He laughed at an unspoken joke, then sighed. “He played you Americans for fools. The DEA thought they could buy him and his men with money and weapons, and all the time he was working with the cartel. He hated America, but put on a show of being the gringo’s bloodhound. The cartel would give him one of their small operations, a sacrifice, but it made the DEA believe the general was doing a good job. Your newspapers would beat their chests over their great victory. Ahhhh, I tell you from my heart, I was embarrassed for you. When the undead came, I watched the news reports. The people of my country were dying everywhere. Some hid. Some ran. But the general… the general is a clever man. Like you. He showed up at this army base with many soldiers that were loyal to him. People were panicking, looting, and the general kills all the undead. He restores order. He gathers all the solders and gives a big speech about how they are the beating heart of Colombia and the people of their country are crying out for them to save them. He fills the soldiers’ hearts with pride and hope. He asks them, ‘Who will follow me?’ The men have lost so much. They are not sure if there’s anything important enough to fight for. Then General Rojas takes out his revolver and empties all the bullets, but one.
‘To everyone’s amazement he puts it to his own head. He says his loyalty to his country is so great he would rather die, right there, than lead men without the will to sacrifice everything for their homeland. Everyone is shocked when he pulls the trigger. The hammer clicks loudly on an empty chamber. He asks again, ‘Who will follow me?’. Some of the men shout they will follow, but only some. Others are frightened.
‘Without flinching the General pulls the trigger again. Snap,” said San Roman, slapping his hands together. “The men watch, transfixed as the General pulls back the hammer of his gun. It is so quiet you can hear the click of the spring in the gun setting the trigger in place. Suddenly a man shouts he will follow. Then another, and another until every soldier there swears an oath of fidelity. With tears in his eyes, the general points his pistol into the air and pulls the trigger. Bang. The gun goes off. The men go crazy. They start chanting, Rey suicida. Rey suicida. The Suicide King.”
“How many men does he have?” asked Tate.
“He started with, maybe, two hundred,” said San Roman. “Now it’s more like five hundred. Maybe more.” He chuckled at Tate’s troubled expression. “That’s the rumor.”
“Hard to believe he can sustain that many men,” said Tate.
“The first thing they did was gather supplies, food, everything they need to provide for the General’s private army. When they needed more the General went after the small-time cocaine producers. He took over their operations.”
Tate was too seasoned to doubt that the drug trade would be slowed down by something as insignificant as the world nearly being wiped out. He’d seen places ravaged by war, no clean water, people starving. No electricity, nothing, but people still found a way to get drugs through the battle lines.
“The Suicide King was growing in power and knocking down anyone who got in his way. Who knows,” said San Roman, pulling a face and shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe he could take over all of Colombia. It is not like there’s a government to stop him. Until, of course, here come the big, American gringos who plant their flag on South America and try to take it.”
“And that’s when the Suicide King found his true calling,” said Tate. “Liberating Colombia from the United States? That would be the shortest war in the history books.”
“Maybe yes,” said San Roman, “but I think maybe no. Not the way he would make war.” The young drug boss studied Tate for several seconds before he went on. “You wanted to know about the Suicide King. I have information I think you will be interested in.”
“And in return for this information?” said Tate.
San Roman turned to his bodyguard, laughing. “You see, Juan? That’s what I’m talking about. Working with professional is very refreshing.” He turned his attention back to Tate. “In return you will do a small job for me. A minor annoyance that I want removed.”
Anger flared up in Tate. To mask it, he leaned back, drawing a long deep breath as though he were relaxing. “I don’t do hit jobs,” he said, much calmer than he felt. It was bad enough that he was tangled up with San Roman. He had to guard against the kid having any more leverage on him. “You have Sicarios for that.”
“I come all the way here to offer you valuable information,” frowned San Roman, “and this is how I’m treated?” His smile disappeared in an instant. “If I say the price for this information is a pile of bodies, then you stack them up at my feet. Or I could always let slip to the United States Army that one of their Sergeant Majors isn’t the Boy Scout they think he is.”
Tate was getting the hang of San Roman’s game. Pushing people off balance, making threats, then quickly backing off. He was also getting tired of it, but whatever San Roman knew Tate had a strong feeling it was important. He waited, stone faced, for San Roman to go on.
“But, that’s not the job,” said San Roman. “I have learned that someone has set up a distribution site on my territory. They drop off their product and when it’s big enough they ship the whole thing out. I tell you, these pigs have no respect for boundaries. I want you to remove it.”
“Guards? Armament?” asked Tate.
“They’re using a gas station in a small, abandoned village,” said San Roman. “The only time people are there is to drop off, or pick up. It’s simple. You go in, blow it up, burn it down, I don’t care, as long as it is destroyed.”
“Why me?” asked Tate. “A couple of your men and a can of gas could do it.”
“Blah, blah, blah. All these questions,” said San Roman with a wave of his hand. “You make it sound like we are haggling in a market. No. This is the price to get what you want. You don’t do it, I leave.”
