros, to stick around and watch Court Gentry die.
For a time Court realized that he missed the full-body electric shocks provided by the car battery. Twice during a ten-minute zapping by the Little Butcher and his device of misery, Court had blown a breaker switch on the console. The old contraption used fuses that had shorted, and they had been replaced, but the American was able to endure more punishment than anyone that had ever been wired to the fence. So the machine had been put to the side so that a new method could be used on him.
The donkey prod.
At first el Carnicerito had just touched the two sharp prongs to Gentry’s bloody chest. The shock was more acute than the all-over electricity he’d been receiving from the shock machine. The prod created a sting and a burn, and it was god-awful but not as bad as the musclewrenching misery of the car battery juice sent through the fence. Then the Little Butcher used the donkey prod in more and more painful locations on Gentry’s body, inevitably focusing his attention on his prisoner’s genitals. Twice he’d shocked him there. The first time he didn’t have the prongs seated correctly, and the gadget just buzzed.
But the second time he rammed the pincers hard against the American’s balls, pressed the button, and Court had spewed vomit nearly six feet into the room.
The five Mexicans burst into laughter.
The gringo soon fainted, but smelling salts returned him to his torture session, lest he miss any of the good parts.
Jerry Pfleger stood against the wall to the side; he’d turned away from the cruelty long ago, and he just stared at the moldy bricks in front of him. His body shook; he told himself it was the cold, morguelike air in the basement dungeon, but that wasn’t it at all.
He was scared.
He wondered if this was all worth one million dollars.
Jerry looked back over his shoulder when the torturer waddled over to a rubber bucket on the floor against the wall and retrieved a well-soaked iron rod from it. Jerry winced again and turned his head back into the corner. Listened as the dungeon master spoke to his prisoner softly as he prepared the device. “You have suffered much already, amigo, and the only way to prevent more suffering is to tell me where we can find Señora Gamboa.”
The long device dripped black oil, and the Little Butcher held it up like it was some sort of prize.
Court’s head hung low, but still he looked at it. Pfleger watched the muscles of the man’s body tighten in revulsion.
He knew where that thing was going.
The elevator again came to life, and the car began to lower slowly.
The rod went back into the bucket, but the torturer said, “We will get back to our fun in a moment, my friend. You now have some time to think about things.”
The freight door opened, and a large, hooded man in a tropicweight poplin suit was led in by the two men in federale uniforms. The large man’s arms were not bound. He was put directly under the light at the center of the room, and then his hood was removed. He recoiled at the bare bulb and then focused on the scene before him.
The nude prisoner, bloody and wet, chained to the metal fence that was bolted into the wall and fixed to iron posts in the cement floor. The wires running to the rolling cart, then on to the battery on the dolly.
The blond man took a few more moments to look around, to size up the six other men in the room with him, and to sniff the air. He took in the odor of decaying human flesh. He looked around impassively for a few seconds more, seemingly unfazed by all in view, as if torture chambers were nothing much to see.
Then he spoke, his words calm and confident like he was a man comfortable with these surroundings. In Spanish he said, “It looks like you guys started the party without me.”
Court knew an old coworker from the Agency was coming to identify him. He fully expected to be staring face to face with Zack Hightower, his former team leader in the Goon Squad.
But it was not Zack Hightower.
It was Hanley. Matthew Hanley.
Gentry had not seen Matt in more than five years, and even back then they had never spent much time around each other. Hanley was a SAD executive; he had run Gentry’s old unit, Task Force Golf Sierra, from Langley, passed instructions primarily through team leader Hightower, who relayed orders on to the rest of the men.
Court had last seen Zack back in the spring, and Zack had told him Hanley was out of SAD and riding a desk somewhere in the Third World, his fall from grace the fault of Gentry himself.
And now here he was, in a secret torture chamber operated by a vicious drug cartel somewhere in or near Mexico City.
No words were spoken between the two at first. Instead Hanley addressed the fat man behind the table. “You in charge here?”
“You might say this is my office,” came the proud reply.
Hanley just nodded. Then he stepped closer to Gentry.
“I must ask that you do not touch the prisoner,” said the Black Suit from behind. The two federales in the room took a step forward but stopped when Hanley nodded again.
The t
hick American kept his hands to his side, but he moved even closer to the prisoner. He only stopped his slow advance when the two men’s faces were inches apart.
