by Evan Graver
The man with the artificial leg came out of the salon and leaned against the captain’s seat. He had carried a duffle bag aboard the yacht, and Oscar suspected he was the sniper who had taken out Joseph’s men. But from where? He racked his brain, thinking through the operation. These men were helping to rescue an old woman and aiding a money launderer, but whose side were they on?
He twisted at the duct tape around his wrists. Given the chance, he could break free, but there was nowhere for him to go. From the way the ship now rode quietly at anchor, he guessed they were in the lee of an island which blocked the storm-driven waves. Rain still streaked the windows, but the worst of the storm had passed.
Oscar looked Artificial Leg up and down. He was trimmer than the other men and seemed at home aboard the boat. What fascinated Oscar was the below-the-knee prosthetic on the man’s right leg. It looked like something he had seen in the futuristic movies he’d watched before Chavez had taken over his country and outlawed American films.
“We need to talk to you, bro,” Artificial Leg said to Ryan.
The two men went below, and Oscar glanced between the two women.
Again, the big blonde sat beside him. Quietly, she asked, “What do you want with Paul Langston?”
Oscar stared straight ahead.
“Why did you try to steal the box?” she prompted. When he said nothing, she continued. “They broke Terrence, they’ll break you.”
“I won’t break,” Oscar muttered.
“Everyone breaks.”
“You’re military?” he asked.
“No, but the guys are. Are things in Venezuela as bad as the news says?”
She’s trying to butter me up. “Worse.”
“Ryan spent six months in San Antonio Prison on Margarita Island.”
Oscar’s curiosity peaked. Then he remembered a wanted flyer that had gone around the military and police units, offering a reward of ten thousand dollars to anyone with information leading to the arrest of an American escapee. “He was the American who broke out with the help of a SEBIN officer?”
“Yes,” Emily replied.
Oscar wondered why she was telling him this. Did she expect sympathy from him? The man she was helping was a convicted murderer and an enemy of his state. Oscar swallowed. He was an enemy of his state. Betrayed by the men he had served, they had left him to die in the jungle. They wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in him, if given the chance.
“Why are you helping the smurf?” he asked.
“Ryan and I came across his burning sailboat and we rescued him and his wife. Then Joseph took Diane hostage in exchange for whatever is in the box you tried to steal. Paul might help criminals launder money, but he needed our help to save his wife.”
Ryan and the two other men stepped into the cockpit. The tallest man in the trio had a thick blond mustache and shaggy hair. He had the Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution tattooed on his right forearm in the shape of an AR-15 rifle, and his other arm was a sleeve of colorful tats. Among them, Oscar recognized a U.S. Navy SEAL trident.
“The gangster talked,” Tattoos said. “Now it’s your turn.”
Oscar stared at Ryan. He didn’t look like the formidable monster that the SEBIN—Venezuela’s secret police—had made him out to be. The story he had heard was that the American had executed a man in front of a group of police and sailors, then laughed as he gunned them down. Staring right at Ryan, Oscar said, “You were in prison for executing a man.”
“Yes, I was.”
Oscar’s voice turned venomous. “Tell me how it felt to shoot the policemen who tried to apprehend you.”
“I didn’t shoot any police,” Ryan replied. “I shot a serial killer in the back of the head as we struggled for his weapon.”
“I don’t believe you,” Oscar said.
“The SEBIN took me to their prison and tortured me for a month to make me confess to being a spy.” Ryan hiked up the leg of his shorts and showed him where the cattle prod his interrogators had used on him had scared the skin on his thigh. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’m telling you the truth. Now, tell me why you’re here. Why do you want the box of documents?”
Oscar leaned his head back and hooded his eyes. “Do you work for the U.S. government?”
“No,” Tattoos said. “We’re contractors.”
“Mercenaries,” Oscar spat.
“Remind me again why we’re talking to this jackass?” Tattoos asked. He jerked a pistol from his belt and placed it against Oscar’s head. “Tell me who you are.”
