“So you’re recruiting me?”
“It’s only recruitment when you have a choice.”
Escobar bristled at that. He felt his neck and his cheeks flush as anger boiled up inside him. His muscles tensed as he became ready to uncoil from the bed and strike the Iranian. Instead he squelched his desire to attack. Clenching his fists hard, he stayed still. “So you’re saying I have no choice in the matter.”
“You don’t.”
“And you know this because...”
“If you say no, we’ll destroy you and no one will know the difference.”
“Why should I believe you?”
The other man shifted in his chair and stared at Escobar for several seconds.
“I notice you haven’t asked about your entourage,” he said. “That team of security people who were with you? The clerical assistant?”
The questions hit Escobar like a punch to the gut. It was only at that moment he realized he had no idea as to the whereabouts of his security team. He’d been so focused on his own plight that he’d forgotten about them. It wasn’t that he was concerned about their welfare. No. But he knew their fates would likely forecast his own.
“What did you do to them?”
“They’re all dead. It didn’t happen quickly or painlessly. I took the liberty of filming their deaths. A few of the videos are a little long because we questioned them before killing them. Certainly makes the whole thing a little tedious. But you’re welcome to watch the videos, if you’d like.”
Escobar felt his stomach lurch. As terror seized him, he began to feel light-headed and a desire to vomit overtook him.
“What do you want from me?”
“Let me tell you.”
Al-Jaballah’s next words had blown Escobar’s mind.
* * *
EVEN NOW THE whole experience seemed surreal to Escobar—a secret society within a secretive government.
In and of itself, Escobar cared little for geopolitics. He considered the bickering and posturing between countries foolish. But, as a businessman, he also wanted to know which countries were on the brink of a war, in a war or limping out of a war.
Escobar dropped a fresh ice cube into his glass, heard a satisfying clink. Tipping the whiskey bottle, he splashed more alcohol into the glass. When al-Jaballah laid out the Circle’s plans for the Middle East, Escobar had considered him insane. He’d questioned not only the man’s stated goals, but also the very existence of the group al-Jaballah was touting. As the years had worn on, though, he had witnessed the power the Circle wielded in Iran and the Middle East as a whole, all of it behind the scenes.
He still didn’t give a damn about the group’s goals per se. Or whether the story about his father was true or a convenient fiction aimed at clouding his judgment. None of that mattered to him.
What he cared about was money. He’d made a lot of it while selling guns and other weapons. He could make even more if he had unmanned aerial vehicles to sell. Anything else was a load of high-minded BS.
As long as al-Jaballah kept the money flowing, Escobar would be a good soldier. If that meant selling weapons to Alonzo Perez, fine; Escobar would do it. But if he thought Perez was here to cause trouble, he’d put the guy in the ground.
CHAPTER FOUR
Blancanales shrugged into the nylon shoulder rig. He then picked up the Beretta 92 from the top of the dresser and slid it into the holster before slipping on the jacket for his grey Armani suit. He buttoned the jacket and studied his reflection in the mirror to verify the pistol wasn’t visible.
While Brognola supposedly had secured the cooperation of the Mexican government, Blancanales knew things were more complicated on the ground than they were in the office of a high-level bureaucrat. He was in a foreign country, traveling under a fake name but with a very real gun. And, if they ran his name and face through any of the myriad databases, they’d see he was an arms trafficker.
If the police picked him up, Lyons and Schwarz would have to vouch for his Justice Department ties. Or Brognola would have to rattle a few cages from Washington. All of that would take time. While getting picked up by the police might bolster his street cred, it also would cost him valuable time. And considering the rampant corruption in Mexican law enforcement, he knew any effort to spring him from jail could also result in blowing his and Ortega’s cover.
He didn’t want to risk an arrest. Not making it obvious he was carrying was one way to avoid attracting police attention—he hoped.
The door opened behind him. In the mirror, he saw Schwarz poking his face into the space between the door and jamb.
“Ortega’s here.”
Blancanales nodded. Turning, he exited his bedroom and followed his friend into the living room.
Ortega was perched on a barstool. A lit cigarette was pinched between the first two fingers of his right hand, which was resting on the bar. A glass holding a partially melted ice cube sat on the bar in front of him. He glanced at Blancanales when he entered the room and greeted him with a nod. Grabbing a bottle of Scotch by the neck, Ortega flipped it to a forty-five-degree angle and poured an inch or so into his glass.
“Go easy on that,” Blancanales said.
The undercover agent shot him a sideways glance before downing the drink.
“I work better when I’m half lit,” he said.
Blancanales marched over to the bar as Ortega was reaching out for the bottle of Scotch. The Able Team warrior grabbed it before the other man could get hold of it. Ortega swiveled around on his stool. His narrowed eyes locked on Blancanales and his body tensed, as if he was about to launch himself from the stool.
“Hey!” Ortega snapped.
“I said go easy. You want to drink yourself into a stupor, do it on your own time. We have work to do.”
“I know we have work to do,” Ortega said. “I was doing this shit long before you and your buddies breezed into town. Remember? Give me the bottle.”
