The Devil's Shadow: A Gun-for-Hire Thriller

by J E Higgins

  “Well, that brings me to the next point,” Ashler continued. “From what we obtained from the seized documents, two ships, the San Bolivar and the Queen Isabella, are slated to sail five weeks from now. What we’re tracking is that they will be heading for a port in Cameroon and are both expected to be carrying a sizable consignment of weapons. Right now, the Americans and the Mexican army are looking to seize them.”

  “That could complicate things greatly,” Major Dijoubi said with a deep sigh of frustration. “The last thing we need is to have an accidental armed confrontation with allies that creates a serious diplomatic debacle in its wake.”

  “I agree,” Ashler concurred. “Which is why I advise hitting the docks ahead of time and destroying as many ships as possible. It gets the job done, sends a message, and keeps clear of the American operation.”

  Dijoubi nodded. “I’ll take your suggestion to our superiors. In the end, it will be their decision as to how we proceed. In the meantime, because of the sensitive nature of this operation, we have to tread carefully. We need to be kept abreast of the Americans and their activities regarding this company. We can’t afford any conflicts that could prove embarrassing.”

  “I understand,” Ashler replied. “I’ll keep you as up to date as I can.”

  Trent Wurry could hear William ‘Bill’ Tenison bellowing loudly from behind a closed door at the far end of the hall that was a few inches thick. From what he could ascertain from Tenison’s tirade, the attorney presumed the meeting was already well underway and tensions were high. Wurry had expected this. The recent news from Hechman about Darson and her team’s successful raid on a Black Crow headquarters had created a stir.

  Wurry received a message that afternoon that the ‘poker game’ at James Dasher’s home and had been arranged for the end of the month, was now being moved to this evening. At the beginning of the operation, it was decided that Dasher would continue to hold his poker game on a regular schedule every two weeks. This way they could continue to keep routine meetings while avoiding any behavior that looked suspicious. After all, men in their positions could not hold clandestine meetings on dark bridges in the dead of night, especially with each other, without raising interest. Poker games, on the other hand, were easily explained and dismissed.

  Stopping at the door, Wurry listened as Tenison raged on. “Damnit, how did this get by us! This changes things significantly. These documents could contain information that might give them exactly what is needed to justify an extradition. And, where the fuck is Wurry’s mercenary team? We could be running out of time, and they’re soaking up money as near as I can tell, but nowhere to be seen!”

  “They’re organizing and preparing for a mission,” Wurry interrupted, deciding it was time to make his appearance. The room went silent upon his arrival. Where before he had sauntered slowly towards the door, the lawyer was now striding across the room in a manner intended to make him the dominant presence.

  James Dasher was in the far corner acting as if he were some incognito observer. The congressman was dreading to be acknowledged, and he had a defensive look on his face.

  Arthur Hechman sat near the bar. He was enjoying a bourbon and had a fat Toro cigar dangling between his middle and index fingers. He took thoughtful puffs between sips of his drink. He acknowledged the attorney as he walked past him.

  Tenison was standing at the head of the room. He had stopped talking and was now watching Wurry looking judgmental. “Forgive us. We just started talking. The meeting hasn’t really started,” he added.

  Wurry dismissed him as he turned and wedged his hands in the pockets of his navy-blue trousers. From the center of the room, he cast a gaze over the other attendees. “I caught only the tail-end of your comments. You were concerned about what the recent seizure of these documents could mean for us and our operation.” He looked directly at the deputy director.

  Not wanting to appear intimidated or weak, Tenison returned the look with his own stern gaze. “I imagine you’ve already heard about agent Darson and her team’s recent success in Mexico. I was merely explaining the concern we all have at this point.”

  “Yes, I’ve been apprised,” Wurry began, with an attitude of utter indifference. “Is it necessarily a concern though?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Dasher exclaimed.

  “Because, as I’ve tried to explain,” Hechman cut in, somewhat irritated, “the cartel was able to destroy a good deal of the information before the team could seize the building. The team was only able to salvage bits and pieces. What they have is more operational intelligence than anything they could base a viable case on. Would I rest easy? No. They have information that provides leads and viable targets that might bring them closer to their goal. But I would say that we’re not in a dangerous situation yet.”

  “It’s still too close for my comfort,” Tenison replied. “As you said, it’s still intelligence that can lead them closer to their goal. The next raid could provide the evidence they need. My other concern is how Gutiérrez might react to this. An assault like this is likely to cause him to do something rash, something that could expose us.”

  “I don’t think so,” Wurry said. “It’s too early to play such a desperate card, especially if he thinks that what happened was just a routine action expected from the US government in response to his organization’s growing significance. Otherwise, he would have already done something. My guess is he’s assessing the situation and playing the odds. Divulging what he has too early could work against him and just as easily take away all his bartering power. For now, let’s assume he won’t become dangerous until he is clearly backed against a wall─right now he’s not. This may actually work in our favor given that this raid will cause him to shore up his ranks and move to take measures to protect himself─go on the defensive. His reaction could make him a harder target which buys us more time.”

