by Joshua Hood
“Fine,” she said, snatching his plate from the table and carrying it to the sink.
Boggs watched her back, knowing that she was angry again. Nothing he could say or do, besides giving her what she wanted, would change that.
“Guess I’m finished,” he said, getting to his feet.
He went upstairs for his pistol and was stuffing it into its holster when he heard the door slam downstairs. Boggs grabbed his bag and went to the closet. Women, he thought, grabbing one of the snakeskin boots from the shelf and taking out the fresh bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He cracked the bottle and took a long pull before stuffing the booze into his bag and heading downstairs. Boggs locked the door and climbed behind the wheel of the old Jeep and drove east toward the river.
Besides the ever-growing tent city on the edge of town, Cúcuta had remained relatively unscathed by the violence. But across the bridge, the Venezuelan city of Ureña was not as lucky.
Ureña had been a working-class town with clean streets and good sanitation as well as police who provided law and order.
While it was never a part of Venezuela that made it into the travel magazines, it had been a safe place to raise a family.
But that changed with President Diego Mateo’s assassination in 2017.
Now Ureña was a city under siege. Occupied not by a foreign army but by its own countrymen. Men in T-shirts and cutoff shorts stood on every street corner, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. Above them, men with binoculars and cellphones stood on rooftops and watched, ready to place a call to the narco militia waiting on the outskirts of town.
Vehicles choked both sides of the road, along which trash blew like tumbleweeds. The street reminded him of Iraq. Graffiti-covered shops stood empty and riddled with bullet holes. There were scorch marks on some of the cars. And he recognized the blast patterns of RPGs.
But instead of fear, the scene offered a grotesque comfort. Almost like home.
The fact that Boggs didn’t dispute the thought gave him the sick feeling that maybe he had been under for too long.
Maybe it’s time to get out, he thought. Live a normal life.
A line of stopped cars at the end of the road signaled a checkpoint, and Boggs was reaching into the center console for one of the yellow envelopes full of cash he kept on hand for this very reason when a thump followed by a sharp inhalation of breath drew his attention to the back seat.
Someone’s back there, he thought, eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror.
His hand moved to the pistol at his waist and Boggs sat up straight in his seat, trying to get high enough to see into the back seat. He couldn’t see anything, but knew what he’d heard and cut the wheel to the right, aiming for the backside of a boarded-up garage.
Boggs kept his foot on the gas and bounced the Jeep over the curb. It hopped into the air, and when the tires slammed back to the ground, there was no mistaking the grunt of pain from the back seat. He stayed on the gas until he was safely behind the garage, then shifted into neutral and stomped on the brakes.
The tires locked up with a scream of rubber and came to a sliding halt. Boggs was out of the Jeep in a flash, moving around the side, the Glock leading the way when he looked over the side. There was a blanket on the floorboard.
How the hell did you miss that? he wondered. The answer came just as quick as the question: Because I’m still fucking drunk.
“You have three seconds to show me your hands or I will shoot,” he ordered in Spanish, the Glock shaking in his hand.
The command wasn’t out of his mouth before a hand tugged the blanket away and a face appeared.
“Jesus Christ, Izzy,” he said, his shoulders sagging with relief.
“I’m sorry,” she lied.
“What if I had shot you?” Boggs asked, shoving the Glock into its holster and reaching for her hand. “Do you have any idea what would have happened if the narcos had found you at the checkpoint?”
“But they didn’t,” Izzy said.
“Just get in the Jeep,” he said, climbing behind the wheel, “I’m taking you back.”
“No,” Izzy said, crossing her arms.
Boggs was about to reply when an electronic chime drew his attention to the floorboard. He looked down, and when he saw his phone, he realized that it must have fallen out of his pocket when he jumped from the Jeep. Boggs bent and scooped it up; he was about to tell Izzy that yes, she was going back, when he saw the red 1 indicating an Instagram message.
“Just get in,” Boggs said, his face softening at the thought of his daughter. He opened the app, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. A smile that vanished the moment he read the message.
We need to meet.
“What is it?” Izzy asked, seeing the change in his expression.
“It’s from my daughter, but—”
Before he finished his thought the phone dinged again, followed by an aerial shot of his Jeep sitting behind the boarded-up garage.
34
PENDARE, VENEZUELA
The storm built in the Atlantic, a churning black mass that rolled lazily across the ocean. Growing in size and strength until it ran headfirst into the trade winds that sent it screaming west. Three hours later it made landfall over Guyana, but instead of dumping its moisture, the storm kept moving, over the Pacaraima Mountains in eastern Venezuela, and across the Guiana Highlands, before finally losing steam over the Amazons and dumping its rain in a torrent over Pendare.
Colonel Carlos Vega stood at the opening of the hangar, chomping on the cigar clutched at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes drifted over the muted outline of the yellow earthmovers huddled beneath the camouflage netting, and the rain pounded away at the dirt airstrip his men had just regraded.
