“Incredible,” Harv said. “I knew it was high, but that’s crazy.”
“Acting president Cadenas wants reform, but Cornejo’s one of the richest men on the continent who can quite literally buy his presidency. Venezuela doesn’t really have a pro-capitalism party. The socialists are just too well entrenched. We aren’t going to interfere with Venezuela’s internal politics, but we are going to find out why Cornejo hired the twins to carry out this recent string of assassinations and abductions.”
“The simplest answer,” Harv said, “is that Cornejo’s tying up loose ends that could torpedo his bid for the presidency.”
“That’s our conclusion as well. We’re working overtime to find links from other victims back to Cornejo. It’s still unclear why his people attacked Genneken. The guy we interrogated wasn’t leading the operation and didn’t know. He said he was planning to meet Tomas at a rest stop along the I-5 corridor near Camp Pendleton.”
“So they were heading toward Los Angeles after the attack?”
“It appears that way. Our prisoner was supposed to check in by 12:30 a.m.”
“And since we drugged him . . .”
“That’s right, he couldn’t make the call. Things were fluid and I didn’t consider it. A mistake on my part.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Rebecca. We didn’t think of it either. I think we can safely assume Tomas is long gone from the rest stop. At least we know he’s in the area. And if he’s in the area, it’s a good bet his sister is too.”
“I wonder what their next step would have been,” said Harv. “Chances are they have a private jet waiting somewhere, especially if Cornejo’s as rich as you say.”
“We’re checking the ATC logs of all the chartered and private jet flights over the last seven days. But we’re also looking at Cornejo’s US business ownership and real-estate holdings. It’s possible the twins didn’t plan to leave the country right away. Without knowing why Cornejo wanted to get his hands on Genneken, we can only speculate on his motive.”
“I’m still not clear on something,” said Nathan. “Why do we, the US, care if Cornejo becomes Venezuela’s next president? I get that we don’t want a crook running Venezuela who’d make the economic situation worse, but it sounds like something much bigger’s going on.”
“There is something bigger going on,” she said.
Harv shifted in his chair; Nathan suspected his friend knew the answer.
“In two words,” Cantrell said, “nuclear weapons. I can’t say more than that, it’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Okay, we won’t ask.”
“Presidential terms are six years and the First Amendment to their most recent constitution abolished term limits. If Cornejo wins, we’re looking at an unpredictable situation for an indeterminate amount of time. He hates the US more than Chavez did.”
“I didn’t think that was possible,” Nathan said.
“It definitely is.”
Nathan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So what are we supposed to do? Keep hanging tight here with Linda?”
“No, actually, you’re going to pay a visit to an exotic car dealership in Santa Monica.”
“Okay . . . ,” said Nathan. “And we’re doing this because Cornejo owns the dealership and you think it’s a viable location to pick up Bustamonte’s trail?”
“Yes. Cornejo did a good job hiding his title under a multi-tiered shell company, but my personal aide is quite resourceful. Cornejo’s involved with many legitimate businesses in the US and Canada. Restaurants, nightclubs, car dealerships, real-estate groups, banks, you name it. Several are in the greater Los Angeles area. Most of them he owns outright; with others he has partners in the US. Almost all of his businesses are likely being used as fronts for his money-laundering operations to one degree or another. Santa Monica Exotics seems to be his flagship operation in North America. He spared no expense constructing it—you’ll know what I’m talking about when you see it. He gutted an older building and built the dealership from scratch. The ground floor is the dealership and he rents office space on the second and third floors. We’ve found that those tenant businesses fall under the same umbrella of shell companies as the dealership.”
“So he’s paying rent to himself,” Harv said.
“At highly inflated rates. I wouldn’t be surprised if these nebulous businesses received loans from the umbrella company that will never be paid back. It’s classic laundering. The rent is seen as income, but the bogus loans are recorded as losses, hence no income is recognized and little or no tax is paid.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Nathan asked.
“All told, hundreds of millions.”
Nathan and Harv raised their eyebrows at one another.
“I want to know why Cornejo views Genneken as a threat. If she has dirt on him, find out what it is. And it’s entirely possible she doesn’t know what she knows, so to speak.”
“And if she has dirt on him?” Harv asked.
“We make an anonymous call to the Venezuelan media. Needless to say, we’re prohibited by law from domestic intelligence-gathering operations against US citizens, and we don’t have any direct law-enforcement powers. But since Cornejo isn’t a US citizen and it’s clear he’s behind the murder of Genneken’s husband and her attempted kidnapping, he and the Bustamonte twins are fair game. The DNI’s on board with that assessment and he wants regular updates on your progress.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just bring us out of retirement again?” Harv asked, somewhat humorously.
“What would be the point? You guys won’t take any money.”
“You’re right, we wouldn’t,” Nathan said.
“Let’s be clear. You two inserted yourselves by responding to Genneken’s home invasion, and I’m glad you did. Nathan, based on your initial report after you arrived at her house, there were still gunmen around and Genneken wouldn’t have been able to defend herself because of the Ketamine. You kept her from falling into the twins’ hands.”
“It was the right thing to do.”
