Jackal: Barrett Mason Book 3

by Stewart Matthews

  “Barrett!” Carolina’s voice came to me like it was a million miles away. I looked around, confused. The wall I’d just been hiding behind was all but completely gone. As if it had been sledgehammered out by the world’s fastest wrecking crew.

  There was dust and light and I tried to say something, but only hacked so hard, my eyeballs felt like they’d jump from my head.

  “Stand up!” Someone grabbed the back of my collar.

  I stumbled to my feet. It was Carolina. She put her shoulders under my arm, half-dragged, half-guided me to the back door.

  When we passed through the door, we came back out on the steps which led down to the stone path to the driveway around the back of the house. Inside my head, things began to click on again.

  I realized that I still had the rifle.

  And not a second too quickly, because another of them came rushing around the corner of the house. He didn’t expect us there—me being supported by a woman who was a hundred pounds lighter than me. Probably thought I bit it when that grenade nearly dropped in my lap.

  Well, he was almost right.

  “Hold still,” I said to Carolina. I didn’t wait for her to respond. I leveled the rifle with my right hand and clamped down the trigger. Shots fired from my hip. Four or five of them slipped up his body, starting at his thigh, and ending at his neck.

  He practically flipped backward.

  “Son of a bitch!” Carolina shrieked. She wasn’t ready to be my kickstand.

  “Thank me later,” I said.

  We cut left around the corner of the house—toward the front. Toward the enemy.

  “I don’t feel quite up to all this fighting,” I said as I looked down the driveway. There were more of them there. At least half a dozen creeping toward us, mad as hell. They didn’t expect an asshole like me would be here to mess up their raid.

  “Good,” Carolina said. “Then get in the car.”

  She motioned toward the carport ahead of us—between us and the guys who wanted to cut me in half with automatic fire. I remembered seeing it on the walk up to the house last night. Lotta nice wheels.

  The nearest car was a Mercedes of some kind. A big, boxy SUV with oversized tires that looked built for crawling over the jungle floor.

  Carolina pulled her keys out of her jeans pocket.

  “Your boss lets you drive that thing?” I asked.

  “The job isn’t without perks,” she said. Then, “Mason!”

  One of them had gotten the cute idea of coming from between the cars. He leaned out, but I was disciplined enough to always keep my rifle pointed forward, ready to fire. I quickly pulled the trigger this time—I knew the gun had to be light on ammo.

  A round sparked against the back of a BMW, and he ducked for cover.

  After I fired, Carolina veered left—toward the cars, getting us in cover. She had the good sense to make sure I got a round off before retreating. Might’ve made a decent Marine if she lived in the US.

  We scrambled up to the Mercedes. She hit a button on the driver’s door handle.

  “Ladies first,” I said.

  “Hell no. I’m driving,” she replied. “Get your ass in there.”

  Who was I to argue? The near-miss with the grenade didn’t leave me in tip-top shape.

  I climbed in. Moved over the driver’s seat, with the intention of squeezing between the seats in the front row, and getting to the back. A round hit the windshield behind me, but an itty-bitty little bullet wasn’t going to unnerve me now.

  The engine kicked to life before I fully got myself into the back seat of the car.

  I brought my rifle to bear out of the rear passenger window. That same guy who hid between two of the other cars got to his feet. His rifle pointed straight at me, looking as black and deadly as an oil slick.

  “Down!” I shouted. “Down!” I fell backward, into the leg space between the front and back seats.

  He unloaded on the car. The window near my feet fell to pieces. I felt the SUV rock and jerk as the engine growled and we suddenly sped backward. Rounds lanced across the side of the SUV as he leaned on the trigger. I worried that Carolina had been hit.

  But then, I heard the gearbox shift into action. The driver’s door slammed shut and Carolina screamed like a banshee.

  The nose of the SUV climbed upward. I rolled on floorboards, almost falling out of the niche between the rows of seats. I heard a man screaming. Sort of below me, but also sort of in front of me too.

