by Owen Parr
“Drop it,” he said, knowing full well the man would not. As the hit man was caught by surprise, he turned his head to face Alex and quickly moved his right hand holding the Beretta towards him. This was all the time Alex needed for a frontal hit. He squeezed the trigger softly. This generated a loud bang as he shot the hit man in the forehead once. His head shattered and splattered blood on his own sweatshirt. Only a couple of minutes had passed since the other two sustained concussions when he threw the grenade. Alex reentered his unit through the kitchen, moving cautiously but quickly and hoping that if the men were up, they would follow the sound of the gunshots, and he could surprise them from behind.
He saw one man was still down holding his head with both hands and with his eyes closed. Alex noticed that the man was not wearing a bulletproof vest. After all, they were the hunters. The other was stumbling towards the service hallway with a silenced Beretta in his hand and his back to Alex.
“Amigo,” Alex said, loudly, having lost part of his hearing from the blast of his Glock. He saw the man begin to turn, slowly, using his left hand to push off the hallway wall while still groggy from the concussion.
Alex knew he had two choices. He could either use the second grenade that was still in his left hand, and knock the guy out for interrogation later. Or, blow the asshole away with the Glock in his right hand.
“Amigo, drop your gun or die on the spot,” he said, as the man turned to face him and with great effort began to raise his right hand and his Beretta.
“Shit,” he whispered. “Adios, amigo,” as he softly squeezed the trigger putting three rounds in the man’s chest.
As he was turning back, he saw a movement in his peripheral vision. He dropped to the floor with great ease. Now, the third man was pulling the trigger. The two shots went right over his head. From the flat position he had great leverage, and he pulled his trigger twice. He hit the man in the forehead and face killing him instantly. He put his head down on his hands, took a deep breath, and looked around only to see that the hallway carpets and wallpaper on the fourteenth floor were a bloody mess.
Alex pulled out his cell phone and dialed the front desk, while sitting on the floor. “This is Cardenas. Is the fourth man still there?” He asked.
“No, sir, he left quickly as other FBI agents walked in. We have been trying to call you, but you don’t answer your unit’s phone,” said the attendant. “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been busy. Are they still there? If so, put them on.” He said.
“This is Agent Powers. I am looking for Condor.”
“This is Condor, Powers, come on up. Are you Major John Powers?”
“Yes, Alex. The same. I’ll explain later.”
“Okay. Oh, by the way, call Miami police and tell them to bring a coroner and three body bags,” he said.
“Yes, Alex,” Agent Powers replied, as he widened his eyes and looked at his partners.
Alex was still sitting on the floor of the hallway with his Glock raised when he heard a commotion on the landing by the elevators. “Powers?” he called out.
“Condor, this is Powers,” he replied from around the corner of the hallway.
He lowered his Glock. “You are clear,” he said.
Powers and two other FBI agents made their way to Alex. “Are you hurt?” Powers asked.
“No, I am fine,” he said. “Any other news on Julia Muller?”
“No, I am afraid not. No bodies have been found,” Powers replied. “We have to get you out of here. Are all these guys dead?
“I’m afraid so. Let me change into clean clothes, and we’ll get out. Any other new developments?” Alex asked.
Powers ordered one of the agents to secure the service elevator and the other to stand guard by the main elevator.
“There are confirmed reports of two more dead council members in Cuba. Both executed in their homes. In Miami, we have reports of three more dead besides the earlier reports. We have five confirmed dead, and Mr. and Mrs. Muller missing and presumed dead.”
“Shit. Who in Miami?” he asked.
“Carlos Avila, Jorge Asis, and Jose Martinez,” Powers replied. “We have three in a safe house. Andrea Martinez, Pepe Gutierrez, and Guillermo Rodriguez, and now, you. Fernando Casal and Alvaro Lopez have not been located.”
