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

by J E Higgins

  Chapter 26

  Zaid Saverine hunched against the counter at the bar as he stared deeply into his drink. To him, the tall glass of dark beer resting just inches away looked like an ominous witch’s cauldron. It was only his second beer of the night and, as a matter of habit, his last. He never liked to get intoxicated. He didn’t like to get to the point that he was seeing the demons from his past coming back to haunt him. Not like the drunkards who came in nightly to drown themselves in booze and were soon screaming and arguing with the ghosts of men they had killed in their years of military service.

  Saverine had no regrets about what he had done as a soldier. He had killed when needed and watched comrades die in missions that he had led. He saw it all as part of the job. It was a soldier’s life, and they all knew what to expect going in. In the years he spent in the US Air Force Combat Control, he had seen a lot of action across Iraq and Afghanistan as well as numerous missions in other parts of the world. Then, as a mercenary, he had seen plenty more. He wasn’t about to spend his evenings of relaxation justifying his actions to a bunch of forgotten ghosts.

  Taking his glass in hand, he downed a sizeable gulp, letting the smooth liquid slide easily down his throat. He rotated the glass in his hand as he continued to study the remaining contents. He was just about to take another drink when he was interrupted by the bartender sauntering over to him on the other side of the bar. He was a big burly man, who looked like he had been a professional fighter at one time. He looked at Saverine and shot him a wide grin revealing a row of jagged, shark-like teeth as he placed another tall glass of beer in front of him.

  “From the lady,” the bartender said as he nodded his head towards the other end of the counter. Saverine angled slightly in the direction the bartender pointed to see a woman in her mid-forties sitting at the far corner. She was dressed properly enough for the establishment in a pair of cargo pants and a collared shirt that she covered over with a tan field coat. Though she tried to play the role of someone who fit in naturally, her noticeably upper-class demeanor made it clear she was out of place here.

  Picking up the beer he had just been offered, Saverine slid from his seat and made his way toward the woman. As he approached, she looked at him and cracked a smile intended to be warm and inviting but it was clearly insincere. He sat down next to her and raised his glass in her direction. She rested her arms on the counter as she turned her focus to the large mirror against the wall. Through it, she was able to see everything going on in the entire establishment. Likewise, Saverine did the same.

  A quick glance at the mirror scanning the room satisfied both of them that no one was watching their meeting. The other patrons were far too engrossed in their own business drinking and socializing to give the slightest consideration to the two patrons at the bar.

  “It appears we’ll be needing your services,” the woman began. The smile had disappeared from her face and her tone was serious.

  “I figured that’s why you called this meeting,” Saverine said, referring to the call he had received on a disposable phone he had bought after the first meeting he had with her. As a precaution, both had acquired phones from a local vendor to ensure that they hadn’t been tampered with. They exchanged numbers so they could verify the other’s identity when using them. “I’ve been getting ready,” he replied in an equally formal tone as he took another swig.

  She continued, “I hope so. I’m afraid things are moving faster than expected, which means I’ll need you to be ready to move quickly. What is your current status?”

  “As I said, I’ve been preparing per your instructions,” the mercenary began, twisting the beer glass in his hands. “I’ve recruited people, all ex-special forces. I’ve established a camp in a location that offers a wide variety of diverse training grounds. Since you didn’t give me more than a vague idea of where we would be operating, I figured it was best to have a location that covered pretty much everything. I’ve got contacts that will allow us to move quickly when we have to.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I knew you were the right candidate for the job.”

  “What are the particulars?” He took another swig of his beer. “I figure now is the time to narrow down what we need to prepare for.”

  “Right now, we still don’t know much,” she shook her head. “Our latest intelligence says somewhere in Peru, along the coast. However, other intelligence suggests that the target is perhaps headed for Central Chile.”

  Saverine grimaced slightly as he lowered his eyes from the mirror back toward his drink. “That could be at least a hundred places. I need more than that.”

  The woman scoffed indignantly. “You’re being paid quite handsomely for your services. So, you’ll work with what I give you, do I make myself clear?”

  “I’m being paid to conduct an illegal commando operation in a foreign country so that your boys don’t have to do it,” he reminded her sternly. “I’m not taking suicidal risks because you can’t come through on your end with the necessary intelligence.” For the first time since the conversation began, he shifted his eyes in her direction and followed with a slight tilt of his head to ensure she could see he was looking at her.

  She did not return his stare as she calmly maintained her focus on the mirror studying it carefully to ensure that their actions had still not attracted any unwanted attention. “I understand your position. However, you are a professional in this field. And, you know this is how the game is sometimes played. You don’t always get to have a perfect setup with an abundance of intelligence and plenty of time to work. That was true even in the military.”

  Saverine didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. His cynical look said enough. Enough that the woman realized she may have overplayed her hand. Tightening her lips, she turned in his direction and leaned in slightly, “We’ll get you as much intelligence as we can, as quickly as we can, so you have as much time as possible to prepare.”