  When I raised my head up, I saw nothing but the bottom of the roof of the carport outside the windshield. We were looking up.

  Then I realized that Carolina had climbed the huge tires on the trunks of the other cars. She must’ve caught the guy firing at us from between the cars.

  The back windshield exploded. I looked over my shoulder and saw more of them dotting the driveway, the ends of their rifles flashing.

  “Get us the hell out of here,” I yelled over the engine and the bullets biting into the car.

  She slapped the shifter into reverse. For a second, I thought she was going to back over the men coming up the drive.

  Thankfully, Carolina wasn’t feeling that bloodthirsty. She nosed the car toward the pool in the backyard and cranked the shifter into first.

  “This thing can’t swim, can it?”

  “Shut up and let me drive!” She turned just before we hit the pool. The car moved along a narrow strip of earth between the pool and what looked like a sheer drop-off into the neighbor’s yard, fifty feet below.

  Then, the nose angled down. Last night’s beef and vegetables nearly backed out of me, but then I saw that we were on a dirt trail, leading down a steep hill, then veering off to the right, up the mountain and into the trees.

  By the time we hit the tree line, I saw a few of the men chasing us crest the hill. One of them shot at us, but the bullet only made some of the jungle brush shiver beside us.

  It looked like they had given up the chase. We were safe. For now, at least.

  Chapter 25

  BLOODSHED EXHAUSTED Colonel Milares. But there was no rest. Not now. He had to stay dogged, continue to give the General his best effort, even after Barrios ordered the execution of nearly every member of Los Chacales. And their families.

  By midday, Los Chacales would all be dead. But, even before all their blood had been spilled, politics snuck out of a dark corner of an abandoned warehouse on the far western edge of Caracas and showed its ugly face.

  Inside that same warehouse, Colonel Milares folded his arms, waiting for the whole damn thing to be done already.

  All around him: men he didn’t know, didn’t trust, and didn’t respect. There were easily two dozen of them. Some dressed in street clothes, some wearing fitted suits, some aping special operations soldiers in their dark clothes and Kevlar vests. They all had a tainted look to them, like they’d arrived at the General’s meeting riding a swell of rats through Caracas.

  They were the Collectivos—the unofficial thugs of the communist party. Unofficial because they weren’t party loyalists. They only wanted to make stacks of cash pushing drugs, prostitution, and smuggling. Their game operated under whatever political banner let them play the hardest.

  General Barrios counted on it. Not only had the General seized the lives and homes of Los Chacales members, but he’d also taken their bank accounts through the cooperation of a Los Chacales traitor who was well-connected in international finance.

  The General was now flush with cash but light on friends. After he finished making an offer to the Collectivos in this smoky, dark warehouse, that would change. Pay them enough, and half of them would cut the other half’s throats right here, leaving their friends’ bodies to decompose on the warehouse’s concrete floor.

  None of it sat well with Colonel Milares. And, ignoring the deal about to be made with some of the most cancerous elements of Venezuelan society, what about the murders of the family members of Los Chacales? Had Cristobal Perez’s wife and two daughters rea
lly been that much of a security threat that the only way to deal with them was to shoot them in their living room?

  What about all the other women and children Barrios had ordered to be executed today?

  Colonel Milares dragged his hand through his hair and clenched his fist. One of the Collectivos—a man wearing a special operations soldier costume—looked his way and smiled. Milares wished he could’ve walked over and ripped the man’s nose off.

  The things Milares had seen and done today had to be done. Didn’t they? If saving Venezuela cost him his soul, he had to pay the price. Didn’t he?

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Barrios’ voice filled the warehouse. He sauntered into view, walking around a conveyor, flanked by two of the men who had shot Cristobal Perez’s children. Every eye in the room went to Barrios, as per normal. He looked relaxed, happy, even. Proud of the things he had done today.

  “I’m glad you all took time out of your schedules to indulge me with this meeting.” He looked at each Collectivo individually, meeting them with a wide smile. “I know that business has been demanding of all of you as of late, but I have an offer that will make perfect financial sense for each of you.”

