by J E Higgins
Major Akim glared at the black-suited figure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the body of his comrade laying on the floor. His eyes stayed focused on the darkened figure. The two men met each other’s gazes before Akim instinctively went for his rifle. Dayan jumped out the back in time to avoid a fusillade of gunfire.
“Move now!!” Dayan screamed to his comrades as he flew into the depression. The three men moved quickly. As they raced out of the depression, they saw Major Akim standing in the doorway with his AK-74 at the ready. He scoped the depression and prepared to fire. He was stopped by a quick burst fired by Ripley as he moved to cover the escape.
Akim, taken by surprise, fell to the floor dodging Ripley’s bullets. The trio raced to the tree line to make their way back to the river. To their amazement, the gunfire from the training masked their gun battle, ensuring no immediate response. The larger body of the camp had no idea what had just happened.
The three men ran quickly through the shrubbery assuming they had only minutes before their presence became known. They had just cleared the camp and were halfway to the river when they stopped to quickly affix their night optics. They heard a loud cry of someone screaming in Arabic. They looked up to see the security patrol fanning out and moving in their direction.
Foregoing the optics, the three stood up and started running when the patrol opened fire. The trio began moving in a relay of cover-by-fire. First, Dayan began shooting to cover Ripley and Vanderhook. The two men ran a few paces stopped and turned to call back to their comrade that they were set. At that moment both men began firing as Dayan turned and ran past them. They continued this relay as they slowly moved back to the river. Thankfully, the patrol forces were still inexperienced in actual combat. The return fire from the trio caused them to lose their focus, and they began firing wildly in the general direction of the invaders. Meanwhile, the seasoned commandos continued to steadily take well-aimed shots, managing to hit one or two with every other burst causing the patrol to slow their pursuit. The commandos were confident they would make it safely back to the water when they received gunfire from a different location.
Major Akim had wasted no time trying to sound the alarm. He knew all-to-well that time was of the essence and had tracked the infiltrators in the darkness. He caught the sound of the gunfire exchange and followed it to where his patrol was engaging the invaders. Flanking off to the side, he continued the bursts of gunfire. Assessing the volume of fire and lack of discipline from one side to the steady tactical movements of the smaller group, he aimed for the smaller team and took his shots.
They were close. Immediately Dayan turned to return fire that appeared on his flank. But the Iranian was not a green trainee and was not fazed by the bullets whistling past his head. Instead, he ducked into a cluster of trees and continued firing. At the same time, he began calling out to the patrol. His voice was distinctive and quite familiar to his men. On his orders, he began directing them while continuing to stay on the infiltrators’ flanks. The commandos were now being attacked from two different directions.
The commandos remained disciplined as they continued their movement toward the river. They directed their shots based on which side seemed to be closer. Major Akim continued weaving about the trees, keeping down, carefully aiming his fire as he maintained control of his patrol by continuing to shout orders to them.
The situation was becoming dire for the commandos. They could see their adversaries slowly boxing them in. It was the sound of the river close by that suddenly gave them hope. They realized they were near their escape route. Their spirits were further lifted when a loud explosion thundered in the distance. The trio realized they had exceeded their time limit, and Perez and the others had initiated their assault.
Chapter 27
It had not taken Elloy Mendoza long to find out that the attack on him was the result of his business with the Iranians. It also did not take him long to figure out who might have carried it out. The Guardians of Israel was the group that emerged as the likely perpetrators of his near assassination. Yet the question remained ─ how would these idiot street thugs have obtained intelligence like this?
The only possible answer was to ask. It was well known in the South American intelligence world that the old Rabbi, Abraham Kovinski, doubled as a well-connected source for Israel. Sending some men to the Buenos Aires Jewish Community Center with guns and a strong penchant toward violent behavior would be the Cuban’s scheme to achieve two objectives: find out how the Jews knew about him, and make sure they suffered for their recent antics.
Mendoza’s men returned with the news that they had spoken to the old Rabbi. Despite cutting off three of his fingers using a pair of scissors, he would not talk. The Rabbi finally opened up when they took the teenage girl named Myra, who worked around the center, and threatened her. They also found a file listing the sale of land from Bolivar Investments & Acquisitions to an Iranian front company.
Mendoza took great satisfaction from the story when his men regaled him with how the Rabbi was made to watch as they proceeded to violate the terrified young girl before beating her to death after he had cooperated. The Rabbi had been in tears when they sliced his throat and let him bleed out. Mendoza took an even greater interest in the file which he quickly realized could only have come from one competitor: Guardian Angel Intelligence.
Alyssa Rios was not quite nervous, but concerned. Looking at the screen that focused on the outside road, she wasn’t sure what to make of the white van that had mysteriously parked across the street for seemingly no reason. Then she returned her focus to the screen showing a large well-dressed man standing at her doorway with a most impatient look on his face.
