“Swell, they brought friends.”
Someone outside yelled and J.J. saw several men charge through the door firing their AK-47s. The night vision amplified the muzzle flashes, stabbing J.J.’s eyes. Bits of wood and particle board flew through the air. J.J. ducked behind the makeshift barricade. Caraway returned fire.
J.J.’s ears roared. Wood shrapnel stung his hands and face. He raised his 9mm to fire, but his hand went empty and pain shot down his arm. He turned his head in time to see the butt of an AK-47 coming at his head.
A new blackness filled the room.
* * *
“WE THINK THEY’RE HEADED for the airport.” Moyer heard Pete over the cell phone. “I’ve been looking at the map. The airport makes the most sense.”
The thought had occurred to Moyer. The caravan changed directions immediately after the helicopter spotted J.J. and Caraway. Perhaps they had planned to go to the airport after picking up the woman and children. It made sense, but Moyer had no way of proving it. He kept this eye on the distant tail lights, hoping to stay far enough back so as not to alert the others to his presence but still maintain contact.
“Understood,” Moyer said. “My guess is they’ll head to the private plane area. Maybe they have a corporate jet standing by, or a small plane to take them to another airfield.”
“Sounds right,” Pete said.
“Yeah, it sounds right, but I can think of thirty other permutations.”
“Just thirty, Boss?”
Moyer didn’t answer. Something caught his attention—something that made his hopeless situation seem impossible: the sound of a helicopter overhead. These rotor sounds were different than the earlier ones; these had the distinct sound of a military chopper. Moyer rolled down his window to hear better. Not huge. Not a Russian-built MI-17. Its size and five-blade rotor would have a deeper pitch.
“I’m hearing the new helo. Sounds close.” Moyer did his best to spot the craft but couldn’t lay eyes on it. A second later a bright light shone down on the vehicles he was trailing.
“Boss, Pete saw it go overhead. It’s an A109M.”
The Italian-made light helicopter was light, agile, and could be armed with anti-tank missiles, rockets, and machine guns. He cursed under his breath. The craft probably left Fort Tiuna, the military headquarters in Caracas, shortly after J.J. and Caraway had been discovered.
“What now, Boss?”
“Give me a sec.” Moyer ran every scenario he could think of, and every one ended with him and his crew dead on a Caracas street. The light that bathed the van and car a half mile ahead moved. It was headed straight for him. The pilot must have seen him when he flew over. The fact that Moyer had been driving with his headlights off could only be seen as suspicious.
“We got trouble, guys. I’ve been spotted.”
Rich’s voice came over the phone. “You gotta bail, Boss.”
“Negative. Listen. We’ve only got seconds. Here’s what we do.”
* * *
SANTI RODE QUIETLY IN the back seat of the Bell 412 helicopter, listening to the radio transmission from the other military craft that flew closer to street level. He was just an observer at the moment and his helicopter an airborne command center. He hated being in this position. Bringing in two military craft would raise questions. He had planned to keep the whole operation secret from everyone, especially the military. If things went wrong, President Chavez and his administration would be publicly humiliated, and Chavez didn’t tolerate attacks on his prestige.
This Bell 412 was a simple observation-and-transport craft. It carried no arms. That didn’t matter, he reminded himself. The A109M had enough weaponry to handle any shooting that needed to be done—if he could convince the pilot that firing a machine gun at people in the streets was the right thing to do. As foreign minister he could give many orders and people would rush to obey them, but the military was different. If he demanded the pilots to shoot men on the ground, they would first radio in for permission from their commanding officer. There was no telling how that delay might affect the outcome of these events.
The pilot leveled off five hundred feet higher than the 109 and a kilometer away, moving in a slow circle around the van holding Costa and Cenobio and its escort car. He could see them clearly beneath the 109’s spotlight. He also noticed a truck a kilometer behind the van driving with no lights. Santi ordered the military craft to illuminate the truck.