  Some of them laughed. Milares wanted to run back to the checkpoint at the front of the warehouse, grab one of the rifles being held there, and spray them all down with lead.

  “As you have seen these past few days, Venezuela is undergoing a transformation,” Barrios said. “I am at the head of that transformation. I have a plan. I have the capital. I have good, loyal men working under me.” He nodded at Milares. Even Barrios acknowledging him for that brief moment sent a chill through Milares. “But what I need now are allies. Patriots. Men who want to see Venezuela thrive under a new order. Men who want to be part of that order.”

  Some of the Collectivos smiled, looked at each other knowingly. They weren’t stupid. Barrios offered them a place in his new government. He offered them the one thing they could never have, no matter how many kilos of drugs they sold, or women they tricked into prostitution, or guns they owned, or mattresses stuffed with American cash they had.

  Barrios offered them legitimacy.

  “In addition to the bonus I’ll pay when you pledge your loyalty, those of you who choose to work under me will be granted a clean slate. More importantly, you’ll have a say in how things will be run at the first dawn of Venezuela’s new day.” Barrios looked each of them in the eye. Took the measure of the room. Then, he held his hand out to his side.

  Milares hadn’t noticed until now, but one of Barrios’ guards had a suitcase with him. One of those big, bulky bags used for long trips abroad. The man stepped forward. He carried the suitcase stiffly—with military precision. Then, he laid it on the ground halfway between the Collectivos and Barrios.

  He unzipped the bag and flipped the front open. A pile of money lay inside—green, American dollars.

  One of the Collectivos—the man in the paramilitary clothes who had looked Milares’ way—walked over to the bag. He squatted in front of it. He fished through the money with one hand, stirring the tightly banded stacks of bills.

  “You’ve made us a very nice offer,” he grinned at Barrios—that same predatory smile he’d lobbed at Colonel Milares. “But I’ve learned that nice offers come with steep terms. What is it you want from us? Aside from our loyalty and our years of governing experience.” He cracked another big smile.

  “You’re sharp.” Barrios nodded at the man. “There is one more condition I haven’t mentioned yet, but I think you’ll all like my proposal. If not, we can negotiate. Such is the art of deal making.”

  Barrios walked to the suitcase. He picked up a stack of cash. Clapped it in one hand with the other, flipped through the ends of the bills.

  “Here’s the first thing I didn’t mention: if you accept this money—” He held up the stack of bills. “—I expect all members of the Constitutional and National Assemblies to be captured and brought to the Capitol building by nightfall. That leaves you with about twelve hours, give or take. With the police tied up in the riots, and the manpower and connections all of you have, that should come as no trouble.”

  There were nods and mutters of agreement.

  “For each member you bring me alive, fifty-thousand US dollars. And, please, do all that you can to bring them in alive. There is to be a vote tonight, and dead politicians will do me no good.”

  The mutters picked up in pitch and intensity. They liked that proposition.

  Barrios dropped the cash he held back into the suitcase. “You may divide up this money how you see fit—it is my gift for your loyalty—but please understand that there is plenty more to go around.”

  With that, Barrios turned his back on the Collectivos, and walked toward Milares. His guards flanked him.

  The Collectivos swarmed over the money. They quickly fell into angry shouting and threats of killing each other. It was a blessing none of them were armed, or every man in the warehouse—including Barrios and Colonel Milares—would probably have been shot.

  Barrios stopped in front of Colonel Milares. Looked at him expectantly.

  “What do you think, Nestor?”

  “I think we can’t trust those men,” Milares said. “I think they’ll turn on us the second they think the money isn’t enough.”

  Barrios laughed. He put his hand on Milares’ shoulder and herded him toward the door. The two guards followed behind.

  “Then we are of the same mind,” Barrios said. “The Collectivos will stay with me—”

  “—us,” Milares corrected.

  “Yes—” Barrios smiled. “—us. They will stay with us so long as the money keeps coming. And we need them to stay with us. They were a difficult problem for the communists, and they’ll be a difficult problem for anyone else who can’t afford to buy their loyalty.”