Oscar kept his gaze fixed on Ryan. “Why did you work for the prison boss, Navarro?”
“I did what I had to do to survive,” Ryan said. “I couldn’t fight every man in there, just like you can’t escape from this situation.”
“Who are you after now?” Oscar asked. His skull ached where the gun barrel pressed against it.
“I’m asking the questions,” Tattoos growled through gritted teeth.
“The documents in that box are proof of countless money laundering operations,” Oscar said, tilting his head until it almost touched his shoulder. Tattoos moved with him, keeping the gun tight to his temple.
“And we’re going to turn them and Paul Langston over to the U.S. government for protection and prosecution,” Ryan said.
“You can’t do that,” Oscar pleaded.
“Why not?” Ryan asked.
“Because I need them,” Oscar said.
Ryan motioned for Tattoos to remove the pistol, and Oscar rolled his neck to work out the kinks.
“This story better be convincing, bro,” Artificial Leg said.
Oscar took a deep breath. He hoped that when he finished, these men would trust him as much as he trusted them right now. That was to say, he only trusted them as far as he could throw them, but they had what he needed. There was enough money in those bank accounts to fund a Third World country for many years, and he was willing to share some with these mercenaries if they helped him, because God knew he was going to get his fair share.
“My name is Oscar López, and I am about to tell you a story I’ve never told before.”
Chapter Ten
Venezuela
Eight Months Earlier
There was nothing silent about the rainforest at night along the Orinoco River. The drone of mosquitoes sounded like a squadron of planes as they dive-bombed the Venezuelan Marines lying in ambush just off a dirt path at the edge of the river. Bullfrogs croaked and animals scrambled through the brush.
The team from the 8th Marine Special Operations Brigade lay in an L-shape along a curve in the trail as it bent toward the river. Towering trees flanked the riverbanks, and lily pads covered the water’s black surface. In the daylight, the river was a glistening blue-brown color, carrying with it the rich minerals from the mountains in Colombia as it flowed north to join the Atlantic Ocean.
The Venezuelan government may have designated the Orinoco Delta as a national park, but it was a lawless place, fraught with drug runners and illegal gold miners. They blended in with the indigenous Warao people who had lived in the delta for centuries but now struggled to make ends meet, and many had turned to smuggling.
Tonight’s mission was part of an ongoing operation that had begun almost a month ago when the team had broken up a major cocaine smuggling operation. The drugs that came down the Orinoco River were hidden in the delta, then moved to a passing freighter, which would take them to either Europe or to the United States.
After beating the bush, the team had captured a Warao paddling a canoe laden with cocaine beneath a load of occumo chino, a tuber vegetable that was a staple of the Warao diet. The Warao had guided the Marines to a farm ten miles deeper in the wilderness. They had raided the place but came up empty.
Another search led to the discovery of two men, both of whom had been trying to hitch a ride with a native on his boat. At first, the men had claimed to be tourists who had gotten lost in the confusing tangle of waterways, a
nd that torrential rain had swamped their canoe and swept away their supplies. Under further interrogation, the men had cracked, giving the Marines the locations of ten pits at the farm they’d raided earlier, each dug six feet deep and lined with tar to make them waterproof. The pits had contained nearly ten tons of cocaine in small brown paper sacks.
Now, First Sergeant Oscar López rested his Croatian-made VHS-D assault rifle across his legs and checked his watch. He and Lt. Sosa, the leader of his fireteam, had agreed they shouldn’t report the find at the farm but focus on capturing the next batch of smugglers and work the chain backward until they found the cocaine processing plants. With that in mind, they had lain in wait for another week, constantly wet, hungry, and miserable, but doing their part to combat the rising flow of drugs through their troubled country.
Oscar flexed the muscles around his ears, straining to enlarge them so he could hear better. A soft voice drifted on the humid air, and the clank of metal on metal signaled the arrival of the smugglers. The L-shape of the ambush meant crossing fields of fire and a backup team that would take over as the first leap-frogged out of the hot ambush site if things went wrong. The task tonight was capture, not kill, and if the smugglers wanted to escape, their only choice would be to flee into a river infested with swirling currents, crocodiles, and piranhas.
