She sobbed then blew her nose.
“Damn you, Fitzwilliam. You weren’t supposed to die.”
She opened the door and Dixon’s voice sounded clearer, caring for her just as he had hoped.
“C’mon, let’s rent a movie. It’ll take your mind off things. We’ll get one of those chick flicks you like and I promise I won’t roll my eyes like last night.”
“You will.” Liz deeply sighed. “Dixon, have you ever felt like you didn’t belong anywhere?”
“Sure, lots of times, but you and Mr. D changed that.”
“I’m glad. I’m just sick of … everything. I can’t wait to get out of town—to just go and not look back.”
“Okay. Do you want to go for a drive tonight?”
In her silence, he can see her tapping her thigh, chewing at her lip with her upper tooth, her eyes filling with tears and then her damn sobs came, again, muffled by what he assumed was Dixon’s strong chest.
He had done this; the guilt strangled him and he disconnected from the necklace before hearing anything else that would cause him to lose the focus he needed for the next three days. He missed her more than anything and the guilt was eating him up, but he was only just beginning his attrition warfare as a wrecking ball to the constructs of Diablo’s life. He needed to remain detached and gelid to keep that lethal edge and not be swayed toward his alter-ego—the man his wife loved.
A beat-up, black Range Rover pulled up and his former MI-6 contact sat at the driver’s seat with a smirk.
“Bloody hell, you’re late,” Frederick Hale—if that was in fact, his real name—greeted.
Opening the door, he climbed in, cold mist exiting his mouth when he replied. “Good to see you, too.”
“I hardly recognized you under all that hair.”
“The life of a vagabond. Thanks for answering my inquiry.”
“Glad to be of service.”
Of course he was glad to help. Who wouldn’t be on board for a quick $250,000 worth of cryptocurrency? All his worldwide assets tapped for clandestine assistance had been cultivated through many years affiliation with Obsidian and he was calling in the many favors he had tallied over his tenure.
“Where are we headed?” Hale asked.
“The hostel up at Yanacachi.”
“Right-o.”
The truck fought its way back into traffic, nearly rear-ending a fuel tanker when it slammed on its breaks. The ex-spook swore out the open window with a raised hand and a two finger salute.
“Imagine my surprise, hearing from the Iceman on the darknet’s Widows and Orphans portal. It’s been at least three years since you Americans dropped into Russia and saved my bum.”
He chuckled wryly. “It’s the least we could do. You were in quite a situation.”
“Indeed, but we’re even after this.”
“We are. Did you get the payment?” Darcy asked.
“Just as you promised.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the tarp-covered mound behind the seats, assuming it all to be the necessary supplies and incendiary weapons for the bang and burn mission ahead.
“The word is you retired from all this excitement.”
“I did.”
When Hale realized that he wasn’t here to socialize, he reached into the glove compartment and removed a map. “Have a look at this. I’ve marked the intersecting zip lines the workers use to transport the coca from each planting field, and I’ve arranged for a speed boat to take you to and fro checkpoint on the river and I’ll pick you up at the hostel once your mission is complete. I have to say, you couldn’t have timed your op any better.”
“Why’s that?”
“Local forestry and conservation are burning off the overgrown jungle areas up along the camino de la muerte. I don’t know what you have planned, but based on those incendiary tracer bullets I had to track down, I’d say you’re going to have a jolly good time blowing La Muerta Mundial’s coca fields.”
He said nothing, but Hale continued on. “There is a three-day halt to harvesting, in case you’re concerned about civilian casualties.”
At least there was that. Despite the flight delay, his exhaustion and his worry over Liz, he’d think optimistically about the mission ahead of him. At least the mobile phone handoff from Pilar in Panama and the destruction of Morales’s Casa Luz had gone off without a hitch. Pilar’s pledge to be at the ready for his final instruction was also promising. The woman was just as eager to take a match to everything the monster touched and only she could deliver the homerun to his idyllic life in Prague.