“Unbelievable. What’s going on? Who would have the balls to do this?” He asked, as he was changing into clean clothes and emptying his Glock, the PPK, and placing the knife and magazines into a leather pouch.
“The Castro Cuban government is blaming Casal and his Nova group,” Powers replied.
“So I heard,” he said, “but I don’t believe it. First, Casal is on board with the council’s mission, although, momentarily. Second, his group does not have the ability to strike so many people all at once in both Cuba and here. This smells like the work of Cuba’s DI. Has anyone been captured?”
“No, you are the only one who has survived an attack. And the guys in the hallway are the closest we have come so far to identifying anyone,” Powers responded.
“Well, you are not going to identify any of these guys. Aside from tattoos, if they have any, they are not going to have any papers on them. The two in the hallway are Hispanic. The third guy by the service elevator looked Eastern European before I blew his face off,” he said, as he started to close the door to his condominium.
“You are not going to need any weapons,” Powers said, pointing to the leather pouch that Alex had strapped over his shoulder.
“Yeah, well, that’s good, but they’re coming with me just in case,” he said, as they walked towards the main elevators. “Did you guys see the fourth member of this hit team when you arrived?”
“No, the doorman told us he took off when he saw our vans pull up in the driveway. However, he did say the man looked Russian.”
“I doubt he is Russian. More like Romanian or German would be my guess,” he said, entering the elevator. “Old Stasi members make Cuba their home these days.”
The Miami-Dade County Police and Crime Unit had just arrived on the scene. Powers spoke to the officer in charge and promised Alex would make a full statement at a later time by phone.
Alex looked at Powers and asked, “What are you doing here? You’re not FBI.”
John Powers looked around at the other FBI agents. “Walk with me,” Powers said, removing himself and Alex from the others. “I’m on loan from the Department of Defense. This operation extends outside the U.S. and the DOD wanted to be in it.”
“Buddy, it’s been what a year since we worked in Venezuela together. How are you?”
“Possibly looking at my last operation. I have a medical condition and they want me working a desk.”
Major John Powers, or ‘Hulk’, as he had been nicknamed was a huge man. Powers was decorated sniper and a first class operative. Also, he was a part of Delta Force before he became an operative for the CIA and later the DOD.
“You? At a desk? Never. Is it serious?”
“We’ll discuss it. But no. Not that bad. I can’t imagine being an analyst and working from behind a desk.”
“I agree. It’s like caging an eagle. You need to fly free my friend.”
“Well, if you have any ideas let me know. Otherwise, I’ll take my pension and get out. Maybe, go private.”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Let’s get done here and we’ll talk.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HAVANA, CUBA
Generals Garces and Naviles and Captain Abimbola were meeting secretly at their headquarters in Havana. All throughout the morning, they had monitored the events as reports came in through the captain’s agents and via the U.S. news channels. They had exhausted themselves giving each other high fives, as each and every report of a successful hit came in.
“Coño, this is as much fun as watching a good baseball game,” said Garces, as he was walking back and forth in the private office.
“Captain, you are to be commended for carrying out this op
eration so successfully. Well done, my man,” said Naviles, high fiving the captain, once again.
“Our captured Nova member is going to confess on TV any minute now in front of the judicial judges we have assembled,” said Abimbola. “From there, he is immediately going to be executed by a firing squad.”
“Who is it?” Garces asked, looking at Abimbola.
“He is one of my men who volunteered for this some time ago,” replied Abimbola.
“He volunteered to be executed?” Naviles asked.
“General, General, no. I’m not going to kill my own man. I’ve had him grow a beard in the last few weeks. His face is going to be a little swollen from the beating he took resisting arrest. After the trial and before the firing squad does its number, we are going to switch him with a political prisoner from La Cabaña prison and execute him instead. He’ll be wearing a bag over his head. My man is getting a shave, a promotion, and a transfer to Santiago Province in Chile later today,” said Abimbola.
“So, who is the poor asshole who is going to be shot?” Garces questioned.