  “It’s your mission,” he said indifferently, “In the end, you’ve also got a vested interest in it being successful. So, it’s in your interest to see that I’m not going in blind.” He started to get up, reaching into his pocket to produce some pesos that he dropped on the counter to pay for his drinks. “Thanks for what you have given me. I’ll start focusing on amphibious operations.”

  He then leaned down close to the woman, “But, a word of advice.” His Louisiana accent becoming more distinctive. “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking of me or my men like we’re cannon fodder again. If I have a limited window of time to work with, I’ll work with it. But if you think that we’ll go blindly into a suicide mission just because you’re throwing money around, and we’re mercenaries, then you’re sadly mistaken.” He didn’t wait for a response, there was nothing more to be said. He brushed past the woman and made his way out onto the street.

  The woman watched his movements through the mirror as he made his exit. Samantha Richards was a career operative with the British intelligence service, the famed MI-6. She had spent years in South America and had become the organization’s most experienced operative in the region. Upon her official retirement from the service, she opted to remain in South America. Her numerous contacts and associates, along with her familiarity with the language, politics, and culture of all areas of the region made her quite valuable to the Foreign Service. Her old employers saw great benefit in a former operative that could informally preside over sensitive matters her majesty’s government didn’t want to get their hands dirty with.

  When the decision had been reached at Whitehall to take action against the Black Crow cartel, Richards was immediately contacted by her old friends in the intelligence community. She was asked to use her contacts to find someone who could create a force of free-lance contractors that could be used in the event the mission’s Area of Operation wound up expanding outside the Caribbean.

  Through some of her trusted mercenary contacts, she was introduced to Zaid Saverine, a former soldier with wide special operat
ions experience and a good reputation for handling complex missions. As she finished watching him walk out the door, she reviewed the conversation they had just ended. She found that she couldn’t help but respect the man’s no-nonsense approach and his professional attitude.

  Outside, Saverine produced a coffee shaded corona cigar that he clamped between his teeth. He liked the small thinner ones compared to the fat instruments more commonly enjoyed amongst the Latin culture. Lighting up, he exhaled a large cloud of bluish-grey smoke. He watched as the cloud dissipated, gradually vanishing into the sky.

  The sun was going down, with the last vestiges of light retreating before the oncoming darkness. Lights were already going on in buildings all across Quito creating a heavenly view. But in truth, the capital of Ecuador was not exactly the spot the mercenary preferred to spend his time. It was steeped with traditional objects and historical buildings that felt too much like he had taken a trip back into the nineteenth century. His preference was more for cities that embraced a modern and exotic nightlife such as Rio de Janeiro.

  However, as with any job, he went where the work was. And lately, the work had taken him to Mexico where he had spent the last year in the employ of a vigilante group engaged in wresting control of their land from the local cartel. It had been good work with really good pay. Then the job ended and Saverine found himself going farther south looking to ply his trade. He had heard guerrillas from Colombia’s National Liberation Army (Ejercito de Liberacion Nacional or ELN) were infiltrating across the border into Ecuador and figured he might find work helping the government. He figured where there was trouble on a tense border there was a need for operations to be carried out that required a government to have plausible deniability.

  Instead, he was approached by a contact who placed him in touch with this mysterious Englishwoman. In the same bar they had just finished meeting for a second time, she explained that she represented people who were engaged in combating a large and well-connected criminal organization. The job she offered was to recruit a team of freelance professionals to help her organization combat this criminal group in western South America. She had not chosen Saverine at random but explained that he had a good reputation and came highly recommended by trusted associates.

  Once he received funding through an intermediary operating out of Quito, Saverine recruited a force of about thirty men, all ex-military Special Forces from the Colombian army. He had them training at a camp he established at an abandoned town. The town sat within the heart of a jungle and was right by a lake giving them a variety of places from which they could train and rehearse. He had been advised that the mission would be quite diverse. He had also procured a sizable arsenal of weapons and equipment.

  His success assumed his mysterious benefactor came through with the necessary intelligence to better plan his mission in time for it to actually do him some good. The whole reason he had left the Air Force and government service was his disgust at the system. He hated being sent into highly dangerous missions and volatile situations that he knew were poorly planned yet he had no real power to refuse.

  How many foolishly planned missions had he been forced to go on as a soldier? Now, he was a free-lancer, a soldier of fortune, and mercenary who had control of his own life and his own choices. If his English employer thought she could just send him off on a mission blind with the idea he’d just improvise and adapt, his adapting would be to walk away from it. Every mission was risky, but at least now he could control that risk.

  He finished his cigar with one deep and final puff before discarding it onto the street with a flick of his finger. The dusk had come leaving the cold mountain chill to dominate the atmosphere. Saverine turned up his collar and started walking down the street. The cigar had allowed his mind time to digest the conversation. He needed to focus on the matter at hand. He knew more now than previously. He knew he had to prepare to move his men. He at least now knew that he was going to be carrying out an amphibious operation on a coastal town. It was a start.

