by Pamela Clare
She refused to worry about it. If they did find it, it might make the rescue operation easier. If they didn’t, they were no worse off. They had their own master key in the form of explosive breaching charges.
Gordito returned to his post, visibly enraged. Dianne and Tim settled down to sleep, so Gabriela did the same, worries gnawing at her. She knew when she heard the thunder of boots on the stairs that Pitón was coming for her.
The door burst open, and he appeared, rage on his face, two others following him through the door, El Cebo and another.
Pitón reached for Gabriela, jerked her to her feet. “Where is the key, you little whore?”
“What key?” She looked at him as if he were crazy, addressing him by his real name to take him down a notch. “You’re still drunk, Eduardo.”
“You took Topo’s key to the front door while you were praying over him. It had to be you.” He released her, stepped back, hate on his face. “Gordito, search her. Take off that ugly gray habit. Let’s see what this bitch is hiding.”
Gordito looked scandalized. “Pitón, man, she’s a nun. If you want to search her, you do it. I’m not going to touch her.”
Pitón swore, reached over, ripped off Gabriela’s veil and coif, her hair spilling around her face. He shook the fabric, threw it aside. “Where did you hide it?”
Tim stood and might have tried to stop Pitón had Gabriela not shaken her head.
“I am hiding nothing.” She fought to stay calm. “All of you were standing right there, Eduardo. How could I possibly take anything? What would I do with it?”
If he got her naked, she was sure he wouldn’t stop there.
Pitón untied her scapular, jerked it over her head, then started to untie the rope at her waist.
“Man, he wore that key around his neck.” Gordito glared at Pitón with disgust. “Did you check the body before you threw him in the fucking river, pendejo?”
Pitón turned on Gordito. “Of course, they checked the body!”
Then he turned to a younger man whose name Gabriela didn’t know. “You checked his body, right, güevón?”
The man’s gaze dropped to his feet. “We searched his pockets.”
“You searched his pockets?” Pitón let loose a string of profanity. “When I asked if you’d gotten his key, all you’d done is search his pockets?”
“Sí, Pitón. I’m sorry. I didn’t know to check around his neck.”
“Fucking idiot!”
Gordito seemed amused by all of this. “Relax, Pitón, you stupid fucker. That key is now in the river with poor Topo. We have others. Besides, how is this little nun going to get past me? Even if she had a key, she couldn’t do anything with it. You’d better start worrying about what you’re going to tell the Boss. Topo was his wife’s nephew.”
That was useful information.
“Shut the fuck up!” Pitón turned and stomped up the stairs, leaving stunned silence behind him, El Cebo and the other sicario following.
Gabriela let out a silent breath of relief.
She had gotten lucky this time.
Gordito shut the door, motioned toward Gabriela’s veil, coif, and scapular. “You can put them on. Is it true that you prayed over Topo?”
“Yes.” Gabriela slipped the scapular over her head, tied it in place. “He said he was sorry. I prayed to God to forgive him of his sins.”
“You did that?” Gordito stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“Yes. I could not absolve him, but there was no one else. Pitón refused to call a priest, and Topo was so afraid. I didn’t want him to die in fear. God will understand.”
If she could feed the tension between Gordito and Pitón…
Some of the anger left Gordito’s face. “Thank you, Hermana. Can I get you anything?”
Gabriela slipped the coif into place then reached for her veil. “A deck of cards? Something for the gringos to read? You know how dull things are down here, Gordito, because you are here with us.”
“Sí, Hermana. I’ll make it happen.”
“I never played soccer.” Jones tossed the soccer ball to Dylan. “I only played football.”
“I’ll help you out.” Segal settled in behind the camera. “You kick the ball with your foot. Got that? That’s why the entire world, except for the US, calls it football.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you, man?”
Dylan didn’t join in the banter. He’d felt uneasy since last night when that gunshot had gone off. They’d watched as a body wrapped in plastic was carried onto the loading dock and dumped into a van. What the hell had happened over there?
