Inside Out: A novel

by Barry Eisler

  They started with a drive-by of the residence, a condominium on a narrow two-lane street just south of the main thoroughfare. The condo, gated, fronted with palm trees, and obviously deluxe, was eight stories tall and looked new. Everything else on the street was low-slung and slightly ramshackle. Directly across the street from the condo was an enormous construction site—from the size of it, the future home of another fancy collection of condos.

  The street was on a short block open at both ends and with no turnoffs in the middle—the horizontal bar in an H. Ideally, that meant two sentries at each of the two possible access points—each end of the horizontal. The sentries’ job would be to warn the primary snatch team of the target’s approach. The reason for two was security in case of opposition. One sentry you could do. Finishing off two before either got a warning off was far more difficult, so the preference was always to use two on whatever point of access the target might use. The primary team would have line of sight to the building entrance or other X where they intended to actually do the snatch. If the snatch was clean, the sentries would move out fore and aft as the primary team left the scene with the target secured. If the primary team encountered opposition, the sentries could close with flanking fire.

  Larison would know all this, just as Ben did. So the question was, what would I do if I were him? And the best way to answer that, Ben knew, was to look at the street as Larison knew it—as someone who had repeatedly walked it.

  They parked on the main thoroughfare about a kilometer away and got out, baseball caps pulled low over sunglasses against the inevitable security camera tapes police would be examining if there were violence in the area. The sky was uniformly gray, the air heavy with humidity and the weight of impending rain. Despite Los Yoses’s urban density, they were surrounded by the cries of birds and the buzz of tropical insects. By the time they reached the condo, they were both sweating.

  Ben looked up and down the street. You wouldn’t want to approach from either end. You might be able to drop both sentries, but probably not before they got off a warning to their counterparts opposite and to the primary team. No, the way to achieve maximum surprise here was to initially bypass the sentries. Start from the inside and work your way out.

  He crossed to the opposite side of the street and stood in front of the construction site, his back to the front of Nico’s building. Paula came up alongside him.

  “What do you think?” she said.

  He looked around the site. It sloped steeply from where they stood all the way down to the opposite block. So far, the only completed work was a foundation and a couple of skeletal concrete floors. But that, along with the foliage around it, would provide a lot of concealment. The downside was the uphill approach, the possibility of being pinned down from above by anyone who spotted you. But in Ben’s mind, the concealment was the key. That, and the lack of any better alternatives.

  “I think he’ll come from here,” Ben said. “That’s what I’d do.”

  “So where do we wait?”

  “I want to see the office before I decide that. But if we set up here, I’m thinking we’ll park on Nico’s street. Not at the end, where Larison would be looking for sentries; not in front of the building, where he’d be looking for the primary team. In between, in an operational dead zone, with line of sight to where the primary team would set up and maybe to the sentries, too. And to where we expect Larison to emerge.”

  They walked over to the office. It was a small gray building on a cul-de-sac, a sign in gold lettering on the front advertising Gomez and Golindo, Architects. Apparently Nico Velez wasn’t a name partner. That they used English rather than Spanish on the shingle suggested a foreign clientele—or perhaps that English had some cachet in Costa Rican architectural circles. Neither of these details was likely to be operationally useful, but Ben logged them regardless, just in case.

  The one-way street simplified things somewhat for a snatch team, requiring only two sentries instead of four. But still …

  They walked to the end of the cul-de-sac. Amid the collection of modest apartments and single-family houses, some converted to professional use, there was a patch of thick grass and trees that led to a highway access ramp. Would Larison approach from there? It was either that or the street. Like everything else Ben had seen in San Jose, the buildings were all mini-fortresses, the windows and driveways gated and barred against crime, razor wire strung along potential access points. And many of the properties had yapping dogs patrolling within. No, Larison’s only two realistic options here were stealth through the trees or an open approach from the street.

  “I think he’s going to start with the condo,” Ben said.

  “Why?”

  “He wouldn’t like the alternatives here. They’re more obvious, and there are fewer of them. Plus he’d know the terrain better around the condo. Presumably that’s where he stays when he’s visiting Nico. Maybe he’s seen the office, but I doubt he’s spent much time here.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Ben looked at his watch. It was past noon. Unlikely Larison could make it here so soon after this morning’s call—unless he were here already, which Ben seriously doubted. Running an op from the city of his secret lover would offer nothing but downside. Besides, Hort had said the emails and sat calls were coming from North America. No, Larison wasn’t here. But he could be arriving soon. And likewise the snatch teams.

  “Time to get in position,” he said. “We might have a long wait.”

  25

  Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

  Larison flew into Limón airport, on the Carribean coast, and at a shop nearby rented a motorcycle—a Kawasaki KX250F dirt bike. A little smaller than he would have liked for the drive to Los Yoses, but perfect for dodging traffic and jumping curbs and avoiding potholes once he was inside the city. It was an older version of the same bike Nico kept at his condo, which Larison used to get around the city while he was in town and Nico was at work. Obviously, he couldn’t access Nico’s bike now, but this one would more than do. Especially with the flip-up helmet, which nicely concealed his face.