“That’s what I love about you guys, and why you have personal access to me. You put yourselves at risk without any expectation of getting anything in return.”
“What can we say? It’s a character flaw.”
“Hardly.”
Cantrell never greased them; she didn’t need to and it wasn’t her style. They both appreciated the compliment for what it was.
“We’re at your service, as always, but what do you want us to do with Linda while we’re gone?”
“You’ll be taking her with you. Keep her close at all times. I’m getting some assets on line in the LA area so be ready to move out on a moment’s notice. After the Ketamine’s fully out of her system, ask her about Cornejo. If she knows why he came after her, let me know right away. Once she’s 100 percent, you three are going to wreak havoc on Cornejo’s North American world, starting in Santa Monica. At the same time, we’ll begin a series of hit-and-run actions against Cornejo’s other business interests in LA, with the goal of flushing the Bustamonte twins into the open. We’re tracking all their known aliases, but I figure we have zero chance of finding them unless we force them to fight back.”
“So we’re bait?”
“Bait is such a crude word. I’d prefer to think of you guys as the trap. Keep in mind we need the twins alive. Needless to say the clock is ticking toward the special election. In NFL lingo, we’re running a hurry-up offense, not allowing the defense time to rest or change its personnel. We’re hitting back, and hitting back hard. Cornejo sent a squad of mercenaries to capture Linda Genneken alive and render her. He’s also responsible for one of the stars on our wall, and Ursula came within an eyelash of adding yours. Behind his ‘man-of-the-people’ veneer, he’s the absolute worst a human being can be. Child trafficking is one of the many crimes he’s associated with. His cartel buddies buy them from impoverished parents and sell them with no questions asked of the buyers.”<
br />
Nathan shook his head and looked to Harv.
“Is Cornejo officially part of a Venezuelan cartel?” Harv asked.
“Not directly. He calls himself a successful businessman. We call him an organized crime boss. But he’s too smart to get his hands dirty. Think of him like an underwriter. He hires others to do his dirty work for him. Look, if you guys want a pass on this, I’ll understand with no questions asked, and no hard feelings. Flushing out the twins will be a difficult and risky assignment.”
“We’ve done worse.”
“Yes, you have.”
“So why us? Why not use an FBI SWAT team or a joint terrorism task force?”
“Quite frankly, because they have to play by the rules.”
Neither of them said anything.
“I’ll share a personal belief with you,” she said. “The more power a person has, the more accountable that person has to be. I trust you and Harv with the power you’re being given, more so than my other teams.”
“That’s flattering, Rebecca, and we’re honored, but again you really don’t need us for this kind of thing.”
“Who else can hear what I’m saying right now?”
“Just Harv. LG’s awake, but she’s still pretty groggy. She’s in the other room.”
“She’s the main reason I chose you for the job. I’m sure you’ll agree that given everything we know about the woman, there will be no stopping her after tonight. She’ll go after the Bustamontes with or without our help. That’s why I’m sending her with you. I don’t want her doing it alone, and quite frankly, we need the twins alive.”
Nathan looked at Harv. “That’s our assessment as well. Changing the subject, we’ll do our best to avoid crossing paths with law enforcement, but it’s possible we could end up in custody. I trust that situation will be . . . appropriately handled?”
“Yes. If it happens, ask for a lawyer, and get word to me.”
“Understood,” Nathan said. “Regarding what to expect in Santa Monica . . .”
“The car dealership’s pretty straightforward, but the second and third floors aren’t. There could be cash, drugs, and guns. You name it. All the lifeblood of a crime family’s operation. Don’t worry about friendlies. Everyone inside the structure should be considered fair game.”
“So there are no undercovers?” Harv asked.
“Correct. I’m working on getting eyes on the building, but we won’t be able to give you any direct support. DNI Benson said no boots on the ground except yours. Officially, we don’t conduct ‘domestic’ ops like this.”
“Understood.”
“So, to review: Your job has three elements. Capture the Bustamonte twins so we can get dirt on Cornejo, determine why Cornejo wants Genneken, and find out how her personal information leaked. You may have to conduct field interrogations.”
“We’ll leave that to LG.”
“I don’t care how it gets done, only that it gets done. Let me be clear, I want both of them alive. I’m sending you our profiles on Tomas and Ursula; take a moment to look them over. I’ve got to run. Call or text me as needed.”
Nathan was tempted to hang up first, but that would have been poor form. The line went dark.
“You look wiped,” Harv said to Nathan. “I’ll take first watch with Linda. You’d better get some rack time.”
CHAPTER 11
The bamboo cage swings with a gust of wind, quietly creaking.
Twenty feet below, the ferns bend, then straighten.
Nathan can’t believe he’s still alive. How long now? Three days? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care.
No one’s coming to his rescue.
They would’ve been here by now.
His emaciated skin hangs like a scarecrow’s clothes. He can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.
The reddish glow on the horizon accents the color of his ruined flesh. Is it a sunrise or sunset? Doesn’t matter.
Forcing him to stand, the custom-built cage fits like a glove. The agony in his legs and lower back defies understanding, defies description.
