by Rob Sinclair
So where was Powell getting his intel from?
In fact, there was so much that Ryker didn’t like about the whole situation that he could scarcely believe he was actually up on the rooftop with the rifle by his side. But he was trying to force the doubts out of his mind, for two very good reasons: he wanted to kill Vasquez, and he had to find out what Powell knew about Lisa.
He’d tried talking to Powell, amicably, about Lisa more than once but had gotten nowhere. Powell hadn’t revealed a thing about what he knew, or how he even knew of Lisa in the first place. Ryker had to play along. If Powell had information on Lisa then this would all be worth it. Wouldn’t it?
Actually, there was another reason Ryker found himself glued to that rooftop too: his naturally suspicious mind couldn’t help but wonder whether Powell still had eyes on Ryker. Perhaps a sniper located elsewhere in the town. Or at least feet on the ground somewhere so that Powell could quickly take Ryker down if he decided to run again. Ryker was nothing more than a pawn in this mission and if he didn’t follow protocol, he fully believed that he would become expendable.
For that reason, Ryker had meticulously set up his shooting position. He was now crouched in between the outer railing of the rooftop and a large metal air duct that arced up from the concrete surface. The position gave Ryker good cover from the other sporadic buildings in the immediate area around him, and also shielded Ryker from the only door that led onto the rooftop. He’d set the self-closing door with a basic trip wire. If it were opened, even with painstaking care by someone trying to move with stealth, the wire would snap and the empty can that he’d set across from the door would tumble. On hearing the noise, Ryker would roll from his sniping position, around the air duct to where he’d earlier hidden a Glock handgun. He’d then have a clear view toward the doorway from a concealed position.
That was the theory at least, but Ryker couldn’t plan for every eventuality. He’d just have to be ready if Powell tried some other way of stabbing him in the back.
Ryker checked his watch. Ten to two in the morning. Vasquez was due to arrive at two, though Ryker wasn’t sure how punctual he’d be so he figured he’d better be ready early. He put down the night vision spotting scope and lay down so his belly was flat on the warm concrete where the bulky Windrunner M96 rifle was already set up and loaded. It was a more than decent rifle for the job, a weapon Ryker had used in the past and was perfectly familiar with. Together with the top of the range night vision scope attached to the mount it was a very professional and powerful piece of kit. Expensive too. It appeared Powell did have a decent budget after all, despite his poor choice of car.
Ryker stuck his right eye close to the scope and let his gaze focus on the green image of the warehouse in the distance. No lights on. No signs of movement. Ryker lay there and waited.
The time edged past two a.m. Then ten past two. Still nothing. Ryker could feel his nerves building. Was the intel wrong?
Or worse, was the whole thing a set-up?
Powell had given Ryker a basic mobile phone so the two of them could communicate should plans change. Powell was stationed with a small crew in a vehicle in a jungle clearing near the warehouse, should they need to make a close-range attack. The plan though was for them not to make an appearance unless necessary.
Ryker reached around and grabbed the phone from the pocket of his combat trousers without taking his eye from the scope. He brought the device close to his face. No calls. No messages. He double-checked the phone was set to silent but vibrate. It was. He thought about calling Powell to check everything was okay but decided against it. He put the phone down on the rooftop.
Less than a minute later, Ryker let out a sigh of relief when he finally saw some action. Along the connector road, the bright beams of a vehicle became visible. Ryker had to shut his right eye when the lights of the vehicle flared up in the rifle’s scope. With his left eye, he could still see the tiny pricks of light in the distant darkness.
After a couple of seconds, the lights vanished.
Ryker opened his right eye again, and quickly found the vehicle in the scope, now travelling with its headlights off. That had to be Vasquez. The vehicle – a Jeep – came to a stop at the gates to the warehouse grounds and a figure stepped down. In fact Ryker saw now that there were two Jeeps, one behind the other. The man – who Ryker didn’t recognise – opened the gates and both vehicles drove through into the grounds.
When the vehicles were parked up, seven more men emerged. Ryker pulled his scope left and right, scanning the faces of each of them. He found Sanchez. Then Vasquez. But it was the faces of the men who’d emerged from the second vehicle that most caught Ryker’s attention. They looked... well, not Mexican.
The leader of that foursome, tall and beefy with a closely shaved head, walked up to Vasquez and Sanchez, and shook hands with the Mexicans. The three men then struck up a conversation.
Ryker could only guess the four were Americans, sent to meet Vasquez at the behest of Lincoln or Ashford. Powell hadn’t mentioned anyone from the US side would be there. Did he not know or had he just held out on Ryker?
Perhaps it wasn’t a big deal, but Ryker couldn’t help but feel that maybe it was.
Ryker held his breath. He could feel his heart drumming. A sweat droplet formed on his forehead; from the night-time heat or from anticipation, Ryker wasn’t sure. There would have been no such nerves back in the days when Ryker worked for the JIA, but that felt like a lifetime ago.
The tall American was facing Ryker, talking away to the Mexicans. Ryker held the crosshairs over his centre mass. Ryker had a flashing thought that he should just drop the rifle and make a run for it again. But not knowing what traps Powell had set, was it really worth the risk? Plus Ryker had to know what Powell knew about Lisa. She was the big end game here. Ryker had to find her.
