Rules of War

by Matthew Betley

  “I caught up only four days ago with one of the sons of one of the founders of the Wild Boys, and he told me about this operation, which is when I reached out to Jack and told him about it. After what went down in DC a few weeks ago, I knew he’d be hunting as well,” Marcos said. “And here we are.”

  “Two questions. What happened to the son?” Logan asked.

  “He was an aspiring Wild Boy, and I accelerated his career so that he reached the pinnacle now, rather than later,” Marcos said.

  “How so?” Logan asked.

  Marcos stopped, looked at Logan, and said with no emotion, “I killed him, because the life he chose always ends in death.”

  You need to keep an eye on him, Logan. His personal vendetta is driving him, not your quest for justice. Logan didn’t respond to the answer, but instead asked, “Second question. Did you always know about the Organization, even when we captured you?”

  A half smirk crossed Marcos’s face. “It was literally the only thing I didn’t tell you. Now that you know about it, about how big the Organization was, you have to understand that I threw my lot in with Cain because of what was happening in the Middle East, pure and simple. I told you what you needed to know to stop Cain. I didn’t want to compromise myself more than I already had.”

  It made sense. Logan couldn’t fault the man for it. It was a practical decision, and one Logan likely would’ve made himself if he’d been in the same situation.

  “I’m sorry about your wife. I truly am, more than you might think. Mine is pregnant, and I can only imagine what I’d do if anything happened to her,” Logan said sincerely. “But understand one thing above all else: if you do anything that jeopardizes our mission to capture the vice president and bring that motherfucker to justice, I will put you down myself, Jack or no Jack. Are we clear on that?” There was no menace to his voice. He didn’t need to threaten Bocanegra. The man knew who and what Logan was.

  “Absolutely, but let me tell you one thing,” Marcos said, reverting to the way he’d talked to Logan West on the phone more than two and a half years ago on the day Logan’s life had changed. “I want these men to pay for what they did. As long as you understand that, we’re in this together until the bloody end.”

  Logan knew that commitment was as good as anything he’d get from the man on fire.

  “I can live with that,” Logan said, as they finally reached their waiting friends. “Now, let’s get the hell off this mountain.”

  PART IV

  LAST TRAIN TO CARACAS

  CHAPTER 22

  1030 Venezuelan Standard Time

  The city was in chaos, and the citizens of Caracas had no one to help them and nowhere to go. Their government had abandoned them once the economy had collapsed, leaving the people to fend for themselves on a daily basis. The shortage of food and medical supplies was about to be exacerbated a thousandfold, and the coming days would test the survival skills of the average Caracas resident.

  Large sections of the city had endured random power outages for months, but once the quake had struck, the entire valley had gone dark. Fortunately, most of the daylight hours that remained would be used for the city’s search-and-rescue efforts to sift through the rubble of the hundreds of buildings—mostly older ones—that had collapsed.

  The only chance of preventing a total human catastrophe of biblical proportions was aid relief. If the organizations that served the world’s hardest-struck areas could establish the logistics to deliver supplies as quickly as possible, the postearthquake conditions of disease, malnutrition, and rampant crime might be mitigated.

  But that meant US involvement, and the US and Venezuela hadn’t been on speaking terms since the time of Hugo Chávez. Sanctions by the US designed to resist the autocratic rule of the current regime and countermoves by the Venezuelan government intended to aggravate the US had become the foundation of their international relationship.

  But what was most relevant for Logan West was that the carnage from the earthquake had jeopardized the success of his mission.

  Once the shooting had stopped and the vice president had escaped, Logan, his task force, and Marcos, who’d been the only survivor of the motorcycle team, had used a dirt service road to escape the closed-off section of the highway. Several other motorists and survivors had followed their lead, and like the Pied Piper leading away the town’s children, the two Mercedes SUVs had led a small convoy of vehicles down the side of the mountain to a neighborhood less than a half mile away.

