Ready to Kill (13 page)

“If you’re planning to bury Raven,” Nathan said, “you might want something a little more substantial.”

Estefan shrugged. “I’ll let him rot. The ants need food too.”

Five minutes later they were on their way.

CHAPTER 16

This had to be one of the worst traffic jams Caracas had ever seen. Juan Batista, Venezuela’s minister of basic industry and mining, couldn’t believe the timing. If this mess didn’t clear up soon, he’d miss his flight to Managua. What a pain in the ass. He’d have to charter a jet, assuming his staff could even find one available. The Central American summit was two days from now, and it would be very bad form to arrive late.

There must have been some kind of accident ahead. He looked at his watch—a little after 7:30
PM
. The traffic shouldn’t be this snarled. His limousine was stopped dead, and his lane of traffic hadn’t moved more than ten meters in the last half hour. Tempers were short. Horns were blaring, and the collective din added to his irritation. At least he didn’t have to brave the heat. The air-conditioning kept his environment at a comfortable 20 degrees Celsius.

He pulled his cell and made a call.

“I’m stuck in traffic a few kilometers from the airport,” he told his secretary. “See if you can book me on a later flight tonight. If nothing’s available, find me a charter-jet service. I want to be in Managua tonight.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

He ended the call and turned to his aide. “What’s the expression? Shit happens?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you there on time for tomorrow’s reception breakfast. Carmen’s a resourceful woman. She’ll take care of everything.”

“I guess this is the price of progress.”

“Indeed it is.”

Juan looked out his tinted window. The entrepreneurial spirit was plainly evident. Dozens of street vendors were taking advantage of the stopped traffic. Children were selling gum and other trinkets, and they seemed to be doing well. Juan smiled, knowing no tax would be collected from these cash sales.

Selling bottled water from their waist packs, two bicyclists worked their way toward Juan’s limousine. They didn’t look especially young, maybe midtwenties. Juan smiled. The lead bicyclist had the jump on the guy behind him. The first guy stopped at the SUV in front of their limo and made a sale. The SUV’s driver handed a bill to the cyclist and received two bottles in return. The street vender approached and rolled to a stop at Juan’s window. Juan knew the young man couldn’t see inside the tinted windows—all he’d see was his own reflection.

Juan leaned over, removed his wallet, and rolled his window down. Warm air assaulted his face. “How much for three bottles?”

“For you, minister, they’re free.”

Minister? Juan doubted a common street vendor would recognize him. But he had been on TV a lot lately, so perhaps being recognized wasn’t too much of a stretch.

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do.” The young man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

When the vendor reached into his waist pack, Juan saw a forearm covered with expensive tattoos. A street vendor could never afford something like that. It looked like gang ink.

“I think I’ll pass on the water. Thank you, though.”

The man’s smile widened. “But I insist.”

Before Juan could roll the window up, the man pulled an odd-looking brick of tan clay from his waist pack.

What the hell are those wires?
Juan thought.

The man pressed something attached to the brick.

Then, as casually as throwing birdseed, the guy tossed the brick through the open window and sped away.

That’s when Juan saw the batteries.

“Shit! It’s a bomb!”

His aide reacted quickly but fumbled with his seat belt.

“Throw it out the door! Hurry!”

Five seconds after the device entered the limo, it detonated.

Juan’s mind couldn’t register the event. He had a vague sense of searing heat and impossible pressure.

Two pounds of plastic explosive tore him apart, vaporizing most of his flesh.

In a millionth of a second, the warm air entering the limousine reversed its course.

The explosion ripped through the sheet-metal floor and careened off the concrete.

As if suspended by an invisible cable, the limo lifted off the road. Before it came back down, fire erupted from every window, including the windshield.

Juan’s driver had managed to get his door open, but it was too late. The force of the blast sent his charred body cartwheeling across several lanes of cars.

Tempered glass from hundreds of car windows shredded flesh. Storefronts blew inward, awnings went up in flames, and scorched pedestrians tumbled down the sidewalks.

Ten seconds after the blast, an eerie calmness descended, broken by blaring car alarms, the crackle of flames, and moans of agony.