Tate’s suspicions were waving a crowd of red flags. He didn’t believe for a second that San Roman was telling him everything about the gas station, but he’d deal with that later. He had no other option but to agree.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“Bueno,” said San Roman, as he clapped his hands and stood up. He took a small Gate-drive from his pocket and tossed it to Tate. “That’s everything you need to know about the distribution site. That also has a one-time phone number,” he said, pointing to the Gate-drive. “You call that number when you’re finished, but only when it’s done. One call then, fisst the number doesn’t work again. I’ll give you the information about the Suicide King when you call.”
San Roman flicked two fingers at his bodyguard who waded across the room and opened the door. He stood back for San Roman walk out.
“You should stay away from starches,” said San Roman to Tate. “Drop some pounds, you know?” He walked out.
The bodyguard followed closing the door behind him.
“I’m working on it,” said Tate.
CHAPTER NINE
SET UP
At the back of the Blue Orchid a stout, steel door opened into the night. San Roman walked out and got into a gloss black, up-armored Land Rover; a car he had liberated from an ex-competitor.
Dante Barrios slipped his phone into the pocket of his tailored jacket, giving his boss his full attention. “How did your meeting go?”
Dante casually appraised San Roman’s expression as he waited for an answer. Unlike San Roman’s volatile mood swings, Dante Barrios was cool and measured. His mind was always assessing his surroundings, looking for advantages, leverage and, if needed, an exit strategy. His polished exterior didn’t give away his anxiety that San Roman’s next move would be to blow the back of his head off.
Months earlier, San Roman had tasked Dante with letting Tate interrogate a valuable prisoner. With Tate’s Colt .45 at his head, Dante had agreed to let Tate take the prisoner and both had agreed on a cover story that the prisoner was shot trying to escape.
San Roman’s next words would tell Dante if Tate had given him up, or kept their mutua
l secret. But, if Tate was willing to keep that secret, maybe he could cultivate a useful liaison with Tate outside of San Roman’s interests.
“The way you talked about Tate,” said San Roman, “I thought he was goanna be this badass dude.”
The bodyguard closed the ballistic re-enforced door with a hushed thud.
“Things went well, then,” said Dante.
The Land Rover creaked and mildly rocked as San Roman’s bodyguard got in the front passenger seat.
“Tate’s a pussy,” said San Roman. “He’ll do what I tell him.”
The only outward indication of surprise from Dante Barrios was the slight raise of his right eyebrow. His last encounter with Tate had proven he was a man of confidence and audacity. After San Roman’s account of tonight’s meeting, Dante would add cunning to Tate’s list of qualities.
The Land Rover’s V8 engine started up with a throaty rumble and drove out of the ally, onto the main street.
“Do you have the messenger ready?” asked San Roman.
“Si,” said Dante. He took out his phone preparing for San Roman’s instructions.
San Roman dictated his message, then Dante read it back.
San Roman nodded in approval.
“Don’t send anyone useful,” he asked.
“No, sir,” said Dante. “General Rojas’ track record with your messengers has been very consistent. All he ever sends back are body parts.”
* * *
The neo-diode ceiling lights harshly lit the hooded figure bound to a simple metal chair. Two soldiers stood attentively, but relaxed, beside the chair. Through the row of small windows, the indigo sky was changing with the coming dawn. The two soldiers instantly came to attention as the door swung open. Lieutenant Miguel Castillo entered and moved out of the doorway adopting the same rigid attention as the two guards. The guards snapped a salute as General Guillermo Rojas walked into the room. He briefly looked at each guard before returning the salute then turned his attention to the hooded figure. Lieutenant Castillo followed the general and stood off to his right side.
“At ease,” said Castillo.
In synchronized movement, the guards changed their position in textbook fashion.
General Rojas rested his hands on his web-belt and nodded head towards the guards.
“Release the prisoner,” snapped Castillo. “Take off the hood.”
One guard unsheathed his knife and cut through the plastic ties around the hooded figure’s wrists and ankles then removed the hood.
The general’s dark brown eyes glanced over the man seated in the chair as he blinked his eyes in the sudden brightness of the room. His hair was slightly ruffled from the hood, but otherwise his simple features were well groomed. He looked around the room unhurriedly, then turned his attention to Castillo.
“May I stand?” asked the man calmly.
Castillo’s gaze flicked to the general. “Si,” he said, after observing no change to the general’s expression.
The man rose to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from his collared shirt and khaki slacks. He smiled at Castillo and gestured at the general with his hand.
“You may speak to the general,” said Castillo.
The man turned to the general and offered a bow of his head. “General Rojas,” said the man. “It is an honor to meet you. I bring an urgent message from señor, Nesto San Roman.”
“I know who sent you,” said Rojas in a smooth rumble.
The messenger only smiled. Any fear he felt were completely diluted by the opiates he’d taken shortly before surrendering himself to one of the many outposts that guarded general Rojas’ territory. Even though the man was only a messenger, San Roman didn’t want his representative quaking and groveling at the general’s feet. His messenger would be clean, groomed, properly dressed, composed and entirely disposable.
“Señor San Roman,” said the messenger, “has learned that the American army will soon be attacking one of your facilities.”