He went over the plan. “We play for a while. You try to get the ball from me, and then I’ll take it from you. That kind of thing. Then, when the time is right, I’ll kick the ball into one of those window wells. If the guards raise their weapons, we stop, act surprised and friendly, and let them get it for us.”
“Got it.”
Last night, Segal had gone for another walk, this time making his way around the warehouse. He’d found a door that went downstairs, but it had clearly been in disuse for a while, the stairwell full of dirt and trash. There wasn’t even a guard posted there—a sign perhaps that it was bricked up from the other side or inaccessible in some other way. Sister María had said there was only one entrance to the room where she and the others were being kept.
Now, it was up to Dylan and Jones to gather intel on those windows—if they could get close enough.
Dylan dropped the ball to the asphalt and dribbled it down the street. Jones came up beside him and almost tripped him trying to get the ball away.
Speaking Spanish now, Dylan ribbed him. “What was that, pendejo?”
Over on the loading dock, a couple of sicarios were watching, grins on their stupid faces.
Dylan and Jones grappled over the ball, Jones finally stealing it and dribbling it the other way. Dylan ran up beside him, stole the ball, and took off. Back and forth they went, working up a sweat in the hot sunshine, the guards shouting encouragement and laughing along with them.
Then Dylan saw his chance. He kicked the ball straight toward one of the basement windows. It rolled and sank into the window well.
Goal!
“Mierda.” Shit. Grinning and chuckling, he jogged toward the window. “Out of bounds. Sorry.”
One of the sicarios by the main doors shouted for him to stop, but he pretended not to hear, bending over and reaching for the ball.
Iron bars bolted into concrete. Gaps not wide enough for a person to pass through. Windows made of single-pane glass.
There was no way anyone was going in or out of these windows.
“Hey, güevón, what are you doing?”
Dylan scooped up the ball and stood, putting a dumb smile on his face. “Just getting our ball, buddy.”
They went back to playing, stealing the ball from one another until at least an hour had passed.
“You’re getting better,” Dylan said to Jones, still in Spanish. “Let’s get something to eat, pana.”
They were due to check in with Tower and Shields.
This time, Andris was there.
Tower didn’t like what Dylan had to say. “There’s no way to get those bars off without risking injury to the hostages?”
“None, sir.”
“What about additional entrances?” Andris asked. “We’ve got the main doors and loading dock and then a side entrance. Anything else?”
“I circled the place last night,” Segal said. “The only additional entrance I found is an unused door that goes down to the basement. The hinges have rusted, and there’s a few years’ worth of debris piled up in the stairwell—leaves, trash, mud.”
Dylan offered his two cents. “We need to know that’s not a dead-end before we try to get in that way. We don’t want to blow the hinges only to walk into a brick wall.”
Then Jones chimed in. “Why can’t we just kill the guards and use the key? They’ve got
at most six guys at the doors and two on the roof. If we use suppressors and move at night, we might be able to get inside without anyone knowing we’re there.”
Segal shook his head. “We’d have to neutralize all our targets at the same exact time, or someone will set off the alarm, giving them a chance to kill the hostages.”
“Actually, it might be our best bet,” Andris countered. “They won’t take the sound of a key sliding into the lock as a threat. Is there any chance that they’ve changed the locks?”
“No way.” Dylan was certain of it. “We’ve been watching round the clock.”
“I’d sure like to know who they killed,” Shields said. “If it was one of the journalists, we should know soon. The US government has asked for proof that the two journalists are alive to buy us some time.”
“This is going to be a complicated operation.” Andris didn’t need to tell them that. “We’ve got forty-eight hours to get in there and get this job done. We’ll be wheels up at zero-six-hundred hours tomorrow.”
Hell, yeah.
Shit was about to get real.
“What should I do now?” Gabriela pretended not to know she had a straight flush.