Blancanales handed the bottle to Schwarz, who carried it behind the bar.
Ortega, a scowl fixed on his face, followed Schwarz’s movements until he’d packed the bottle away.
“I’m supposed to have a couple of belts in me,” he said. “Escobar’s people expect that of me. It’s part of my cover. I always show up with a couple of drinks in me.”
Blancanales shook his head.
“Not today.”
“What? You don’t drink?”
“I drink. More important, I don’t give a shit whether you drink.”
“Apparently you do.”
“We’re about to step into a hostile situation,” Blancanales said. “You know the players. You know the vibe. If they’re uncomfortable with me, you’re going to sense it.”
“And you think I won’t sense it if I’m too liquored up. Bullshit. I know how to handle myself. I know how to handle a couple of drinks.”
“Well, you’re in luck because that’s what you just had.”
Ortega slid off his stool and, glaring at Blancanales, took a step toward him. The warrior kept his hands hanging loose at his sides, fingers open but ready to block anything the agent tried.
“Stand down,” Blancanales said. “Now.”
Ortega held his gaze for a few seconds. He cursed under his breath, turned and gathered his cigarettes and lighter from the bar. Pushing past Blancanales, he flung open a sliding-glass door, stepped onto the balcony and slammed it shut.
“Well played,” Schwarz said. “You’re making Ironman look like Dale Carnegie.”
Blancanales shrugged.
“Needed to be done,” he said.
“Because you despise the demon alcohol.”
Blancanales flashed his friend a smile. “That’s me. A card-carrying member of teetotalers anonymous.” He glanc
ed over his shoulder at Ortega, who stood on the balcony smoking a cigarette, before turning back to Schwarz. “I’m about to walk into a den of snakes with our friend as my primary backup. I want to see where this guy’s head is at. If it was you or Carl, I wouldn’t sweat this stuff.”
“But it’s not.”
“Right, it’s not. I’m going in with a guy who’s spent years living a double life. He’s got his own priorities and allegiances at this point.”
“Leo Turrin does it,” Schwarz said.
Blancanales jerked his head in Ortega’s direction. “This guy isn’t Leo Turrin.”
“True.”
“Add on top of that, that this clown wants to douse himself in Scotch before we meet Castillo. Suddenly, I am feeling nervous.”
Schwarz crossed his arms over his chest and leveled his gaze at Blancanales.
“You don’t think his head’s on straight.”
“As much as anything, me pushing him on the alcohol was a power play. I wanted to see how he reacted. I expected a little pushback. Someone who’s able to do the undercover gig is probably going to have an independent streak. They won’t take well to some outsider like me parachuting in and barking orders. And if the guy was a pushover, he wouldn’t have lasted this long surrounded by Escobar’s people.”
“He looked more than a little irked, though.”
“Yeah, I thought he might take a swing.”
“That’d be awkward. Especially after you whipped his ass.”
* * *
ORTEGA STOOD ON the balcony, puffed on his cigarette and seethed. Who did that SOB think he was, parachuting into Mexico City and telling him how to run an operation? Who the hell were any of them, for that matter? They thought they knew how to handle things.
Ortega knew better. He’d been swimming in this shit for what seemed like forever. And, yeah, maybe it had been getting to him recently. He’d had more than one night where his eyes had snapped open for no reason. A cold sweat filmed his skin. His heart slammed in his chest. Breath came in shallow gasps, when he could catch his breath at all.
But, hell, who could blame him?
He’d been consorting with scum his whole career. But Escobar was in a category all his own. The guy reminded him of a snake. Cold eyes that Ortega swore never blinked and an even colder smile, the sight of which usually heralded something awful for someone, somewhere.
After dealing with that, yeah, Ortega felt worn down, like a bundle of exposed nerves. And, yeah, it had made him sloppy and had caused him to cut a few corners.
He tossed the cigarette to the balcony and ground it under his heel, leaving a curved black streak on the floor. His throat suddenly felt dry and he wished he could have another drink. Not that he needed another one, he told himself. He just wanted one and he wanted it now, just to take the edge off before he had to deal with that prick Castillo. He hated that bastard almost as much as he hated Escobar. Almost. Escobar definitely was in a class of his own.
He dug around in his pants’ pocket until he found his cigarettes and lighter. He lit another cigarette and dragged on it. If he couldn’t have a drink, he’d damn sure treat himself to another smoke.
He didn’t know what the angle was for these Washington pukes. His bosses hadn’t told him shit.
“You have three high-level agents coming,” his supervisor had told him during their weekly check-in call. “Give them whatever they need. Don’t ask any questions. Just shut your damn mouth and do as you’re told. Understood?”
Ortega didn’t understand. He hadn’t suffered quietly over it, either. He’d complained about it, of course. But he’d tried to keep it as subdued as possible. Not because he worried about pissing off his controller or being pegged as a guy with a bad attitude. Hell, pissing off some bureaucrat was the least of his damn worries, all things considered.
Still, he knew better than to gripe too loudly. He’d made some bad decisions in the past several months, and he guessed some of them would come back to haunt him. The last thing he needed was a trio of Boy Scouts from Washington jetting into his territory and job shadowing him. He’d racked up a laundry list of bad things while doing his job, none of which he’d reported.