  The ride in took less than three hours. In a park at San Pedro, just east of Los Yoses, he stopped, his shirt soaked with sweat, his skin covered with a fine coating of road grit. He removed his helmet and wiped his face with a sleeve. It was getting near dusk and he had to hurry now. He knew the terrain but the opposition would have better tools, including night vision gear, and he didn’t want to cede a single unnecessary advantage.

  There was an outhouse in the park that was serviced less frequently than good hygiene might be thought to require. So it was very unlikely anyone would have been inclined to squeeze underneath the structure, the back of which was raised on wooden stilts about a foot off the dirt, and grope in the dark miasma along the beams supporting the floor. As Larison did now. It took him only a moment to retrieve his stash and squirm back out—a moment short enough, in fact, to enable him to hold his breath during the entire excursion, which was the best way to get in and out of the passage in question without vomiting en route. In Larison’s experience, a good hide always provided disincentives for casual exploration, outhouses therefore often providing prime possibilities.

  Outside, he looked around to confirm he was unobserved, then unwrapped the package he had retrieved. Inside was an HK USP Compact Tactical, known in the community as the CT, for counterterrorism, plus spare magazines and VBR-B .45 armor-piercing ammunition. The gun was small, powerful, accurate, and durable as hell. Perfect for storing under outhouses like this one and of course in backup locations, as well, and perfect, too, for causing extreme mayhem after retrieving it.

  He loaded up three magazines from the package, popped one into the gun, racked the slide, and placed everything into the fanny pack he was wearing under his shirt, the contents riding just below his belly. He left the top open. He took the other items from the package—currency, false identification, an Emerson Super Commander folding knife—and po
cketed all of it. Good to go. Just one more thing.

  There was a variety of synthetic opioids used for snatches. The most popular was called sufentanil, and it was about ten times more potent than its analogue, fentanyl, which the Russians had aerosolized and used in the 2002 Moscow theater hostage crisis. Typically, the drug would be delivered via an air-rifle-fired dart, with a medical team standing by to immediately administer first aid, including breathing assistance and opioid antagonists, as soon as the target dropped. Teams tended to err on the side of too large a dose for fast action, which meant swift application of the antidote was critical.

  But the medics wouldn’t have to worry about Larison. Since he’d set this thing in motion, he’d been orally self-administering naltrexone, another opioid antagonist, used for detoxifying heroin addicts. The only side effect was anxiety and some enhanced receptivity to pain, because opioid antagonists blocked the action of endorphins, the brain’s natural opiates. A small price to pay, under the circumstances.

  The naltrexone would probably have been sufficient, but if they hit him with a big enough dose of tranquilizer, maybe not. Better not to take a chance. He opened his backpack, unwrapped a syringe from the medical kit inside it, measured off a dose of naloxone—a related antagonist, used for heroin overdoses and, not coincidentally, post-tranquilizer snatch-victim revivals—and injected it intramuscularly into his thigh, grimacing from the naltrexone-enhanced pain. He tossed away the syringe, blew out a long breath, and pulled his helmet back onto his sweat-slicked head.

  He’d already gamed the whole thing out, but he went through the plan again one more time anyway. If they had the manpower, they’d cover both Nico’s condominium and his office. The condo was on a residential through street. Lots of parking on both sides of the street, plenty of places to set up. But they wouldn’t know which direction Larison would be moving in from, so they’d need a spotter at each end of the street or, ideally, two spotters on each end to reduce the chances of a sentry getting taken out and exposing the primary team to a surprise attack. The primary team would be three men: one with flex-cuffs, one with a hood, one with a gun. So that was seven possibles at the condo.

  The office was on a cul-de-sac, so they’d only have to cover one end of the street. That meant a probable maximum of five men.

  If they had the manpower, they’d field full teams at both locations. If they could only cover one … it was impossible to know for sure, but he guessed the condo. They’d see the construction site on the lot across the street and figure he would use it for an unexpected approach. And in fact, he was tempted to do so. He was reasonably confident that with his superior skills, and knowing the terrain as he did, he would spot the opposition before it spotted him. But he had a better idea. Something a little less predictable, and therefore substantially more lethal.

  He was mildly concerned that in the midst of the coming mayhem he could actually run into Nico. But he recognized this was mostly just superstition. He’d have his helmet on for most of the op. The chances of Nico being right there on the street for any of it were slim.

  He rode the Kawasaki over to Nico’s street, the late afternoon air blowing inside his shirt and cooling his wet skin, the buzz of the bike’s engine loud in his ears. His heart was beating hard, but his mind was calm, clear, and purposeful. It was the way he always felt in the instant before an op went critical, like a well-oiled killing machine inside had taken the wheel and he was just along for the ride.

  He turned onto the street and immediately spotted a white van at the entrance—the sentries. His heart kicked harder. They were here. It was on.

  He rode up the street, the 250 cc engine buzzing, knowing the sentries would have already alerted the primary team. They couldn’t have recognized him through the helmet, but a heads-up would be SOP. The primary team would move in for a closer look. Larison would give them one.