  “So what do we do?” The approached the door. Milares pushed it open, let Barrios go out first.

  “We give them money, of course,” Barrios said. “While we were busy last night, I received an offer through a back channel I’ve kept open. Something that will ensure there is money to pay the Collectivos as long as they are of use.”

  Milares narrowed his eyes at Barrios. “Are you talking about drugs, Pedro?”

  “Drugs?” Barrios looked confused. Almost insulted. Then, he laughed it off and shook his head. “Oh, Nestor, no! Of course, not drugs. No, I’ve had an offer from someone regarding the PDVSA’s biggest oil refinery on the north shore. And I’ve accepted. It’ll be under our control tonight.”

  Oil. The thing that led Venezuela to its current problems. Too much reliance on its trade. It was good when the oil market was good, but as soon as the market took a dive, so did the entire country.

  “I think there is some possibility there,” Colonel Milares said. He didn’t want to argue the point with the General where the Collectivos might hear them.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Barrios clapped him on the back and walked off, his bodyguards following.

  Milares’ body shook with a chill. He looked back to the warehouse. The Collectivos were still bickering inside. Had he just seen the future of his homeland sold off in an abandoned building on the western edge of Caracas?

  And for what?

  Chapter 26

  CAROLINA TOOK US ALONG a backwoods jungle trail. We went up the mountain for a few minutes, then hit a switchback that took us down, back toward the town of Guerenas on the mountain range’s southern edge.

  I’d moved up to the front passenger seat, but neither of us talked during the drive. There wasn’t anything to say. Until we hit the edge of town, and I was struck by a thought.

  “Stop the car.”

  Carolina looked at me sideways. “Why?”

  “Just stop the damn car!”

  She blew out an annoyed breath and stepped on the clutch. I pulled the handbrake. The tires skidded on the dirt, and we came to a cockeyed stop, half in the nappy weeds and plants at the side of the road
. A row of squat, stucco houses with clay roofs were all that stood between us and Guerenas, proper.

  “What?” Carolina threw out her hands and slapped the steering wheel. Purple lines from the extension cord still clung to her wrists. “What could be so important that we have to stop now?”

  I didn’t see any point in stepping around the question I wanted to ask, so I jumped headfirst into it. I leveled my eyes with hers. Her pupils stretched wide and strands of her hair lay unevenly on top of each other.

  “What was your boss into?”

  “My... what? Barrett, I already told you I don’t know!” She looked away from me, unconvincingly shaking her head. For the first time, I suspected she lied to me.

  “You do know.” I inched closer to her. I didn’t want to lean into her, but I had to make her squirm if she was going to lay out the truth for me. “You had a key to the man’s house. You have a car in his garage. You had clothes in his dresser. You slept in his bed. What kind of secretary is that close to her boss?”

  Her tongue twitched out from between her lips, then retreated back into her mouth. She was thinking up another lie.

  “Carolina,” I said very low and slowly, “tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Tell me the damn truth!” I beat my palm on the dash and screamed at her.

  She jumped. Then ran her hands over the wheel, and squeezed the leather, her fingers jittering.

  “Julio is my boss,” she finally said. “But we were together.”

  God. Of course.

  “You were dating him?”

  She nodded, ashamed of herself. But I didn’t care that she slept with her boss. I only wanted a damn clue as to why the CIA carted me halfway across the world.

  “I have been living at his house for the past three months,” she said. “I knew it was wrong, but, my father died and I was alone. I needed someone to turn to. Julio was there for me.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “You don’t have to justify to me. Tell me what happened.”

  “Of course.” She dabbed the corner of her eye. “A week ago, I woke up in his bed, as I have done many times before. I went to the kitchen to get coffee, and through the back window, I saw Julio, pacing back and forth by the side of the pool. That wasn’t strange for him—he liked to talk on his phone out there because he has high blood pressure, and being near the pool kept him calm.