Court looked too wounded to speak; his eyes were swollen and vomit coated his bloody lips. As far as Hanley could tell, the younger man was out of it. But Gentry did speak, his words soft but strong enough, loud enough, to be understood by anyone in the room who spoke English. “Do what you gotta do to me, Matt, but the guy in the corner is a State Department dip working for the Black Suits.”
Matt Hanley turned, glanced at the man in the corner. Pfleger’s black balaclava mask worn with khakis and a white short-sleeved button-down were an odd combination in a room where the other three masked men were decked out in full SWAT gear and guns. Pfleger did not speak, did not move. Just stared back. Hanley shrugged. “Not my problem.”
Court spoke again, though the words came out through winces and muscle spasms. “He’s . . . he’s running a criminal ring . . . selling visas to illegals.”
Hanley glared at the bound prisoner. “Yeah?” He turned back to Pfleger again. “How’s business?”
“I . . . I’m not really. I just—”
“Look at me, boy!” Hanley’s voice, a low West Virginian drawl, boomed in the concrete dungeon.
“Yes, sir?”
“Take that stupid sock off of your face.”
Pfleger looked to Carlos, the Black Suit in the room, for help, then to the federales. Then to the Little Butcher, then to the young protégé with the leather apron. All the Mexicans just stood there, did nothing at all. Slowly, Jerry removed the mask. Stuck it in his pocket.
“Do I look like I’m with the Office of the Inspector General?” Hanley asked, again his voice boomed like artillery.
Jerry shook his head a very little bit. “No, sir.”
“Okay, then. Relax. I’m not with State, and I’m sure as shit not here for you.” Hanley turned back to Gentry. “I’m here for the big fish.”
Jerry breathed an audible sigh. Said, “So this is the guy you are looking for?”
Hanley nodded. Confirmed. “It’s him.”
“Awesome. And there is a reward, right?”
“Yep.”
“Awesome,” repeated Pfleger. “What did he do?”
Hanley looked close into the face of the prisoner once again. Studying it. “What did he do? What did you do, Violator?”
“I did what I was ordered to do. And you gave the orders.”
“Not when you went off the reservation.”
For the first time Court lifted his head, as if his anger gave him strength. “I never went off res. I followed Zack’s op orders to the letter. Always! And then you ordered the team to kill me!”
“Ancient history.”
“Then why are you here?”
Hanley smiled. Took a step back from Gentry and looked around the room.
Hanley looked over the torturer’s gear on the rolling cart. He spoke Spanish. “Nice. Primitive, but nice.”
“¿Primitivo? What do you mean? This is the best—”
“Nah, chubby, we were using shit like this in the late eighties.” That was Spanish, but he turned to Court and switched to his native tongue. “I lit up a bunch of Noriega’s enforcers with one of these bad boys at Howard Air Force Base during ‘Just Cause.’ ”
Hanley reached for the dial. Switched back to Spanish. “May I?”
The Little Butcher smiled just a bit. “Of course, but he is tough. I’ve blown two fuses on this gringo . . . this norteamericano, I mean.”
Hanley looked at Court, turned the dial. Sent a strong electric shock into the central nervous system of his ex-subordinate. Gentry’s body spasmed and jerked; every muscle flexed taught; the sinews in his jaw looked like guitar strings wound tight under his skin.
After he’d turned the dial back down, Hanley chuckled. “That never gets old.” He looked at the fat man. “It’s a little weak, isn’t it?”
“The battery is drained. This man has taken most of its power.”
“He is tough.”
Carlos, Spider’s second-in-command, stepped forward and spoke in English. “Now that you know we have the man you seek, we will take you back to Chapultepec Park. Once we have finished with the prisoner, we will dump his remains near the embassy as agreed.”
Hanley nodded. “He has some information you are trying to extract, or is all this just for shits and grins?”
Carlos just looked at the blond American. He did not understand. “Shit . . . a . . . greens?”
“The prisoner. You need him to tell you something?”
Carlos just nodded.
Hanley looked down to the bucket on the floor. The metal prod jutted out of it. “Oh . . . I see. It’s about to get intimate around here.” He continued looking around. At the surgical implements on the table, at a shelf full of containers, restraints, electrical tape, and other odds and ends. He looked back at the men in the room around him.
No one spoke.
Hanley continued. “I would like to stay for the interrogation.”
Carlos shook his head. “That will not be possible. We do not know how much time it will take.”
“Too bad,” said Hanley, then he turned back to Gentry. “Hey, asshole. Wake up. Do you have any idea how much pain you have caused me?”
