Payoff

by Douglas Corleone

  I placed the muzzle of the Glock under Estefan’s chin and applied pressure, pushing his skull into the wall.

  I said, “And in case you didn’t get the memo, Estefan—I’m retired.”

  Oddly enough, Estefan looked to Vega for help, but the agent simply stood and turned his back.

  “Now, who has the girl?” I said.

  I had to relieve some of the pressure so that Estefan could move his jaw.

  “Los Rastrojos,” he said. “They are the group that supplied Javier. Los Rastrojos.”

  An hour later, Grey, Vega, Mariana, and I were in my rented Hilux, heading west in the direction of Colombia’s Pacific coast. Three SUVs filled with agents followed us. Another four would be meeting us there—as well as members of the Third Division of Colombia’s National Army and Marine Infantry. Grey had not contacted anyone in Colombia’s National Police force. Too much corruption, he said. One leak and we’d all be killed.

  “Is this operation official?” I asked.

  Grey, sitting next to me in the passenger seat, furrowed his brow. “It’s a very fine line, Simon.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  Our destination was the area known as Valle del Cauca. This was the main region out of which Los Rastrojos were known to operate. Los Rastrojos were a neo-paramilitary group funded primarily by cocaine and heroin trafficking, as well as illegal gold mining. They were also heavily involved in money laundering, arms trafficking, extortion, and of course, kidnapping and murder.

  According to Grey, the group had a membership of nearly fifteen hundred, all armed. Some of their soldiers and assassins were tied up in a constant conflict with Los Urabeños, a rival group operating mainly in the north.

  The Rostrojos maintained laboratories in the jungles along the Pacific coast and moved their product north to Central America and Mexico, where they sold it to Mexican traffickers who smuggled it into the United States.

  Rostrojos also controlled one of the most crucial smuggling routes into Venezuela, which served as a bridge for cocaine marked for Europe and certain parts of the U.S. that remained accessible by boats.

  As we drove west, the distant sky looked like dark smoke, and rain began splattering the windshield. The smell of precipitation filled the air.

  “Los Rastrojos are the heirs of the Norte del Valle Cartel,” Grey said, “which had picked up the pieces of the thoroughly dismantled Cali Cartel. Some of the players remain the same. In fact, a few of our informants have claimed that the Rastrojos are the Norte del Valle Cartel, just operating under a different name. Regardless, we do know that the group inherited the cartel’s network of assassins and distributors in the international markets.”

  “They’re a private army,” Vega added from the backseat. “Well funded and commanded by one of the most ruthless warlords in South America’s history.”

  I watched Vega in the rearview. “What’s his name?”

  “Óscar Luis Toro de Villa.”

  “Known to all of Colombia as el hombre malo,” Grey added.

  “‘The bad man,’” I said. “Not very original down here, are they?”

  “The reason that nickname stuck is because his mother gave it to him.”

  I shrugged. “Still.”

  Grey added, “His mother branded him with the nickname when he was only six months old.”

  Chapter 47

  When we reached our destination deep in the Colombian jungle, Grey directed me to pull into a small clearing. His instructions were unnecessary since we’d run out of road. The rain was now pounding the windshield, beating the roof of the Hilux like fists. In the distance, I could just barely make out a brown-green river, its waters rushing south.

  “Stay here,” Grey said as he and Vega exited the Hilux in order to conference with the other agents.

  Mariana climbed up front. Once again, she’d insisted on joining us. But this time, when Grey pushed back, telling her she was just a civilian, I couldn’t help but remind him that, technically, I was too.

  Now Mariana appeared nervous.

  “Are you all right?” I said.

  “I do not like the involvement of the military. They are not to be trusted.”

  I understood her concern. Much of the Colombian population was wary of the military, and of the United States’ presence in their country, for that matter. Roughly fifteen years ago, the U.S. adopted legislation known as Plan Colombia. Ostensibly, the plan was meant to aid the Colombian government in reducing coca production and trafficking as part of the U.S. government’s so-called War on Drugs. But a decade and a half later, it wasn’t difficult to determine who had reaped the benefits—and who had suffered the most egregious injuries and damage.

