Nathan Goodman
Rendition Protocol
First published by Thought Reach Press in 2017
Copyright © Nathan Goodman, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
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The Special Agent Jana Baker Spy-Thriller Series, by Nathan Goodman
Protocol One
The Fourteenth Protocol
Protocol 15
Breach of Protocol
Rendition Protocol
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, incidents, characters, and all contents are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any relation or resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, agencies, government entities, or locales is purely coincidental.
THOUGHT REACH PRESS, a publishing division of Thought Reach, LLC. United States of America.
Copyright © 2017-2018 Nathan A. Goodman
Cover art copyright © 2017-2018 Nathan A. Goodman
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations used in articles and reviews.
ISBN: 978-0-692-97988-4
First Thought Reach Press printing November, 2017
For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, or permission to reproduce any content other than mentioned above, contact the publisher at [email protected].
Printed in the USA, the United Kingdom, and Canada except where otherwise stated.
1
On February 7, 1985, a DEA agent named Enrique Camarena Salazar was abducted while working deep cover in Mexico. To his friends, he was known simply as "Kiki." Agent Camarena was the first to propose that in order to stop the drug cartels, the US should go after the money, not the drugs. President Ronald Reagan, upon hearing of the abduction, became infuriated. He phoned Mexican President Miguel de la Madrid and threatened that if Agent Camarena did not resurface, immediately, he would order the US State Department to issue a code-red travel alert—the US-Mexican border would be sealed. The action would have destroyed Mexico’s economy.
At the same time, the CIA was covertly involved in an all-out effort to finance the Contra rebels of Nicaragua. The Contras were attempting to overthrow the Sandanista government, and the United States was all too happy to assist. Secret funds were raised on two fronts. The first was in Iran. At the time, Iran was under an arms embargo, yet the CIA orchestrated the sale of Hawk and TOW missiles to the Iranians. It was an all-cash deal. The second involved CIA-protected shipments of cocaine from Mexico into the United States. Between the two sources of funding, the CIA secured the resources necessary to oversee the toppling of the Nicaraguan regime. But before that could happen, the scandal broke. It became known as The Iran-Contra Affair.
When Agent Camarena followed the money trail in Mexico and discovered the CIA was running drugs into the United States, they orchestrated his abduction. His horribly tortured body was uncovered a month later.
This story is dedicated to the memory of Special Agent Kiki Camarena and all those who would risk their lives to make the world a better place.
2
Victim or Perp
Royal Police Force, American Road, St. John’s, isle of Antigua.
“You’re not going to fingerprint me!” Jana yelled.
The uniformed officer repeated his command. “Miss, you are going to be fingerprinted. You have no legal basis to refuse. If you do not comply, we’ll force you.”
She backed into a corner of the police station’s intake room and then lunged for a door handle, but the steel door was locked from the other side.
The officer pressed a button on the wall and spoke. “I need a team in here right now.”
Within moments, three officers entered and grabbed her by the arms. “Having a little trouble here, Charlie?” one said.
Jana thrashed against their viselike grips.
“Calm down, miss. Calm down,” one of the officers said. But Jana slammed her heel into his foot. It impacted the lateral dorsal cutaneous nerve. He buckled under the blow but held tight.
Charlie, the arresting officer, lunged to take the man’s place as a third officer circled behind and put a thick forearm around her neck then wrenched it tight.
“Assaulting an officer? Well, that’s going to cost you another six months inside. Let’s get her into the chair. We’ll print her once she’s secured.”
“No!” she screamed against the choke hold.
The trio of officers yanked her into a metal rolling chair, then strapped her arms, hands, feet. The officers stood back a moment and caught their breath. The struggle had been brief but exhausting.
“She’s strong as an ox,” one said.
“Good God,” another officer said as he removed his boot. “That hurts like hell. Hey, lady. What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not going to be fingerprinted,” Jana returned.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s not your decision.”
She looked at them through eyes of steel. “I do not consent to this!” The bindings on her hands and feet brought back visions of her ordeal the year prior. The memories began to flicker and pop in her mind.
“Again, not your decision.” He looked at the other officers. “Let’s roll her to the table. She’ll be printed alright.”
“No!” she yelled as she thrashed against her bindings. Though the officers could not tell, Jana’s right hand had begun to shake.
One said, “What’s her problem? It’s not like we’re trying to hurt her. What did she do anyway?”
Charlie replied, “Busted a guy up pretty bad. He’s headed to the hospital. Never seen anything like it. I’m not even sure he’s going to make it. And she won’t even tell us her name. Must not want us to know who she really is.”
An officer said, “Tighten that wrist restraint. Good, now let’s get the digital pad underneath one finger at a time.”
