by Ben Coes
“You fucking asshole,” she said as she walked by him. “When I tell my father—”
“When you tell your father?” asked Raul.
He reached for a drawer, then pulled out a Glock 18, with a stainless-steel suppressor screwed into the muzzle. He took three quick steps toward her. She put her hand up, between the tip of the weapon and her face. She cowered, crying, as he stepped closer, a maniacal look on his tan, stubble-coated face.
“If you tell your father, if you tell anyone for that matter—your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your priest, the police,” he whispered as he moved the suppressor to the side of her head, “if you so much as tell your parakeet, you’ll die. So will they. Got it?”
Marisol nodded her head, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears, as she cowered against the door.
“Now leave,” he said quietly.
* * *
At the private terminal near Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport, Raul parked his red Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R. He wore a light green T-shirt that showed off his muscled arms. He wore jeans and red running shoes. He had a backpack. His hair was long, down over his shoulders, and unbrushed. He had on silver sunglasses that reflected the sun. He walked across the tarmac to a white-and-blue jet, a Gulfstream G280. He climbed up the airstairs.
Inside, he popped his head into the cockpit, saying hello to the two pilots.
Seated on one of the four white leather captain’s chairs inside the cabin was a tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, and smoked a cigar. He studied Raul as he climbed aboard, tossed his backpack in one of the empty seats, then sat across from him.
“Are you coming?” asked Raul.
“No,” said Pascal.
“Why are you here? Is it the money?”
“No,” the man said, “Ming-húa called back. He’s worried about blowback.”
“I’ve killed Americans.”
“Not ones connected to the government. Not ones who know the president.”
Raul smiled.
“I’ll be careful.”
“After he’s killed, the United States is going to investigate.”
“Are the weapons clean?”
“Yes, of course. The point is, don’t get caught.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Bhang has informants scattered all over Argentine Federal Police. You need to understand what I’m saying. If you get caught, you’ll die. I know Fao Bhang. If you’re caught, you’ll be dead before America has time to interrogate you and find out who sent you.”
Raul nodded at a large steel box lying across two seats.
“RPGs, M4s, UZIs,” said Pascal. “German, Russian. It won’t raise any eyebrows when they run the ballistics.”
“Is my rifle in there?”
“Yes, the Dragunov. You meet the agents in Córdoba. A guy named Hu-Shao has tactical authority, but you’re the shooter. Get it done as soon as possible, then get out. I wired the entire million.”
“Who’s the American?”
“His name is Andreas. He’s ex–Special Forces.”
“Why are we doing this?”
“It’s what we do. That penthouse apartment you live in?”
“I want more money.”
“You’re a greedy kid, you know that? I’ll get someone else.”
“Fine,” said Raul, standing up. “This sounds like a shit show anyway.”
“Sit down.”
Pascal was silent for several moments.
“I’ll pay you two million.”
“Okay,” said Raul.
“Call me when you’re done.”
13
CÓRDOBA, ARGENTINA
It was morning when Dewey and Jessica landed in Córdoba. The Córdoba airport was small, quiet, and nearly empty, despite the fact that it served the second-biggest city in Argentina.
Inside the terminal, after going through customs, a teenager stood, holding a small sign that said ANDREAS. The boy was tall with long brown hair, a cowboy hat, in khaki shorts, an orange polo shirt, and knee-high riding boots. Standing next to him was a beautiful girl, perhaps a year or two older than him, with long blond hair, wearing tan riding pants stained with dirt, knee-high black boots, and a white T-shirt. She had a big smile on her face. Dewey guessed she was seventeen or eighteen years old and that the boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
“Ms. Tanzer?” the boy asked as they entered the small lounge. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Alvaro Sabella, from El Colibri. This is my sister, Sabina. Welcome to Córdoba. How was your flight?”
“Hi, Alvaro,” said Jessica, shaking Alvaro’s hand, then Sabina’s. “It was great.”
“Mr. Andreas, nice to meet you.”
“Hi,” said Dewey, shaking their hands.
“Our truck is out front,” said Alvaro.
“Your mother said to tell you not to drive too fast,” said Jessica, looking at the boy.
“She did?” he laughed. “That’s embarrassing. I don’t drive too fast. Always she says this, but it’s not true.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Sabina. “Are you crazy? You’re insane. I’m driving.” She rolled her eyes and looked at Jessica. “He’s terrible. He drives like he rides. Crazy.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Alvaro. “And please don’t forget, Sabby, I have the keys.” He taunted Sabina by dangling them over her head.
Dewey glanced at Jessica, then smiled.
* * *
Alvaro drove the white Range Rover reasonably well, not too fast, except for a few times, at which point Sabina would scream at him to slow down.
The Córdoba region was located halfway between Buenos Aires and Chile, at the geographic center of the country. The region was an important agricultural center, home to wineries, as well as cattle and sheep farms. It was also home to some amazing ranches, including Colibri, nestled in a lush valley that spread for hundreds of miles in the vale of the Sierras Chicas mountain range.