  The room was silent as each man paused to contemplate the idea. It was Dasher who broke the silence. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we have more of an angle to play here than I thought.”

  “That still leaves the question of our own forces,” Tenison interjected denoting obvious skepticism. “Buying us time is irrelevant if it’s not working toward any gain.” He turned to stare at Wurry certain the attorney was about to give some seedy excuse followed with explaining that the operation was a failure.

  Wurry allowed himself a half-smile as he looked the deputy director squarely in the eye. He had been anticipating this question. “We’ve recruited a team. That team is in the field and, like any professional group, they’re preparing slowly and methodically to ensure a successful outcome which is what we’re paying them to do.”

  “I know that I’ve taken a good deal of risk allocating a lot of money in the direction of this project,” Tenison responded in a tone just short of condescension. “A project that I would like to remind everyone is being managed entirely by you.”

  “Because I have experience in this area,” Wurry responded, his legal mind laying out the argument he knew he needed to win. “Remember, agencies like yours work through people like me when they need something done but have no connections to make it happen. You may be a long-time veteran of the CIA’s world of black operations and, in your mind that gives you the credentials to assess how I’m handling this. Yet, let me remind you that your experience is not mine. You’ve always had the benefit of working with official sanctions that allow you to formally use government resources.

  “You’ve never really worked with mercenaries because you’ve had the assets of the US intelligence community and a vast pool of operatives to draw from. You can use assets from the wealth of Special Forces units you have in your military. Your organization comes to people like me when those options are not available. You may need to work through indirect resources and avenues of the black market or some other outside party to accomplish your goal. Now, while I have not dealt much in the world of mercenaries outside of private firms, I have connections t
o those who have. I’m kept apprised of what’s going on and the one we’ve recruited for this mission is pulling things together.” Wurry slowly surveyed the room looking for agreement.

  Tenison’s look had changed from smug condescension to a more humbled state. Dasher was more relieved than when the meeting started but still apprehensive. They were both intelligence officers by education and training and accustomed to having the luxury of official sanctions and layers of bureaucracy to protect them.

  The world of operations outside their realm was a mystery to them and one they didn’t understand, couldn’t control and didn’t enjoy. They wanted to walk that non-existent path where they controlled oversight of the mission but still had enough distance to retain plausible deniability.

  Hechman had remained calm throughout the discussion. He was indifferent to the topics of discussion. He appeared more bored than concerned about the issues. This was perhaps because he felt most of the topics utterly irrelevant. They had hired mercenaries and taken this drastic measure because they had exhausted the means of their official positions. At this point, with all the attention that surrounded the operation in Veracruz, to try and intervene with any idea of derailing or hindering the actions of agent Rainn Darson would quickly bring unwanted scrutiny on them. So, to discuss her progress as if they had any ability to do something about it was entirely moot in his mind. Likewise, he found the criticism of the operation to be equally pointless as none of the others wanted to be any closer to this than they had to be.

  The room remained quiet as the mood went from anger and fear to a more stoic attitude. Deciding he had calmed whatever dissension was being considered, he didn’t want to admit to any of them that he was sketchy on details of the operation.

  The Contessa, the woman he was working through, was keeping a watch on Devon Crane and his activities and updating him regularly. He was aware that the former Legionnaire was recruiting for the mission and, in the last few weeks, had moved his operation to South America. Little else was known, which was the way it should be given the nature of this operation.

  Chapter 18

  Once the deal had been struck, Crane made a call to McNaulty, who was standing by at the Volga owned casino with a stack of the casino’s gaming chips. He handed the chips to Grey Suit the second he got the order from Crane. Grey Suit’s contact had watched McNaulty hand the cash to the cashier and receive the neatly stacked bundles of chips in return. McNaulty stayed where the man could see him to ensure him no one tampered with the stacks.

  When the transaction was completed, it was easy for the contact to view the value of the chips, count the stacks that would contain chips of the same value and quickly calculate the amount. It was simply the fastest, most efficient way for gangsters to conduct deals while ensuring no double cross. A third party verified the chips so there was no concern regarding counterfeit money or having to negotiate in foreign currency that was unknown to one side or the other. The third party also provided a number of heavily armed Volga gunmen to protect both parties.

  As it turned out, Grey Suit had proven to be a productive contact making good on all their requests. Meeting at the prearranged location, Crane and Kusaki inspected each weapon carefully expecting Grey Suit might take advantage of the situation to palm off junk. This was a common practice with many arms dealers when working with small purchases or clients they don’t ever expect to see again, especially, when business was being conducted in locations where the emphasis was on discretion and secrecy, and everyone was anxious to complete their business quickly. Surprisingly, all the weapons and optics were brand new. Everything was in their original factory crates, and showing no signs of ever having been used. Kusaki assumed that the agreeable nature of their arms merchant had more to do with not angering Kusaki’s powerful connections than him being an honest businessman.

