The Joe Brennan Spy Thrillers

by Sam Powers

  “Don’t yank it so hard when you set the hook and that won’t happen,” Brennan said. “You just need a quick, sharp pull, just once. They grab the bait and you’re good to go.”

  “I know, I know. Geez, I taught you, not the other way around. I’ve forgotten more about this lake than a landlubber like you would…”

  “I want to go get Walter,” Brennan said, interrupting the thought.

  McLean let it hang there for a minute. “Okay. Do you have any idea where…”

  “No. But I still have some friends in the agency, people who can get me the latest intel.”

  “Have you talked to Carolyn about this?” Both had been married for almost a decade. Both knew the expectation once they were off the military’s clock and calendar, and that their wives were tired of them being gone.

  “No, she doesn’t know yet.”

  “Are you going to tell her?” It wasn’t because he expected Joe to deceive his spouse; but Carolyn also worked at the agency and had a bright career ahead of her. As a senior analyst she’d be obliged to tell her bosses anything she knew, if he shared details.

  “Not the details, just that I’ll be gone for a while. She knows what that usually means.”

  “So she’ll assume it’s a legitimate operation…”

  “And won’t worry as much, assuming I have logistical support, yeah.”

  McLean nodded, but he was thinking down the line. “If she finds out later on at work, she’s going to be incredibly pissed.”

  “Another hill for another day,” Brennan said. “Can you help me out with some equipment?”

  McLean’s personal arsenal had grown over the years. He had military spec gear and a few toys beyond, and it didn’t require a sign-out or a requisition form. There wouldn’t be a paper trail.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll get you a list when we get back.”

  McLean’s line began to jiggle, shaking the small forked branch. He took control of the rod, waiting a few seconds until he felt a pull, then jerked on the line gently, setting the hook in the fish’s mouth. It was fighting hard, for a catfish, squirming and wiggling to free itself, the tip of the rod jerking to each side as the fish tired itself out with the force of its struggle. He let the line slack and let the fish run a bit then cranked the line closed again and halted it sharply before reeling it back. After a couple of more runs, he slowly hauled the exhausted catfish to shore.

  It was big, perhaps fourteen or fifteen pounds, maybe thirty inches long. “He’s old,” Brennan said as they netted it at shore and brought it in. “He looks good.”

  “He’s going to look even better in buttermilk batter, frying in a pan,” McLean said, his smile showing the catfish no mercy whatsoever.

  4./

  October 22, 2012, NEAR LOS CEBONES, RURAL COLOMBIA

  Brennan lay on his chest. The soil was hard on top of the hill and nearby irrigation diversion kept the grass from growing much. It made it a good spot for reconnaissance. He was propped up on his elbows, paying keen attention through a set of night vision binoculars, the dark plastic against his blacked-over face and hands. The valley was spread out before him, including the compound. It was almost eight o’clock.

  The guards were predictable. They followed the same basic movement patterns, from a, to b, to c, back to a. It was natural to them and it had doubtless been a long time since the motions were prescribed, given a real purpose. The compound was hell-and-gone from anywhere; there were a few other farms around, and a few other compounds. But even the nearest village could only charitably be called occupied. And the jungle? The jungle was dense and tangled, thick green branches knotted together, an unforgiving mass of perils that required a machete just to gain entry. It was easy, Brennan figured, for a guy making grunt pay to let his guard down a little.

  Brennan’s eyes tracked the movements. The mansion was at the back of the compound. In front of it was a huge parking area. A barracks – big enough for perhaps twenty men – sat along the left fence, and a pair of thatched huts along the right. One guard stood in front of each hut. There were two more guards at the main gate, another in front of the barracks, two in front of the mansion. Brennan waited patiently. Eventually, a dog and handler circled from behind the barracks, following their usual route. On the other side of the compound, by the huts, another did the same.

  He swung the binoculars back to the left; a small whitewashed building made of cinder blocks and a corrugated tin roof sat just outside the left fence, within twenty yards of the jungle tree line.