“This mission could get a bit dodgy if you’re not in and out,” Hale said. “There is a sudden change of weather coming. A rainstorm is headed up from Patagonia.”
“I’ll be gone in under 28, but rain is good. It’ll cover my tracks,” and temper the fires from getting too out of control.
“Be forewarned though—the cartel has increased security.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I forgot about those rumors of you being a cracking good, one-man wrecking ball.”
“I started them,” he chuckled wryly.
“So, how many hectares do you estimate?”
“Morales’s crops total about 35,000 acres of illicit cultivation.”
“That’s a lot of plume when it blows. I included a respirator to get you out of the thick—just in case that was your plan. The controlled burn-off will stop the blaze from spreading deep into the Amazon, too.”
“It’s not my plan to decimate it all, just enough to impinge his livelihood. It is an ecosystem, after all.”
“If that’s your plan, well—you’re looking at a war with the cartel. Of course, the ever-growing El Negro Cartel and the local coca farmers will be quite chuffed. Hell, they might even make you a local hero, but Morales will seek revenge.”
“Been there—done that. Who do you think terminated his father?”
Hale glanced over to him with a devilish smile. “Well, then you’re going to need the bottle of Singani I included in your gear. No extra charge, of course.”
“Not on this one, Hale. I have to keep my head, keep my focus.”
“Then this must be serious. When did you ever pass up a good drink to unwind after an mission?”
“Since it became personal.”
“I may not have personal skin in the game, as you Americans say, but I could use the money.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying this drug epidemic is getting out of hand—and if your plan is to bring down Morales, then you might as well go the full monty. I can help.”
Never one to make an impulsive decision, he didn’t answer at first, analyzing the pros and cons of bringing in someone to do his dirty work. In the end, he considered the advantage of one less destination to flag his passport. Like all his other assets, Hale (in essence) meant nothing to him beyond being another contact in this dark world of contract killing, so his conscience would be clear if shit went sideways. If the Brit wanted to do it, then the consequences where totally on him.
“You want in on this?”
“Aye. Five hundred thousand and then you’ll owe me one.”
“Take it or leave it. I’ll owe nothing to anyone. After this, I’ll be disappearing with the wind at my back and you’ll never hear of Iceman again.”
“As you wish.”
“I’ll give you location, dates, and times of Morales’s operation through Bristol. His comercializador has set up several companies in West England to launder his narco profits through. Your mission, your glory, your gamble. If you pull this off, they’ll Knight you for sure, Hale.”
His phone beeped; he glanced down at the encrypted text from Bennet, pressed in the security key code, and watched the symbols turn to words:
Peru is a go tomorrow. Same contact from Op. Macarena ready with transport and necessary munitions. He won’t wait past 2200 hours. Wants US dollars.
He texted back: Make travel arrangement
s for remainder of trip. Using designated portal on dark web, initiate contact with Italian friends for meeting in Venice 2M in crypto.
“Good news?” Hale asked.
“The best kind.”
Per protocol he deleted the communiqué.
14
Back to the Beginning
September 1
Bolivia
The soupy fog that blanketed the black Amazon rainforest concealed Darcy as he hitched onto zip line from zip line just as the sun rose from slumber giving off an eerie glow. The chatter of waking parakeets and Spider Monkeys broke through the dawn and filled the dark canopy, but the treacherous North Yungas Road—aka Death Road, Ruta de la Muerta—far above the luscious green valley was still silent at this hour. He didn’t use a harness, just his powerful grip on a removable handlebar. His measured, warm breath evaporated into the moss-colored wool face mask he wore, the moist heat caressing his lips. With night vision goggles firmly in place and a satellite GPS strapped to his forearm, he navigated a five-mile route through the forest toward his destinations; the cables were secured and available just as Hale had mapped out—and as he recalled. None of this was new ground for him. He remembered the outlay of this forest well and trusted his instincts.