And when he did something right, such as learning that Escobar had access to UAVs, he’d suddenly found himself up to his neck in unwanted help from Washington. He shook his head in disgust. Hard-won experience told him it was better to take his beating, to do all the team-player BS that was expected of him.
His cigarette burned down to the filter and winked out. Tossing the butt onto the balcony, he lit another smoke. He hadn’t played it entirely straight with these guys or his bosses in the States. Over the past couple of months he’d gotten a bad feeling that Escobar was on to him. The Mexican could be as inscrutable as a snake and one hundred times more dangerous. Ortega had come to grips a while back that he only could make educated guesses when it came to Escobar’s position on anything. Still, his gut told him the boss had misgivings.
Ortega rested his elbows on the balcony railing and stared at the skyline. Deep down, he knew he should have flagged his controller with the Justice Department, the technical team that was working with him here and now these other hotshots. Instead he’d kept his mouth shut. And he’d done it for no other reason than it was just easier.
His controller went home every night to a familiar home, a good meal, a wife and kids. Ortega spent every minute waiting on someone to see through his disguise, to slit his throat and bury his body in a landfill. Did he drink? Hell, yeah. Sometimes it was the only way he’d pass out at night, then he’d wake again in the morning, mind racing, fraught with worry, and he’d hunt for another bottle. None of these bastards understood that. So if he wanted to take the easy way out for once, not spill his guts to some bureaucrat who hadn’t seen a real criminal in a decade or more, so be it.
Maybe his gut was right, that Escobar was on to him. More likely, though, it was his nerves. He wasn’t going to have some useless bureaucrat yank him from the field, stick him behind a desk or put him on disability because they thought his nerves were shot. He’d put a bullet in his own head before he’d let that happen.
Grinding the cigarette on the top of the railing, he threw the butt over the side of the balcony. He turned and started across the balcony. He was the one in control, the professional, he told himself. There was no way Escobar questioned his loyalty; he was too valuable, too good at his job to slip up. He had nothing to worry about.
* * *
THE VAN’S INTERIOR was hot and stank of cigarette smoke.
It had been stripped clean of its factory-installed bench seats and outfitted with consoles stuffed with high-tech surveillance gear. Four low-back chairs were bolted to the floor. Two DOJ technicians were seated at the consoles. Their eyes bore into the computer monitors fixed to the walls and their hands moved over the controls with practiced ease.
Schwarz, an electronics whiz, had spent the past ten minutes debating analog versus digital recording with Steve King, the older of the two technicians. King, a pale man whose hairline had receded enough to reveal a scalp dotted with dime-size liver spots, wore what was left of his hair in a long ponytail that dipped between his shoulder blades. A lit cigarette jutted from his mouth. A green plastic ashtray stood on the console, unused. When ashes fell from the cigarette, he brushed them onto the floor.
Lyons stared at the wall and fumed. Tapping his foot impatiently, he tried unsuccessfully to tune out the small talk. His Atchisson shotgun stood against the van’s wall, canted at a forty-five-degree angle. Occasionally he let out an exasperated sigh.
Schwarz turned to his old friend.
“Something wrong, Agent Irons?” Schwarz asked, using Lyons’s code name.
“Nothing!” Lyons snapped.
“Okay,” Schwarz replied, his voice artifically bright. H
e spun back toward the consoles.
“Hell, yes, there’s something wrong!” Lyons said.
“Let it out, big guy,” Schwarz said, suppressing a smirk.
“We should be in there with him—that’s what’s wrong.”
“Hard enough to get one newbie in there, let alone three,” Schwarz replied. “This seemed like the best way.”
“The best way,” Lyons countered, “was to go in there, kill some of Castillo’s guys and force him to talk.”
King turned to the other two. “That’s how you do things?”
“Turn around,” Lyons growled. He didn’t look at the guy. “Far as you’re concerned, this conversation never happened.”
King scowled but shook his head and turned back toward the monitor. “You’re a prize, Irons,” he muttered.
“We already agreed on this,” Schwarz said. “We don’t want to hit them too hard or too fast yet. We need to know more. You said it yourself—we don’t want to tip our hand too soon and cause these bastards to go to ground, especially if they are a global player. We needed someone we could trust to get us in there.”
Lyons shook his head. “We’re in there. Whether we can trust this guy is up for debate.”
“Well, for once something smart came out of your fat mouth,” King said.
Lyons pinned the technician with his gaze.
“What the hell are you yammering on about?”
King scowled. He looked at Lyons, then over at Schwarz. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and moved them in a single, slow circle before pulling them away.
“Don’t say it, King,” the other technician warned.
King shot the guy a look like he was something on the bottom of his shoe.
“Shut it, twerp.” He looked back at Schwarz. “We off the record?”
Schwarz nodded in agreement.
“I don’t know how much you can trust Ortega. He’s been underground so long, I’m not sure the guy knows what light looks like at this point.”
“You think he’s compromised?” Schwarz asked.
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