Mr. Vargas, or at least the name he was going by, had introduced himself several days ago over the phone. He was an attorney working for a politician who had concerns about conspiracies within his own party. The job seemed common enough, and she had agreed to a meeting. Now looking at Mr. Vargas through her camera, she began to feel something was not right. This high-priced attorney looked far too athletic and devoid of nice jewelry. Most of the successful legal people she came across tended to enjoy their wealth and comfort. The man at her door looked anything but a high-priced attorney. Despite the new suit and haircut, the man’s face was rough. He looked more like a professional soldier. What really caught her attention was part of a tattoo that protruded from under the cuff of his shirt.
She had been on edge since hearing from her sources in Brazil about the mysterious attack against the camp the Arab had hired her to watch following the attempted assassination of Elloy Mendoza ─ another person Mr. Herron was interested in.
She had learned through experience never to assume she was just being paranoid, her senses were too keen for that. Reaching into her desk she produced a mobile phone. It wasn’t her business or personal phone; it was to be used for only one thing. Pressing send the phone rang twice before a gravelly voice of a man answered, “Yes?”
Speaking gently Rios answered. “Sẽnor, if you’re not busy right now, I would like to come over and discuss hiring you for floral arrangements.”
“I’m very busy,” the voice replied slightly tense.
“I understand,” she replied before the phone went dead.
Pressing a buzzer, Rios waited only seconds before her assistant entered her office. “Yes, ma’am?” the young girl asked quietly.
Rios pursed her lips. “Malia, go put on your sweats.”
Malia’s eyes widened, and she looked frightened. The older woman raised her hand. “Don’t be unprofessional, my dear.”
Malia regained her composure, turned and headed out the door.
Viewing the security camera where Mr. Vargas was standing, she pressed a small button to speak on the intercom. “Sẽnor, I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you today as we had arranged. I apologize for the inconvenience, but something has come up.”
The man calling himself Mr. Vargas did not move or speak. Instead, his face
turned a chilling gaze toward the camera. “Let me in, woman.”
Rios had by now stripped down to her underwear and was collecting a neatly folded pile of clothes from a nearby closet. It was a futile effort at this point to respond. The intimidating manner only vouched for what she half wanted to believe was paranoia. Still, she responded anyway in the hope it would buy time. “Sẽnor, I do not like threats. If you do not wish to reschedule, then I feel we need not do business.” She hurriedly slide on a pair of jeans.
Mr. Vargas glared into the camera lens. He turned toward the street and sliced his hand across the front of his body. Rios watched her monitors to see what the man was doing. Suddenly, the back doors of the mysterious white van flew open and a flood of figures dressed in tactical gear appeared carrying an arsenal of weapons. They crossed the street and Rios realized what was about to happen. Mr. Vargas produced a Glock .40 caliber from a holster hidden under his jacket.
She was completely dressed in jeans, sneakers, a gray T-shirt, and a tan-field jacket. Malia returned wearing similar attire. The combination of balancing practical mobility with clothes common to the neighborhood was paramount in these situations. Malia slung a small, green knap-sack across her body. It contained essential materials needed for later.
“I sent out the call, Ma’am,” the young assistant said. The call was the quick emergency message dispatched to all operatives and contractors of Guardian Angel. Everyone was alerted that the company had been compromised, and they were to break all contact.
“Good,” Rios replied as she grabbed her bag. She heard the sound of the door being bashed in. Malia had already activated the additional security doors that were reinforced with steel and would be difficult to penetrate, giving the ladies more time to escape.
Alyssa Rios had just activated the spyware on her computer system which would completely destroy any intelligence collected and all her business records. A loud explosion shook the building. The attackers were using shape charges against the doors. The other security monitors showed the attackers, their faces covered with dark balaclavas, had already begun pouring into the building. They were slowed down by the blast-proof glass box, narrow concrete walls, and thick metal gates that stood in their way.
It was easy to figure they were going to lay waste the door with more explosives. Luckily, the packed conditions meant they would have to go back outside before they could blow the box. The women didn’t wait. Walking to the back of the office, Rios moved an old metal cabinet to reveal a small hole in the wall leading to a crawl space. The ladies were just through it when they heard the sound of the second explosion and the tremor that followed.
Downstairs, the man, who had identified himself as Mr. Vargas was following the assault team back into the building. He looked around the compound and found himself hard pressed not to begrudgingly respect his current adversary. A skilled operator with years in the Kaibil (Guatemalan special forces), he found that his professional senses demanded a certain degree of challenge when undertaking a mission. Looking around at the ingenuity of the building’s setup, he could admire the forethought and wisdom of the mind that had laid this all out. Only a seasoned operator on a par with his own mind could understand the concepts of such things.
His men discovered the blast-proof box was still intact enough to be a barrier. It took another blast before the attackers could finally press on with their assault. The darkened corridor made for an irritating complication. It wasn’t yet dark enough for night vision, but dark enough to make it arduous for the professionals whose eyes had not yet adjusted. They definitely didn’t see the infrared laser running across the exit of the hallway only a few inches above the ground. The first aggressor walked over it as he turned and started up the stairs. The second man, walking closely behind him landed right on the point of the beam. A second later the small neighborhood echoed with the sound of a powerful explosion. The corridor was suddenly engulfed in a massive flame that blew swiftly through the entire lower stairs and exited viciously out the front door burning every member of the assault group to near ashes.