Court’s head hung low again, but he managed a smile. “You aren’t the first to tell me that.”
“I was going places. I was on the way up.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then one day I get word that one of my door kickers fucked up. It was a fuckup that could have been extremely politically damaging for the United States. A deal was done, a deal between us and another nation, and an agreement was made. If we cleaned up our own mess, if we got rid of the offending party, then this foreign nation would let the matter slide.
“So I am told that Gentry goes in the dirt. What the hell am I supposed to do, Court? I send Zack and the guys over to your place. I felt like shit about it, but I had my orders. Next thing I know you slaughtered your entire team.”
“I am familiar with the story.”
“All that shit ran downhill on my head. And now, here I am: fifty-one years old and assistant chief of station in fucking Haiti. There’s out to pasture, and then there’s assigned to the dark side of the moon. I hate the heat; I hate the disease, the bugs, the storms, the drugs; I hate every fucking bit of my life now. And it’s all because you could not be a good boy and just fucking die like a soldier!”
Louder and louder, spit flew from his puffy lips.
“You, you worthless piece of shit, ruined my fucking life!”
Carlos, the only Black Suit in the room, stepped forward. “Enough! The van is ready to return you to the park.”
Hanley looked at the Mexican for a moment as if he had forgotten there were others in the room with him. He put his hands up in apology. “Fine. Lo siento, amigo.” He turned back to Gentry. “I wish I could stay around and watch you die, you son of a bitch, but I have to go.” He turned away, and the Mexicans around him turned, too. Then he turned back to the prisoner once again. “A short farewell, a little saying I learned from my ancestors back in the old country.” He looked at Gentry and spoke slowly: “Tugo zakroi rot I derji ih za sheiu.”
Court’s sweat-soaked brow furrowed.
It was Russian.
Odd.
Matt Hanley’s family was Scottish.
Hanley turned towards the elevator, took two steps past the policemen, and just as he arrived flush with the Little Butcher’s table full of torture devices, he shot his left arm out and grabbed a long, thin scalpel.
FORTY
Carlos had turned towards the freight elevator; the federales had their hands off their weapons so they could replace the hood over Hanley’s face.
Surgical steel sparkled in the light of the bare bulb as the spike flashed through the air. Hanley plunged the blade into the neck of the Black Suit in front of him, perfo
rating his carotid artery and causing blood to jet sideways across the room. As the narco grabbed at the pain, Hanley spun 180 degrees, towards the federales, and grabbed both of the smaller men by their ammo vests, turned them around, and shoved them with all his considerable size and might towards Court and the iron fence. The cops were taken completely by surprise, they stumbled headlong, slammed against the metal grating on either side of Gentry. Court used his outstretched hands, bound at the wrists, to take hold of each man. One by the collar of his uniform, the other by the sling of his rifle.
Hanley knocked the Little Butcher back away from the table; he then spun the dial on the electroconvulsive machine to the max. Gentry just had time to get his hand out and around the back of the neck of one federale, and immediately, the two men spasmed under the current of the car battery. The other cop tried to rush away from the fence but was caught by Gentry’s hold on his rifle sling, and the federale stumbled back on his heels, slammed into the metal, and made a connection with the voltage. He began writhing as well with the intense current running through his central nervous system.
The torturer’s apprentice had taken several spurts of arterial blood from the Black Suit to his face, causing him to spin away from the action and wipe his eyes. Finally, he turned back and pulled a weapon from under his apron. Hanley saw the threat and he stiffarmed the young man, pinned him up against the bloodstained wall, and yanked the small Argentine-made .380 automatic from the apprentice’s trembling hand. Matt turned the gun around, pressed it to the protégé’s forehead, and shot him dead without hesitation.
Matt then fired twice into the ample gut of el Carnicerito, sending him down to the cold basement floor clutching his abdomen. Hanley turned the electricity dial back down, spun towards the ironwork and the three men there: one nude and shackled to the fence, the other two in SWAT gear and now dropping to the floor stunned and spent.
Matthew Hanley stood over the incapacitated federales and fired a round into each man’s head, killing them both.
Jerry Pfleger had dropped to the floor in the corner. His back was to the concrete wall next to the dead protégé, blood splatters were painted across his sweaty white short-sleeved dress shirt like a tiedye design. His face was as white as his shirt had been ten seconds ago, and his eyes were open and blinking quickly. He stared at the blond-haired American in the center of the room.
