The Venezuelan that Cole had captured sat in a dining room chair, his arms zip-tied behind his back, immobilizing him. His name was Juan Esteban Sanchez, and although he looked exhausted, he didn’t look panicked. He’s regained his confidence, Logan thought. That’s not good for us.
Logan, Santiago, and Cole stood over the man. Santiago had fled his room before security could arrive and had been waiting for them when they returned to their suite. Out of the three, it was Santiago who’d taken the lead in interrogating his fellow countryman.
He spoke quickly in Spanish and then switched to English, which Juan used to respond. “Good,” Santiago said. “Now that my friends here can understand you clearly, who sent you?”
The man scowled. His boxer’s nose, which had been broken again, had swelled from the elbow Cole had landed, and his voice was thick from the congestion. “Only Hugo knew, and he didn’t tell us. He only gave us the target—you—and told us you had betrayed our organization and our country.”
“Hold up,” Logan said. “What do you mean by ‘organization’? ” The mention of the multitentacled shadow conspiracy threatening global stability raised alarms in his head.
Juan looked at him with confusion before replying. “The SEBIN, of course. What else would I be talking about?”
False alarm, Logan thought. Just as the Founder intended, a generic name that could mean anything to anyone. Christ.
“You know who I am. You know my reputation. Did you really believe that?” Santiago asked.
“Are you serious?” Juan asked. “You and I both know what happens when orders aren’t followed. I don’t want to mysteriously disappear. Do you?”
Santiago knew Juan had a point. Not even members of the SEBIN were immune to the paranoia of certain leaders in their country. Fortunately, Santiago and the men under his command had remained immune to the political oppression and targeting, mainly because his unit had uncovered an external plot by the Russians to fan the flames of unrest burning across Venezuela. While Russia was one of Venezuela’s strongest allies, elements inside the desperate socialist government had explored opening backdoor channels to the US. The Russians, in an attempt to halt such discussions, had hatched a plot to assassinate three high-ranking members of the National Assembly and blame the Americans. Fortunately, Santiago and his unit had prevented it—unknown to the targets of the plot—which had brought him the attention and thanks of the director of the SEBIN.
“He’s telling the truth,” Santiago said to Logan and Cole.
“He knows something,” Logan said matter-of-factly. “They always do.”
Juan stared at the American, and an unsettling sensation washed over him. He’ll kill me. I can see it in his eyes.
“You have sixty seconds to tell me something worthwhile, or I swear to you, here and now, you aren’t leaving this paradise alive. Do you understand me?” Logan said, and then turned to Cole. “Start the timer now, and hand me his knife.”
Cole Matthews punched a button on his black diver’s watch. “Done,” he said, and handed Logan the knife he’d confiscated from Juan. “Let’s see how this plays out.”
Juan had no intention of dying, not after knowing what these two Americans and Santiago had done to the other three men on his team. “I swear to God I have no idea who sent us. The order came from Hugo.”
“Not good enough,” Logan said.
“Fifty seconds, Juan. Trust me. He’s not kidding,” Cole said. “I sincerely hope you understand that, and I think you do, from what I can see in your eyes.”
Fear insidiously inserted itself into the pit of Juan’s stomach. Think. Think. Think. There was one thing. “Your meeting—the one you were supposed to have tomorrow—it’s canceled. I know that much.”
Logan shook his head. “No kidding. There’s a shock. After what you guys pulled, I didn’t really think that was going to happen anymore. Try again.” He paused. “You shoot with your right hand?”
What the hell? “Are you serious?” Juan asked, and realized the man was deadly serious the second he’d asked the question.
“I once watched a friend of ours cut off a man’s little finger. Trust me. You don’t want to go through it,” Cole said. “Like my friend said, try again.”
Juan’s breathing increased rapidly. They’ll do it. I have no doubt of it. Have to give them something. “You have Hugo’s phone? There has to be something on it.”
“Already got it, thanks to your coworker here,” Logan said. Before he’d left the bloodbath in his room, Santiago had removed the dead men’s wallets and cell phones and brought them to Logan and Cole. “Keep trying.”
The week had been a blur. Juan and two members of his team had been pulled off an assignment as soon as Hugo had returned from . . . of course. That’s it.
“Twenty-five seconds,” Cole said coolly.
“Stop counting and put the knife down,” Juan said calmly.
Logan raised his eyebrows. He had to give it to Juan, maintaining a calm demeanor in the face of what he knew was a very real threat. It’s always the older ones with more maturity and experience that are the better operators. He knew it was a truism across all branches of the US military and law enforcement as well. Logan didn’t respond and waited.
“Hugo took a trip out of the city. I swear to God I have no idea where. He said it was a personal matter, and that he needed to resolve something. We knew better than to ask where. He said it was a family matter, which is all that matters, anyhow,” Juan finished quickly.
You’re on the money, there, Juan, Logan thought, a brief vision of his wife invading his thoughts. Logan looked at Cole and nodded.
Cole hit the timer on his watch and said, “Looks like you got a reprieve, my friend. So what now?”
A sudden knocking at the door elicited a smile from Logan. “The cavalry.”
