Logan absorbed the information. Damn you, old man, he thought, amused, angered, and humbled all at once. Logan had to give him credit. The Founder must’ve anticipated endless scenarios, including his own death, and had set in motion circumstances that might counter the instability that would result from his absence. And Logan West and Task Force Ares had become one of his biggest counterweights.
Logan sighed. It was an alliance of necessity. If the preening politicians knew what he was about to engage in, they’d collectively have an aneurysm, which might not be the worst thing in the world. Things might actually get accomplished in DC. “Just so we’re all on the same page, here’s the bottom line—my mission and commander’s intent, to put it in my terms: the commanding general of your national army has gone off the reservation and is likely smuggling our vice president, a traitor to his country and a threat probably to your country and the entire free world, into Venezuela in the next day or two. We have no idea how, when, or where. We also don’t know what the hell the good general is up to, but if he’s got positive control of the vice president, I’m pretty certain it’s not good for anyone, here or anywhere else. And to top it off, you want us to help you stop whatever the hell that is. And our reward will be to reclaim that which is rightfully ours—our very own vice president. Did I miss anything?”
Santiago Rojas stared at the man who had just spoken as a peer—even a superior—to two of the most powerful men in Venezuela, men he’d never have dared to speak to in such a tone. Who is this man? He was starting to appreciate not only the gravity of the situation but the force of nature that was his new American friend.
“No. You did not,” Director Caballero said. “And in case I don’t get a chance to say this later, thank you for doing this.”
“Sir,” Logan said, suddenly respectful, “do I really have a choice?”
“All men have choices,” Justice Silva said, “even when they don’t. It’s recognizing them that sets one apart from others.”
Logan understood. Many men—Marines and other servicemembers he’d known—had faced choices like that in Iraq, choices which led to either death or cowardice. And every last one had chosen the former, preserving their honor over their lives.
Logan nodded.
A rustling from the bed disturbed the silence that had fallen over the room. A weak voice called out, “Hi, Daddy.”
Logan turned toward Camila and watched as Santiago slid onto the bed, wrapped his little girl in his arms, and kissed her fiercely on the forehead. “Hey, princess. How you feeling?”
Logan felt a physical ache well up inside him, recognizing the love of a father for his daughter, knowing, feeling, that it was that love that would see them through this dark time, no matter what happened. It could be you. Check that: it will be you, he thought, which was almost too much to bear.
“Tired, but okay,” Camila said. “Daddy, who are all these people?”
“Friends from work, honey,” Santiago said. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve got you now.” He squeezed his daughter tighter and closer.
“Come on, gentlemen, let’s give them some privacy,” Logan said. He started to leave the room, stopped, and turned back toward the bed, only to see Camila staring intently at him.
“Camila, you don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you that you have a very brave father, one who would do absolutely anything for you,” Logan said. “I hope you get better soon.” He smiled at her, green eyes sparkling with intensity. “I believe you will.” He glanced at Santiago, nodded, and walked toward the door.
“Daddy, who is that?” Logan heard Camila ask.
“He’s a friend, and more importantly, he’s a good man,” Santiago replied.
“I like him,” Camila said faintly, as Logan walked into the hallway.
If she knew the other Logan West, she might think differently, his subconscious challenged. But all that really matters is what a parent will do for a child.
CHAPTER 11
Off the Coast of Venezuela
Former Vice President Joshua Baker—how he thought of himself after fleeing the United States, even if the rest of the world thought he was still vice president—was eager to have his journey of no return over and behind him. The last two and a half weeks had been grueling, even for the relatively fit man in his midfifties.
Exactly as his saviors had promised, after the gun battle at the National Cathedral in northwest Washington DC, they’d driven west toward the Blue Ridge Mountains and then worked their way southwest across the lower middle part of the country until they’d hit Texas. Their only stops had been at three hotels, where he, his driver—who asked him to call him Nick—and two other members of the Organization had each time changed vehicles.
Their final destination in the US had been just north of the border at Piedras Negras, where they’d waited for two days in a modest house on the north side of the city. Finally, a black Mercedes S-class sedan with diplomatic plates issued by the State Department had arrived, and the least enjoyable part of his trip had commenced, with him below the trunk in a specially designed hidden space with lighting and ventilation. For more than an hour, as the vehicle traveled over the pavement, he’d forced himself to remain calm, fighting occasional nausea from motion sickness caused by a lack of visual cues to center his equilibrium. He’d heard voices, the vehicle had completely stopped once, and then the sedan had driven away, until thirty minutes later, the pavement had transitioned into dirt. The sedan had halted, and Nick had opened the trunk, smiled, and said, “Welcome to Mexico. Come on, sir. Let’s get you out of there.” And just like that, he was no longer in the US. It’d almost been too easy.
A few days later, they’d boarded a 120-foot yacht—he never learned who owned it—north of Ciudad Madero and set casual sail east across the Gulf of Mexico toward Venezuela. The gulf had been warm and humid, and for brief moments he’d been able to forget—almost—that he’d left behind the only person he truly loved, his eleven-year-old son, Jacob. Saying goodbye to him at the cathedral had been the most gut-wrenching thing he’d done in his life, affecting him more deeply than the countless deaths he’d been responsible for, including those of his own Secret Service detail.