  One winner in Plan Colombia was the U.S. military industrial complex. Billions of dollars went toward building planes and helicopters, all at U.S. taxpayer expense. It was a rare bipartisan effort; the only issue U.S. politicians seemed to be arguing over was which companies would receive the contracts.

  Another winner was a multinational American biotech giant called Monsanto. Monsanto was the corporation that initially patented and sold glyphosate, a broad-spectrum systemic herbicide used to kill weeds. The U.S. government contracted with Monsanto to create a version of the herbicide with enhanced toxicity, then put crop dusters in the air over Colombia’s fields.

  The poisonous chemicals were dropped onto farms large and small, farms that grew coca but also farms that were growing only legal crops like coffee, tobacco, and fruit. The fumigation succeeded only in pushing coca growers up and down the Andes. In fact, production of cocaine in Colombia had doubled since Plan Colombia went into effect. Yet still the reckless fumigation continued.

  The toxic chemicals fell not only on crops but also on poor villages, killing and injuring men, women, children, and infants. The poison had entered the country’s water supply. It was known to cause tumors in the thyroid, liver, and pancreas. People continued to get sick and die.

  Meanwhile, small farmers in Colombia were expected to exist on the pittance of aid they received to grow legitimate crops. It had become a choice each farmer was forced to make: grow coca or allow your family to starve to death.

  The other groups to benefit were the deadly paramilitary groups such as the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, or AUC. Far worse than any left-wing guerrilla group, the AUC allegedly received training, intelligence, and other aid from the Colombian military, who were receiving the same training, intelligence, and other aid from the United States. Meanwhile, the AUC and other paramilitary groups were massacring not only members of FARC and the ELN, but sympathizers and human rights activists as well. They considered any area controlled by guerrillas as the enemy, and they targeted all residents of such areas, including civilians.

  “People in the U.S., they have no idea what is happening here,” Mariana said. “Your government privatized this war because it would not have public support.”

  She was right, of course. The U.S. continued to shell out taxpayer money, but rather than use the U.S. military, Washington hired private contractors and mercenaries who were subject to little or no oversight.

  “The U.S. government,” Mariana said, “they created these monsters who are slaughtering my people. When their War on Drugs became unpopular, they dubbed the FARC and ELN as terrorists. Then justified their actions by claiming it was part of their more popular War on Terror.”

  There was a tap on my window and I turned to see Grey standing in the downpour.

  I lowered my window.

  “We’ve confirmed the location of a laboratory about twenty klicks west of the river. Our sources say that the Rastrojos have about two dozen men guarding the place and another two dozen inside the factory, most of which is belowground.”

  “And Olivia?” I said.

  “Unlikely that mules would be on-site, but Don Óscar’s younger brother is believed to be in charge of this laboratory.”

  “Don Óscar’s brother?”

  �
�José Andrés. If we can capture him alive, he can lead us to el hombre malo.”

  I felt a surge of excitement. “Does this José Andrés have a nickname?”

  “Yeah,” Grey said, placing his hand over his eyes to keep the rain out. “Hermano pequeño del hombre malo—the bad man’s little brother.”

  Chapter 48

  Minutes later, marines in full camouflage arrived and set up a shelter made of green tarps and wooden poles in the clearing. An agent extracted a large map from one of the SUVs and spread it out on a folding table under the tarps.

  I stepped out of the Hilux and joined them.

  Grey was speaking to another agent and two commanders, briefing them on the layout apparently provided by a confidential informant inside the lab.

  “… but our CI tells us the money may be booby-trapped. If that’s the case, we’re going to need—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Money? What money?”

  Grey shot me a look of annoyance. He asked the others to excuse us, then pulled me aside. “This isn’t the Trentons’ money, Simon. This is dirty money, narco-money.”