Bill Stafford knocked on Cantrell’s door before entering. Seeing she wasn’t on the phone, he told her there’d been an explosion in Caracas. “Some kind of car bomb. Local authorities are saying it was a limo.”

“A limo?”

Stafford nodded. “It went off in the middle of a traffic jam.”

“Contact our station chief down there, and see what he knows.”

“I’m on it.”

“Anyone claim responsibility?”

“Not yet.”

“How many?”

“At least several dozen.”

“When was the last major terrorist bombing down there?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Keep me updated.” Cantrell turned on her TV and started channel surfing. Most of the cable networks were covering it. A helicopter shot showed a circle of destruction at least a hundred feet wide. A black smoke column leaned toward the ocean. She picked up her phone and called the director of national intelligence. She had to wait several minutes until he came on the line.

“We’re on it, Rebecca. It’s probably overkill, but I’m going to recommend that Secretary Martinez quietly lock down the embassy there until we sort this out.”

“How many marines do we have guarding it?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll also ask her to increase the number just to be on the safe side. The last thing we need is another Benghazi. I want to be able to tell the president we took immediate action to secure the place.”

“Any official statement from Caracas?”

“Nothing yet
. . .
Rebecca, I’ve got to take another call. I’ll get back to you once I hear something.”

She hung up and tapped Nathan’s phone number.

After ten rings, she sent a text.

call me asap

CHAPTER 17

At 8:25
PM
, Franco stepped out of his hot tub, toweled himself dry, and strolled toward his house. Compared to his boss, he lived in a modest place, but it still ranked inside the top 1 percent of Managua’s elite homes. The plantation-style villa was surrounded by exotic landscaping, complete with ponds and small waterfalls. He’d paid a small fortune re-creating the old-growth forest that once thrived here. Although his trees were significantly smaller because they’d been grown in a nursery and transplanted to his yard, they were still the correct species. Following the path of flagstone pavers, he glanced toward the lights of Managua below. He didn’t resent civilization; he just didn’t care for it much. He wondered if he could be just as happy living in a remote cabin with no bills to pay, cars to maintain, or telephones to answer.

Answering the phone wasn’t always annoying because he’d just received an intriguing call from his well-paid insider within NNP’s headquarters. Several years ago, she’d installed a sophisticated tickler program designed to alert her to inquiries on specific individuals. He and Macanas were two of the names she’d linked to her program. The woman was highly skilled, and the program she’d written was nothing short of ingenious. Franco knew his way around computers, but this woman’s abilities were downright scary. She’d called to tell him that earlier this morning someone had accessed the NNP database, seeking personal information on his boss and a second person within the same inquiry. That in itself wasn’t overly alarming, what had gotten the technician’s attention was the fact that the IP address associated with the inquiry was a bogus number in Malaysia. It had looked too suspicious to overlook, so she’d called Franco.

The second person within the data stream was none other than Pastor Tobias Delgado.

Franco knew this couldn’t be a coincidence. What were the odds of an inquiry with only those two names occurring at the same time? Hundreds of millions to one? For now, he’d keep this morsel to himself and not share it with Macanas.

He turned the music down and located his prepaid cell phone. The cheap flip phone had been purchased and registered to a wholly owned Paulo Macanas shell company created by a crafty lawyer who’d left no ties back to Macanas or himself. Franco knew he should drive a few kilometers away from his house before using the phone, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he’d used the phone all over Managua. No single cell tower would show more activity than any other one. He wasn’t worried.

He opened the phone, powered it on, and made the call to Santavilla. As always, he let the other end of the line ring once before hanging up. Thirty seconds later, he did the same thing again. It usually took just under two minutes before getting a return call. He began locking the house. Methodically moving from room to room, he closed all the windows and left the interior doors in precise yet random positions, depending on their locations within the house. He used the pattern on the hardwood floors to act as a guide. If anyone entered his house in his absence, they might return the doors to their approximate positions, but they’d never be able to get them back into their precise locations. He had a state-of-the-art security system, but as with any electronically based system, it could be defeated. As he’d learned long ago in kilo training, old-fashioned security methods remained the best, and such methods included his two tactically trained Belgian Malinois. The dogs weren’t big, but they packed plenty of punch. They followed him through the house during his routine, having seen it hundreds of times.