“Who gives a shit?” Naviles replied, before Abimbola responded.
They laughed, and more high fives were slapped around the office.
“That is very cunning. Speaking of promotions, you have earned one today. I think General Garces would agree,” said Naviles.
“Indeed, you have, Colonel Abimbola. Indeed, you have,” replied Garces, pointing to one of various TV monitors in front of them.
“This is Walter Addison with the CNN News Bureau in Havana, Cuba. In a stunning confession and conviction today in Havana, within hours of the murders committed both here and in Miami, Florida, Jose Garcia, a confessed member of the Nova group, has admitted that Fernando Casal, the leader of the Nova group residing in Miami personally gave the orders to execute all members of the Cuban Council. Casal, also a member of the Cuban Council in Exile, was dissatisfied with the direction of the Cuban Council’s approach to changing the course of the Cuban regime. He called for military action instead of pacifism. Authorities in Miami tell us that Casal is still at large. The Cuban government is calling for his immediate arrest and extradition to Cuba to face the same fate as Garcia will face today, death by firing squad. This is—”
Garces muted the volume. “Perfect,” he said. “I don’t see how this can unravel. However, are the plans ready to arrest General Martinez of the Central Army?”
“We are ready at a moment’s notice, General,” replied Abimbola.
“Are you targeting Casal?” Garces inquired.
“No, we pulled back on that. We can’t blame him if we kill him,” said Abimbola.
“Makes a lot of sense. Good call, Colonel,” said Naviles, with emphasis on the ‘Colonel’.
“The timing is crucial. I will call Ramirez to get the exact day that MonteCarlo goes public. That is the day we complete ‘Operation Final Sweep,’ men,” said Garces, as he got up from his comfortable leather recliner and extended high fives to both Naviles and Abimbola.
MIAMI, FLORIDA
At the offices of MonteCarlo Industries Inc., Rick Ramirez was making his final preparations to leave in about an hour for Paris from Miami International Airport. His office phone rang.
“Mr. Ramirez, this is Andy Anderson.”
“Andy, how are you holding up?” He said, sitting down at his desk.
“I am devastated by the news. The only hope I have is that they have not found Julia’s body. So, I am praying she is still alive,” Andy said, in a soft voice.
“Do you want to cancel the trip to Paris?” Rick asked.
“Well, there is nothing I can do here, and we are going to be gone only two days. So, no, I think I’ll go. What I’ll do is return to Miami from Paris and pray they find her while we are gone,” Andy said.
“Okay, Andy, I understand if you want to stay or come to Miami directly. Your call, partner,” he said.
“No, no, we are ready to go public in three days. Like I said, there is nothing I can do. So, I’ll see you in Paris later today. Our meeting is tomorrow morning. By the way, the syndicate has agreed to price the IPO at the high end,” Andy said, in a somber tone.
“Very well, Andy. Let’s hope and pray for the best. Pricing of the IPO is not important at the moment,” he said, holding back a smile.
He turned around at his desk to open the credenza and took out a briefcase that contained a satellite phone. He dialed General Garces and relayed the news about the date of the offering going public and the final pricing of the shares.
****
It was almost nightfall in Miami. Alex was in a safe house under FBI protection. Similarly, three members of the council in exile were at their own safe houses under FBI protection. The news had not been good. The bodies of Julia and her husband had not been found. All members of the Council in Cuba were now confirmed dead. Assassinated in cold blood.
The confessed member of the Nova group in Havana had been executed in front of television cameras. It was all reminiscent of the firing squad shootings of the 1960s when the Cuban government under the direction of Fidel and Raul Castro, along with Che Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos, had purged the island of over one hundred thousand men and women who could oppose them.
Dinner had been brought in for Alex and the FBI agents, but Alex had not touched any of the food. His thoughts were entirely on Julia, and his heart was in his throat, as it was. He looked terrified, knowing he had sealed Julia’s fate with her selection to the council. His cell phone rang.