Somehow, Gordito had gotten them a deck of cards. Because a nun probably wouldn’t have mastered poker, Gabriela had played ignorant, prompting Gordito, who’d gotten sick of watching her lose, to become her coach.
“Call it.”
“I call.” Gabriela set her cards down on the blanket.
Tim grinned. “That’s the third hand you’ve won.”
Gabriela translated this for Gordito, doing all she could to create a bond between him and his prisoners. “You’re a good teacher.”
“I used to play poker all the time.”
“Don’t tell me you gambled, Gordito?” She smiled.
He chuckled. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty, Hermana?”
“If guilt works, then…”
Gordito’s phone buzzed, the smile leaving his face. He drew the phone out of his pocket and answered. “Sí. Sí, Jefe.” Yes, boss.
He ended the call, stood, his expression grave. “Hide the cards. Now!”
“We need to hide the cards,” Gabriela told the others, gathering them up.
Heavy footfalls on the stairs.
By the time the door opened and Pitón walked in, the cards were tucked away in their box and hidden beneath Dianne’s blanket.
Pitón dropped a copy of today’s newspaper on Dianne’s lap. “Have these two hold up the paper while I take a photo. The bastards in Washington want proof that they’re still alive before they release the money.”
Then he noticed Gabriela. “Not you, whore. You stand over there. Nobody cares if you’re alive, not even your God.”
Gabriela stood, stepped away from Dianne and Tim, eager not to be in the photo. The last thing any of them needed was for her face to appear in US newspapers. People might recognize her.
She watched while Tim and Dianne held up the paper and looked into the camera on Gordito’s cell phone.
Gordito took a couple of images then uploaded them to someone.
Was the person he’d called Jefe Luis Sánchez?
Gabriela wanted to get her hands on that phone.
Then Pitón was gone again, even Gordito looking relieved.
An hour later, one of the men shouted down to Gordito that the hostages’ supper was ready. “Send up the nun to get it!”
“I’m going with you, Hermana. I don’t trust that malparido.”
Gabriela didn’t have to ask which bastard Gordito meant. “Thank you, Gordito.”
Gabriela climbed the stairs and crossed the space to fill bowls for herself and the others, Gordito staying by the top of the stairs.
“Why the fuck are you here and not down with the gringos?” Pitón was drunk again, the tension between him and Gordito sharp.
But Gordito didn’t seem to be afraid of Pitón. “I’m here to make sure no one touches her.”
“Who would want to touch her?” Pitón laughed. “I bet a nun’s pussy dries up. Is that what happens, puta? Does it dry up?”
Gabriela ignored him, filled three bowls with rice and beans, and tucked three bottles of water under her arm.
Pitón stepped into her path. “Or maybe it fills up with cobwebs and rats.”
That brought snickers.
“Let her pass, Pitón, you malparido.”
Pitón glowered at Gabriela but stepped back. “When we release the other hostages, I’ll be free to do whatever I want with you.”
Gabriela ignored him, made her way downstairs once more, Gordito and Pitón arguing, their shouts following her to the basement. Alone for just a moment, she tried to buoy their spirits. “The photos they took of you two today—that was proof of life. They said the US government demanded proof that you were alive before they would transfer your ransom money.”
Gabriela knew that no ransom was on its way. This was just a stalling tactic, a way of buying time for the spec ops team. But she couldn’t risk people’s lives by telling Dianne and Tim that a rescue was imminent. They’d all seen the soccer ball hit the window this afternoon, but only Gabriela had recognized the man who’d retrieved it. She’d known it meant the operators were looking for weaknesses, searching for the best routes in and out of the warehouse.
“Do you really think they’ll let us go?” Dianne asked.
“Yes. Do not despair.” Gabriela took Dianne’s hand, squeezed it. “Soon, you will be safely home again.”
It was just a matter of days.
6
Dylan sat with Jones and Segal around the laptop for a briefing on the rescue plan with Tower, Shields, and Andris. But first, Tower shared some good news.