* * *
JOSE ARRIVED AT THE alley leading to the structure where J.J. and Caraway were hiding. He slipped down the lane and ducked behind a dumpster—a battered van was parked in the alley next to an open door. He forced his breath to slow and his heart to calm. He snapped down his night-vision goggles, which made the taillights of the van seem to glow like miniature suns. He squinted through the lenses. He counted four men entering the van, and the vehicle pulled away. He had arrived too late.
Jose waited a moment then moved to the still-open door. This was the site J.J. had described. The shred of hope he held that the van was just making a delivery or picking up product evaporated. With the barrel of his M4 raised, Jose stepped into the building. A dark puddle rested near the threshold of another door that led into a work room. Once confident the building was clear of hostiles, Jose raised his night-vision goggles and turned on the flashlight mounted to the rail of his weapon.
He saw a large work table with a makeshift barricade made of folding tables stacked on edge. The tables bore several bullet holes. Jose moved to the other side and counted a dozen spent 9mm shells. He also saw another pool of blood. What he didn’t see were bodies. That gave him another thread of hope.
Jose jogged from the building and started down the alley.
CHAPTER 49
NOTHING ABOUT THE PLAN was right. It occurred to Moyer that it was less a plan and more of a reaction. He had no choices, no alternatives. If the military chopper fired on him, or just forced him to stop following the caravan, he would lose Cenobio for good. In very little time, the enemy would deliver the physicist to the airport and he would be out of reach.
The light from the helicopter bathed Moyer and his truck. There was no more hiding. Most likely their cover had been blown when Pete landed in the hospital and then escaped. Still, they had remained out of reach to this point. No longer—it was now or never.
“Go!” Moyer shouted into the cell phone. He slammed the accelerator to the floor.
* * *
HECTOR CENOBIO HAD BEEN looking out his window and up at the sky when everything went white. He snapped his head back and blinked his eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Reinforcements,” Costa said. “It seems you have friends. Who would send trained military men to rescue you and your family?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Costa looked at his cell phone. “I am told that two men tried to break into the building where we are keeping your wife. You have friends in the military?”
“My wife, my children—they are all right?”
“Yes. The two men failed. They’ve been captured. One is injured badly. He may not live.” Costa smiled. “The uninjured one may not live either.”
“I want to see my family.”
“Perhaps later. Your friends have changed everything.”
Hector struggled for words. “I don’t know who they are.”
“Perhaps they are not friends. If they know how valuable you are to certain countries, they may not be here to rescue you at all.”
“What do you mean?”
Costa turned in his seat to face Hector. “Killing you would be easier than rescuing you.”
Hector looked outside and tried to deny the truth of the words.
He failed.
* * *
THERE WERE NEW VOICES—SEVERAL of them. Julia Cenobio stood next to the door, her ear just an inch away. She heard excited chatter in a Middle Eastern tongue. She heard a man scream in pain. Another man moaned. Was one of them Hector?
<
br /> * * *
J.J. REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS SLOWLY. A moment ago he was on the beach, sitting on a blanket, as a lazy ocean of deep blue rolled and tossed small waves on the shore, creating a backbeat to the song of gulls overhead. Next to him sat Ronnie—tall, trim, blonde hair to her shoulders, and skin painted brown by gentle tanning. They were holding hands.
J.J. had never held Ronnie’s hand. He had only seen her in church and during Sunday-morning Bible study for single adults. More than her good looks attracted him to her. She never hesitated to participate in the discussion, always offered educated opinions, and glanced at him frequently.
Last Sunday was going to be the day when he asked her out— the day when he would gather the courage to approach, chat, then spring the question: “May I introduce you to the best tacos in town?” A lousy line, but she had once told the Bible study group of her love for Mexican food. He had committed that to memory.
A breeze pushed through J.J.’s hair. The briny smell of the ocean seemed like perfume. He turned to Ronnie and she to him. She leaned closer. He could smell the lotion on her body, the sweetness of her breath.