  “But this raid,” I said, “it’s to apprehend José Andrés, not to seize money or drugs, right?”

  “The objective of this mission is twofold, Simon.”

  “But which objective takes priority?”

  “Look, Simon, how do you think I got all these men down here? By telling them a teenage girl’s life is at stake? It doesn’t work that way, and you know it. Some of these Colombian soldiers have seen more dead teens than they have days. You think a little rich white girl is going to melt their hearts and get them to risk their own lives? You’re in Colombia, Simon, not the U.S. of A.”

  I felt heat crawl up my neck and advance on my cheeks despite the icy rain.

  “What did I tell you when you first arrived in Bogotá, Simon? It’s all about the pesos down here.”

  “The problem is, Grey, that if these men have their sights set on the money, then everyone in that laboratory is going to end up dead today, including Don Óscar’s little brother José Andrés.”

  “It’s a chance we’re going to have to take, Simon. Unless you think that you and I and your girlfriend Mariana over there can raid this goddamn lab guarded by twenty-four men with M16s on our own.”

  Something strong grabbed at my chest but I had no response. Grey had a point. We needed these men. But I wasn’t going to remain behind as I’d promised. I was the only one who needed José Andrés alive, and I was going to be damned sure I got to him before anyone else did.

  “I’m going in,” I told Grey.

  “You go in, Simon, and you’re not coming out alive.”

  I shrugged. “Like you said, Grey. It’s a chance we’re going to have to take.”

  * * *

  Following the strategy session, I returned to the Hilux. I couldn’t call Edgar, because we needed to maintain cell phone silence. Until the raid began in earnest, all our communications would be made using hand signals.

  I handed Mariana my BlackBerry.

  “Make me a promise,” I said. “If something goes wrong, if I don’t make it back, call Edgar Trenton as soon as you return to Bogotá. His number’s in my phone. Tell him what happened. Tell him where we left off. Tell him everything we heard from Estefan, including everything we know about Óscar Luis Toro de Villa.”

  “Of course, Simon.”

  “There’s another number in my phone, a number I’d like you to give him. It’s listed under the name Gustavo Z. Tell Edgar to call him. Gustavo is a good friend of mine. He essentially does what I do. He works out of Tampa. Tell Edgar that Gustavo may be able to help him.”

  “Gustavo,” she repeated.

  “When Edgar calls, he should tell Gustavo I referred him. Gustavo will ask for a word—a name, actually. The name is Nadya with a y.”

  “Simon, why do you not stay back with me? There are so many men. Why must you go too?”

  I explained to her about the money.

  “I learned a long time ago, Mariana, that you can’t rely solely on authorities to get you through the dark times. Sometimes it’s incumbent on you to lead the way. Most of the governments of the world, they consider me a vigilante. And maybe I am a vigilante, I don’t know. What I do know is that if I don’t accompany these men into that laboratory and they kill José Andrés and destroy our only hope of getting to his brother Óscar Luis, I won’t be able to live with myself. So what good would I be doing myself by playing it safe?”

  Mariana leaned over and wrapped her arms around me and I held her back, burying my face in her dark hair, devouring her scent. I realized then how much my body needed rest. But there wasn’t time. The longer Olivia Trenton remained missing, the less chance we had of ever finding her alive.

  I listened to the patter on the roof. The rain wasn’t coming down so hard. I looked out the windshield through the canopy of trees. The sky wasn’t so dark.

  There was a rap on my window and I turned to see Grey standing at my door. I lowered the window, and the Hilux instantly filled with the smell of wet earth.

  “Still insist on coming with us, Simon?”

  I bowed my head.

  “All right, then we have some camo fatigues for you, some weapons, and a vest.”

  “Thank you, Grey.”

  “Don’t thank me, Simon. At least not until this is over. As much as we may know about our target, we never truly know what to expect.”

  “Did the CI give you a probable location on José Andrés?”

