It was up to me, and me alone, to make sure I wasn’t one of them.
At the end of the street, I turned right, south. I was struck by how many political slogans and murals I saw on my way to the hotel. To my left, on a stucco wall across the street, I saw a painting as big as a bus. It was of Simon Bolivar, the man who ripped Venezuela out of the Spanish Empire centuries ago. He looked as noble as the paintings of George Washington I’d seen in history books as a kid. Bolivar’s chest pushed out, his chin held high, a Venezuelan flag behind him.
Must’ve been a nice picture, once. Now, Bolivar’s forehead and most the space on either side was covered in big, sloppy, red letters: BASTA YA. Spanish for ENOUGH ALREADY.
Basta Ya. I felt the exact same way. I was sick of being pulled in every direction by powerful men.
At the next intersection, I spotted the hotel the old teller told me about.
I went in through the front door. A young girl behind the desk helped me pick out a room. She was no older than my daughter, so I was sure to leave her a nice tip. I tried not to think about Kejal as I went up to my room, but what was I supposed to do? Forget why Greer got me to show up here?
Inside my room, I locked the door, then sat the Glock on the nightstand next to the bed. Next, I went into the bathroom. I splashed water on my face, trying to wipe the grime of Marquez and his boat off me. But, I just couldn’t.
I went back into my room, then opened the window. I sat down on the end of the bed and unlocked my phone. I wanted to go back to the dossier—try to figure out why I had to kill Carolina Ortiz, but I knew I wouldn’t get my answer there. I had to go to Greer.
His number was the only one keyed into my phone. Wasn’t under his name, of course, but I knew it was his. He was my handler for this mission, and the protocol was he’d be my first point of contact for anything. And Greer followed protocol to the letter.
I tapped the entry and put the phone to my ear. It rang once.
“How was the cruise?” I recognized Greer’s smoky voice. He sounded happy. Relaxed. I wasn’t sure if it was genuine or just a cover. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this quickly, so the trip must’ve gone well.”
Real or fake, it made my blood boil. Greer didn’t deserve happiness.
“Didn’t go well for Juan Rivas and his son,” I said. “Those smugglers you hired killed both of them over nothing.”
“Is that right? I guess things don’t always work out the way we hope they will. You should know that pretty well by now.”
I clenched the blanket over the bed. Squeezed it until my fingers throbbed, then kept holding on.
“You knew they’d be shot,” I said. “And you’re happy just to have those loose ends snipped off. You don’t give a shit who you use or what it does to them. How am I supposed to know I’m not next?”
“Well, Barrett, you don’t know,” he said. “You can’t. And you’re right: I don’t care who I use or what my contact does to them. I want you to keep that in mind as things proceed. Because you’ve got that pretty little wife at home and that happy little house. And I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t mind making something a little uglier and a little sadder. You understand?”
That son of a bitch. I nearly whipped the phone into the wall.
“When this is all over, if I find out you were ever in the same zip code as them, I’ll stuff your balls down your throat.”
Greer laughed, which made my anger bubble up that much more.
“When this is all over. But before that happens you have a job to finish. Then you can come puree me into tiny little bits or mash my face in while I’m sleeping—whatever makes you feel like a big, strong, tough man,” he said. “Did you review the documents I left for you?”
I wanted to rip into him. Scream into his ear, tell him exactly what kind of human garbage he was, but he was right that I was here in Venezuela, and he was there, wherever there was for him—I’m sure he wouldn’t be far from my house in Bethesda—and until I killed someone, I wasn’t getting out of the country.
My only choice was to play along. But I wouldn’t kill Carolina Ortiz blindly. I needed answers.
“Yes, and—”
“—and what, Mason?” Greer’s voice carried an edge to it. “You don’t like what the job is? You object to the target? A Glock 17 isn’t the weapon you prefer to use? I know you’re trying to weasel out of your duty, so what objection could you possibly have that’ll make me change my mind?”
None. Nothing short of a bullet would change Greer’s mind.
“No objections,” I said.
“Good. You have seventy-two hours. Send photographic evidence when the job is completed. Your phone is encrypted, so a text message is fine.”
He hung up. And I sat on the bed, dumbfounded. He had me. And there was nothing I could do about it.
“Shit!” I threw the phone into the bed. Then I jumped up and flipped the mattress. I wanted to punch a hole in the wall, to rip the curtains off the window, and burn all of Caracas down, but I had to get a hold on myself.
So I grabbed two fistfuls of my own hair, clenched my teeth together, and barely held back a scream. Then, I sunk down to the floor and sat.
I don’t know how in the hell I got into this mess, but I wasn’t going to quit until I found a way out.
Chapter 17
COLONEL MILARES REMAINED behind in the brick-paved courtyard. Wasn’t a bad spot to be. Palm trees shaded a marble fountain, flowering plants stood around the edges, hiding the courtyard’s alabaster-white walls. He imagined himself sitting here on a cool day, reading a book, drinking a beer.
Hard to believe this wasn’t a five-star resort, but, rather, somebody’s house. The place was certainly big enough to be a hotel. When Milares pored over blueprints of the house, he counted twenty-two bedrooms.