Dressed in varying shades of green jungle fatigues, he disappeared into the luscious canopy. His mood was black and focused; the frozen blood in his veins kept him detached from the killing and destruction he’d do today. When all was said and done, the Bolivian authorities, CIA, and DEA will all thank him (or rather El Negro) under their breath, and the locals on the take would be released from threat of death or blackmail.
He felt invigorated inside, relishing the rush, the heady thrill of revisiting Operation Samba to destroy part of what the Lord of the Jungle had cultivated for his son’s rise to ascension.
In the distance he could see the cartel’s sentry patrolling the coca fields’ perimeter, and he made note of their position. Like the angel of death flying through the night, he zipped over them on perfectly concealed lines suspended from one side of the valley to the other, through the Cloud Forest to the center of Diablo’s coca fields. His blood raced with the speed of the trolley.
At the end of a third cable, he dropped onto a thick branch and then secured his detachable trolley onto another crisscross section of taut wire. He was off again in a flash, careening 25 meters overhead, zipping above lush fields and hanging orchids. At the ready, his Beretta was tucked into its shoulder holster, and his sniping rifle attached to his back.
In a matter of minutes, the sun would be cresting over the horizon of the Andean mountain range, and as Hale indicated, the farmers and state forestry authorities would begin arriving for burn-off. The smoke and flame would be his subterfuge in escaping back over the zip lines.
Below him, his first destination was tucked at the bottom of a ravine: a hut used for coca extraction and processing supplies—further evidenced by the steep decline of the zip line used for the coca leaves delivery. The toxic stench of kerosene and bleach mixing with the pungent jungle flora filled his nostrils. In a breathtaking drop, the cable descended sharply from seventy-five feet to fifty feet, then to twenty-five, then to ground-level. When the end of the line came into view, he reached above his head and released the trolley from the cable, silently dropping and rolling mere feet from a sentry standing near to a pool of soaking leaves carved out in the forest floor. He quickly placed his gloved hands on each side of the guard’s head, turned it, and snapped his neck. A quick draw of his suppressed pistol fired on a soap maker when that sad sack emerged from the hut; a third unfortunate soul came from the trees on the opposite side of the coca mixture, but he put him down by gunshot.
He functioned on a maddening, adrenaline-fueled auto-pilot. With measured swiftness, he shoved the trolley in his field pack and removed an incendiary device, installing it within the open end of the hut—the one closest to the blue barrels of kerosene and sulfuric acid.
In the distance, he heard the echoing rumble of heavy trucks motoring along Death Road, which indicated that he had only minutes to get to his hide site.
Thanks to Bennet’s satellite infrared signal directed to his watch, he had eagle eyes as he glanced down at the moving orange and red body heat of three more sentries: one at 18 meters to his left, another at 36 meters and the third on the edge of the coca bushes. It killed him to admit that he couldn’t do this so seamlessly without his father-in-law’s ingenuity, and silently thanked Charlie for the tipoff that Bennet had secured the previously inactive satellite.
A myriad of jungle creatures silenced his footfall while he crept on the dark forest bed, approaching the sentries flanking him. Unable to see through the thick fog, his eyes continued to switch back and forth to the hot targets displayed on his watch.
One after the other, they fell from his deadly accurate pistol shot; they never saw their enemy’s approach.
For as long as he lived, he would never forget the perfection of Operation Samba’s hide—and it was only five meters ahead of him. From that unique tree-within-a-tree he had taken out the Lord of the Jungle, and it was even more perfect on this second visit, further concealed by overgrown vines barely touched by the rising sun. Above, in the dense leaves, he could just make out the coca zip line he’d employed to escape 19 months before, and as he drew closer, confirmation was made by the broken branch that had snapped under his weight when he catapulted off. This was the place that started it all. Yes, he’d come full circle.