The clattering whine of the machine in the corner of the room spooling down and the angry snap of voices drew his attention to the interior of the hangar, and Vega turned to see his aide, Captain Ramón Javier, arguing with a worker.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rosa, a man in ink-spattered coveralls, demanded angrily from the modular office at the back of the hangar. “We are behind schedule, who told you to turn that off?”
“Colonel’s orders,” Javier answered curtly.
“This is intolerable,” Rosa complained. “We are behind schedule. I demand to speak to the colonel right now!”
“You have something to say?” Vega hissed, stepping into view, smiling at the fear that spread across the Peruvian forgers.
The gift of fear.
It was a lesson, oddly enough, that he’d learned from Gray’s government. One that allowed him to take over the SEBIN.
When Vega first joined the military, President Rafael Caldera was on his second term, and the U.S. and Venezuela had a close working relationship. He had just started working for the SEBIN, the intelligence service that answered directly to the president, and was among a handful of promising young officers chosen to attend the School of the Americas.
Located in Fort Benning, Georgia, the School of the Americas, or SOA, was established in 1946. The primary goal of the SOA was to strengthen ties between the U.S. and her Latin American allies by educating promising young officers in the virtues of democratic civilian control over the armed forces.
By the time Vega was chosen to attend, the Latin American world knew the SOA by a different name: Escuela de Asesinos. The School of Assassins. The sinister moniker came from the violent acts perpetrated by the graduates when they returned home and used what they had learned from the CIA and Special Forces cadre to set up death squads, implement torture programs, and overthrow governments. It was from this same cadre that Vega was first introduced to the finer points of psychological warfare and kidnapping.
“N-no disrespect, Colonel, but you said that you wanted the work completed in three days, but now you tell us to stop.”
“That is correct,�
�� Vega replied, coming to a halt in front of the man.
“The rain had already put us behind schedule, and when we were about to catch up, you tell us to stop. Why?”
“The American is on his way—” Vega began.
“The American?” Rosa snapped, his face red with anger. “Are you seriously—”
But before he could finish his sentence, Vega’s right arm flashed from his side, the sound of his hand hitting Rosa’s face echoing through the silent hangar with the snap of a bullwhip. The blow sent the Peruvian stumbling, and before he could regain his balance, Vega had him by the throat.
“You might be the best forger in the world, but if you ever interrupt me again, I will tear your tongue out with a pair of pliers,” Vega warned. “Do you fucking hear me?”
“Y-yes,” Rosa choked.
“Now go, make sure the machine is ready,” he ordered, shoving him toward his office.
“Colonel, if I may,” Captain Javier said, once Rosa was out of earshot.
“What is it, Captain?” Vega answered, immediately at ease.
“I . . . I mean no disrespect,” he began, looking down at the ground.
“You may speak freely,” Vega said, returning to his spot at the hangar doors.
“It’s the American, sir. The man has no honor. He has betrayed his country, his friends—how do you know that he will come?”
The answer came not from Vega but from the distant hum of an approaching turboprop echoing through the rain, and moments later a dark blue de Havilland DHC-3 dropped out of the clouds. The pilot circled the field and lined up for approach.
“Fear is a powerful motivator.” Vega watched the pilot fight the crosswind before planting the de Havilland’s oversized tires on the runway with a splatter of mud.
Moments later the single-engine turboprop taxied to a halt outside the hangar, and after the pilot cut the engine, Jefferson Gray climbed down into the mud, a metal attaché case handcuffed to his arm.
“Hell of a day for a flight, Colonel,” he said.
“There were some who doubted you would make it,” Vega said, walking toward the row of tables next to the machine.
“Well, I imagine those people didn’t see Senator Mendez on Fox News last night.” Gray unlocked the cuff on his wrist and set the case next to one of the stacks of freshly printed twenty-dollar bills.
The mention of the interview sent Vega’s mind drifting back to the late-night call from President Díaz.
* * *
—
“Turn on the Fox News,” his boss ordered.
Vega rolled out of bed and turned on the satellite with a touch of the remote. The screen blinked to life, and he found himself staring at Senator Patrick Mendez.
“I see the Díaz administration as a bunch of rabid dogs. It is a corrupt regime with known ties to Iran, Cuba, and the cartels. I think it is high time the United States did something to show President Díaz that we will not tolerate his actions.”
“Like what, Senator?” the reporter asked.
“Let me put it this way,” Mendez said, turning to the camera. “President Eduardo Díaz, the Security Council meets in three days,” he said, holding up his fingers, “and if I don’t hear a response from your government before then, well, things are going to get mighty uncomfortable for you and your cronies there in Venezuela.”
“Is this man out of his mind?” Díaz shouted. “Who does he think I am, a dog to be threatened on national television? We had a deal. A deal, Carlos, and now this hijo de puta wants more money? Where am I going to get that kind of cash?”
