An instant later his expression went flat again, as though the rage had just evaporated. He grabbed his lapels, straightened his jacket and gave her a curt nod.
“I should check on our guests,” he said.
He fixed his eyes back on Blancanales.
“Take him back to his cell. I’ll deal with him later.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blancanales stood in the middle of his cell, massaging his right wrist, where the cuffs had bit into the skin, with the fingers of his left hand. The last of the guards backed out through the cell door and slammed it shut.
This time the SOB had put some distance between himself and Blancanales. He’d tossed him the keys, directed him to unlock the cuffs and toss back the keys. The other guy had kept his assault rifle locked on Blancanales, which seemed like overkill since he was unarmed. But apparently they weren’t used to someone, especially a prisoner, busting Escobar’s balls. That made him a little more dangerous and them a little more uneasy.
Mission accomplished.
I’ll deal with him later.
Escobar’s words—and the menace behind them—echoed through Blancanales’s mind. His brief encounter with Escobar had left him with more questions than answers. Why the hell was Escobar training Hezbollah fighters in the middle of a South American jungle? Did he have links with Hezbollah itself or with Iran? How deep did the ties go?
All good questions, Blancanales told himself. Unfortunately, under the current circumstances, solving mysteries was a luxury he couldn’t afford. His first priority was to stay alive. If he uncovered information along the way, so much the better. But first he needed to survive.
* * *
“EXCUSE ME FOR a moment, gentlemen,” Escobar said to his two guests.
Before either man could answer, Escobar turned, grabbed Vargas by the upper arm and squeezed hard. She winced and he felt a small sense of satisfaction spread through him. He guided her away from his visitors and his hired muscle.
Escobar’s two guests were high-ranking members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard. One was a general, with a pipeline directly to the mullahs who pulled the strings in Iran. The other was a colonel who, in spite of his military rank, spent much of his time running the IRG’s private ventures, such as trading in counterfeit electronics and cigarettes, as well as some construction ventures in South America and Africa. In other words, he generated the money paying for this training facility.
Once they’d put some distance between themselves and the Iranians, Vargas jerked her arm away from Escobar.
“You son of a bitch,” she snapped. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I want more information from Perez.”
Escobar’s sudden change in direction seemed to surprise the woman.
“Information?”
“Information. Who the hell is he? Who does he work for? What was his connection to Ortega?”
“You manhandled me just to tell me that?”
“Get me some answers.”
“Didn’t you say Ortega worked for the Justice Department? Can’t you just check with your sources there?”
He shook his head. “We already checked and came up with nothing. We sent photos and physical descriptions to our people in Washington. They found no pictures, no nothing in any of the files.”
“Maybe he really was trying to buy weapons for the Colombians. Just because Ortega was working undercover doesn’t mean this guy is lying.”
“Maybe that’s what you want to believe.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I can run his picture again.”
Escobar shook his head. “We’ve already tried that. No, we need to push him a little harder.”
He saw something flicker in her eyes before they went flat again. She gave a small shrug. “I can do that,” she said.
“I don’t want you to do that.”
“Then what? You’re talking in circles.”
“Get Javier. Tell him to bring his tools. He can work on this son of a bitch.”
She stiffened at the mention of Javier’s name. She hoped Escobar didn’t notice.
“Javier might kill him in the process.”
“I have no issue with that. I just want answers. He’s just one more dead federale to me. And he probably won’t be the last. Now, go, deal with it.”
She opened her mouth to say something else. Before she could utter a word, Escobar wheeled around and walked away, rejoining the IRG commanders.
* * *
A SHUDDER PASSED through Vargas as she stared after him. He knew. She’d betrayed him and he knew it. That meant only one thing: if he had his way, she was going to die. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. But it was going to happen.
She had to do something. Maybe run. Maybe try to kill Escobar. Whatever. But she had to act or she’d be dead.
Turning on a heel, she headed back into Escobar’s stronghold. She would call Javier. Not calling him would only compound Escobar’s suspicions. Though she’d called Javier on Escobar’s behalf before, she’d never met him. What she did know was downright chilling. From everything she’d heard, he was at least as soulless as Escobar; little more than a bag of meat, a working body, with no heart. At one point he’d been a special forces soldier in the Mexican army, but had proved too unstable for the work. So the cartels had picked him up as an enforcer. He was good as hired muscle, but even better as a torturer and interrogator.
If Javier was turned loose on Perez, the guy was as good as dead.
So what? If Perez was a gunrunner, a man willing to arm terrorists, maybe she should let Javier tear him apart. It’d buy her some time to flee and also guarantee that at least one last bad guy died.
But what if Perez wasn’t another criminal? What if he was working against Escobar? If she left him to die, she could claim plausible deniability to her superiors. They might suspect she’d offered him up as a sacrifice—if they even knew about Perez, which was unlikely.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. She’d know that maybe she’d left an innocent man to die. She’d never be able to live with herself.