His flip phone rang ninety seconds later. He relayed his instructions to Antonia about thoroughly searching the church. “Call me back within the hour no matter what you find.” He ended the call and looked at his dogs. “Good boys.” Their expressions relaxed.

In the kitchen, he poured himself an iced tea and leaned against the counter. The call from his NNP insider about the dual inquiry required immediate investigation. Perhaps there had been more to the good pastor than met the eye. He settled into his easy chair, looked at his watch, and turned on the TV. He smiled when he found the breaking news in Venezuela.

Poor Minister Batista. I guess you weren’t as popular as you thought.

With twenty minutes to spare, Franco received his return call. Antonia’s search of Tobias’s office inside the church had yielded an interesting piece of information. Someone sharing the pastor’s last name—Estefan Delgado—had written a large check to the church, but it hadn’t been cashed. Instead, Tobias had left it sticking out of a Bible like a bookmark. The check was over a year old. If Tobias never intended to cash it, then why keep it? Sentimental value? It had obviously come from a family member. Adding to the mystery, the address on the uncashed check lay only four kilometers from Franco’s own house.

It was time to do some fieldwork. He grabbed his prepacked tactical bag, locked the house, and drove to Estefan Delgado’s address. His first cruise past the residence confirmed the presence of a security system—a keypad was visible near the front door. Franco also noticed a large dog in a fenced backyard.

The outer suburbs of Managua were a mix of everything from tin shanties to brick-and-mortar mansions, and this place ranked somewhere in the middle—a modest three- or four-bedroom home.

With nothing more to learn from inside his vehicle, Franco drove to the opposite side of the canyon and parked in a vacant lot overlooking Delgado’s house. Most of the trees atop the ridgeline were gone, leaving a clear view of the city below. From the type of trash present, it was obvious this place was frequented by party animals and amorous couples. For now, his Range Rover was the only vehicle present. He took a moment to study Delgado’s house with field glasses but saw no movement and no lights on.

Franco rolled his windows down and listened for any sounds coming from the immediate neighborhood. All quiet. He also inhaled deeply through his nose. Detecting no cigarette odor, he donned a plain black ski mask, grabbed his tactical backpack, and started down the canyon’s slope. The descent was steep, if not particularly difficult, but he found the bottom of the gulley loaded with hazards. A long time ago, the canyon had been used as an illegal dumping site. Before the houses were built on the ridgeline, people had dumped all kinds of trash. Everything from construction debris to abandoned cars had accumulated down here. The thick foliage, coupled with the steep slope, made seeing the smaller pieces of debris difficult. There were hundreds of objects to trip over down here. Once he ascended the other side, he’d emerge at the rear fence of Delgado’s property. He had no misgivings about the danger of tonight’s operation. Going against an unknown opponent held inherent risks, but he had the element of surprise on his side. He didn’t feel overly concerned.

A little winded, Franco stopped at the tall chain-link fence and scanned the rear yard with his NV goggles. The collective glow of the city provided plenty of light, so he adjusted the gain down to a lower setting. He didn’t think anyone would be in the yard but didn’t assume that. Moving in slow motion to avoid making any noise, he pulled his suppressed Sig from his waist pack and powered its laser. The red beam wouldn’t activate until he squeezed the button on the weapon’s butt. On the far side of the manicured lawn dotted with banana trees, all of the home’s windows remained dark. Ditto the security light above the sliding glass doors. The view from neighboring houses was screened by vines growing on the chain-link fence. In the middle of the grass, a small water fountain created a trickling sound. Several chairs encircled a fire pit, but he didn’t see any light from it. Had there been any hot coals present, the NV would’ve detected them.

He issued a barely audible whistle and waited.

After thirty seconds nothing happened, so he repeated the whistle.

He heard it then—the clack, clack of a dog door.