“The body they moved did not belong to the hostages. You’ve seen Sister María yourself, and the Pentagon received proof of life for the journalists today. They killed one of their own.”
“Better that than a hostage.”
“Save us effort.”
But now it was time to get down to business.
Shields led off. “You’re in a densely populated and mountainous area, so infil is going to be tricky. We’ll do a HAHO insertion over the Zona Militar. Satellite images show no movement there for weeks now except at the small base on its northwest boundary. Under cover of darkness, it’s unlikely anyone will spot our guys. But if people in surrounding towns see men in parachutes coming down, hopefully they’ll assume it’s Venezuelan forces.”
Okay, Dylan was on board with that. High-altitude, high-open jumps—HAHO jumps—were intended for areas like this one, where the sound of a parachute opening might alert an enemy on the ground.
Tower took over. “The drop zone will be a narrow band of forest about three klicks east of your position. Team Two will pack their chutes and meet you at these coordinates. You’ll be waiting there with the truck at oh-two-hundred hours. This time you’ll be smuggling us.”
Then it hit Dylan. “You’re coming, too, boss?”
“Corbray and I will both be there. He’s meeting us at the airport in Miami.”
Dylan exchanged glances with Jones and Segal. This must be one hell of an important mission if they were both coming. It had been a long time since both Corbray and Tower had deployed with the team. The risk was obvious. They were the company’s owners. If something went wrong and they were killed…
Andris went over the rescue. “Tower and Corbray will take positions at the window of your apartment where they can get a clear shot at the men on the rooftop. The rest of us will use the truck for cover or position ourselves around the corner. We’ll be using night vision and suppressors.”
Suppressors couldn’t make a rifle silent, but people inside the warehouse shouldn’t be able to hear the shots.
“It is paramount that all eight targets are neutralized at the same time so that no one raises the alarm,” Tower said. “We don’t want to give these bastards time to kill the hostages. You’ll sight your targets
and drop them on command.”
“Got it.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll make it happen.”
“From there, it will be a pretty standard rescue, except that we hope to enter using the key Sister María so bravely provided rather than breaching charges. Hopefully, that will buy us some time.”
Andris took it from there. He clicked the computer’s trackpad, and a satellite image of the warehouse appeared on the screen. “Once inside, Cruz and Jones will head straight to the basement to free the hostages, while McManus, Segal, Isaksen, and I clear the building. Tower and Corbray will keep an eye on the street in case these bastards have backup. We are not taking prisoners. Am I understood?”
It was shoot to kill.
Dylan didn’t have a problem with that. These bastards worked for a drug cartel and a corrupt government official who killed anyone who got in his way and who had chosen to abduct US citizens. There was a price to pay for that kind of shit.
“Once the hostages are free and the building is clear, we’ll take the stairs up to the roof for exfil. A Sikorsky S-76B will drop out of the sky to ferry us to a US navy vessel sitting offshore in international waters. Tower and Corbray will meet us on the roof with the gear from the apartment.”
With the broader plan outlined, they broke it down into small details.
Dylan, Jones, and Segal would sell off the rest of their black market wares this afternoon, including the beer and the cocuy, which they hoped to get into the hands of the bad guys.
Segal would stay at the apartment and maintain surveillance while Dylan and Jones drove to the drop zone to pick up Team Two. He would make sure to leave the window facing the warehouse open in preparation for Tower and Corbray so there would be no sound or movement to draw the guards’ attention as they got into position.
Before firing shots, the men would break down all of the surveillance equipment and laptop and get it ready for Tower and Corbray to carry to the warehouse roof.
“Easy-peasy, huh, boys?” Shields smiled.
But Tower was dead serious. “I do not have to emphasize how critical it is that every step of the operation is carried out to perfection. You are the best of the best—elite warfighters with the skills to work privately. Your lives, the hostages’ lives, and the future of US-Venezuelan relations depend on us getting this right.”