  Santiago had found an abandoned warehouse and pulled in, but none of the other vehicles had followed, afraid to aggravate men they thought were the SEBIN and pay the consequences, even in the wake of a natural disaster.

  It was how Logan, Cole, Jack, Santiago, and Marcos found themselves poring over the hard copy of the military maps Jack had provided exactly for a situation like the one they faced. Thank God for Jack’s preparation. Some habits never die, Logan thought, as the speaker on the US government Iridium satellite phone Jack had provided chirped incessantly, waiting for Jake Benson to answer on the other end.

  “About a mile west of here is a ridge and several dirt roads that connect all the way back to Caracas. It might take us a few hours, but we can at least make it to SEBIN HQ,” Santiago said. He still hadn’t fully processed the fact that his best friend and Camila’s godfather was dead. He understood it to be true, but the constant state of agitation, panic, and uncertainty hadn’t allowed it to sink into his psyche. He knew it would, but his grief would have to wait. Otherwise, he died for nothing, Santiago thought, and studied the map again.

  “I’m good with the dirt roads,” Jack said, “but I don’t know about downtown Caracas. It’s going to be a war zone, and it’s only going to get worse with each hour.”

  The call connected, and Logan heard Jake Benson say, “This is Jake.”

  “It’s me,” Logan said. “I’m on an Iridium. There’s no cell service here since the quake struck. Here’s the number. Call me back when you’re on another Iridium. Otherwise, we’re talking in the clear.” In order for the encrypted phones to create a secure communications pathway, both satellite phones needed to operate on the same Iridium network created for the US government.

  Logan repeated the digits Jack had provided, and Jake said, “Call you back in five minutes. At the office and need to get upstairs,” which Logan knew meant the roof of the FBI J. Edgar Hoover Building in Northwest DC.

  “Understood. Out here,” Logan said, and disconnected the call.

  “What’s going on?” Cole asked.

  “Jake’s finding an Iridium and calling me back, and then we’ll go from there,” Logan replied.

  “Every minute we’re sidelined here is another minute the vice president and General Cordones get to plot their next move, which won’t be good for anyone, including this already ravaged country,” Cole said.

  “I know, but I need to talk to Jake. We need all national and theater-level assets the IC can get, and we need them now,” Logan said, referring to the US Intelligence Community.

  “Logan, whatever help the IC might be able to provide, it will take hours to move satellites, coordinate airborne ISR, and figure out how to route the intelligence to us directly. I know we’re only in South America, but after the earthquake, we may as well be in the middle of the fucking Sahara desert with two cans and a string,” Jack added. “By the time they set up what we need, it will be too late, and you know it.”

  Logan clenched his jaw in frustration. “What do you have in mind?”

  “How badly do you want to capture Joshua Baker?” Jack asked seriously.

  “You know the answer and shouldn’t even have to ask the question,” Logan replied sternly.

  “I thought as much, but I needed to ask,” Jack responded. “If you’re all in, then there’s only one option, since we’re constrained by time and daylight and so many unknown variables it makes my head hurt.”

  “What’s that?” Santiago asked before anyone
else had a chance.

  “We pull our own version of the great Clint Eastwood movie Where Eagles Dare,” Jack stated, a thin smile on his face.

  “What is this movie?” Santiago said.

  “I fucking like it,” Marcos said. “We hit the sonofabitch in his own house.”

  “It’s bold,” Logan stated, ignoring Marcos and Santiago. “And it’s dangerous as hell.”

  “That it is, but think about it. Caracas is in chaos, we’re on our own, although I can get us some reinforcements in the near term, but—”

  “I bet you can,” Logan interrupted, a tinge of disapproval in his voice.

  “As I was about to say, so is General Cordones. I absolutely guarantee that whatever he had planned has been sidetracked by the earthquake. He’s going to have to adapt, just like we are. I read the CIA’s profile on him: he’s angry, confident, and fueled by grief. He lost his son to the protests in the streets. Whatever he’s doing and needs the vice president for, I guarantee you one thing—it’s personal.”