She returned to her makeshift office on the building’s second floor, unlocked her desk and pulled out a secure satellite phone, the one Escobar had provided, not her own. She dialed Javier’s number and waited for him to answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Seated on the cot in his cell, Blancanales closed his eyes, tilted his head back and rested it against the cool brick wall at his back. The image of the Hezbollah flag flashed in his imagination and his eyes snapped open again. Though he had no clock, Blancanales was certain it’d been a couple of hours since his encounter with Escobar, and Hezbollah’s presence still puzzled him.
He probably shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. Even though Escobar was Mexican, he had links to the Iranians, who were in bed with Hezbollah. Escobar would be an obvious choice to sell weapons to Hezbollah, especially to its operatives in South America, but to run a training camp? Blancanales wasn’t sure he saw the connection. Pretty soon it might not matter. If he didn’t figure out a way to escape, he was good as dead himself.
The sound of the security bolt being pulled back jerked him from his thoughts. Setting his gaze on the door, he pushed himself to the edge of the cot. The door swung inward and Blancanales saw another stranger standing in the doorway. He pegged the guy at maybe five feet, eight inches tall, with a slight build and a disproportionately large head that made him look like an alien. The guy wore a blue Oxford-cloth shirt, khakis, black wing tips, and carried a briefcase in his left hand.
He stepped through the door, three of Escobar’s heavies flanking him, and moved up on Blancanales. His hair had receded, exposing his wide forehead. He regarded Blancanales quietly, tilting his head
to one side and sucking at his teeth as he did. Probably a minute passed in near silence before one corner of the guy’s mouth twitched.
“You’ll break,” he said.
* * *
A FOURTH GUARD stepped through the door, this one carrying a wooden chair. When he set the chair on the ground, the alien-looking guy stepped aside and the guards closed in on Blancanales. The room was small, which forced the guards to move in a small knot. Blancanales sprang to his feet and threw a fist into the nearest face. A nose caved under his knuckles and spurted blood. Fingers wrapped around him. He wheeled a quarter of a turn and his foot came up in a vicious arc, the top of his ankle smacking into another thug’s balls. The guy groaned and staggered back.
From his peripheral vision, he caught something hurtling at his face.
Before he could react, a fist caught him in the side of the face. The force of the blow spun him around and staggered him. He saw the guard, a scowling gorilla with his fist cocked back, moving in. As the guy launched a second punch at the Able Team warrior, Blancanales threw up a forearm to block the punch and put all his weight behind a counterpunch that he buried in his opponent’s gut. The guy’s jaw fell open, he belched out the contents of his lungs and staggered back a couple of steps before he lost his footing and fell on his ass.
Blancanales sensed Mr. Bighead moving in at him from his left and he wheeled in the guy’s direction. Suddenly he felt a stinging sensation as something sharp buried itself in his chest, followed by twin talons of fire digging into his flesh. His body collapsed to the floor and he could hear himself screaming in pain. Just as the fire in his chest subsided, his eyes opened and he struggled to catch his breath. He opened his eyes in time to catch sight of a black blur hurtling at him. An instant of sharp pain erupted in his temple before he slipped into a black abyss.
* * *
SOMETHING FRIGID SMACKED into Blancanales, stung his skin and jerked him from the blackness. His eyes snapped open. Water and light seeped into them even before he could take in his surroundings. He tried to bring his hands up to shield his face, but found they wouldn’t move.
The sensation of steel cutting into his wrists told him his hands were cuffed. As the water rolled down the contours of his face and onto his neck and chest, he tried to suppress a shiver, but failed. He saw Mr. Bighead standing in front of him. The slender man had donned a leather apron that reached down to his knees. Dark stains that Blancanales assumed were blood occasionally interrupted its smooth brown surface.
The little man had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and sheathed his hands in leather gloves. His arms were crossed over his narrow chest and his eyes were fixed on Blancanales with cold detachment. The Able Team fighter glanced to his right and saw that a small metal table had been moved in. It was topped with several electric surgical saws, a few scalpels and a plastic face shield that he could use to keep his face from getting splattered with blood.
Blancanales felt his mouth turn dry and his heart rate began to accelerate as he took things in. Judging by the little psycho’s tools, Blancanales only could imagine what he was about to face.
One of Escobar’s hardmen—a muscular guy with three teardrops tattooed under his right eye—leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression neutral. A Kalashnikov rifle was slung over his left shoulder.
“Welcome back, Mr. Perez. My name is Javier,” the little man said, his voice flat.
He took a step forward. He paused at the table and picked through the selection of scalpels before picking one up. He held it in front of his face and studied the blade for a few seconds before continuing toward the American.
“I have some questions,” he said.
“If it’s ‘do you need a shrink?’” Blancanales said, “the answer is yes.”
Javier smiled serenely. “You think I’m crazy?”
“People who like to cut on other people usually are.”
The other man shook his head.
“It’s just business.”