Their course had taken them between Cuba and Cancún, where they’d stopped for one day off the coast of Jamaica and then another near Aruba. Regardless of the vacation destinations, he’d never left the yacht, where he’d been in constant contact with General Cordones, the man who was planning the next phase of Joshua Baker’s life, frustratingly without his input, at least at this stage.
The general had told him that there was something the vice president could provide that would help alter the course of his country’s history, although what that was, he had no clue. The list that had been the cause of the chaos and mayhem in Washington DC a few weeks earlier had been destroyed. While he had some names and a few operational details on the Organization, once the Founder had died, Baker was fairly certain those details were no longer valuable.
He rubbed his right hip, which had been replaced a year earlier, and stood up from a chair in the main cabin of the yacht, eager for some fresh air. He walked toward the stern, slid a glass door aside, and stepped out onto a wooden balcony. Warm air enveloped him, and he inhaled deeply. If only I could forget who I am and stay on this boat forever. But he knew it was a pipe dream, a fantasy to entertain only in precious moments of solitude, lest he begin to believe it was attainable.
He was out of options, and the general was his last resort. If the Venezuelan could provide the protection he promised, then Josh would do everything he could to help the man, no matter what it was. He was a practical man, and his survival demanded practicality above all else.
And I do have one play left in the US, on the off chance that the president and his damned task force figure out where I am. But he knew that if he pulled that trigger, there was no going back, ever. Desperate measures for desperate times, he thought, and stared at the slowly rolling waves.
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CHAPTER 12
San Isidro de Galipán
El Ávila National Park
Tuesday, 2100 Venezuelan Standard Time
Just north of Caracas along the central section of the Cordillera de la Costa mountain range lay El Ávila National Park. The park itself covered more than three hundred square miles of forested mountains and included areas for rock climbing, endless hiking trails, camping areas, and numerous zip lines. But it was the area at the top of the ridgeline at just over seven thousand feet that was the main tourist attraction.
Due to its remote location, the main mode of transportation to the ridgeline was the Teleférico de Caracas cable car system, which connected Ávila Station on top of the mountain to the city below for a scenic two-mile ride. The original system had had a second section that ran from an additional station in the park down the north side of the mountain to the coastal town of Macuto. But over time, the coastal cable had wasted away from a lack of maintenance and had stopped running by the end of the 1970s.
Open to the public during the day, the park contained several food stands and a market where residents of the small mountainside village of San Isidro de Galipán sold crafts to tourists and locals who took the cable car up the mountain for the scenic views, which included the sweeping urban landscape of Caracas to the south and the Caribbean Sea to the north in stunning contrast to one another.
At the east end of the park, six hundred meters from the cable station along a narrow cobblestone walkway that curved back and forth, stood the most visible landmark in all of Caracas—at one point, in all of South America—the Hotel Humboldt.
Built in 1956 under President Marcos Pérez Jiménez, the hotel was designed to unite Caracas with the coastal region through the cable car complex and tourist park. During its heyday in the oil boom of the 1950s, everyone who was anyone—including Fidel Castro—stayed at the luxury hotel. Unfortunately, once President Jiménez was overthrown, the hotel’s first descent into disrepair began, and it closed in the 1960s, only to begin its solitary life of abandonment through several failed initiatives to renovate and reopen the iconic landmark. Currently, the government of Venezuela owned the hotel, and the rumor on the cobblestone street was that there were actual plans to recondition the hotel and rebuild the Ávila-to-Macuto cable line. But even out of commission, the hotel was a daily destination for tourists and locals eager to glimpse a piece of national history.
Visible from nearly every point in Caracas, the hotel stood watch as decades of dictators and history unfolded below. With a circular tower fourteen floors high that contained seventy guest rooms, the abandoned structure reminded Logan West of the Capitol Records Building in Hollywood, although he acknowledged to himself that the only time he’d seen that landmark was years ago at the end of a fairly decent action comedy that featured a crude comedian who’d had his brief time in the La La Land limelight.
At the base of the tower, a series of connected, vaulted-ceiling buildings with glass facades contained numerous social areas, an indoor pool, a restaurant, and a private cable car system that ran down the sloped ridgeline six hundred meters to Ávila Station.
Logan looked at his watch as he sipped the last of a glass of ice water that the owners of the outdoor restaurant kept refilling. He’d been surprised at the high quality of the food and the exceptional service provided by the couple in their sixties and their two sons who owned the mountainside restaurant. “It’s time,” he said.
A handful of other guests, who appeared to be all locals—or at least not Americans—drank and ate merrily as a Spanish radio station pumped out the latest dance and salsa music. The patrons were all cheerfully oblivious to Logan and his partners.
He glanced up the mountain, the guest room tower darkly silhouetted against the clear sky, the stars twinkling in the background against the black cloth of night.