She struggled and thrashed but could not prevent her fingerprints from being taken. Her chest heaved and the edges of her vision began to darken.
“Good work, boys,” Charlie said. “Get her into solitary for now. And leave her in the chair. She needs a little time to cool down. I think the detectives are on their way.”
“Hey, is she alright? Miss?”
Jana’s eyes rolled into her skull until only the whites showed. Her body began to convulse.
“Oh, shit!” Charlie yelled. “She’s having a seizure or something. Quick, call an ambulance and tell them to expedite!”
3
The Devil Within
In a cellar deep underneath the home of Diego Rojas, a young woman lay on a table, unconscious. When she opened her eyes, her head hurt. She could see nothing in the pitch blackness. The air was heavy and the table cold. She was disoriented and groggy, like one awaking from a drugged stupor. At first, she was calm; the drugs still coursed through her system.
She tried to move but her limbs did not seem able. She dozed off for what seemed like only a moment, but when she finally awakened everything felt different.
The drugs had left her body, and she discovered her hands and feet were lashed. Her breathing accelerated in earnest. She began to scream but
found her mouth taped shut.
Just outside the room she heard muffled voices.
“Where is this one from?” a deep voice said.
“The homeland, Signor Rojas, as instructed. Villa de Leyva, to be precise. She has been prepared according to your instructions.”
The cellar door swung open and light cast into the room, illuminating the table where the woman lay.
Rojas stopped and his eyes flared.
Only then did the girl realize she was completely nude. She began to thrash and scream but to no avail.
A sickening grin peeled across Rojas’s face. “Ah, yes. Villa de Leyva,” he said with a distant gaze, “just north of Bogotá. The women there are beautiful.” He walked into the room and closed the door. As it slammed shut, the room again descended into blackness. “We will get to know one another quite well.”
The girl thrashed at her bindings.
His eyes widened further and his words sliced the air. “Yes, we will get to know one another quite well.”
4
The Pinch of Truth
As a CIA operations officer, Kyle MacKerron was still green in terms of years of service. But as a former special agent with the FBI, he was allowed more than a little latitude. The typical two-year training window for new ops officers, which teaches clandestine operational tradecraft, had been shortened to eight months in his case, and after multiple successful assignments, Kyle was on his own.
He hadn’t understood the reason for his current assignment at first. To gather intelligence on a drug cartel setting up shop on Antigua didn’t fall under the typical CIA purview. But he accepted the assignment without hesitation. During training, his CIA handlers had practically beaten the charter into his brain. Clandestinely spot, assess, develop, and recruit. It had become like a mantra, but here on an active field assignment, the mantra was almost comical. Nonetheless it reverberated in his head.
But waking up tied to a chair, reciting it was hardly comforting. The shroud over his head was thick and hot and made breathing difficult. Not a sliver of light penetrated and carbon dioxide had trouble filtering out. Kyle knew the excess CO₂ had resulted in a condition called hypercapnia, and he experienced the full brunt of it: flushed skin, muscle twitches, and reduced neural activity—and these were just the early stages.
Kyle struggled against his bindings, and between decreased brain function and sleep deprivation, he had trouble processing rational thought. The fear started as a trickle, but had grown to an immeasurable state.
Muffled sounds were audible and Kyle struggled to decipher them. Where am I? he thought. His only defense was to joke with himself: We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
He tried to stay calm, but when a heavy metal door scraped open across the gritty cement floor and slammed into a wall, he startled. Two sets of footsteps approached. The first sounded like those of hard-soled boots, but the second were different. They sounded more like leather-soled dress shoes. The door slammed closed with a heavy bang that reverberated through the tiny room. Someone pulled at the base of the shroud and yanked it off.
Kyle gulped at the air but a hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck. He squinted in the low light at the man in front of him. He looked to be of Latin descent and was dressed in a double-breasted business suit. Kyle’s head began to clear, but he still felt an overwhelming sense of heaviness, as if someone was standing on his chest.
“Welcome to my humble estate,” the man said in an accent heavy of Central America.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kyle said, though his voice was hoarse. He coughed.
“My name is Diego Rojas, and yours is Agent Kyle MacKerron.”
Kyle’s heart rate soared as the terrifying realization struck home. They know who I am.
Rojas clasped his hands and walked a slow circle around Kyle.
“You have been very busy,” Rojas said. “Very busy indeed. And that is what brings you here.”
Kyle craned his neck to follow the man but feared a blow might come at any second.
“You’ve gotten yourself in deep, haven’t you?” Rojas continued.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kyle said through a cough.
Rojas laughed. “How very in keeping with the United States government. Always sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong.” Rojas squared off in front of Kyle. “You have been very busy penetrating the Oficina de Envigado cartel. Yes, very busy indeed.”