  “Which makes him unreliable and unpredictable,” Logan said.

  “No,” Jack countered. “It makes him rash, hasty, and prone to make a mistake. But there’s also one thing I’m certain of—he’ll keep the vice president secluded on that base. Whatever he needs from him is so critical that he was willing to help the world’s most wanted man sneak into his country and then defend him in broad daylight with a team of operators and a Russian Hind attack helicopter.”

  The minutes were ticking by, and Logan calculated the options. The only thing they knew for sure was that the vice president was at the general’s base outside Caracas. It was possible he’d been flown elsewhere, but unlikely. Fortune favored the brave. Step up or go home. “Okay. I’m sold. It’s the only play we have. We execute a raid on his base, late this afternoon or this evening, but there’s one problem,” Logan said, and looked around the warehouse. “We’re a little bit low on manpower, and if the director of the SEBIN is right, the general has an entire battalion up there, ready to fight and die for him.”

  “You better have something good,” Cole said to Jack. “I don’t mind danger, but I prefer to avoid anything with suicide in the CONOP. You know what I mean?”

  “Don’t worry,” Jack said, smiling. “I’ve got a whole lot of something good for this operation.”

  The Iridium phone in Logan’s hand chirped electronically. “It’s Jake. Let me update him, and then we use those dirt roads to get back to Caracas.”

  “Fine, but make it quick. We have to get back to my safe house to gear up. There’s more there than just these SUVs,” Jack said.

  “Roger, but it better be good,” Logan replied.

  “Trust me. It is,” Jack said.

  “Whatever,” Logan retorted, and hit the green triangle talk button on the Iridium. “Hey, Jake, are you secure?”

  “I am, although I’m up on the roof. Hopefully, no one has a parabolic mic on me,” Jake said semiseriously.

  “Roger that. Then let me do the talking,” Logan said, and updated the director of the FBI and one of the leaders of Task Force Ares.

  CHAPTER 23

  Northwest of Caracas

  1200 Venezuelan Standard Time

  Vice President Josh Baker stood inside General Cordones’s command post planning room and watched on Globovision the coverage of the aftermath of the earthquake. Scenes of death and desperation played on a continuous loop—children trapped inside a city school as rescuers scrambled through the rubble in a race against time; a four-story building that had collapsed inward, crushing the first two floors; a young, bloodied woman screaming for her husband in Spanish; and on and on the televised horror show went. It’s always the same, Josh thought. The never-ending cycle of misery and death.

  The planning room was empty, but soldiers scurried purposefully outside and across the plateau, loading several of the railcars with gear and vehicles. A shadow fell across the light from the hallway, and Josh turned to see the general enter.

  General Cordones was dressed in a solid olive-green set of combat fatigues, black combat boots, an olive-green boonie cover with a tan stripe around the top, and a black Kevlar vest that held pouches for ammunition and other gear. A Browning Hi-Power .40-caliber pistol was strapped to the soldier’s upper leg in a thigh rig. The resolute look on his face completed the ensemble, announcing one thing—ready for war.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Josh asked. “Seems like a lot of unknowns right now. Too many things that could go wrong.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Vice President, the chaos will only increase our chances of success. This earthquake could not have happened at a better time for us,” Victor stated.

  “Not even the slightest bit of sympathy for all of the dead and suffering?” Josh asked, not accusatorily but as a matter of interest.

  “This city—no, this country—is being run into the dirt by a failed system of government that doesn’t work, that has never worked in the history of civilization. If it stays on its current course, more people will die of starvation and disease than were killed today,” Victor said. “And it will be a long, slow suffering, the kind that permanently scars the psyche of the people with blood and loss.” He paused and looked at the TV, which had been muted, while the image of a reporter standing in front of a burning building filled the widescreen HD monitor. “That may sound harsh, but it’s true. I lost my son, and I can never bring him back. It took that kind of trauma to help me see clearly. And now because of the position I’m in, I can prevent others from losing their loved ones.”