  After they had obtained their equipment, they loaded it onto beat up cargo trucks the mercenaries had bought from the Lebanese smuggler. The trucks were chosen specifically because they were the type commonly used by the locals throughout the jungles and wouldn’t attract any attention in the countries they passed through. They rolled the weapons in canvass and stuck them in the bottom of the trucks, covered them with crates of foreign beer, followed by stacks of fertilizer and other farming materials. They tried to appear as smugglers. If they were accosted by either bandits or an obscure security patrol, they assumed their vehicles would be searched. The beer would be found hidden under the fertilizer and, hopefully, satisfy the searchers before they discovered the armory of brand new combat weapons and ammunition.

  The roads were barely visible. Their lack of use had left them covered with a thick overgrowth of tall grass and other plants that encroached on the once well-worn tracks. The task of traversing the road was made more difficult by having to rely on night vision optics that filtered everything through a lime green picture. That picture was made even more uncertain by the overhanging canopy of trees that completely obscured any moonlight, creating a world of pitch blackness.

  Crane watched the road carefully from the passenger side while Ramon Espinoza drove. It wasn’t the ideal method of travel. The road was a path supposedly used by smugglers and other types who didn’t want to deal with pesky issues associated with checkpoints one encountered when formally crossing the border. This road had been shown to them by an old Lebanese trader who Kusaki’s Yakuza contacts did business with. With a small red pen, the old man squiggled a line on a large map connecting Northwestern Paraguay to Bolivia and then another that led from Southern Bolivia into Peru.

  This path took them through the most remote and unprotected parts of each country and the borders. It was the best way to get to their location while carrying a massive arsenal that would be difficult to conceal from anyone conducting an inspection of their vehicles.

  Crane figured it would be best if the journey was made with just him and the Spaniards. Any locals or security patrols they encountered would be less suspicious of their own people than a bunch of gringo foreigners who were generally despised. The rest of the team, led by Kusaki and McNaulty, would follow in a grimy looking Toyota. They would remain far enough behind that they would be disconnected from the cargo trucks to avoid unwanted suspicion.

  This was also a good strategy from a security standpoint. With a high probability of being hijacked by bandits, the team following would double as a response force. Radio checks would be conducted every half hour. If the backup team didn’t hear from either of the lead trucks or if they got an emergency call, the rest of the team would close the distance assuming the lead trucks were in danger.

  To avoid exposing their combat weapons, the mercenaries carried second-hand military hardware left over from the cold war or weapons captured from surrendering guerrillas from some drawn-out conflict. The Russian Makarov PMM pistols and AK-47s were likely North Korean made and sold as part of their burgeoning black-market business.

  Throughout the journey, they had heeded the advice offered by the Lebanese smuggler and kept their movements akin to the routines he had explained. They moved during the night to reduce the possibility of coming into contact with anyone. They had initially intended to move blacked out and rely on their night vision. However, they were cautioned against this plan by the old smuggler. He explained that if they were to be detained by anyone, they were more likely to be believed if they weren’t using sophisticated night vision equipment that would be beyond the means of the locals.

  They had heeded the old man’s advice and for most of their journey moved at night using headlights and rested during the day. Thankfully, they encountered no one. When they reached the border and crossed into Peru, they went into full tactical, dowsing the headlights, and using their night vision optics. At this point, the concern was maintaining the element of surprise and not giving Santos Guzman any warning of their existence.

  The trucks moved along the route at a slower pace than they had before. The visibility the drivers had enjoye
d when using the headlights was gone. Their night vision optics made the last few hours of driving rather cumbersome. As Crane watched from his side of the truck, he could hear Espinoza’s utterances. For the last hour, the Spaniard had taken to muttering to himself ─ it was utterly annoying. Since the muttering never reached an octave high enough for Crane to complain, he tried not to acknowledge it. Instead, he kept his attention focused on the road ahead.

  Having recced the route for a good distance earlier that afternoon, Crane felt relatively confident in the direction they were going. He felt even more confident that they would get through without any encounters. The landscape he had seen during his recce had shown no signs of humans. The roadway was grown over showing no signs that anyone had been on it for quite a while. The surrounding vegetation was lush, however, he saw a few signs of having been recently cut by people using machetes to make trails. They were old cuts that were beginning to grow in, but it was evident people did use this location from time to time.

  A crackling noise was heard coming from the small walkie-talkie the Welshman kept in his lap. On the old man’s recommendations, they had opted to use a cheap walkie-talkie for communication that would cause less suspicion than the more expensive sat phones they had initially intended to carry. After a few seconds of irritating high-pitched squeals and crackling sounds, Pedro Sandoval’s accented English came over the comms. “Do we know how much further we have to go? My ass is hurting.”

  “We’ll stop in another hour and check our bearings,” Crane answered. Espinoza’s muttering was gradually morphing from faint grumbling to full sentences vacillating between English and Spanish. It was hard to tell if he was still speaking to himself or if he was now directing his comments to his comrade in the passenger seat. Hearing nothing that sounded like a direct question or comment, Crane continued to ignore him as he focused his attention on the path ahead. There was nothing he could really say to anyone until they came to a stop, and he could plot out the next step.