Their first kiss hovered a moment away.
Scorching pain crossed his left cheek and ignited every neuron in his brain. He felt himself falling. Concrete replaced the soft white sand of the beach. J.J.’s head bounced off the floor. A coppery-tasting fluid filled his mouth. He opened his eyes. Someone spoke in a language J.J. didn’t understand, but he had heard enough of it over the years and during missions to recognize Farsi.
J.J. tried to rise, but he couldn’t move. Instinctively he reached for his sidearm. His arms didn’t respond. A second passed before he realized he had been bound to a wooden chair. He and the chair lay on their sides. Several blinks later the fire in J.J.’s head subsided enough for him to take in his situation. Memories inundated his mind like a tsunami coming ashore. With the recollections came the pain from his injuries. He recalled the gunfire and the butt end of an AK-47 landing on his nose. He tried to inhale then realized he couldn’t draw air. He could feel the swollen tissue of his face. The impact had broken his nose.
Again someone said something in Farsi. Despite the language difference, J.J. knew an order when he heard it. Two men righted him. Duct tape secured his wrists and legs to the chair.
“I see you’re awake. Did you enjoy your nap?” A thick accent weighted the English words.
J.J. looked around and recognized his location, although he had never been inside the room. He had, however, been on the roof above and seen it with the gooseneck spy cam.
“I asked a question.” The man—short and wiry with a scowl
J.J. assumed he had been born with—raised his fist. “Ease up, mate. No need to hit me again.” “What … what was that?” The man laughed. “Was that supposed to be an Australian accent? Pitiful. Laughable.”
“New Zealand,” J.J. said. Before they had left on the mission, they had been reminded that if captured, the U.S. would deny any involvement.
The tormentor looked at the others in the room. J.J. scanned the faces he could see: five men, all under thirty years of age, all with angry looks on their faces. He also saw the door leading to the small bathroom and wondered if the Cenobio woman and her children were still held captive there. A motion behind him drew his attention. He turned his head and could barely make out Caraway in his peripheral vision. The best J.J. could tell, his partner was alive, unconscious, and bound to a similar chair.
His captor leaned close to J.J.’s face. “I have been to Australia and to New Zealand. You sound nothing like what I heard there.”
“I’m still working on my act.”
The man lifted a booted foot and placed it on J.J.’s thigh, leaned in, and put his weight on it so that it pulled the tissue of
J.J.’s leg toward the seat. The pain was worse than J.J. thought it could be. “Let me tell you who I think you are. You are American soldiers, Special Operations most likely. If not that, then you’re with an American mercenary group.”
“And who are you?”
“What? You want to ask questions of me? The way I see it, I’m your captor and you’re my prisoner. I will ask the questions.”
“I guess you got me there. Wanna trade places?”
The man removed his foot and delivered a fist to the tender side of J.J.’s head. The chair toppled over again, and two men righted it.
“You are military trained. Your appearance does not fit the typical soldier, but all that means is that you are not typical. Why are you here?”
“Jungle cruise. I went on one at Disneyland and wanted to try the real thing. I heard Venezuela had a great ride.” J.J. steeled himself for another blow that didn’t come.
“My time is short, soldier. I have no patience with infidels, especially military infidels. If the situation were different, I’d take my time with you—maybe several days or weeks. Bit by bit I would get the information I want, but time is a luxury I don’t have.”
“You want me to come back later?”
“How many are in your unit?”
“What unit?”
The man looked at his cohorts. “Always they begin this way.
Brave, strong, as if pain means nothing to them. The American military train their men to resist interrogation. They call it SERE training—Survival Evasion Resistance Escape.” He spoke like a concerned teacher. “Their soldiers go into the field thinking they can resist any torture. It is not true, and do you know why?” He bent over J.J. again. His breath smelled sour. “Pain changes the brain chemistry. An injured dog will bite its owner who is trying to help the creature. Soldiers like you resist for a while, but the pain begins to alter the brain. Over time you begin to rationalize your behavior. Memories become blurred. Orders get confused in your mind. Soon you begin to think you’re doing the right thing. Do you know how I know this, infidel? I learned about the brain in medical school.”