“I hope they’re not on horses. Not sure what the hotel policy is on that,” Cole said drily.
Logan ignored him, handed Santiago the knife, walked to the door of the suite, and turned the handle.
Three men stood at the entrance—an American in his late forties with a full head of brown hair that touched the top of his ears and what Logan presumed were two native Bahamians. The American’s blue eyes squinted at the amount of blood on Logan’s shirt, and he looked into Logan’s face. “Logan West?”
“Peter Cornell?” Logan replied, and nodded in confirmation at the mention of his own name.
“I am.” He handed his embassy credentials to Logan, who inspected them briefly, folded the black leather ID, and handed it back.
Logan stepped aside, beckoned the men in, and said, “Welcome to the party.”
Peter walked in, nodded to Cole and Santiago, and glanced curiously at the man zip-tied to the chair. “Gentlemen,” he said courteously, and turned to Logan. “This is Commander Edward Henderson, the head of the Central Division of the Royal Bahamas Police Force.”
The dark-skinned man in his early fifties stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mr. West,” he said in a slight Caribbean accent. “This is Ramon Sandibal, inspector and head of my security intelligence. We’re here to help.”
Logan raised his eyebrows and glanced at Peter. “No offense, but you trust them?”
Peter responded instantly. “Without hesitation. You and I both know whom we serve. I wouldn’t jeopardize that in any way. Let’s just say that I’ve worked with both of these men closely, on local crime issues involving narcotics, as well as possible threats to the US. After seeing how they operate, I have no doubt about their loyalty to their people, as well as to us.” He paused. “Does that satisfy you?”
Logan thought about it for a moment. He knew that most men in the world wanted to do the right thing. He loathed the phrase “assume noble intent,” but it was a universal truth. Family, security, honor, and service were global concepts, even if the ways in which they were carried out varied from culture to culture. The last two and a half years had shaken his sense of trust,
but he’d still seen one thing over and over—good men doing good things, often at the expense of their own lives. He heard Sarah’s voice. You have to trust someone.
“That’s good enough for me,” Logan said to Peter, and shook Inspector Sandibal’s hand. “Because we need all the help we can get. But most importantly, we need to get our friend out of here and to the embassy as quickly as possible. Once we do that, I’m going to need you to contact Langley for some digital forensics support. I need to know exactly where those have been in the last week,” he said, and pointed to three cell phones resting on the hardwood top of the dining room table.
“No problem,” Peter said. “I thought you were going to ask for something difficult.”
“Like what?” Logan asked curiously.
“An attack helicopter. Maybe a tank?” Peter said, smiling briefly. “I know a little bit about you, at least what’s left in the various agencies’ databases.”
Cole laughed. “He just met you, Logan, and he has you nailed.” Turning to Peter, he said, “Your suspicions are more than justified, Mr. Cornell. Trust me, as I’ve been rolling with this crew for the last six months or so.”
Logan ignored Cole. “Not on this trip,” Logan answered Peter. “Transportation will be plenty. And on that note, can we please get the hell out of here? We’ve got work to do, and I have a feeling we’re going to need more than just a shuttle to the embassy once we get started.”
Logan looked at Santiago. “In fact, I think we’re going to need your government’s travel services. Looks like your vacation is over.”
CHAPTER 7
Northwest of Caracas, Venezuela
Monday, 1000 Venezuelan Standard Time
Lieutenant General Victor Ascensión Cordones, Commanding General of the National Army of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, contemplated the news his aide had just delivered, or more accurately, the lack of news. The team he’d dispatched to Paradise Island to eliminate the Americans had failed to report back for the last two days, which meant one of two things—they were dead or captured. It was irrelevant. They were expendable, considering the stakes involved in his latest—and final, at least as an official officer of the army—operation.
The fifty-three-year-old general, black hair neatly trimmed and parted on the left side, stared out the window of the field office on top of the two-story building that he used as his command post at the temporary military base he’d built over the past year and a half. Nestled in the mountains ten miles west of Caracas on a large plateau at twenty-three-hundred feet elevation, the base was isolated and remote, surrounded by a thick canopy of mountain forest. The only ingress or egress was the railway that ran from the heart of Caracas, up the mountain, across the plateau through the middle of the base, and ended at the west end of the plateau, where it split into three dead ends, a railway pitchfork. Several transportation rail cars and two engines were parked on the split tracks, waiting like slumbering beasts for the next load of personnel or equipment to be carried into the capital.
Scattered across the plateau were several weapons ranges, obstacle courses, temporary housing quarters that could accommodate a full battalion, a dining facility, and multiple smaller buildings used for planning and communications. My own personal kingdom, complete with my own personal chariots, he thought, glancing at the two Russian helicopters parked near the edge of the plateau.
The minister of defense had asked him during the initial stages of construction why he needed such a base, and his answer had been simple—to train and plan for asymmetric warfare, including the execution of a realistic, full-scale defense of the capital, including Miraflores Palace, the office of the president of Venezuela. He smiled at the recollection. It was true, just not in the context that he had asked. But first things first.
