Targets of Revenge (7 page)

As the rest of Adina’s sleeping men were roused into action in the predawn hour, Sandor circled away from the laboratory and the main house. If these were the areas that would receive the most attention, he wanted to get to a safe distance where he still had a line of sight for both.

Sandor took cover behind a huge tamarind tree that was roughly equidistant from the back of the laboratory and the rear corner of the main residence. In the lighted area in back of the house he could see the four vehicles Carlos had described to him—a truck, a large SUV, and two Jeeps. He needed to get to one of them, and soon.

It was too late to consider an escape by foot, although backtracking into the jungle had been his intended route to safety. Sandor had expected to infiltrate this compound, locate Adina, take him out with the sniper rifle, and then disappear back into the tropical forest before his presence had been detected. The discovery of the lab and the activities belowground had changed everything, not to mention tripping the alarm system.

Subtlety, he ruefully accepted, was out the window.

He still wanted to do anything he could to make it appear that this was a raid on the cocaine rather than an enemy incursion—the less he did to disrupt Adina’s plans now, the easier it would be to uncover them later—but at the moment, survival was the premium objective. He had information he needed to get to Bergenn and Raabe, and that required getting out of here alive.

————

Francisco had returned to the guardhouse.

“Everyone has been alerted?” he asked as he burst through the door.

“You heard the alarm,” Ramon said. “I spoke with Alejandro. He’s at the main house organizing the search.”

“Good, good. Has anyone been in or out of the laboratory?”

“Not since Carlos went down there.”

“I’ll go check on him. You keep your eyes open, and do not leave here unless you receive orders directly from Alejandro. Or from the man,” he added.

Ramon gave him a look that said the last directive was not required. “Right.”

Francisco hurried down the stairs to the lab entrance. He opened the door with his passkey and stepped inside. The main room, which contained the two long, stainless steel counters, was deserted.

He pulled out his sidearm, then called out, “Carlos.”

There was no response.

He stepped toward his right, his eyes moving cautiously from side to side as he approached the door to the secure area. It was locked tight.

This was not a room he ever wanted to enter, but he had no choice. Placing a magnetic card against the wall plate he heard the bolt release. He slowly pushed down on the handle.

The room was far smaller than the main refinery area. It was also well lighted, with glass and stainless steel enclosures lining the walls.

Francisco had a quick look around, confirming the room was empty.

He exited, shutting the door behind him with a sense of relief, then called out again. When he received no answer he walked toward the storage room in the rear of the facility, his weapon extended before him. Reaching the open doorway he saw the technician facedown on the floor, blood along the side of his head. He rushed over and felt the man’s neck for a pulse.

He was alive.

Francisco straightened up and had a look at the scattered and torn sacks of cocaine.

“Mierda,”
he spat into the silence.

Someone had gotten into the lab. Even worse, they had gotten out.

J
IM
B
ERGENN PACED
back and forth in the cramped space of Doug Carlton’s office. Raabe and Carlton quietly watched him since there wasn’t much else to do at this hour of the morning. All their preparations had been completed.

“Crap,” Bergenn said, finally coming to a stop, his arms akimbo, the muscles in his jaw tense. “We never should have let him go in without some means of regular communication.”

“Too risky,” Raabe reminded him. “He’ll contact us when he shakes free.”

“Not good enough,” Bergenn insisted.

“How long you know Sandor?” Captain Carlton asked.

Bergenn stared back at him with a look that said, no matter how close Carlton and Sandor may have been in the service, working together in black ops was different.

Carlton understood. “Right,” he replied to the unspoken statement. “Well, I’ve known him more than a dozen years, and I know he was doing it his way, no discussion, no edits.”

Bergenn nodded. “Doesn’t make it any less frustrating.”

“Maybe not,” Raabe agreed as he stood up and stretched his lanky frame, “but you’ll just have to get yourself un-frustrated, buddy. It’s time to rock and roll.”

The three men stepped out into the darkness and climbed into Carlton’s jeep, which was already packed with everything they would need.

At least they hoped it would be everything.

The captain sped off toward the dock, less than a quarter mile away.

————

The seaplane waiting for them was a classic de Havilland Otter, chosen because it was fast and unobtrusive and carried no military markings. It was the sort of single-engine aircraft seen throughout the Caribbean, ready to take affluent tourists island-hopping, aerial sightseeing, or shopping. Borrowing it was another favor Doug Carlton had to call in.

“Sandor owes me big-time,” he reminded the others with a wry grin.

“I’m sure you’ve been added to his list,” Bergenn said.

Raabe laughed. “His extensive list, you mean.”

Dawn was near as they stood at the water’s edge, ready to go.

“What if he’s completely off course?” Bergenn asked no one in particular as they climbed out of the jeep and headed toward the end of the short pier. “You guys have any idea how long the western shore of Maracaibo is?”