* * *
—
“Captain,” Vega said, nodding to his aide, “go and see if Rosa is finished sulking.” He waited until the man was out of earshot before turning his attention to Gray, who had picked up one of the twenties and was holding it up to the light.
“Look at me,” Vega hissed.
“Problem, Carlos?”
“When were you going to tell me that Hayes was still alive?” Vega demanded, looking for fear in the American’s eyes but finding nothing but cold determination.
“You let me worry about Hayes,” Gray said. “What I need to know is if Díaz is going to pay Mendez.”
“He doesn’t have it,” Vega said.
“That’s what I thought,” Gray said.
“But that doesn’t change our arrangement,” Vega said, nodding to the open five-by-nine-foot shipping container in the corner. “There is enough paper in there to print five million dollars.”
“Let me ask you something, Carlos. What is it that you want?”
“What do you mean?” Vega asked, temporarily caught off guard.
“Like you said, there is enough paper there to print five million dollars. That added to the five we’ve already loaded up is ten million. Last month that was all I wanted, but things have changed.”
“Are you trying to get out of our arrangement?” Vega demanded, his hand slipping to the pistol at his hip.
“No, Carlos, what I’m saying is that a month ago this was a clean operation and five million was all I needed,” Gray said, moving to the case. “But in thirty-six hours, Mendez is going to realize that I’m not coming back, and when that happens, it is going to take a hell of a lot more than five million to stay alive.”
“Go on,” Vega said.
“So my question is, do you want to keep working for the president of Venezuela?” Gray asked, thumbing his combination into the case and opening the lid. “Or do you want to be the president of Venezuela?”
35
PUERTO RICO
I still can’t believe you sold the Gulfstream,” Waters complained.
“Stop living in the past.”
“Why don’t we fly straight to Venezuela?”
Hayes shook his head, a hint of a smile hooking the edge of his lips. “Flying into a covert operation on a CIA-contracted aircraft is not my idea of tradecraft.”
“This is why Air Potomac exists,” Waters protested.
“You’ve been hanging around Levi a little too long,” Hayes said, shouldering his assault pack and walking down the stairs. He pointed up at the tail. “JT, what do you see?”
“Looks like nobody’s bothered to replace those numbers in at least a few years.”
“Exactly, I think we’ll be better off with our own ride.”
* * *
—
The CASA C-212 cruised at 15,000 feet, a silver spark that glinted in the pale blue expanse of the sky. In the cabin, Hayes turned away from the window and fixed his attention on JT.
“You remember that time in Iraq?” he asked.
“We were there for six months, you think you might be able to narrow it down a bit?” JT said without taking his eyes from the screen.
“I was thinking of one specific time. We were in Mosul and you had the great idea—”
“Let me stop you right there,” JT said, holding up his hand. “If you want me to do something illegal, all you have to do is ask. There is no need to go back to Mosul.”
Hayes grinned, but before he could reply, Waters’s voice came over the intercom.
“What happened in Mosul?” he asked.
“Hey, stick monkey, the grown-ups are talking,” JT said, getting to his feet. “You just worry about getting us where we’re going.”
“Asshole,” Waters grumbled before JT punched the privacy button with his index finger.
“Does he ever stop with the questions?” JT asked.
“Not so far.” Hayes smiled. “But seriously, you owe me, and I’m calling in a marker.”
JT’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “If you are calling in Mosul, this must be big. Tell me more.”
“The guy I waxed in Washington mentioned a guy named Jefferson Gray.”
“Let me guess, no S
ocial?”
“This one might be a little more complicated.”
“Challenge accepted,” JT said.
“Gray works for the CIA.” Hayes winced.
“No problem, I’ve got a back door already set up to get into their mainframe.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah, check this out,” JT said, turning the Toughbook so Hayes could see the screen.
Hayes watched him type Applied Technical Concepts into the address bar, and a moment later the company’s webpage popped up on the screen. The landing page showed a glass-fronted building in Tysons Corner, Virginia, followed by the logos of the Fortune 500 companies that had contracts with the company.
“These dudes are big-time,” JT said, pointing at the logos at the bottom. “They are making a killing in the private sector, made six billion last year, and they are still running this piece-of-shit page.”
“And how does this help us find Gray?” Hayes asked.
“Think of it this way: if you were going to rob a bank, would you walk in the front door?”
“Not unless I wanted to go to jail.”
“Same thing applies on the net. You don’t just walk into the CIA’s mainframe with a ski mask and a Tech 9 and start asking for secure documents.”
“So how do you strong-arm the CIA?” Hayes asked.
“You use the service entrance, which brings us back to ATC, which provides all the data packaging for the CIA’s mainframes. I just drop this little bit of code right here, and voilà.”
>>>>CIA Remote Portal
_Access Granted
>>>>Connection Established_
Status: Online
Query: Gray, Jefferson
Access Denied.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Hayes said, patting JT on the shoulder before leaning back in the chair. “I think I’m going to grab some shut-eye. You want to give me a shout when you actually have something?”