  There were no power lines running to the property, isolated as it was, and the handful of solar panels on the mansion roof couldn’t supply enough juice for the whole compound, Brennan thought. But diesel generators made noise, the kind of low rumble crooked bastards like Antonio LaJoya Villanueva wouldn’t tolerate. Villanueva was worth several fortunes, so he could afford alternatives. They’d built the small concrete building just off the property, where it could annoy as few people as possible.

  But it also created a hole in their security.

  Brennan crept slowly backwards on his hands and knees until he was part-way down the hill and out of the compound’s line of sight. He hadn’t seen an exterior perimeter guard or anyone else keeping eyes outside the electric fence, another mistake. He circled slowly around the base of the hill to the thick foliage of the tree line, following it, just out of reach of the thin white glow of the compound’s bright lights. The jungle was loud, alive with the hum of cicadas and the odd calls from tropical birds. He moved slowly; the trees were full of potential noisemakers, and a fleeing flock would be like a smoke signal to the guards, so hacking through troublesome vines and branches was out of the question. It was laborious, taking a step, then pushing aside foliage, then extracting his boots from the tangled grass and roots, then repeating the process. It slowed him to a few yards every thirty seconds to a minute, and made the trip of three hundred yards seem like miles.

  By the time he checked his watch, twenty-six minutes had passed. It was ten-thirty at night. Brennan crouched low and checked his sight lines. He checked the roving dog handlers with his binoculars, waiting until their view was obstructed by the barracks. He knew he could come in from the left side of the outbuilding and it would prevent them from getting an open look at him; but the whitewashed concrete accentuated the lighting from the compound, meaning he would have to get inside quickly or risk exposure. He scoped the lock on the outbuilding door; it looked like a standard padlock, easily defeated with his combination bolt/wire cutters. He took them out of a pocket in his web belt and quickly covered the ground between the trees and the outbuilding wall. Brennan peeked around the corner, ensuring the patrol wasn’t near enough to spot him or downwind of his scent. Then he quickly reached around and snipped the padlock, discarding it into the grass.

  He opened the door slowly, just wide enough to squeeze inside, then closed it behind him and traded the bolt cutters for his pen light. He had to crouch. The shack was empty save for the generator, a four-feet-by-two-feet metal beast that shuddered and vibrated as it kicked into life. He was relieved nothing had made the shack home; tiny, hot enclosures in the jungle were prime real estate for snakes and spiders. A bite would complicate an already complicated night.

  Disabling the generator was necessary because of the lighting in the compound. But doing it loudly would also serve as a fine distraction. The heat inside the shack was extreme and he sweated heavily. He took his pack off his shoulders and withdrew the timed charge, a wad of C-4 hooked up to a small digital clock, a battery and a pair of contact leads. He studied the generator for a moment, looking for the fuel tank. Brennan shuffled around to the back side of the big engine, placing the moldable explosive on the tank but out of the line of sight of the door, in case the snipped padlock was discovered prematurely. He moved back to the door and switched off the penlight, then listened for a few moments, shrouded in darkness, trying to ensure there was no one directly
outside the cinderblock shed, or perhaps a perimeter patrol that he’d missed. Then he slowly pushed the door open again, just enough to squeeze through, closing the door as he slid back around the corner, out of sight. After another quick, cursory check, he crouched low and headed for the tree line, nerves half expecting the hot sting of a bullet in the back, until he was safely under cover again.

  Near the top of the hill, he went back into a prone position, keeping his profile low, until he could safely watch the compound. Brennan swung the binoculars towards the two shacks. They seemed more likely to be holding his target than the barracks building. He zoomed in tight on the first shack’s guard, who was sitting on its steps, smoking a cigarette, an AK-47 clone leaning against his right side. The lights were out inside, and even at full magnification, Brennan couldn’t see any movement.