Cole, Santiago, and a third man—Hector Salazar, a barrel-chested, squat human tank and Santiago’s closest ally in the Counterintelligence Direction and godfather to Camila—scooted their chairs back in unison and picked up the heavy-duty hiking backpacks that lay on the floor next to their plastic green chairs. Dressed in dark earth-tone hiking attire, cargo pants, and fleece pullovers, at first glance the four men resembled a rugged advertisement for the North Face apparel and equipment company.
Logan pulled out four hundred bolívars and left the stack on the table, knowing that the owners would appreciate it, given the current economy and the domestic turbulence that had crushed tourism over the past few years. With the cost of living eighty percent lower than in the United States, he figured the Ares black budget could afford a forty-dollar South American dinner.
The owner’s son said something in Spanish to the four men, to which Santiago replied with a laugh, pointed at the two Americans, and spoke briefly. The thin boy in his early twenties nodded, smiled, and began to clear the table as the group left the outdoor area and walked around the side of the restaurant along a narrow stone path.
“What was that all about?” Logan asked once they were out of range of any eavesdroppers.
“He thanked us for the generous tip, wished us well, and told us to watch out for any black jaguars,” Santiago replied.
“Black jaguars? Are you kidding me?” Cole asked, concern suddenly in his voice.
“He was, as jaguars are an endangered species down here and notoriously rare, especially the so-called black jaguar, which is actually a regular jaguar with a color abnormality,” Santiago replied. “He was being funny.”
“I don’t care if he thought he was the reincarnation of Richard Pryor. Big apex predators are not a laughing matter, especially at night,” Cole said.
“Don’t worry, brother. We’re the only real predators out here tonight. I promise I’ll protect you if things get scary in the big bad woods,” Logan said.
“It’s a mountain forest, jackass. Know your environment,” Cole shot back.
“John really is rubbing off on you,” Logan replied quickly. “Before you know it, you’ll be doing stand-up and trying out for America’s Got Talent.”
“At least I might have a shot. I’m pretty sure there’s no room for serious, brooding former Marines,” Cole said.
Logan smiled in the dark and ignored the jab, as the four men hiked away from the restaurant up the narrow, paved street that wound its way and branched out across the mountainside village. There was no vehicle traffic, as the residents were either secured in their homes or enjoying the night out at one of the many restaurants and bars. I wouldn’t want to stumble home drunk up here. One small slip, and you’re taking a violent tumble that won’t end well.
A faint glow covered the village from sporadically placed lampposts, homes, and buildings. The cool mountain air was crisp, with the smell of the Caribbean Sea pervasive even at their elevation.
As they climbed higher, the hotel loomed above them several hundred meters away. The group reached a switchback at the far eastern edge of the village, and Logan stepped off the road into a dense growth of mountain forest. As he entered the shifting shadows, he softly said, “Remember, whoever they are, they don’t know we’re coming. I can’t imagine more than a handful of men, no matter what. The more guns they have, the more suspicion they draw. This is simple: close with and incapacitate whoever is up there and try to find out what the hell is going on.” He knew the other three members of his ad hoc fire team had heard him, and he pressed on.
Cole, Santiago, and Hector followed, vanishing into the forest and up the slope toward the Humboldt Hotel.
CHAPTER 13
Penthouse Suite, South Side
Guest Tower, Humboldt Hotel
Lieutenant Colonel Grigori Sokolov stared out through the space where large pane-glass windows had once shielded the suite and its occupants from the elements. Unfortunately for him and the additional seven men of his VDV Spetsnaz unit, that time had long passed, and the wind buffeted the tower, sending blasts of cold air throughout the upper lev
els. The only thing in their favor was that they’d set up their operations center on the south side, facing Caracas and out of the direct line of sight of the open windows. They’d also duct-taped sheets of opaque plastic in the presidential suite, leaving part of the last window uncovered. It was through this window that he studied the expansive landscape, the lights of the city that spread out in illuminated tendrils from the center mass in the valley below. The image reminded him of a virus—which he felt was appropriate—the fingers of light yearning to corrupt the untouched darkness just out of reach. Corruption is one thing Venezuelans do well, he thought, knowing that his role in the upcoming operation would be critical in balancing that scale in favor of the people.
The men were currently under strict noise-and-light discipline, and the assorted communications equipment and laptop computers had all been blacked out with both screen dimming sheets that prevented ambient light from escaping and black tape over the power switches and other functioning lights. On their first night in the hotel, once they’d established the communications links and relay receivers, including the satellite and HF antennas on the roof, he’d had his communications officer, Major Fedor Azarov, walk down to the abandoned park at two in the morning and see if he could detect any escaping light. He hadn’t been able to, and Grigori was confident their presence would remain undetected for as long as they were here, which he expected would only be less than a week.
Too young to be a veteran of Afghanistan, he’d cut his teeth in the brutal campaign in Chechnya, part of a special forces unit dedicated to hunting Islamic extremists responsible for targeting civilians, both Russian and Chechen. A young officer at the time, his indoctrination into the full horrors of war had occurred when his unit had captured a young Chechen rebel on the outskirts of Grozny during the Russian siege of the city. His unit had suffered three KIA the previous day from an attack on their convoy as it moved around the left flank of the besieged city, and the major in charge of the unit had decided to send a message to the rebels.
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