  He parked the bike between two cars and killed the engine. He swung his leg over the side and engaged the kickstand. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he removed the helmet, set it on the seat, and started walking toward the entrance of the condo. His face twisted into a smile and he thought, Come out, come out, wherever you are, motherfuckers.

  26

  The Element of Surprise

  Ben and Paula watched the motorcyclist pull up and park not ten yards from the entrance to Nico’s condominium. They were in the van on the other side of the street, about twenty-five yards away, on the crest of a slight slope in the street. Any farther and they would have lost line of sight to the entrance.

  “That’s him,” Ben said, watching the guy kill the engine.

  “You’re sure?” Paula said.

  Ben nodded. He couldn’t have explained how he knew, but he knew. Larison had decided not to come up through the construction site. Smart. He must have realized the route would be too foreseeable, and Ben mentally kicked himself for earlier assuming Larison would do the predictable unpredictable thing. But others, it seemed, had made the same mistake Ben made, and were now committed to it. Three hours earlier, Ben and Paula had watched through the one-way glass at the back of the van as various hard-looking foreigners cased the street by ones and twos. None of them had set up in front of the condo entrance, which suggested to Ben they’d decided Larison was going to approach through the construction site and were waiting for him there. Larison, it seemed, was one step ahead of them.

  But why the street? The sentries would have made him instantly, and even if they weren’t sure it was Larison they were seeing through the visor of the helmet, they would have alerted the primary team to be safe. Larison had lost the element of surprise.

  So what surprise was he planning?

  The motorcyclist got off the bike and removed the helmet as though he had all the time in the world. He set it down on the bike’s seat, ran his fingers through his wet hair, and dried his hands on his jeans.

  “Oh, my God,” Paula said. “You were right.”

  Ben moved from one side of the van to the other, looking through the one-way glass. He didn’t see anyone approaching yet, but they would be. Any second.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” he said.

  27

  Head Shots

  Larison stood a few yards down from the entrance to Nico’s condo, facing the building. His eyes were open but he wasn’t focusing on their input. All his concentration was focused through his ears. He tuned out the birds and the insects, the sounds of distant traffic. It was stealth he was listening for. And he would hear it soon enough.

  He turned and walked slowly toward the entrance. He knew he wouldn’t reach it.

  He didn’t. He heard the soft pop of a CO2 cartridge from somewhere behind him. At the same instant there was a slap/sting sensation on the right side of his neck. His hand flew to the spot, found the dart, and ripped it away despite the barbed tip. It was already too late, of course; the dart had a small explosive charge that had instantly pumped the tranquilizer into him upon impact. Ripping it out was useless. But it’s what Larison had seen countless rendition targets do before, and it was important that he mimic them precisely now.

  He wobbled, then dropped to one knee, leaning forward, the way tranquilized targets always did, his right hand already inside the fanny pack. He closed his eyes and listened.

  Three sets of footsteps, approaching fast: two from the flanks, one directly behind. The ones to the flanks would have flex-cuffs and a hood. The one in the middle would have a gun out to provide cover.

  The sounds of the footsteps changed as they went from gravel to sidewalk, then to the street. Twenty-five feet. Twenty. Fifteen.

  In a single motion, he stood, spun, and brought up the HK in a two-handed grip. The guy in the middle had just enough time to widen his eyes before Larison blew the top of his head off. He tracked left—bam! Tracked right—bam! Three down, all head shots.

  He heard a car coming fast from his right. He moved between two parked cars and confirmed it was the white
van he’d seen parked at the end of the street when he came in. He waited until it was forty feet away, then stepped out into the road, brought up the HK, and put a round through the windshield into the driver’s face. The van swerved wildly and slammed into a parked car ten feet from Larison’s position on the other side of the street. Larison crossed over, moved past the van, and approached it from behind on the passenger side, the HK up at chin level. A dazed-looking operator covered in his partner’s blood and brain matter was struggling with the door, which must have been jammed. He saw Larison and tried to bring up a gun, but the angle was all wrong and the timing useless. Larison shot him in the head.

  He walked quickly across the street, mounted the Kawasaki, fired it up, pulled on the helmet, and raced down the street toward where he knew the other sentries would be. Even if the first set hadn’t contacted them already, they would have heard the gunshots, would have known something had gone badly wrong. They’d be trying to raise their comrades on cellphones right now. He noted another van, a green one, on his right as he rode, but it was in the wrong position to have been of any use operationally and he judged it just a civilian coincidence.

  There it was, at the end of the street, another white van, parked on the right, facing away from him. He scanned the other parked cars and potential hot spots to ensure he wasn’t missing anything. He wasn’t. The van was the target.

  He gunned the engine so they would hear him coming, then swerved between two parked cars, jumped the curb, and raced up the sidewalk to the passenger side of the van. He saw the passenger’s reflection in the sideview. The man had heard the whine of the Kawasaki’s engine and naturally assumed Larison was coming up the street, not the sidewalk. So, sadly for him, he was now facing the wrong way.