His arms are tied behind his back and secured to the bamboo struts. The rope binding his wrists isn’t tight enough to cut off circulation, but he can’t get any leverage to work his hands free.
It triggers a childhood memory of how helpless he’d felt at being buried up to his neck at the beach. It had been a dumb kid’s game. His sixth-grade friend promised over and over he’d dig him out, but once Nathan became helpless, Marty Drugar thought it funny to walk away. Nathan didn’t. He’d experienced his first true rage that sunny afternoon. Screaming to be let out, he remembered people staring and pointing, but no one came. His mom and dad couldn’t rescue him; they’d taken a stroll down the beach. After the lifeguard dug him out with a shovel, he proceeded to beat the living tar out of Martin Drugar. He put the little punk in the hospital. Broken teeth. A busted nose. And five cracked ribs. Shrinks came next. All he could claim was that he’d warned Marty what he’d do if he left him there. A promise he’d kept. He remembered how good it had felt teaching that skinny little punk a lesson.
Time drifts again.
He opens his eyes to a dishwater gray jungle. Must’ve been a sunset, it’s gotten darker.
Praying for death, he whispers it over and over like a mantra.
Could he already be dead? No, it wouldn’t be like this.
The dryness in his mouth is beyond gruesome; it’s become his worst enemy. He’d trade twenty more lashes for a drink of water. But no one’s around to offer him either.
He hasn’t seen Montez or his little runt assistant for a long time. Candlelight no longer fills the shack’s windows at night.
He’s totally alone, abandoned to a slow death.
The sense of desertion tears at his soul like a jackal stripping his bones.
This must be his penance for the lives he’s taken.
What else could it be?
He never enjoyed killing, but he’d been exceptionally good at it.
Too good.
He should’ve felt worse than he did, maybe if he had . . . What goes around comes around? He’d never believed that stupid idiom until now.
Why has God discarded him? It’s so cruel. He feels forsaken and curses God again, then regrets the thought. God isn’t to blame, only himself. Deep in his soul, he knows the truth. Denying it changes nothing.
Another truth hammers him: slow starvation is the enemy of impulsive thought. Every decision he’s ever made has been questioned—from childhood to the ugly here and now. If only he’d done this differently, or that differently, maybe he wouldn’t have joined the Marines and become a sniper. And if he hadn’t become a sniper, he wouldn’t have been recruited by the CIA and he wouldn’t be hanging here to die.
Would haves.
Could haves.
Should haves.
Circular arguments always ending in the same place. This wretched cage.
It’s pointless to think about it, but his mind’s stuck in a feedback loop.
At least he hadn’t caved. His love of Harv had overpowered all else, including the instinct to save himself. Montez never got what he wanted—Harv’s escape route.
Didn’t that selfless act of bravery buy him a ticket to heaven?
He almost laughs at the absurdity.
No one buys tickets to heaven, they’re offered freely. Besides, his pockets are empty. Another stupid thought. Montez had stripped him naked.
Another burst of rage erupts.
Over and over, he bangs his forehead against the bamboo, causing the cage to vibrate. Pain explodes from everywhere. His vision grays, then winks out.
Time drifts again.
A deep boom brings him to consciousness.
What’s that sound?
He hopes it’s a jet on a bombing run to level the camp and him with it.
Not a bomb.
Thunder.
He looks up and tries to focus.
Rain slaps his face, supplying
precious water to his eyes. He opens his mouth and lets a few drops enter, but it’s not nearly enough—an unkind tease.
Above his head, the dish-shaped ant barrier is tight where the rope passes through. It will act like a dam, preventing water from running down the rope and into his mouth.
The dish begins to fill. He can hear the sound of raindrops landing in the tiny pool.
He says a prayer to ease the cruelty of having water so close but so utterly unreachable. The dish continues to fill, then begins to lean. Farther and farther. It reaches the point of no return and flops to the side. A torrent falls—
Into his open mouth.
The stream bathes his tongue and teeth with something akin to pure ecstasy. Tears of joy flow. He can’t believe it’s really happening.
Then as quickly as the flow began, it ends.
The dish levels out.
The stream stops.
No! He needs more. That can’t be all there is. Please . . . More!
He keeps his eyes on the dish. Then, like the dipping bird toy, the dish begins another cycle. It tips from the weight and another torrent falls into his mouth. Oh, dear Lord, thank you. Thank you, thank you.
The water is beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined.
Is this real? Could he be hallucinating? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this will prolong his suffering, but he doesn’t care.
Over and over, the dish fills, then tips. He’s getting more water now than he’s had over the previous three weeks. He knows he can’t drink too much too fast, but it feels so good. He forces himself to slow down.
Swallowing mouthful after mouthful, he asks God for forgiveness.
The water has an acrid taste, but he doesn’t care.
His flesh burns from being drenched, but he doesn’t care.
His life has been extended, but he doesn’t care.
Another boom shakes the cage, this time louder. What’s that sound?
What’s going on? Who’s there?
Leave me alone! I’m getting water. LEAVE ME ALONE!
CHAPTER 12
“McBride!”
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