The ranch was an hour’s drive from Córdoba, between the towns of Jesús Maria and Santa Catalina. It was ranch country, and everywhere to the west were the undulating peaks of the Sierras Chicas. The ranch began as a dirt road off the main road north of Jesús Maria. There were no signs or visible outcroppings to distinguish it from any of the other dirt roads.
“How many acres?” asked Dewey.
“Five thousand,” said Sabina. “Our grandfather bought the land when he was twenty-two. Most is prairie, some woods.”
“Did he build the ranch?” asked Dewey.
“Father did. Grandfather bought it when he was on a hunting trip, then he never returned, not once. Our father was given the land. He came to visit when he was twenty and fell in love with a woman from Santa Catalina, our mother.”
The gravel road seemed to go on forever. After more than a mile, a small, modern building appeared in the distance, illuminated by lights. Next to the glass-and-stucco building was a neatly manicured polo field.
“The polo house,” said Alvaro. “Have you played before?”
“Not me,” said Jessica.
Just past the polo house, a dark green picket fence marked a new road off to the right. In the distance, a massive, rambling building could be seen, sprinkled with yellow light from windows. They drove down the driveway to the front of the building. A small fountain at the center of the circle driveway shot water up. The main house was white stucco with brown trim and looked Spanish. It spread out from left to right, a picturesque, stunning expanse of windows, rounded dormers, columns, porches, and beautiful flowers; in fact, in every direction, the grounds were covered in flower gardens.
Already parked in front of the entrance was a black sedan and a black Suburban.
Jessica glanced at Dewey.
“Our welcome party,” she whispered.
Dewey and Jessica climbed out, then went inside. A group of people were standing just inside the entrance. Two people who were
tanned and dressed in casual clothing, a tall man with deep tan lines, and his wife, a dark-skinned beauty: the owners, the Sabellas. Next to them were two men with pasty white skin, golf shirts, and khakis. Perhaps at a public golf course in some American suburb somewhere they would have blended in, but here they stuck out like sore thumbs.
“You must be the Sabellas,” Dewey said to the Secret Service agents as he walked inside. Everyone started laughing.
“I’m Nico,” said the tall tan man, stepping forward. “Welcome to Colibri.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Jessica.
“I’m Maria,” said the woman. “How was the ride? Did Alvaro manage to scare you to death with his driving?”
“He was fine,” said Dewey.
Jessica turned to the agents.
“So who’s in charge?” she asked. “You, Morty?”
“Hi, Jess. We promise you won’t see hide nor hair of us. We’re going to run four-hour shifts. We’ll take up position at the driveway entrance.”
“I hope you brought a good book,” said Jessica.
“Jessica told us you’re a pretty good rider,” said Nico, looking at Dewey.
“I’m okay,” said Dewey.
“Would you like to take a ride after lunch?”
“We’d love to,” said Jessica.
Nico nodded to Alvaro, telling him to go get the horses ready.
The Sabellas gave Dewey and Jessica a tour of the mansion. They were the only guests. Their suite had a wall of French doors that overlooked a large garden filled with roses, and just behind it, a gunite swimming pool.
They went to the suite to change for the ride.
Jessica unpacked both of their bags while Dewey stared out at the peaks of Sierras Chicas through a set of binoculars. Halfway through unpacking her belongings, she came across a black, see-through teddy. Behind Dewey’s back, she surreptitiously removed her jeans and blouse, then put on the lingerie, while Dewey’s eyes remained transfixed on the mountains.
“This place is unbelievable,” said Dewey, still staring through the binoculars. “You’re the fucking best, Tanzer.”
Jessica walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around him.
“No, you’re the best, Andreas.”
“Can you believe we’re getting married?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can.”
14
CÓRDOBA
As the Gulfstream G280 taxied across the tarmac at the Córdoba airport, Raul sat back, unstrapped his seat belt, and put his feet up on the seat opposite him. He looked out the window at the terminal in the distance.
Raul wasn’t nervous, but it didn’t take a genius to realize this wasn’t a typical job. Something was bothering him.
He opened the weapons box and did a quick inventory:
Dragunov sniper rifle, PSO-1 scope, suppressor
SR-3 Vikhr assault rifle
AKMS-74 assault rifle, folding stocks
ASh-12.7 CQB assault rifle
Two Arsenal Strike One 9mm handguns, suppressors
Three Makarov PMM 9mm handguns
He shut the box and walked to the front of the jet.
“Any sign of them?”
The pilots both shrugged.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
“In the lot,” said one of the pilots, “top floor. A black Land Cruiser.”
Raul went back to the seat. He looked at his watch. It was noon.
* * *
In the sky above Córdoba, at that very moment, the landing gear on the LAN regional from Caracas moved into place.
After passing through security, the Chinese agents moved to the private terminal. Inside the lounge, Hu-Shao felt his cell vibrating. He stopped.
“Where are you?” asked Ming-húa.
“We just arrived.”
“The sniper’s name is Raul. He has the weapons and the vehicle.”
“Do we have schematics for the ranch?” asked Hu-Shao.
“They’re on your phone.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. After Raul kills the American, kill him. Leave him on the ground.”
* * *
Raul watched through the round porthole window next to his seat as two men exited the private terminal and walked quickly toward the plane. One of the copilots opened the stairs to the jet. A few moments later, they entered the cabin.