  The second shack was another matter. The guard there was attentive, at the ready, on his feet and holding his weapon in front of him, scanning the proximity constantly. The light was on inside, and Brennan waited for a sign of life. He was patient, and it took several minutes. But eventually, he saw what looked like a man’s head pass from one side to the other of the long, slotted window in the shack’s south wall.

  Bingo.

  He scanned the tree line on the right side. It was slightly closer to the fence but lit up more brightly, partially caught by spotlights on top of the mansion. He backed out of sight again then removed a small case from his pack. He opened it, and took out the three component pieces of the folding sniper’s rifle: the barrel with silencer, the breach, and the stock, assembling them quickly and methodically. Then he mounted the rifle onto the small bipod legs to stabilize it. He affixed the powerful scope, checking its range settings against those of his night vision binoculars. He lined the crosshairs up, tracking the attentive guard, keeping the base of his skull in focus. Brennan then swept his field of view slowly across the camp. Near the barracks, a couple of guards were sitting by a camp fire, and Brennan watched the smoke curl and shift and bend, trying to judge its speed and direction, to get a guesstimate within five miles per hour of actual.

  He wasn’t sure from the smoke, so he traced his perspective back to the jungle, looking for the bend of branches that would indicate a fifteen mile per hour gust. Then he adjusted the scope again to compensate, before swinging his aim back to the guard and refocusing. He removed the detonator from his belt and waited until the roving dog handler was as near to the generator shed end of the barracks as possible. The blast would be too far away to hurt the animal; but its hearing and sense of smell would be almost instantly shot in the rush of noise and column of smoke.

  Brennan waited until both guards were facing due north; he kept his right index finger on the trigger, eye to the scope. The tripod allowed him to keep his left hand free and he used it to slowly depress the detonator trigger. He took his time with everything; it had been a difficult few days, and things had to go right.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER, BOGOTA

  “Let me guess: you were expecting someone with a more… how would you say, ‘nefarious’ appearance, no?”

  Enrique Obregon had agreed to meet Brennan at the airport. He’d been the initial contact on Walter Lang’s situation. They’d emailed him after Walter failed to make it home and he’d finally replied, just a day before Brennan’s arrival, to say that Walter had never shown up for the meeting.

  He’d offered himself as an impromptu guide and advisor when Brennan called him from the arrivals terminal. The agent browsed around the massive duty free store as he waited for Enrique to arrive, settling on a small bar of white chocolate and a copy of Time, paying for both with local pesos. Then Brennan sat back, with his small soft-sided suitcase on the hard molded-plastic chair next to him, and watched the doors to the road outside.

  Twenty minutes later, Obregon had shown up driving an old 1990s model BMW, boxy in chocolate brown. Brennan knew next-to-nothing about him. He’d tapped a few contacts at the agency before leaving and been told Obregon’s identity, and that he was a Fenton-Wright golden boy, a local who really wanted to actively work for the agency fulltime and therefore was willing to give them just about anything they asked for.

  In Walter’s case, it had apparently been his brother, and his brother’s employer, a cartel boss named Antonio Villanueva. At the airport, Enrique made straight for Brennan, smiling. He was a tall, thin man, with a wispy moustache, dark hair and dark eyes.

  Brennan still had his tan from Sri Lanka, but apparently that wasn’t enough to prevent him from standing out from the locals, as his host had no problem picking him out.

  The man nodded as he approached, one hand outstretched. “I hear it’s windy in Los Angeles these days,” he said.

  “Give or take the Canadian airflow,” Brennan said.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Enrique said genuinely. “Did you know him well?”

  “Well enough,” Brennan said. “Work is work, though. Am I right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Doesn’t pay to make things personal.”

  “A very healthy perspective, señor,” he said. “One I support wholeheartedly; I’m sure you’re aware of my circumstances?”

  “Sure; you were supposed to meet him at a café downtown and he didn’t show,” Brennan said. “You bring a car?”

  “Yes, a BMW with air conditioning,” he said. “Can I take your bag?”

  “No, that’s fine. I need the exercise.”