By now he was right next to Blancanales. He stood there, very still, and Blancanales felt his own breath hang in his throat. The guy obviously was a pro; one who knew the anticipation of pain could be just as bad as the pain itself. Blancanales heard the soles of the man’s black wing tips scuff against the concrete and his stomach plummeted. A second later Javier appeared on the opposite side. He leaned forward.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Perez. I already told Escobar and Ortega.”
“Who are you really?”
“Perez.”
“Bullshit.”
“Suit yourself.”
Javier straightened and looked at the guard.
“Soften him up a little.”
The guard scowled, as though holding up the wall was more important. He slipped the AK-74’s strap from his shoulder, bent down, leaned the weapon against the wall, crossed the room and stood in front of Blancanales. Bringing his right hand up, he brought it down in a blur. The knuckles smacked into Blancanales’s cheek and whipped his head sideways. The hardman hit him twice more in the same fashion before Javier said, “That’s enough.”
The guard shrugged, turned, returned to his spot on the wall and studied the back of his hand.
Blancanales’s cheek stung and blood was filling his mouth. His left eye was tearing up and already beginning to swell.
Javier stood in front of him again, spindly arms crossed over his chest, his black eyes studying Blancanales’s injured face, like a scientist studying a tumor on a lab rat.
“Did that hurt?” Javier asked.
The soldier gathered up a mouthful of blood and saliva and spit it on the floor just in front of Javier. If the guy had been close enough, Blancanales could kick him, shatter his kneecap. But the guy was just out of range, probably to prevent that from happening. Blancanales guessed the psycho was better at dealing pain than enduring it.
“I asked you a question,” Javier said. “Did that hurt?”
“You’re a weird one,” Blancanales replied. “You know that?”
Something flickered in Javier’s eyes. Blancanales knew he’d hit a nerve. Now that he’d opened a wound, he decided to jam a thumb into it, see if he could make the guy howl. Maybe he could shake the guy’s concentration. Or maybe he’d just piss the little psycho off enough that he’d kill him quickly instead of skinning and gutting him like a river carp.
Blancanales smirked. “Weird. Weird. Weird.”
Javier stared at the warrior for several seconds, but said nothing.
“You have a weird uncle? You know, some freak who yanked on your junk?”
The tattooed muscleman, still staring at the floor, snickered. Javier whipped around and shot him a dirty look. The thug replied with a bored look and flipped his middle finger at Mr. Bighead.
“Don’t look at him, freak,” Blancanales said. “I’m talking to you.”
Javier spun back around, fingers wrapped around the scalpel’s handle, the blade jutting forward. Rage flashing in his eyes, he stalked toward Blancanales, the scalpel’s blade gleaming. He walked a wide circle around Blancanales, still aware enough to keep out of range of Blancanales’s feet, and moved to the Able Team warrior’s side. He grabbed a handful of the American’s hair, yanked his head back, exposing his throat, and pulled back the hand clutching the scalpel, ready to bury it in Blancanales’s throat.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When Vargas reached the security door leading into the bedroom she shared with Escobar, she reached up to punch in the security code. She hesitated, hand poised over the keypad.
The short hairs on the back of her neck rose and she threw a glance over her shoulder to see whether someone had followed her, whether she was being watched. It was a reflexive move, one driven by emotion instead of logic. Securit
y cameras were poised at either end of the long corridor and, since it was Escobar’s floor, someone, somewhere probably was watching. Fortunately, Escobar didn’t have security cameras in their room.
She quickly punched in the code. The control emitted a small beep, the lock clicked open and she pushed open the door and moved inside.
The room was large, but sparsely furnished—a large bed, a pair of dressers and a small makeup table for her. She scanned the interior and felt a jolt of fear pass through her when she didn’t immediately see her suitcase. Crossing the room, she threw open the closet doors, saw her suitcase standing inside the cramped space and felt herself relax at least a little.
She yanked the suitcase from inside the closet, carried it to the bed and heaved it on its side onto the mattress. Pulling a small key from her pants’ pocket, she unlocked the suitcase, pulled open the top and, using her fingertips, gathered some of the fabric in the lower right corner. She peeled back a small corner of the fabric, revealing part of a sheet of Kevlar that made up a false bottom for the suitcase.
She ripped the fabric from inside the case, unlocked the false panel and pulled it from the suitcase, revealing several molded plastic compartments. Picking up the 9 mm Glock and a magazine, she loaded a magazine into the grip and jacked a round into the chamber. Pulling a custom-made sound suppressor from the case, she threaded it into the Glock’s muzzle. She set the weapon on the mattress and pulled a leather shoulder holster from inside the case and slipped it on. With the suppressor, she couldn’t fit the Glock in the holster, though the rig did contain three additional clips in a pouch. A Gerber folding knife went into her pocket. Finally she pulled out a shoulder bag stuffed with a satellite phone, U.S. currency and a fake passport, and set it aside.
With everything going to hell in the past twenty-four hours, she’d failed to check in with her Mossad handler. Now, as far as he was concerned, she’d disappeared, which likely had set off alarms back in Tel Aviv. Add to that Ortega’s death and the other bloodletting in Mexico City and she guessed her people were sweating.
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