When Sosa gave the signal, the Marines raised their rifles in unison and stood, surrounding the smugglers and ordering them to surrender their weapons and their contraband. When one man made a move for his pistol, Sosa shot him. The rest laid down their firearms and put their hands in the air. The Marines then cuffed their prisoners and marched them to their staging area.
Sosa and Oscar moved through their captives, taking photographs and interrogating them. The third smuggler they spoke to told them that their leader, a man who sat calmly amongst the others, was Armond Diego, an assistant to the Undersecretary of the Minister of Defense, Victor Quintero. This stunned both the lieutenant and the first sergeant. They had gotten extremely lucky, and their bosses in Caracas would consider this a major victory for rooting out corruption in the government.
Lt. Sosa radioed the National Guard base in Guayana City where the Marines had set up an outpost to coordinate the drug sweeps through the Orinoco Delta. He informed them of their prisoner and asked for extraction. A few minutes later, he told his men to prepare Diego for transport, as another team of Marines was on the way to pick him up while Sosa and his men remained in the field. A wave of grumbling swept through the tired and wet troopers.
Several hours passed before Oscar recognized the buzz of the high-speed outboards on their Guardian patrol boat. Mounted on the front was an M2 fifty-caliber machine gun and mounted on the stern above the engines were grenade launchers. Sosa ensured the flex cuffs on Diego’s hands were tight and jerked the man to his feet. Two Marines stood guard over the prisoners while the rest lounged near a small fire, cooking a meal. Oscar smelled the roasting tapir his men had caught earlier in the day, and his mouth practically watered at the thought of its sweet, juicy meat.
Instead of accompanying Sosa to the patrol boat, Oscar shouldered his rifle and stepped into the jungle to take a leak. There was no need for him to be present for the prisoner handoff to their fellow Marines.
He had just gotten a steady stream going when the sound of the M2 firing shattered the night’s stillness. Long tongues of flame belched from its muzzle, and red tracers ripped through the foliage, illuminating the macabre scene as the blistering gunfire cut down the Marines and their prisoners.
Oscar stumbled forward, trailing urine across his boots and hands, then tripped on a root and sprawled face-first in the damp earth. Rolling to his side, he tucked himself back in and zipped up his trousers. His breath caught in his chest as the grenade launcher made its hollow thump.
He covered his ears with his hands and opened his mouth as the grenade slammed into the ground and detonated, throwing mud, tree limbs, and human flesh into the air. Three more explosions immediately followed the first, each rocking the ground Oscar lay on.
Why were his fellow Marines firing on his team?
Silence descended on the jungle. The only sound he could hear over the ringing in his ears was the quiet burble of the outboards. He listened intently until he heard someone order the men off the boat and to put a bullet into the head of each of Oscar’s teammates.
Slowly, Oscar crept under the foliage as gunshots rang through the trees. With each shot, his heart broke. Those men were his brothers. As he watched, the squad of assassins spread out in search of survivors. A lone male squatted and speared a chunk of tapir meat with his knife.
In the fire’s glow, Oscar saw the face of the man who had led the attack and killed his own men. A man Oscar had once considered a father figure. The betrayal ate at his stomach, and Oscar lay under the thick, dripping leaves until the patrol boat had faded into the night.
Gradually, the sounds of the jungle came back, but Oscar didn’t move from his hiding spot. He clutched his pistol to his chest, having lost his rifle during his fall and subsequent roll. After the adrenaline wore off, he dozed. A sound brought him out of a light sleep, and he held his breath, listening for what had awakened him. His gaze shifted around his limited view of the campsite. A shadow moved across the landscape, darted through the dead men, and cautiously approached the cold campfire. The spotted jaguar snatched the tapir from the ashes and darted back into the underbrush.