“Is that where you learned to throw a punch? Release me and I’ll show you a better way.”
“The problem today is time, so I’m going to have to dispense with the more sophisticated approach.”
“Sorry to cramp your style.”
“I ask again: How many in your unit?”
J.J. looked away but said nothing.
“What do you call your friend?”
“What friend?”
“The man behind you. The man whose leg you bandaged. The man you were willing to die for.”
“Oh, him. He was just trying to sell me a timeshare.” J.J.’s heart picked up speed.
The man J.J. started thinking of as the evil doctor sighed and stepped from sight. “Turn him around.”
The two who had righted the chair spun J.J. around to face Caraway, whose face had become ashen, the color of the concrete walls that surrounded them. Doctor pulled a knife from his pocket and cut the wrapping loose and removed the bloody steripads. He seemed unconcerned that Caraway’s blood covered his hands. He studied the wound.
“A nasty business, gunshot wounds. Of course, you probably know that. How many of my Shi’ite brothers in Afghanistan and Iraq have you killed? Take your friend here—as you know the point of entry was the back of the thigh. The entry wound is fairly small, but the exit wound …” He took hold of a loose flap of skin and pulled up. Caraway, although deep in shock, moaned and twitched his leg. The wound began to bleed again.
J.J. closed his eyes. A second later something hit him on his broken nose. He did his best not to cry out in pain. Pain forced tears from his eyes.
“I insist you watch this. I’m doing you a favor.”
“You’re sadistic.”
“Why, yes, I am. I didn’t start off that way. I wanted to help humankind, and so I studied medicine. But that was before infidel soldiers like yourself killed my father, my mother, and my sister.” His face turned hard. “Tonight, you killed one of my men.”
“Was he one of the guys shooting at us?”
“He was my br
other. My only brother. Tell me, soldier, which of you shot him in the face?”
“It was kinda dark.”
The doctor nodded, bent over Caraway again, then began to pound his fist on the wound. Caraway came to and screamed.
“Leave him alone! He’s almost dead already.”
“Then it won’t matter if I speed things along.” He turned to one of his men. “Bring me a pencil.” The man disappeared into the office area of the industrial building and reappeared a moment later. The blood drained from his face as he handed the writing instrument to his leader.
J.J.’s heart beat so fast that he felt certain it would either blow through his sternum or simply explode. Either would be fine with him.
“I ask again: How many in your unit?”
J.J. shook his head.
The doctor plunged the pencil into Caraway’s wound and left it. The screams made J.J. tremble. For the first time in his life, he wanted to kill a man with his bare hands.
* * *
WHEN JULIA TURNED, SHE saw her children covering their ears. They had never heard a man cry in such pain. Neither had she. The sound of it rattled around in her soul and scaled her spine with icy fingers. Tears poured from her face. Scream after scream pushed through the locked door; only slightly muted, it rebounded off the tile walls. She couldn’t silence the sounds, couldn’t force them from her ears. They stabbed at her consciousness, branded her eardrums. She knew if she survived, she’d carry the hideous cries with her forever.
Julia prayed the prayer of the desperate, of those so stunned, so shocked, that whole sentences were beyond their capabilities.
“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.” She hated herself for her next thought, but the hope didn’t come from the rational part of her brain: She prayed the screams came from someone other than her husband.
CHAPTER 50
ALONE. JOSE HAD BEEN taught to work with a team, but his team was in two different locations and he was between them. More than anything he wanted to use his radio to report what he had found, but he couldn’t. J.J. and Caraway were in the hands of hostiles, and if Jose used his radio, they were certain to hear. He had taken a few moments to call Moyer on the cell phone, but the call refused to go through.
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