“This is Alex,” he said in a somber tone.
“Alex, this is George Shriver. How are you holding up, Condor Two?” Shriver asked.
“I am sick to my stomach, George. Do you have any news?” He asked.
“Not on Julia, my friend, but I do have some startling information on what is going on. Do you have a minute?” Shriver asked.
“Time is all I have. Tell me,” he replied, sitting down on a couch in the living room.
“I just got a call from Director Gordon of the DEA in Miami. They have had an undercover agent in ‘legend,’ embedded with Rick Ramirez of MonteCarlo Industries. Special Agent Jackie Allison befriended Ramirez and became his lover just recently. Agent Allison decided to come out of ‘legend’ as a result of all the assassinations that have taken place. She has firsthand knowledge that MonteCarlo is a front for the Cuban government’s attempt to launder billions of dollars,” said Shriver.
“Can she implicate the Castro brothers?” He asked.
“No. Evidently, two generals have been the direct contact for Ramirez. Generals Garces and Naviles. No direct link to Fidel and Raul that she can prove at this time. You remember who was Ramirez’s father, right?” asked Shriver.
“You bet, George. It was your operation in which we placed the mines under the conch shells that killed Ramirez’s father. What a small world,” he said. “Where is Ramirez now? Have you apprehended him yet?”
“Ramirez is in Paris. I’m Director of the FBI in Miami and have no jurisdiction outside of it. You are about to get a call from what I think will be a sanction,” replied Shriver. “Stay by the phone.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Alex said, getting up from the couch and pacing around the living room. “Can this agent, Allison, tie these murders to Ramirez or to the Cuban government?”
“That’s a negative,” replied Shriver. “I have a feeling that’s going to be your assignment. We haven’t found Casal, yet. However, we doubt he is responsible for this.”
“George, please, keep me posted when they find Julia one way or another. No matter where I am,” he said.
“You bet, buddy. Good luck,” Shriver said.
He felt stimulated by the news, although sad that there was no word on Julia’s whereabouts.
Walking into the dining room where the FBI agents were still having dinner, he looked at the food on the table and asked, “Anything left, boys?”
“Plenty, sit down and join us,” one of the
agents replied, pulling out a chair for him. “Hope you like fried chicken and French fries.”
“Anything green to go with that?” He asked, jokingly.
“Only the placemats,” said one of the agents, laughing.
He was enjoying the moment of distraction as he ate with the FBI agents. His day had been filled with adrenaline. He processed the deaths of his friends and waited to hear, more than likely, of Julia’s death, as well. Now, he faced the prospect of going after Ramirez to tie up some loose ends. As he finished the dinner, his phone rang again.
“Condor Two, this is Condor,” the voice on the phone said.
“Go ahead, One,” he answered.
“Heard you had a busy day, “ Condor said. “You got your go-bag with you?”
“Affirmative on both, boss,” he replied. “When do we head out?”
“Well, we have an issue with that. I can’t have government guys take direct action in Paris. But, we can be in a support role.”
“So, you want me to put a team together? A team of former military and govies operatives?”
“Can you?”
“It so happens that I’ve been calling around because I want out of being an NOC for the CIA. I have the business plan put together for a private security and intelligence firm.”
“Perfect timing. What’s been keeping you?”
“My involvement with the Cuban Council in Exile and bullshit excuses I come up with.”
“This is your chance to put this plan to work. Do you have any operatives you can bring in on this?”
“I have John Powers, former Delta Force and operative for both CIA and DOD. He’s tough. Known as the Hulk. Crazy son of a bitch, but a great leader. He and I worked together twice while he was company.”
“You need more than just the two of you.”
“I’ve got Javier Alvarez. Also, Delta Force who worked with Powers. Plus, two former SEALs. All these guys are anxious to get started on something. They’re all out of action and you know what that does to these guys.”