  They began to walk towards the airport doors, the passenger traffic light on a Saturday morning, business commuters mixing with passionate student couples, hitchhiker types with jean shorts and backpacks.

  The car was parked illegally at the curb, the platform overhang shading them from the worst of the rising sun.

  “Don’t you worry about tickets?” Brennan said. His host grinned brightly at him but didn’t reply, instead using the car key to open the BMW’s trunk. Brennan shook his head. “That’s okay. The roads here can be sort of bumpy. I’ll just hang onto it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Enrique said. Brennan couldn’t tell whether there was a hint of distaste at the decision, but it didn’t really matter. Enrique was just a means to an end. The escort walked around to the driver’s door and opened it; Brennan opened the opposite back door and got in the backseat. It was brown leather, bucket style.

  “What, you’re not going to ride upfront, get the lay of the land?” Enrique asked.

  “No.”

  If the local contact expected any more of an explanation, it wasn’t forthcoming.

  While Enrique started the car and did a shoulder check before pulling out, Brennan quickly went through the bag and unzipped the special liner that disguised its actual content from airport screening; inside, a handful of Callum’s weapons were strapped in, each broken into component parts. There was also a small set of thermal imaging binoculars, a digital detonator and two ounces of C-4, enrobed in coffee and dark chocolate then wrapped in thick orange plastic to defeat the explosives sniffer at Dulles.

  He withdrew the barrel, slide mechanism and pistol grip for the specially designed Sig Sauer nine-millimeter. Once he’d assembled it he took out the thin nine-shot clip and snapped it into the handle; then he chambered a bullet. Then he unstrapped the small cigar-tube-sized suppressor and screwed it onto the barrel tip.

  “I hope that’s not for me,” Enrique joked nervously, glancing furtively over his shoulder at the operation as he guided the car in and out of traffic.

  Brennan said nothing, slipping the pistol into the back of his waist band under his shirt and putting a second clip in his pocket. Then he zipped up the case again. He glanced around at the other traffic, self-conscious in the moment, seeing if anyone else was paying attention. But half the cars were some form or another of cab, in bright yellow, mostly unlicensed he guessed, and the drivers so familiar with the daily grind that they didn’t pay much attention to anything anymore, including other cars.

  “Did you find me
a room? Like I said, I didn’t get a chance...”

  “I’ve got you booked in at El Nacional. You’ll like it; it’s in the tourist part of the city, so there are lots of restaurants and amenities and things.”

  “I’m not here for a vacation. I’m here to find my friend.”

  “Si, si, es verdad,” the tall man said. “I did not mean anything by it.”

  The hotel was a functional cement block from the nineteen seventies, maybe fourteens stories, no balconies, each room cooled by old-school window air conditioner units. Unlike hotels back home where suicidal occupants were a worry, the windows obviously opened as more than a few were cracked so that the occupant could lean out and smoke a cigarette.

  They parked by the front doors at the curb, ignoring the offer from the doorman to take Brennan’s bag. Inside, the double glass doors opened to a white-and-grey-specked marble floor, with large pots containing palms beside the doorway. Past them, a long grey carpet had been rolled out over the marble, no doubt to lessen the damage from years of tourism traffic on the approach to the front desk. The lobby ceiling towered thirty feet above, a glass skylight letting the brightness of day inside.

  Enrique nodded at the concierge and led Brennan towards the elevators. “It’s an old hand-crank but they had it converted to electric several years back,” he said. “Charming, no?”

  Brennan remained mute, the elevator creaking as it slowly rose, floor by floor, Enrique smiling and nodding his head, the American’s silence unnerving him somewhat. “It is a shame about your friend, but maybe the news will turn out to be okay. Perhaps he simply met one of our lovely young Colombian women…”

  The elevator creaked past the ninth floor, then the tenth, Brennan silent, alert and focused on doors. They were old, double sliders with a cage on the inside that had to be opened manually by the passengers. The carriage creaked to a halt on the twelfth floor.