Oficina de Envigado was the largest and most aggressive cartel in Colombia, and had been the subject of Kyle’s investigation. His brain raced to catch up. Shit, I’ve been caught by Oficina de Envigado. But who is this?
Rojas said, “And you are going to tell us everything you know about them.”
Kyle thought, Wait a minute. Tell you about them? If these guys aren’t Oficina de Envigado, who are they? But then it hit him. This must be Los Rastrojos, the competing cartel.
Two Colombian cartels had recently infiltrated the tropical paradise of Antigua in order to establish new drug routes. The new routes were set up to push product to the Mexican cartels, and from there to the United States. What the cartels didn’t know was how deeply the CIA had penetrated.
Rojas reared a hand to punch Kyle, and Kyle braced, but the blow never came. Rojas laughed loud enough for the sound to reverberate off the cement walls. Kyle opened his eyes to find the man standing over him. “Ah, but in the old days, yes,” Rojas said, his voice becoming deep and distant. “We would torture out anything we wanted to know. Those, my friend, were good times. But as it is, I have other needs for you. And now there are better ways, more accurate ways, to find out what we need to know.” Rojas nodded to the other man.
Kyle felt a sharp pinch in his neck as a syringe went deep and the plunger depressed. By the time the syringe was removed, Kyle felt a warmth unlike anything in his experience, and the feeling of heaviness in his chest evaporated. It was like watching the waters of a fleeing tide recede. His eyelids flickered and what he could only describe as complete euphoria overwhelmed his senses. His head slumped. He had been drugged and there was nothing he could do about it.
5
Inhospitable
Four hours later. Mount Saint John’s Medical Centre emergency room.
“This is the one that shot our victim?” Lieutenant Jack Pence said as he peered through the window into the hospital room. Pence was new to the island and hadn’t even had time to learn the names of the other officers.
“Yeah, won’t say a word though,” a junior detective replied. “Doc says she’s checked out medically. He can’t rule out a psyche evaluation though. Headshrinker will be down here from ClearviewPsychiatric Hospital later.”
“What happened when they tried to book her?”
“Doc said she probably had a seizure or episode of some type. Brain waves are normal now.”
“Christ, what set her off?”
“I don’t know. I looked at the tape from the booking room and it looks like she fought them pretty hard. Once they strapped her in the chair, she went nuts.”
“And she won’t talk? Who is she?”
“Hell if I know, man. All I know is she got picked up by the uniforms two blocks from the scene. She had no ID and wouldn’t disclose her name.”
“The victim pretty bad?”
“Let me put it to you this way, the vic has a compound fracture to the left leg, broken collarbone, a face that looks like purple butter, and two gunshot wounds.”
“Two GSWs and he’s alive?”
“At the moment, yes. He’s upstairs in surgery. One through the kneecap, the other . . . the groin.”
The lieutenant rubbed his chin. “We sure she’s the shooter? They find the weapon on her?”
“Yes, sir. Glock .380 subcompact.”
“So what’s that look on your face supposed to mean?”
“It’s the gun.”
“What about it?”
“Custom made. Never seen an
ything like it.” The young detective looked at Lieutenant Pence. “The grip had been shortened to reduce the size of the overall weapon. And then there was the silencer.”
“A silencer? You’re kidding me. Where does she think she is? The Bronx? This is Antiqua. I didn’t think we got silencers here. She give the uni’s any trouble at the scene?”
“Ah, yeah, you might say that. Spun around on the arresting officer so quickly, all he knew was that his firearm was no longer in his hands. She had disarmed him and pointed it at his face. Then he said she disassembled the weapon so fast he couldn’t see anything but gun parts dropping all over the ground. After that she gave them no trouble. Scared the shit out of the guy though.”
“I bet.”
“The victim is another story. Even thoughhis face is bashed in pretty good, the arresting officer was able to recognize him. Got a record a mile long. Several outstanding felony warrants.”
The lieutenant looked at him. “So let me see if I’ve got this straight. The vic is a perp we’ve been looking for. He’s broken to pieces in an alley, two GSWs, then we find her near the scene? Is that and the gun the only thing that ties her to the vic?”
“The weapon was still warm. And her knuckles have fresh blood on them. His, not hers.”
The lieutenant crossed his arms. “Shit, look at her. She can’t weigh more than hundred and twenty pounds, wet,” he said as he glared into the room where she lay. “Then again, look at the musculature. She looks like that actress from that second Terminator movie. You know, when she got in shape? What was her name?”
“Linda Hamilton.”
“Yeah, a blond-haired Linda Hamilton. And she won’t tell us her name? You run her prints? Anything come back?”
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