Disgusting that a single man had all this to himself. And typical of what Venezuela had become. Still, Colonel Milares understood the temptation of a house like this.
He closed his eyes and listened to the ocean rolling on the beach on the far side of the house. He smelled the sea air, untainted by bitter smoke from burning cars—the first time he’d gotten a breath of fresh air in days. He held it in, keeping his eyes closed, and let it swirl in his lungs. Until...
“Sir.”
He opened his eyes. Saw one of General Barrios’ hand-picked men. His body covered in black clothing, except for an oval in his black balaclava around his eyes. He was a sergeant in the Army Special Forces. A man named Cortez. Specifically, Sergeant Cortez came from the Anti-Terror Expeditionary Force—men who, like Milares and the General, had become sharpened by jungle and urban combat against Colombian paramilitaries.
“The General would like you to come inside,” he said. “He wants to speak with you.”
Milares nodded. He followed Cortez through a bamboo door, into a massive foyer. The walls were white stucco and the floors were clay tile. A two-winged staircase went halfway up and split into balconies in either direction.
At the split, hung a large oil portrait of Simon Bolivar. Colonel Milares stopped to look at it. How could a man with a home like this live in the shadow of Bolivar? Did he not understand that this house was built with the blood and sweat of Venezuela’s sons and daughters? Putting Bolivar on the walls of this house seemed like a sick joke.
“I’m surprised that painting didn’t curl up in shame,” Sergeant Cortez said. “Bolivar himself would’ve burnt an imperialist home like this to the ground.”
Then, he swiped a glance at Milares. “We should take it out of here, Colonel. Put it somewhere better.”
It was tempting. But what would taking that painting say? That men with guns can come into any house they like at any time and strip the place bare so long as they had a cause and judged someone to be in opposition?
Yes, General Barrios had brought these men here to take a life. That was justice. That was to save the country from robber barons who only wanted to strip the land bare in the name
of their cause. Milares wouldn’t turn around and do the same thing here.
There was no place for that in the Venezuela he fought for.
“No,” Milares said. “I think there has been enough looting in our country, lately.”
“Of course, sir,” Sergeant Cortez said. “I didn’t think—”
“There’s no problem, Sergeant.” Milares patted him on the back. “Please, take me to the General.”
The Sergeant walked around the left side of the grand staircase, through an opening leading to a hallway. Here, Milares saw pictures of the man they had come to kill—Cristobal Perez. CEO of PDVSA—Venezuela’s national oil refinery. The man who controlled the life-blood their country survived on until oil production collapsed and all of Venezuela went down with it.
Perez was also the leader of Los Chacales. As it turned out, he was the man who contacted General Barrios from the start and brought him in on the plot to overthrow President Toro and the National Communist Party of Venezuela.
But in these pictures, he looked like a family man. Wealthy, sure—all the pictures were perfectly composed, his two young daughters sparkling, his wife, a former Miss Venezuela, radiant on the white sand beaches outside their house—but Perez had his arms around his girls, his wife on his lap, beaming ear-to-ear.
A man would be forgiven for thinking Perez wasn’t trying to sell Venezuela off to the highest bidder. That he hadn’t brought in the American government to help facilitate his plans. That a man who already had so much was satisfied with his life, and wouldn’t try to sell out his country for his own personal gain.
But, Milares and General Barrios had people tracking Perez for months. Listening to his phones, detailing his whereabouts, keeping tabs on what he ate for breakfast, and where he met each of his girlfriends for quick sex.
The man was guilty, no doubt.
A woman’s scream came from an open entryway at the end of the hall. Milares left the pictures behind and quickly moved toward it.
When he rounded the corner, he saw Perez’s wife, laying on her stomach in the middle of a sitting room, her arms bound at the wrists behind her back, and legs bound at the ankles. Two of the General’s men, clad in black, stood over her. She wore a long floral dress, which had been torn over her shoulder, exposing the lacy pink back of her bra.
“What the hell is this?” Milares barked. “Pick her up.”
“She fell. On accident,” one of them said like a ten-year-old standing beside a broken window, holding a soccer ball.
“Put her over there with her daughters.” Milares motioned toward a couch, where both of Perez’s daughters sat. “And don’t think for a second that I believe your half-hearted lie. If any further harm comes to that woman, I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”
“It was an accident, Nestor.” General Barrios appeared from the left, coming around a wide archway which led to a glass-encased sitting room. The ocean churned behind him. “You can’t blame them if she tripped and fell.”
“Of course not, sir. But I don’t want any innocents hurt—women and children especially.” Milares folded his arms, tried to make himself relax. He had to stay cool. Things were too delicate for the General to have his second-in-command losing his head. “Were the men able to locate Mr. Perez?”
“He’s in the next room,” the General smiled. “I was waiting for you to arrive before I spoke with him—you would like to come with me, yes?”
“Of course.” Colonel Milares felt his shoulders slack. Knowing that they had Perez in-hand made the outcome that much surer. This entire mess would be over soon.
“Then we should not waste any more of Mr. Perez’s precious time.”
The General headed back through the same wide archway he entered through. Milares followed behind.