With panther-like dexterity, he climbed the massive tree, settled into the deep hollow of the thick branch, and resumed the same position he previously laid. With unhurried precision, he positioned his rifle then locked in onto one of his targets: a second processing hut. He’d now wait for the burn-off to begin and for the appropriate time to blow both labs. Waiting … tick tock … with the inching ascent of the sun before the six dead cartel security forces would be discovered.
It wouldn’t be long, and while his eye remained trained on the vast coca plantation covered in foggy mist before him, he thought of his wife and swallowed hard. Death-dealing at the business end of a rifle barrel as though she had never entered his crosshairs was something vowed to never revisit, but he reminded himself that this was all for her and their loved-ones’ safety, all so that they could live worry-free in their future. He flexed and tightened his jaw. He could endure this! He must endure this! His anger and misery were nothing compared to that which she was most-likely suffering through right now.
Tedious minutes passed as he lowered his pulse and listened to the rainforest come alive. Stilled, he focused through his scope on the movements of the two cartel sentries at the far end of the coca field, talking to each other on the job.
His lungs filled with the heady scent of smoke and burning leaves. It had begun. Calculated patience slowed his breath and heart to barely beating. No thoughts other than his shot crossed his mind, no consideration or quarter was given to his enemy, and no conscience existed for the hell this shot would unleash. He waited on that branch, focused like a laser.
Fifteen minutes later, when the burn-off was fully underway, he fired five consecutive rounds: the two sicarios, the lab, and the three crops growing over 150 meters apart. The explosions shook the valley and the ignited field joined in the burn-off when flame and smoke married the early morning fog.
He quickly rose, slung his rifle, attached the trolley and hit his Bluetooth. AC/DC’s “Shoot to Kill” at full blast filled his ear canal when he pushed off the already broken branch.
Like a ghost, he disappeared into the jungle concealed in the smoke and ash, flying overhead through the forest canopy. Able to hold his weight with one hand gripped to the trolley, he tapped his wrist and blew the second cocaine lab to smithereens as he sped by.
The thrill was real, pushing the blood through his veins with an intoxicating rush, but his heart felt hollow without her. “Soon, baby. Soon.”
***
Vi
rginia
As Thomas anticipated, at 10 in the morning, FedEx rang the doorbell and he bolted from his library before Frances could intercept the expected delivery from “John Thornton.” As it was, they were both already on tenterhooks waiting for their daughters’ arrival for lunch and the dreaded “confession” they vowed to each other was long overdue. Focused, he headed for the back door with the greenhouse in his sights and package in hand.
“Don’t spend all morning out there, Tommy. I’ll need you to set the table for me,” his ex-wife called after him from the kitchen.
“I’ll be just a minute. Don’t worry, honeybun.”
After closing the glass door, he pressed play on the old cassette player, filling the hothouse with Mozart’s happy allegretto, “Flute Concerto No. 2 in D Major” and then closed the sun shades.
Inside the box was a singular item surrounded by bubble wrap: the modified burner phone, now, hopefully, successfully paired to Morales’s lieutenant, number two man, Luis.
He plugged an earphone into the end and turned the unit on. Immediately, his head filled with a conversation happening at the moment between Luis and a Spaniard.
“Our local distributor is impatient in Cadiz, señor. We have assured them of the product’s arrival, but they make threats to seek out El Negro for their supply.”
Frustrated, Luis growled at the cartel’s local middleman. “Ah! It has been difficult to ship our containers without inspection or paperwork. Security aboard the cargo vessels has tightened but be patient, my friend. We have an associate at the Venetian port who promises to be of assistance, allowing over a dozen of our armed cruzadors to accompany the transport set to arrive on September 6. I have been assured that future shipments will not be seized by authorities at Cadiz port.”
“But what of El Negro we hear so much about?”
“They are meddling … and destroying, so that they can gain a foothold on the worldwide distribution from their well-hidden crops somewhere in Central America. I am sure they are the ones alerting the authorities of our rat lines, in hope to fill the void with their own product …”
In Good Conscience Page 19