The tall American glanced upward, looking toward where Ryker was stationed. He couldn’t see Ryker, of course, but the brief moment when his eyes were staring directly into Ryker’s scope made Ryker’s heart thud even louder.
If these were the bad guys, just like Vasquez and Sanchez, then shouldn’t he just kill every man in sight?
No, Ryker wouldn’t. Not yet at least. He didn’t know the full story of what was happening but Powell was still dangling a carrot for Ryker, and Lisa was a carrot worth following.
Ryker inched the barrel of the rifle to the left and set the crosshairs onto Vasquez’s back. He put his finger on the trigger. He got ready to pull. He wouldn’t get a better shot than this.
But Ryker didn’t fire. Because a second later, the sound of the tin can tumbling across the concrete cut through the still night air.
37
‘So this is the place,’ the man who called himself Sanders said.
‘This is it,’ Vasquez said, eyeing the tall American with suspicion. He still wasn’t sure why this Sanders guy had showed up in his country, though in a way it was good to see a real face for a change rather than just the shadowy figure of the American on a computer screen. It would make the deals more personal, and everyone likes a personal touch. Perhaps the American – from his relative safety in Louisiana – believed Vasquez was less likely to make further heads roll this way. He’d be wrong there though. Vasquez would always do what was necessary, regardless of whom he was working with and whether or not he liked them.
He certainly didn’t like Sanders, though he was prepared to tolerate him. For now. Vasquez knew little about the man he was now entertaining – he’d been able to find out virtually nothing about him through his various sources. That told Vasquez two things: number one, Sanders was without doubt not his real name. Number two, the guy had a past. Either he was ex-special forces of some sort, or he was a career criminal who’d run away from his real identity.
There was also the small possibility that Sanders was an undercover operative, of course, but he wasn’t going to get very far if that were the case. This was Mexico, not the US. Vasquez had the power here.
Sanders had brought three other goons with him from his home turf. All of them carried an air of superiority the way far too many Americans did. Definitely ex-special forces, Vasquez concluded. The American army – so used to steamrollering its way around the world – gave cocksure gringos like these their confident swagger. But Sanders and his men had come to the wrong part of the world if that was their attitude.
Sanders’s other three men were milling a few yards away, not party to the conversation. Vasquez’s men were similarly just casually hanging about, though he’d instructed them to be ready to attack the Americans if need be. Plus there were a half dozen armed men hiding in the jungle across the road and another half dozen hiding in the warehouse should he need backup. You could never be too cautious and Vasquez had to believe there were always enemies in the midst.
He’d not long earlier learned that James Ryker had managed to escape from Santa Martha, thanks to the help of the mysterious American man who’d visited him. Nava had shown himself to be wholly useless in getting any useful information on who that man was, and Vasquez had been put through the ringer by the Axis over the loss of Ryker. Nava, for his efforts – or lack thereof – would soon have a bullet in his head but not before he’d been relieved of his fingers and toes, one at a time. The Axis had demanded blood and for now, they’d have to make do with Nava’s rather than Ryker’s.
Ryker was gone, but his story wasn’t over. The Axis had ordered Vasquez to hunt him down, and Vasquez was increasingly wondering exactly how all the dots connected. Were these Americans now part of the whole charade? Was everything just one elaborate set-up? Vasquez would be ready to fight back with everything he had if that were the case.
‘I trust our most recent shipment was more to your satisfaction?’ Sanders drawled.
‘Everything was in order,’ Vasquez said without any feeling. ‘You said you wanted me to show you around. And to talk about another shipment.’
‘Yes,’ Sanders said. ‘As you were told, we have some very significant goods that will soon be available. But we need to know your operation here can handle it. I’m not just talking about monetary wise, but security too.’
‘Mr Sanders, I work on behalf of some of the richest and most powerful people on this continent,’ Vasquez said, by which he meant the cartels, though he would never say the names out loud in the open. ‘I can assure you we can handle far more than you could ever supply to us. This warehouse is of no real significance. I’m not sure what you’d expect to see here.’
‘Of course,’ Sanders said, opening his lips into a smile that showcased a set of dazzling white teeth, clear in the faint moonlight.
Then Sanders became distracted. He glanced at his watch.
‘Everything okay?’ Vasquez asked.
‘It’s almost time,’ Sanders said. ‘A special shipment is arriving for you. Tonight. A token of our appreciation.’
Vasquez raised an eyebrow. ‘What shipment?’
‘Let me just call and check their position.’
Sanders scooted off with a phone pressed to his ear. Vasquez turned to Hector.
‘I don’t trust him,’ Vasquez said.
‘No,’ Hector said. ‘And why would you.’
‘Make sure the men are ready for any... surprises.’
‘Yes, Comisario.’
With the tin can still scuttling across the concrete, Ryker let go of the rifle and rolled to the left, grabbing the Glock from the floor as he moved. He came to a stop in a crouch behind the air duct, his body hidden in darkness, the Glock out in front of him and pointed toward the door.