The first agent nodded.
“You must be Raul.”
Raul nodded, saying nothing.
“Hu-Shao,” said the agent. “This is Chang. Where are the weapons?”
Raul pointed with his thumb toward the back of the cabin.
Raul watched as Chang walked down the aisle. Hu-Shao sat down and eyed him with a blank expression on his face.
After a minute, Chang returned to the seat.
“It’s decent,” he said. “A little run-down. Russian. Some nice new Strike Ones. But the sniper rifle’s a Dragunov. I didn’t know they still made Dragunovs.”
“I’m the one who has to use the Dragunov, so it’s my problem,” said Raul contemptuously. “If you don’t like the guns, go buy your own.”
“If the weapons aren’t right, that’s all our problem,” said Hu-Shao. “You’re earning a lot of money in the next twenty-four hours.”
“They’re fine,” said Chang, looking at Hu-Shao, trying to calm the tension. “They’ll do.”
“Who’s the target?” asked Raul.
“He’s American, a former soldier, Special Forces, traveling with a do-not-touch.”
“Which unit was he with?”
“Delta,” said Hu-Shao.
Raul nodded. Pascal had already told him the target was ex–Special Forces, but the fact that he was Delta gave Raul a small kick in the stomach. Like many ex-cartel men, Raul knew of the Deltas.
“That’s all I know,” continued Hu-Shao. “As for the design, we need to study the security at the ranch. Once we know how many men are there, what type of coverage there is, and the rotations, we’ll set up the nest.”
Raul glanced at Chang, who wore a blank expression on his face, as did Hu-Shao. Had either of these two ever run into Deltas, he wondered?
Raul had been exposed to Deltas on more than one occasion when he worked as a fast-boat runner for the El Chapo cartel. Everyone referred to the American group of soldiers as the “locos.” The Deltas were known for working alone. Their specialty was counternarcotics interdiction at the source of production, as well as assassination: selective targeting of cartel higher-ups, usually a clean, surgical kill involving a slug to the head. Raul was lucky in that sense: as a fast-boat runner, he rarely had to deal with them. Instead, they had the Coast Guard to deal with, which, compared to the Deltas, was like outrunning tortoises.
As he stared out the window, Raul tried to remember some of the stories about Deltas. What he did recall is that the Deltas liked to blend in. They never wore uniforms, and it was practically impossible to tell the difference between a Delta and anyone else walking down the road—a local farmer, a tourist—and that was only if you could see them. Most of the time they operated at night. The Deltas were a mystery.
Raul stood up, moving to the weapons box at the back of the cabin.
“You—” said Raul, nodding at Chang, “a hand, will you?”
15
ESTANCIA EL COLIBRI
CÓRDOBA
By one in the afternoon, the black Land Cruiser arrived at Estancia el Colibri.
Raul drove as Hu-Shao navigated with coordinates provided by Beijing.
“Cut in farther up the road,” said Hu-Shao as they passed the dirt road entrance.
In the backseat, Chang looked out the side window with a high-powered monocular scope. Fifty feet down the drive, he spied the shiny grill of a parked Suburban.
“There’s someone there,” said Chang.
They drove a few minutes longer, then Hu-Shao pointed to the right of the road.
Raul slowed, then took a right off the paved
road and cut into a field. He drove for nearly a mile, until Hu-Shao held up his hand, telling him to stop.
Chang opened the door, climbed to the roof, and scanned in the direction of the ranch. A minute later, he jumped from the roof, then climbed back into the SUV.
“We’re out of visual range,” he said.
“Let’s get moving,” said Hu-Shao.
The three men climbed out of the SUV. They rubbed black and green paint on their faces and changed into camouflage. The two Chinese agents each packed a rifle and a handgun. Raul carried the Dragunov, strapped over his back.
They skulked in a low traverse toward where they knew the Suburban was parked. They walked for ten minutes. When they came to a rise on a low hill, Chang raised his hand, stopping the others. He pulled out the scope and scanned the distance.
“I have a visual on the security vehicle,” he said.
The three men took up position on the hill, lying down on their stomachs. The sun was beating down.
“What’s next?” asked Raul.
“We wait,” said Hu-Shao. “We need to understand the security protocol. I want to know how often they’re rotating shifts.”
Raul took the scope from Chang and looked for the vehicle. He found the small specter of the Suburban in the distance. There were no signs of life from the black SUV.
“How do you know someone’s even in there?” asked Raul.
“There’s someone there,” said Hu-Shao. “Be patient.”
16
ESTANCIA EL COLIBRI
CÓRDOBA
Dewey and Jessica arrived at the polo house, which looked deserted. Out back of the building they came upon Alvaro, sitting on a chair, shirt off, soaking in some morning sun. His eyes were closed. Earbuds were in. In his right hand was a joint, which he was puffing away on, as his head moved rhythmically up and down to the music.
“Awkward,” said Jessica, as the boy eyed her, then Dewey, then abruptly turned and fell from the chair, onto the grass. He leapt to his feet. He dropped the joint and stomped on it with his boot as he exhaled.