Rios and Malia were just exiting the end of the tunnel when they heard the massive explosion. They knew the difference between their own deterrent and the explosives used by their attackers. Arriving at a small opening secured by a heavy steel door resembling a submarine hatch, the two ladies worked in unison to twist the securing wheel. Moments later the door opened, and they pushed the debris and shrubbery masking the exit away.
Outside, the two ladies worked in unison to shut the door. They were in an area between properties, surrounded by old fencing. Rios took a second to peek over the fence separating them from the open street. When she was comfortable there were no suspicious people visible, the two women climbed over the fence and started down the street. Malia nervously began to look around but was stopped by her employer who reminded her to keep calm and look casual.
Rios, acting somewhat frantically, took Malia by the hand and picked up the pace. Knowing what her employer was doing, she attempted to follow the performance. Since several explosions had just occurred, two frantic women looking to be getting away from trouble seemed reasonable to any onlooker. Had the explosion not gone off, they would have been walking along joking and laughing with each other.
At the end of the street, they turned and slowed their pace. Now they were just walking as if they were complaining about the violence in Bogota. A few more blocks and they turned another corner, walked about ten minutes changing directions again. They came to a corner where a small, dumpy man of about seventy was selling food to passersby. The two ladies approached slowly. Despite sporting a thick bushy mustache covering everything below his nose, a smile could still be detected on his face as the ladies neared. Three customers were quickly served and dispatched before the old man put up a closed sign on his truck.
Nothing was said as the ladies passed by him and moved into the back of the vehicle. They both took cover in a makeshift kitchen. Outside, the old man carefully broke down his operation. The steel door that served as shading from the tropical sun was lowered to the side and buttoned down. Seconds later the women could feel the change in weight as the dumpy fellow climbed into the driver’s side. The engine roared to life, and they could feel the large barge-like truck pull slowly out of its parked location and begin moving steadily down the road.
Victorio Deigo had sold his homemade meals for nearly thirty years. During the time Guardian Angel Intelligence had been established, a certain party, on behalf of Ms. Rios, had given him a monthly stipend of three thousand dollars in cash. The stipend had been greatly appreciated during the slower times and helped him expand his business. The first payment had come with a mobile phone he was never to use but keep on his person at all times. He was made to understand that one day he might receive a call from a woman who would discuss floral arrangements. If so, he was to be ready to provide a means of escape for two women and whoever else might show up. He had seen the woman in question a few times to remind him of their face. He knew without discussion who it was slipping into his vehicle. Driving down the road, the old meal vendor peered nervously out his side mirrors and all around as he drove at his steady pace. One hand tightly held the wheel while the second held a .40 caliber revolver he held just as tightly.
Chapter 28
Kafka Dayan was sprawled out on the long couch in the back office of Plūcker’s establishment. Despite the fact that he knew he was being growled at by an irate Micha Cohen, he was concentrating too hard on his breathing and too tired to care. Besides, when he did open his eyes to give the old katsa a few moments of his attention, he found the diatribe from the old man a confusing litany of muttering in English, shouting in Arabic and, occasionally, speaking calmly in Hebrew. He figured he wasn’t missing anything important in the conversation. And given the old man hadn’t seemed to notice his complete lack of interest, he was certain of it.
Cohen’s anger derived from the fact that a mission that was supposed
to be a silent reconnaissance ─ leaving no trace ─ turned into an all-out battle. Dayan did regret how the operation turned out. However, unforeseeable problems happening were virtually warfare and intelligence operations 101. The katsa continued railing. Dayan waited for Cohen to complete his tirade.
At the same time, his eyes occasionally peeked over to where Plūcker and his Negress barmaid were busily looking over the documents recovered from the mission. Apparently, just like her employer, who doubled as an arms and mercenary broker, she too had a sideline job in the murky world of intrigue. Her eyes darted quickly from side to side as she pored over the contents on her computer screen.
“Anything of value?” Dayan asked as he fought his way to sit up from his sprawled position.
The Negress said nothing, her attention remained fixed on her work. Plūcker, his attention focused on the same screen, spoke up. “Well, what we have is a mixture of documents written in both Portuguese and some weird fucking squiggly shit ─ looks like Arab writing.”
Cohen stopped speaking. He was annoyed at how his young operative was so casually dismissing him. He moved over to where the Irishman and the Negress were working. Dayan followed closely behind. Both Israelis looked at the screen. The document displayed was in Portuguese. At that moment, the Negress spoke up. “This is a report discussing local security, mostly military and police patrol schedules.”
“Really?” Dayan asked casually.
“Looks like someone in the Brazilian military is feeding reports to these guys. Reports pertaining to possible concerns about local security in the area and future military movements that might affect the camp,” the Negress continued. Her Spanish was natural and polished in the way she spoke. Her ability to flawlessly interpret the Portuguese documents was surprising given she was supposed to be a barmaid. She continued. “Judging by the detail in these reports, they have someone at high levels in the Brazilian military feeding them this information.”