The figure who’d emerged from the stairwell was in Ryker’s sights, but for the second time in a matter of moments, Ryker didn’t shoot. In the dim light, he realised he knew the person standing in front of him, even before she opened her mouth.
‘Ryker,’ she said. ‘Don’t do it.’
It was Eleanor Willoughby. Ryker wasn’t quite sure what she meant by it. Was she telling him not to shoot Vasquez, or not to shoot her?
Ryker said nothing in return. He wasn’t about to give away his position. He was sure she couldn’t see him because of how she was scanning. Her nervous twitching suggested she knew she’d exposed her own position when the tin can had clattered across the rooftop – which was likely why she’d chosen to speak. Ryker saw that Willoughby had a handgun, both hands around the grip, though she was holding it pointed toward the floor. She had no target.
‘It’s me,’ she said, ‘Willoughby. I’m here to help you.’
Still Ryker said nothing.
‘I don’t know what you’ve been told, but don’t kill Vasquez. Not like this. You’ll never leave Mexico alive if you do.’
Ryker’s brain was whirring. Then his phone vibrated. It was still on the floor by the rifle. The green-tinged screen broke through the darkness and the small device danced on the concrete. It had to be Powell, wondering why on earth Ryker hadn’t pulled the trigger. Probably not far from delivering an ultimatum; pull the trigger now or die.
Ryker had a more immediate concern though; Willoughby was moving. She darted to her right, and pulled her gun up into a shooting pose. It was exactly the move Ryker would have expected. She was heading in a narrow arc to get a shot at Ryker’s sniping position – where the noise of the phone was coming from. He moved the opposite way, coming around close to the doorway where Willoughby had moments earlier been standing. She would soon find herself staring at an empty space. Ryker on the other had his target in front of him still.
Without hesitation, he pulled the Glock’s trigger.
Vasquez kept his eyes on Sanders.
After a few moments, Sanders pulled the phone from his ear and turned back around.
‘Problem?’ Vasquez asked.
‘None,’ Sanders said. ‘There’ll be here any minute.’
‘And what exactly is this surprise you have for me?’
‘A branching out into new territory.’
‘Which would be what?’
‘Cash.’
‘Cash?’
‘US dollars.’
‘The currency of the world.’
‘Yours for a cut-down price.’
‘How cut down?’
‘A quarter of face value.’
‘Mr Sanders, I’m not interested in taking counterfeit dollars from you.’
‘I’m not talking about counterfeit. This is real money, unmarked.’
‘Where’s the catch?’
‘No catch. Every one of these bills is genuine, produced by the United States Department of the Treasury. They’ve been in general circulation, but are now scheduled for destruction. Because of... problems with the previous owners.’
Vasquez glared at Sanders for a few moments. In principal, he was interested in what Sanders was saying, and he knew exactly where this money had likely come from; the same place as the weapons he’d already purchased. From drugs busts and raids on terrorist cells, both in the US and abroad. Just like the weapons that were gathered from those operations, the money collected was stored by the Americans, with very little ever making it back into circulation legitimately. Who the hell knew why. Someone, somewhere, who was high up in the US administration, believed the money to be tainted somehow. Blood money. Or maybe it was more to do with some kind of economic policy that Vasquez had no time to understand. Whatever the reasons, those dollars collected by the US authorities were marked for destruction rather than re-circulation, but through the quick thinking and guile of certain US citizens and army personnel, the money was actually making its way right back into the hands of the people it had been stolen from in the first place.
The merry-go-round of good versus evil.
Or was it just basic capitalism?
‘Okay, I’ll humour you,’ Vasquez said. ‘For now.’
‘You won’t regret it.’
‘No. But you might. You know what happened the last time I was disappointed.’
Sanders said nothing, tho
ugh Vasquez saw the twitch in the American’s eyes. He was looking less confident all of a sudden. Sanders fished for his phone again.
‘Let me take this,’ Sanders said. ‘It must be them.’
Vasquez raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard the phone ring. He turned to Hector.
‘We’ll cut them down,’ Hector said. ‘I just need your word.’
Vasquez could practically see the thirst for blood in the big man’s eyes.
‘Yes,’ Vasquez said. ‘And I’m increasingly thinking you’re about to get it.’
The propellant gases exploding from Ryker’s Glock dissipated and cooled in the expansion chambers of the suppressor attached to the end of the Glock’s muzzle. The result as the bullet escaped the suppressor was that the otherwise booming noise of the Glock firing was heavily muffled in the night sky. Still clearly audible in the otherwise calm and quiet air, but Ryker highly doubted any sound waves that reached as far as the warehouse where Vasquez was would cause even a raised eyebrow. Nor would any locals living in the nearby occupied buildings likely be spooked if the sound roused them from their sleep.
The bullet that escaped the suppressor sunk into the concrete floor less than two inches from Willoughby’s foot. Together with the stifled sound of the shot, it was enough to grab her attention.
‘Put the gun down,’ Ryker said as he moved into the open.
Willoughby didn’t react immediately but after giving the order some thought, she complied. Her gun clattered to the ground by her feet. Still too close for comfort.