As soon as he turned the corner, he saw Perez, tied to a chair, two of the General’s men standing ominously behind him. His dark hair was mussed, his nose bled, the top button of his shirt hung by a thread, and he was sweating like a whore in church. Good. Let him sweat. He deserves it.
A better man—a man with mercy in his heart—might have felt a tad of pity for Perez. But all the mercy in Milares had been chased out with bayonets on rifles and bombs and napalm hot enough to warp a man’s spirit. God save him, he wasn’t here to be merciful. He was here to save Venezuela.
General Barrios stopped in front of Perez. Milares stood at the General’s right flank.
Perez looked up at the general, sweat rolling down his forehead, blood dripping off his chin. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. He was too terrified.
How did this man work up the nerve to lead a coup against the communists?
The General folded his hands behind his back and carefully observed Perez. Milares had seen General Barrios do this before—with prisoners, mostly, and a journalist who went a little too far to get the story. He liked to look a man over. He said if he looked at a man long enough, studied his eyes, his face, the way he held his head, he could see the beast inside them. The primal emotions driving all their actions, the caveman beating his chest and clubbing his enemies.
“Mr. Perez, you know who I am,” General Barrios finally said. “And whether you’d like to admit it or not, you know why I’ve come here.”
“No,” Perez’s lip quivered. “No—this isn’t what we agreed to.”
His wife wailed from the other room. She must’ve heard the fear in his voice. She shouldn’t be here—not within earshot. Perez’s daughters, too, should be escorted out. Milares tapped the General on the shoulder and leaned close.
“Do you want me to take his family outside?” Milares whispered.
“No, Nestor, you stay here. I want you at my side. I need your help now more than ever.”
Milares wasn’t sure what that meant but now seemed like a bad time to question the General.
“Very well, sir.”
“Mr. Perez,” the General leaned close to him, “before I get on with formally charging you with treason, is there anything you’d like to ask?” He spoke pleasantly. Like a tour guide asking for final questions.
“How did you find me?” Perez stammered out. “How did you know who I am? Where I’d be?”
General Barrios stood upright. He tugged on the hem of his jacket, barely holding back a smile. The General was proud of himself—he always was.
“Well, finding your home was the easy part. It was finding out that the leader of Los Chacales was none other than oil executive, Cristobal Perez that was much, much more difficult.
“I won’t bore you with the minute details, but you should know that I don’t enter into agreements with strangers,” General Barrios said. “Only a fool would undertake a coup with men he didn’t know. I saw that happen in 2002, against Chavez, and the whole thing fell apart. I was a lowly captain then, but when I read in the papers that the generals I admired were lined up in front of firing squads and unceremoniously executed for treason, I took the lessons of their failures to heart. I have no intentions of standing in front of a firing squad for treason. But I also have no intentions of letting Venezuela continue on the way it has.
“Given the state of our country, every man knew a coup would be inevitable,” Barrios said. “But while most argued when and what form the coup would take, I was busy constructing a plan of action, making friends in a lot of places, preparing myself for what we all knew lay ahead.
“And my preparations paid off. When Los Chacales approached me a year ago, I already knew at least three members. From there, it was simply a matter of using my contacts to tug at strings until I found the names of each man in Los Chacales—all thirty of you. Including the man at the top.”
The General ruffled Perez’s hair. All the while, Perez searched the room with his eyes. He was in disbelief.
“But I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Perez said. “If you know I’m the head of Los Chacales, why did you come into my home with your men? Why do you have me and my family tied
up? We’re on the same side! We’re working toward the same goal!”
“Ah! You would think so!” Barrios tapped the air with his finger. “We both want a new Venezuela. A strong Venezuela. Your idea is to create a capitalist haven—a place where you and your wealthy friends can live like lords again, swearing fealty to an American king.”
“You’d be there with us,” Perez said. He knew he was dangling over the edge, maybe taking his last breath. “General, you can have all the money and power you like! And, with it, we can make Venezuela strong again!”
“Yes,” the General clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, I know. With American investors developing our oil reserves and bringing innovations here, we would be rich. And more of our countrymen would see their station in life improved. That’s true.”
General Barrios knelt in front of Perez. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood under Perez’s nose.
“But what would you say to those two girls back in your living room?” he asked softly. “Hmm? Would you tell them you were given a bargain for their futures—that all this comfort—” he motioned around the room, at the billiards table at the far side, the sauna behind Perez, the ocean outside the windows “—came at the low, low price of their freedom? That you mortgaged their futures to the Americans so they could have nice weekends now?”
Perez narrowed his eyes at the General. Disbelief settled into him once more. It wasn’t an appealing look.
The General stood.
“Mr. Perez, we can make Venezuela strong again. We can form an empire which would be the pride of Simon Bolivar, himself.” The General reached over Perez, his palm upturned. One of his men unbuttoned the holster on his hip and ripped his pistol from it. He clapped it into the General’s waiting palm.
“But, an empire cannot be in thrall to other world powers.” The General cocked the pistol, chambering a round.
Perez’s eyes went wide. He started to mutter something, but it was all broken Spanish. Completely unintelligible. Milares had never seen a more pathetic man.
Jackal: Barrett Mason Book 3 Page 9