Despite the backdrop of horrific death all around him, Oscar smiled. He’d spent years in the jungle and had never seen a big cat, but thoughts of his men tempered his elation. Slowly, he crawled out from under the foliage. His hand found his rifle, and he holstered his pistol and stood. Walking forward with anger in his heart, he took in the scene. Bullets and grenades had shredded every man, and each had a hole in his forehead.
The raiding force had taken the drugs and Armond Diego.
Oscar gathered what little supplies he could find and headed for Guayana City to confront the murderer. It took him several days to find a Warao with a boat to run him upriver. Oscar knew he couldn’t show his face at the National Guard base. He needed to remain una fantasma—a ghost—so he could exact revenge on the government that had turned on him and his team.
The first person on the list was Sergeant Major Phillipe Mendoza, the man Oscar had seen by the fire.
Mendoza kept an apartment on the third floor of a five-story building that Oscar López had been to many times. The older Marine had guided him throughout his career, and Oscar couldn’t believe that his mentor had sold out.
After casing the place, Oscar waited until two in the morning to scale a drainpipe to the roof of the building next door to Mendoza’s place. A row of windows faced the rooftop he was on, and Oscar ran at the wall. He lifted his leg, jammed the toe of his combat boot against the brick wall, and grabbed the top of the concrete lintel above Mendoza’s window. Once he got his feet on the sill, he used a slim piece of metal to jimmy the window latch, and then he opened the window and slipped inside the dark apartment.
He wanted to shoot Mendoza right where the man slept, but when he opened the bedroom door, he found the sergeant major sitting on the bed, holding a whiskey bottle in one hand and a pistol in the other. His face was drawn, and bags hung under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept since he’d murdered Oscar’s Marines.
Mendoza took a swallow from the bottle. “I knew you would come. Your body was not among the dead.”
Oscar trained his own pistol on Mendoza. “Why did you murder my team, Sergeant Major?”
“I had orders.”
Oscar crouched by the bed. “Who gave them to you?”
Mendoza placed his hands against his head, cradling it between the gun and the bottle. “I don’t know.”
Placing the barrel of his pistol against Mendoza’s forehead, Oscar said, “You have to know, Sergeant Major. Tell me who ordered you to assassinate my team.”
The older man lifted
his tear-streaked face. He dropped his gun onto the bed and reached for a cell phone on the nightstand. “I received this phone in the mail. It has pictures of my family on it. You know my wife and my children, Oscar. I could never let anyone hurt them.”
“Who gave the order?”
Mendoza held up the phone for Oscar to see. He read the text message that told Mendoza his wife and children would die if he didn’t kill Lt. Sosa’s team and retrieve Diego and the drugs.
Oscar took the phone and scrolled through the text and photos. “If I get your family to safety, will you help me find the man who sent you this message?”
“Of course, my son. I will do anything to atone for my sins.” Mendoza laid a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “If something happens to me, remember to celebrate the birthday of our beloved Marine Corps.”
The first sergeant left the way he had come, stealing a motorcycle to make the eighteen-hour trek to Maracaibo, where Mendoza’s wife and three children lived in a cramped two-bedroom house. When he reached the port city, he arranged for a smuggler to take Mendoza’s family children to Aruba. After seeing them off on the smuggler’s boat, he returned to the sergeant major’s apartment.
As he climbed through Mendoza’s window once more, he caught a whiff of a dead body, and he found Mendoza sprawled on the floor, a gunshot wound to his head.
Oscar quickly scavenged the apartment for clues and found a wall safe. After trying several combinations, he racked his brain for the number Mendoza would have used. Reaching back in his memory, he recounted the conversation they’d had before Oscar had gone to Maracaibo. He punched in the birthday of the Venezuelan Marine Corps and the safe opened.
It contained bank statements from several accounts and two thick stacks of American currency—contraband in Venezuela. Mendoza had circled one of the account numbers in red. Oscar pocketed both the money and the bank records, then he wiped his fingerprints from the apartment and left via the window again, this time leaving it open.