  Chapter 27

  “Explain that again!” Dasher exclaimed, with energetic excitement that could have been derived from happiness or hysteria.

  Arthur Hechman stood just inside the doorway facing the other three men who had taken various positions scattered around the room. The expressions on their faces suggested that the Deputy Attorney General’s opening news had not sunk in and needed to be clarified. With a deep sigh, he began, “Our task force has apparently picked up the trail of Senor Gutiérrez. And, it appears he’s moving incognito, trying to sneak into Peru according to their last report. They’ve requested authorization to move operations there.”

  “I’m sure you found some way to deny this request, right?” Dasher stated as if expecting he knew the answer.

  “To the contrary,” Hechman shook his head, as he moved further into the room. “It was approved by everyone.”

  “How could you let this happen?” Tenison growled, his eyes bursting with anger. “Changing such jurisdictions on nothing but a hunch.”

  Hechman was not daunted by the deputy-directors outburst. He calmly faced the man with a look of bored indifference. “I didn’t have the means to do otherwise. The findings presented a very good argument. They requested that intelligence satellites track this ship, the Juan Carlo. It left Veracruz harbor, and we picked up on it moving toward the Panama Canal. Their theory fits with the facts well enough that I was hard-pressed not to support the move.”

  “And we’re sure he’s going to Peru?” Dasher asked. “What the hell is he trying to sneak into Peru for? It seems rather risky. Or maybe he’s looking to lay low. This could be a good thing if he vanishes into that vast jungle.”

  “Hardly,” Hechman stated with harsh finality. “Black Crow’s primary source of cocaine comes from Southern Peru. His chief supplier is a producer named Santos Guzman. According to Agent Darson’s report, Guzman was assassinated and one of his primary production sites was destroyed along with several hundred pounds of product that was slated to be moved to Mexico.

  “The assassination of Guzman has left the Peruvian operation in utter chaos at a time when Gutiérrez urgently needed to fall back on his narcotics trafficking. The theory is that with all the muscle Gutiérrez is believed to be taking with him, it’s likely he’s intent on consolidating the operation and taking it over altogether.”

  “We couldn’t have used diplomatic considerations?” Wurry asked, more inquisitive than lecturing.

  “With Peru?” Hechman looked straight at the attorney. “Their government couldn’t have agreed more quickly in their eagerness to build better relations with the US and obtain American armaments. The State Department had absolutely no trouble negotiating to have our people on Peruvian soil. They even made arrangements for police to support them the second they arrive in the country. With the British involved as deeply as they are, I wasn’t in any position to refuse. So, I played the part, made no objections, and endorsed the move accordingly.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Tenison interjected. “I think the bigger question is do we know where in Peru the ship is set to land? We should be able to figure that out just by referencing their manifest papers.”

  “Darson tried that,” Hechman replied. “It turns out the ship is slated to dock in Iquique, Chile. Which means, our best guess is that they plan on informally dropping off their passengers in passing. We’ll only know if we see the ship make a sudden move toward land.”

  “I think the question is, what happens now?” Dasher’s gaze wasn’t directed to anyone in particular signifying the question was thrown out to everyone. “I mean, if our man is going to Peru to disappear into the jungle, doesn’t that work in our favor?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Wurry spoke up capturing everyone’s attention. “Up until now, our saving grace has been that the task force hasn’t been able to find anything that would justify his arrest let alone an extradition order. It’s bought us time. If he’s caught in Peru trying to
enter illegally, he’ll be arrested. If he’s caught at the port, our best hope would be simple deportation.

  “However, let’s say he does get into the jungles and he does manage to begin to personally try to take control of his cocaine production. If our mercenaries are unable to get to him, and he’s in the country illegally, now he’s a fugitive, and they can actively pursue him. The concern is that if he’s caught at a processing site surrounded by large quantities of cocaine, the task force will then have everything they need.”

  “And we’re finished,” said Hechman, punctuating his point. “Our only hope at that point is that our people find him first.”

  Rainn Darson was the first to exit the plane. She descended the long metal stairs where she was met by a stubby little man with a thick pear-shaped body and a pale complexion that suggested he didn’t get outside much. He waddled up to her as she set foot onto the tarmac and clasped her hand with his two thick paws while looking at her with a confused and worried expression.

  “Agent Darson, of the DEA?” he asked, as if not exactly sure he was meeting the right person.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Gavin Hinser,” the porcine man answered with nervous cordiality. “I’m with the embassy. I’m here to assist you in your dealings with the Peruvian authorities.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate that,” Darson replied, shaking his hand and studying the uneasy look he was giving her.

  “You must forgive me,” he apologized, realizing how he was coming across. “I’m the cultural attaché for the US diplomatic mission. It is unfortunate that our law enforcement liaison was dispatched back to Washington. I’m afraid that left me as the only available candidate to make introductions and arrange things. I have a few friends in the Ministry of Interior that I was able to reach out to and was able to gain reasonable cooperation.”