Silhouetted against the house, the dog he’d seen on his drive-by bounded toward him. A few meters away it stopped, lowered its head, and issued a growl. As planned, thanks to the wind at his back, the dog had caught his scent. He backed up a few steps to give it a false sense of domination. Without warning, the animal charged the fence. Franco toggled the laser and sent a subsonic bullet through its nose. The dog collapsed to the grass and convulsed for several seconds before going still. Franco didn’t feel good about killing it, but he didn’t feel terrible either. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all. It was simply a phase in tonight’s operation. Knowing the trajectory of spent shell casings from this pistol, he quickly found the warm brass shell and secured it in his thigh pocket.

Five seconds later, Franco was over the fence.

He wasn’t worried about motion sensors or infrared beams because of the presence of the family pet. Dogs and motion detectors didn’t go well together. He took a knee next to the dog and removed its collar.

Moving from tree to tree, he kept his head up, looking for any sign his suppressed shot had been detected. He also watched for dog shit because he didn’t want to waste time cleaning his boots before entering the house. He wasn’t worried about making a mess, but the odor might be a problem. It’s hard to be stealthy when you smell like dog droppings. At the garage wall, he found the dog door. He held the electronic collar low and was rewarded with a disengagement click. After removing his backpack, he’d have no problem crawling through its opening. And, as with the nonexistent motion detectors, if the dog door had been tied into the security system, it would’ve set off the alarm when the dog passed through.

Inside the garage he caught the faint odor of gasoline and found only one car, a white SUV. Could the other vehicle be out front on the street or in the driveway? Using the NV, he crossed the slab, being careful to avoid the oil stain, and looked through one of three small windows in the garage door. Nothing. Maybe it was in a shop for service. Nicaraguan roads took a heavy toll on vehicles. The presence of oil on the concrete indicated there was normally a second car in here. He reached down and touched the slick, definitely fresh. He was tempted to leave, but he’d committed himself by killing the dog. Coming back later wouldn’t work unless he hauled the carcass over the fence and dragged it into the canyon. Even so, the dog’s absence would be noticed and create suspicion.

He was here; he’d stick to the plan.

The security keypad on the wall showed a red LED, indicating the system was armed. Franco used the collar to unlock a second dog door leading to the interior of the house. Moving slowly, he eased through the opening and stayed on his stomach, quashing the adrenaline rush from invading an unknown home. He held that position for a moment longer before gaining his feet. From somewhere ahead, the Westminster chime indicating 9:45
PM
broke the silence. He smiled. Their clock was running fast.

Holding his Sig tightly against his chest, Franco moved deeper into the dwelling, which had an aged tobacco odor, probably from cigars. He liked the smell. Maybe he’d help himself to a few on the way out. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were all one continuous space. The furniture seemed modest, and the walls appeared mostly bare. Whoever lived here didn’t appear to have excessive wealth.

He knew the hallway at the far end of the living room led to the bedrooms. Although he thought it unlikely, there could be a second dog. Franco entered the corridor and saw four doors, all of them open. The first exposed an unoccupied bedroom, the second led to a bathroom, and the third door revealed an office. The last door would be the master bedroom. A stroboscopic blue glow highlighted the rectangular opening. Franco had a sudden visual of a coffin, eerily lit from the inside.

He peered around the doorjamb.

On her side in a nightgown, a woman lay half-covered by a single sheet. Long dark hair covered her pillow.

On the muted flat-screen TV, a black-and-white western aired to a sleeping audience. An empty wineglass sat on the nightstand along with an ashtray containing several cigar butts. He also saw a cell phone.

Franco eased inside and approached the bed. The tobacco smell was stronger in here.

He stood over her motionless form for half a minute, soaking up the feeling of power, of owning this woman.

Time to get down to business.

He tucked his Sig into his waist pack and circled to the opposite side of the bed.

In a quick move, he clamped his right hand over her mouth and yanked her to the floor. Staying behind her, he wrapped his left arm around her torso and hauled her upright. In the mirrored closet door he saw her eyes register confusion first, then abject terror.

“I’m not going to hurt you. If you resist or scream, I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand me?”

Completely overwhelmed with panic, she issued a muffled whine. When she tried to shake her head back and forth, Franco tightened his grip on her jaw. He pressed his groin firmly against her hip and moved his head in close. In the event she possessed self-defense training, he didn’t want his balls grabbed or crushed, and he didn’t want to be head butted. A broken nose would require an explanation.