  Josh appreciated the general’s commitment; the image of his own eleven-year-old son filled his mind’s eye. He’d felt that way once, even if it had been misguided, illegal, and often immoral. “I understand,” he said, finally. “However, you still haven’t told me what that has to do with me.”

  “How’s your hip feeling?” Victor asked, catching Josh off-guard with the question and sudden change of topic.

  “My hip?” Josh replied curiously. An incredibly devious and brilliant man, he realized instantly that something had been done to him during his surgery. Too much had been risked to orchestrate his escape and bring him to South America. He knows something I don’t, which gives him the advantage, at least for now. “What is it?” he asked, ready to accept whatever answer he was proffered.

  “This might sound a little like paranoid lunacy, but I’ve been assured it’s true. Prior to your surgery, I’ve been told that an account number and password were etched into your hip. It’s to a thirty-billion-dollar account for the Zürcher Kantonalbank in Switzerland, specifically chosen because of the country’s lackadaisical approach to extradition. Once I’m done here today, you and I are going to fly discreetly to Switzerland, where we are going to link up off-site with a manager from the bank who was the Founder’s personal contact, and ensure that the funds are available as needed. Between now and then, think about where you want to spend the rest of your life, because after today, not only will you be wanted in North America, but if word gets out about you down here, you’ll never be safe here either. The hard truth for you, Mr. Vice President, is that your life becomes quite simpler. You only have one choice—leave with me,” Victor finished.

  It wasn’t the shock of the secret hidden within his flesh that kept him silent, but rather it was the knowledge that he’d likely never again set foot in the Western Hemisphere once he left Venezuela. You always knew this could happen, and now it has. Once you led your detail to their deaths, there was never any going back. Josh crossed his arms over the black polo he wore and asked, “What do I do while you’re in the city?”

  Victor smiled. “You have the easiest job of all: you stay here, guarded by the head of my personal security detail and several of his best-trained soldiers. When we’re finished, I’ll call back here, and my pilot will fly you on the second Hind to an airstrip south of the city. If all goes as planned, we’ll be wheels up toward a different fate by midnight, the str
anglehold on my country will loosen, and my son will not have died in vain.”

  “And if something happens to you?” Josh asked, the idea of his fate intertwined with a high-risk operation unsettling.

  “Then my pilot takes you to the airstrip, and you make your way to Switzerland with an itinerary on the plane for where to go and whom to meet when you get there,” Victor replied. “I won’t have your blood on my hands. I’m about to have enough as it is.”

  An honorable man about to commit what his country would consider treason. Sounds familiar. “I appreciate that,” Josh said, and stepped across the chasm between the two men, extending his hand. “In that case, General, I wish you the best of luck, for both you and your country.”

  The two men shook, sealing a pact between the most wanted traitor in the world and another about to commit his own version of high crimes and misdemeanors.

  God help us all, Josh thought, knowing full well that God would have no mercy on him for the deeds he’d done. His reckoning, when it came, would be with the one God had banished below. If nothing else, of that he was certain.

  CHAPTER 24

  Outskirts of Caracas

  1500 Venezuelan Standard Time

  The inside of the warehouse was in a state of commotion. Both Jack and Marcos had reached out to their local contacts, and twelve Venezuelan men from various disreputable backgrounds had arrived, no questions asked. No two looked the same, with ages ranging from late twenties to early forties, short or full beards, long hair—one even wore a man bun, but Logan wasn’t about to criticize it, as the tattoo of a shattered skull on his cheek indicated he didn’t care what the latest fashion critics had to say—bald heads, and numerous tattoos. All of them brought their own weapons and tactical gear, and they’d even managed to dress similarly in brown or dark-green earth-tone colors. Logan had watched the men assemble their weapons, and he’d been surprised by the dexterity with which they handled them. He’d commented to Jack and Marcos, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is like the Bad News Bears of mercenary work, but these guys aren’t exactly mercenaries, are they?”