  “He did. The CI also gave us José’s most likely route of escape. I think the best course of action would be for you and me to station ourselves nearest that possible exit and hang back, allow Vega’s team and the Colombian military to flush him out. That will give us our best chance to take him alive.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “Then let’s go, Simon. The boys are ready to roll.”

  I turned to say good-bye to Mariana but before I could speak, her lips were on mine and her hands were grasping the back of my neck. “Be careful, Simon,” she said, her teeth gently tugging at my lower lip. “I understand why you must go in. But please understand that you must also come back.”

  I pulled my lip free, took her in as best I could. “I intend to,” I said.

  Chapter 49

  Uniformed Colombian soldiers set up a perimeter. Grey and I were part of the cover unit, tasked with sealing in those guards or factory workers attempting escape. Of course, I had only one face in mind—that of José Andrés Toro de Villa.

  I stuffed the photo Grey gave me into the pocket of my fatigues and checked my Glock. We were well hidden on a hill covered by jungle. I was ordered by the other agents to exercise great restraint. They didn’t want me mistakenly firing upon them. Of course, I didn’t care to fire on anyone. The one man I needed, I needed alive.

  The entry unit was composed of Grey’s men, with Vega leading the team. It was the smallest unit, only a few men. Too many go in, and it would create complete chaos—and chaos gave advantage to the enemy.

  A support unit would follow the entry unit in once the facility was secured. They would be responsible for taking custody of the prisoners and conducting a thorough systematic search of the laboratory. They would search for hidden targets, explosives, weapons, cocaine, and of course, the money.

  Preparation for the raid was limited to one hour of reconnaissance and whatever information was previously obtained from Grey’s confidential informant. We knew the construction and layout of the facility—the placement of all lights, switches, hatches, and closets. The surrounding area was all jungle, and though the soldiers seemed fairly familiar with it, I certainly was not. If José Andrés got past me, he would have the upper hand.

  “Be ready for anything,” Grey cautioned me. “These guys don’t like to be taken alive.”

  * * *

  Grey and I sat silently on our haunches, hidden in the tall grass, watching the raid team wordlessly
swarm down the hill toward its target. I readied my Glock, a fierce pounding in my chest reminding me that I was alive—and that I may not be for long.

  In my ear, I suddenly heard the phrase “trip wire,” and radio silence was immediately no more. In the distance, I watched a small explosion. Then clandestine trapdoors blew open, and men with M16s started popping out of the ground and spraying the jungle in all directions.

  “Down,” Grey shouted to me, and we both fell flat on our stomachs as bullets buzzed overhead.

  Our men were firing back while ducking for cover. In my ear, I heard the word “abort,” and suddenly, all our men were moving backwards.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I shouted to Grey.

  “No good,” he shouted back. “Vega’s team just spotted another two dozen armed men running up through the gorge.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Mercenaries.”

  Grey jumped to his feet and grabbed the back of my camouflage jacket. He pulled me to my knees but I broke away, headed in the direction of the machine gun fire.

  “Simon,” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Breaking through the dense jungle, I spotted a gunman hunched low, facing in the opposite direction of my approach. His body lay half in, half out of the trapdoor and I instantly decided that the trapdoor would be my way in.

  I didn’t go unnoticed.

  Someone alerted him and he turned just as I entered the small clearing. I fired my Glock as I ran, the bullets ripping away at the wooden trapdoor, causing him to duck for cover. It was just enough time to close the ground between us, and I sprinted, leapt in the air, and collided with him as soon as he showed himself to fire.

  Our bodies rolled together down a flight of makeshift stairs into a dusty rough-and-ready laboratory where we fell into a heap onto the hard dirt floor. The remnants of flash grenades made the area thick with smoke, which blinded me but also made for excellent cover.

  I tensed myself for a struggle, but the gunman I’d rode down seemed to be unconscious. I lifted myself on my haunches. I rolled him over, found a wide gash on his forehead, but he seemed to be breathing. I collected his M16, replaced the magazine, and tucked the Glock into my waistband.