The lines in the general’s creased face deepened as his squared jaw clenched. “How would an insignificant drug pusher like him know this?”
The messenger was unfazed by the insult of his boss, or the general’s darkening expression. “Señor San Roman has informants inside the Americans army base near Ciudad de Rosa.”
The general’s thick eyebrows rose in mild surprise as he guardedly appraised the messenger with new regard.
“Señor San Roman offers this valuable information in the hope it will aid your cause to reclaim Colombia from the American invaders,” said the messenger. “He only asks that you reconsider his proposal that you make him a part your operation. Señor San Roman believes his position in your organization would be both significant and beneficial to you.”
“Where and when are the Americans going to attack,” said the general.
“Señor San Roman doesn’t know where,” said the messenger smoothly. “But, he does know the attack could be as soon as three days.”
The corner of Rojas’ lip dipped to a frown as his mind quickly processed his next actions. “Anything else?”
“Señor San Roman looks forward to…” began the messenger only to be abruptly cut off by the general.
“I mean,” growled the general, “anything else useful.”
“No, sir,” smiled the messenger. He knew the next words from the general would likely be to torture him to death, or a bullet in the head. The drugs flowing through his blood quenched any fear. The only sensation was a detached curiosity what it would feel like at the moment of death.
General Rojas turned on his heel and headed to the door. Castillo got there first, ensuring the general never broke stride waiting for the door to be opened.
Castillo closed the door behind the general and trotted to catch up to him.
“Send the messenger back,” said the general.
“In what condition, sir?” asked Castillo.
“Alive,” clipped the general.
“Any message, sir?”
“No. San Roman’s getting his dog back alive,” said the general. “He’ll understand the meaning.”
“With respect, sir,” said Castillo, “are you thinking of adding San Roman to your organization?”
“Having a source inside the American base is an important advantage,” said the general.
“San Roman has no loyalty,” said Castillo. “All he cares about is power. I suspect the only reason he wants into your organization is to murder you and take it over.”
The general barked a humorless laugh. “I know that’s exactly what he’s planning,” said the general. “He’s a little boy with fantasies of being a king. He believes he’s the clever one in a world of fools. I’ll bring him into the organization, take his spy, then kill the brat.”
“And the Americans’ pending attack?” said Castillo. “What are your orders, sir?”
The general’s response was immediate. “There’s not enough manpower to reinforce each location completely. Send a platoon to the important sites. You will to take a squad and extra weapons to each of the small sites. Supply the locals with guns and conscript them to strengthen those positions. I won’t risk losing my own men over something that’s expendable. But do not be quick to throw away the lives of our countrymen. Our time with the DEA taught us much about their Special Forces tactics. We know how they think and move. That is our edge. You will use that to cut their throats.”
“Yes, sir,” said Castillo. He concealed his frown from the general. It would take time to get to all of the small sites.
Would it even be possible to reach them before the American’s attacked? What if they strike a site before he’s been there?
I will have failed the general.
“Lieutenant,” said the general, breaking into Castillo’s thoughts. “The difficulty of your mission is not lost on me and it won’t be the last. We will lose good soldiers defending our country, but we will bring such death and fear to America that they will quiver every time the
y think of us. This is an important mission. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to carry it out.”
Castillo’s chest swelled with pride. “Thank you, General,” he said.
“Get to it, then,” said the general, as he stopped and faced Castillo.
Lieutenant Castillo came to attention and crisply saluted the general. “Yes, sir,” he said.
The general returned the salute. Castillo’s quick glance stopped at the nearest soldier.
“First Corporal,” he shouted.
The First Corporal nearly jumped in surprise.
“Si, Lieutenant Castillo,” said the corporal, nearly knocking off his cap as he saluted.
“Have Sergeant Lopez report to me immediately,” said Castillo. “Rapido.”
* * *
The unbroken canopy of dense jungle smoothly fell and rose beneath the Blackhawk helicopter, masking the rugged terrain underneath. Tate had carefully studied the information from San Roman’s Gate-drive before briefing his team on the mission. The location of the drug distribution site was just over an hour’s flight away. The satellite image of the village was old, but small places like this didn’t change much.
Tate had informed the team everything he knew about the objective with the one omission of the source of the intel. Instead, he presented it as another sweep and clear operation. Tate had wrestled with coming clean and telling everyone on the team the truth. That some of their missions were actually covert strikes against a clandestine organization called The Ring. That The Ring was behind the formation of their unit, the Grave Diggers, and some of their missions were at the direction of The Ring. But, with that knowledge came incredible danger. The Ring had already proven they could infiltrate a spy in their base. One wrong word from anyone in the team could be a death sentence for all of them. No amount of justification dulled his self-loathing. He looked at the faces seated in the cabin of the helicopter knowing each of them trusted him with their lives. Time after time Tate played out endless scenarios of what would happen if he confessed the truth to them. They’d all hate him. Rightfully accuse him of betraying them; using them. Maybe seek some pay-back for endangering them without their knowledge? Why not. They’d be justified. His thoughts were broken by the crew chief’s voice in his ear.
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