Before he could do anything, he had to secure the vice president of the United States of America, which would guarantee his physical and financial safety once he’d begun his operation. The irony was that the vice president wasn’t even aware of his own unlimited worth, even as he sat on a private yacht, which would be arriving in two days after a trip from America to Mexico. Once he was on Venezuelan soil, a short convoy ride would have the vice president within his grasp, and the knowledge the American held would be his to wield.
Had it not been for the Russian ambassador to Venezuela, Victor would not have known about it himself. Unfortunately, knowledge of the Organization had come at a tragic and steep cost for him—the death of his son during an opposition protest that had quickly turned violent.
Daniel Mateo Cordones had followed in his father’s footsteps, but instead of joining the military, he’d joined the SEBIN. As a young detective in the Counterintelligence Direction, he’d been directly involved in monitoring and countering the waves of violent protests that had swept through the capital once the economy had crashed because the price of oil had plummeted across the globe. Unlike his father, Daniel had sympathized with the protestors, a view that his father had scorned and chalked up to youth and naïveté. He’d been convinced that his son would learn the hard way that the opposition could be shown no mercy, that they threatened the very existence of the republic. He just hadn’t anticipated in what form that hard lesson would be—a violent death at the wrong end of a machete wielded by one of the protestors, a teenager who’d been shot thirty-six times after he’d mortally wounded Daniel.
Lieutenant General Cordones had been at the Ministry of Defense at the time, in a meeting with the Russian ambassador and the defense minister, negotiating a new arms deal for upgraded fixed-wing support and motorized artillery. The meeting had been interrupted by the defense minister’s secretary, who’d notified him that there had been an incident with his son. He would later discover that Daniel’s friends and fellow SEBIN detectives had brought him to his father upon his dying request. Even in his last moments, he was told afterward, he’d asked for his father. His friends had known he was dying, and they’d followed his last wishes.
By the time Victor had reached the seven-ton truck parked inside the gates, his son was gone. The moment he’d seen him, he’d known, and something inside him broke, a void that engulfed him as he stared at and then cradled his dead son. It was a blur of torment, grief, and time stretched across an eternity of pain. It was minutes or hours later—he still wasn’t sure—when he heard the Russian ambassador talking to him quietly, alone, even as he held his son, telling him he understood his pain.
Victor had lashed out, shouting in an agony-choked voice. “How could you possibly know what this feels like?”
The answer had been simple, concrete, and had brought him back from the edge of madness that he’d internally hoped would consume him: “Because my son died in Chechnya serving the Motherland. And I still feel it, every moment of every day, what you’re feeling right now.”
The two fathers had talked, left alone by Daniel’s unit and the soldiers at the Ministry of Defense. A bond that only they understood had been formed on that day of tragedy. It was that common understanding of true pain that had persuaded the Russian to indoctrinate Victor into the Organization.
The day after he buried his son, Victor started planning, because that was all he could do. He’d realized too late that his son was right—that he’d been wrong. It wasn’t the protestors who were to blame. They were only reacting to their circumstances, rats placed in an urban maze of ruin and poverty from which there was no escape. The real men responsible were the ones inside the government, men he served, men like the minister of defense and even the president himself.
Armed with that knowledge and understanding, he spoke openly of his plans with the Russian, who understood his desire for vengeance, who encouraged it. And now, eighteen months later, it’s all about to happen, and they’ll never see it coming. If the American vice president keeps his word and can do what he says he can do, it’s nearly a guarantee, he thought, even though he knew that in his business there were no guarantees, only best-laid plans followed by ru
in and destruction.
PART II
THE BEAR ON THE MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER 8
Caracas, Venezuela
Central University of Venezuela, School of Medicine
Monday, 1100 Venezuelan Standard Time
Logan West pushed through the magnetically sealed security doors once the keypad beeped and followed Santiago into the modern medical facility that occupied the top floor of a brand-new, five-story research building in the middle of the campus. Two guards in civilian attire sat at a desk on the right, staring impassively at the newcomers, black pistols worn in shoulder holsters over their dark-blue polo shirts. One of the men nodded at Santiago, who returned the gesture, pushing forward deeper into the space.
“Impressive,” Cole said next to Logan as the breadth of what they beheld became clear with each step. They walked through a short corridor of patient rooms, which were partially occupied. The beds were new, the monitors and other equipment seemed to shine, and the rooms themselves were spotless.
“It is impressive, especially for Venezuela,” Santiago said as they emerged into the central, rectangular hub of the floor.
Personnel in white overcoats and various shades of blue scrubs scurried about, not urgently, but with a sense of purpose that Logan and Cole recognized and appreciated. In the middle of the hub was an area of desks, monitors, and charts arranged in an open-square configuration, positioned with the workstations and chairs facing outward into the surrounding hallways and adjacent rooms.
“It’s just like any emergency room you’d find in any high-level hospital in the US,” Logan commented, somewhat in amazement.
“I wouldn’t know,” Santiago replied, “but I was told it was modeled after precisely that. Believe it or not, I only found out about this place the day I found out about you.”
“I thought Venezuela despised all things American,” Cole commented sardonically.
“Not all things are always what they seem; not all Venezuelans feel that way,” Santiago said.
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