“I know exactly how long it is,” Carlton replied, “which means Sandor better end up somewhere near your rendezvous point.”

“Exactly,” Bergenn snapped.

The other two stopped and turned to him.

“Sorry. Guess I should have caught a nap, huh?”

“Or switched to decaf a few hours ago,” the captain suggested.

Raabe reached out and placed a hand on Bergenn’s shoulder. “We’re all worried man, but we’ll find him.”

S
ANDOR KNEW HIS
only way out was to commandeer one of the four vehicles behind the main house, but he also knew he would first have to slow down their efforts to follow him. That meant he had to find a way to start one and disable the other three. With the entire compound on high alert there was no time to get under the hoods and rip out wires. That left him with the most direct approach—as soon as he got one of the vehicles running he would simply shoot out all of the other tires, hit the gas tanks, then take off.

He nodded to himself. That was the plan. Now he had to deal with the guards Adina would have assigned to watch over their transportation.

————

Francisco stood over Carlos as he radioed the situation to the guardhouse above.

“Mierda,”
was Ramon’s immediate response.

“Exactly what I said,” Francisco agreed. “Report this to the main house, I’ll wait here.”

As the bad news was being relayed, Francisco began his efforts to revive Carlos. The technician was still lying in a leaden heap amid the toppled sacks and spilled cocaine, and he did not respond to being shaken or slapped hard across the face. Francisco took a moment to have a look around the room—bags had been moved and toppled with the white powder everywhere—and the knot in his stomach tightened.

In what seemed less than a minute he was joined by Alejandro, the head of security. He was tall and muscular, with a pockmarked complexion, coarse features, and a demeanor that seemed never to wander beyond a spectrum of angry and very angry. Other than Adina, there was not a man in the compound who did not fear him.

By way of greeting, Alejandro growled, “What the hell went on here?”

“Not sure yet,” Francisco told him. “We’ll know more once he comes to.”

The two men turned to the technician, who was beginning to show signs of life, and watched as he struggled to roll onto his back. As Carlos made a move to sit up, Alejandro leaned over and roughly took hold of his shoulder. “Stay still,” he ordered. Then he told Francisco to get some water as he grabbed two of the cloth sacks and shoved them under the man’s head. “Lay back for a moment. Until your mind is clear.”

Carlos felt light-headed but managed to focus enough to stare into Alejandro’s dark, unblinking eyes. He did as he was told, leaning back and waiting.

Francisco returned with a clear beaker full of water. He knelt down, about to give the technician a drink, when Alejandro snatched the glass away and splashed the water into Carlos’s face.

“He doesn’t need a drink, you idiot, he needs to regain his senses.” Looking back down, Alejandro watched as Carlos reflexively jerked his head from left to right and wiped his face with his hands. “You feeling more awake now?”

Carlos nodded.

Alejandro reached out and helped him sit up. “Tell me what happened. Everything.” He handed the empty beaker to Francisco and said, “You can get him a drink now.” Then he crouched down in front of the technician. “Tell me.”

Carlos said he heard a noise in the storage room. Since there was no one else in the lab and no way for anyone to get past him without being seen he was not concerned. He thought perhaps something had fallen, so he came back to have a look. The next thing he knew, someone grabbed him and hit him across the head.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Carlos shook his head, the effort making him dizzy again. Alejandro handed him the water Francisco had brought. Carlos took a sip.

“Was it one man or more than one man?”

“I think only one.”

“So,” Alejandro repeated patiently, “you walked in here, found one man alone, he hit you over the head without speaking, and then disappeared. Is that what happened?”

Carlos turned his head slightly to the right and looked up at the ventilation panel. “Those sacks, he must have climbed up through there.”

“And you just noticed that now?”

Carlos turned back slowly, struggling to meet his inquisitor’s frightening gaze. “Yes. All these bags . . . ,” he began, but Alejandro held up his right hand.

“Let’s not say anything we might regret later, eh?”

The technician agreed, managing a nervous nod of his aching head. Then he watched as Alejandro stood, scaled the stack of toppled cloth sacks, and had a close look at the ventilation grill. “Somebody moved this,” he said without turning back to the other two men. With minimal effort he shoved the grating inside the shaft. “Francisco, your flashlight.”

The guard accommodated and Alejandro had a look inside the duct.

“Yes, I can see we had a visitor from above. Very clever.” He switched off the flashlight and climbed back down. “But the question is, how did our visitor breach the perimeter without setting off the alarm?”

Now it was Francisco’s turn to become flustered under Alejandro’s accusatory glare. He knew the man well enough to realize lying was not an option. “There was a breach,” he admitted. “We thought it was Manuel or Eduardo, using the latrine or something. Happens all the time,” he added, as if this might excuse his carelessness in not acting
sooner. “When they did not report in I went on patrol.” He could no longer hold the man’s gaze, dropping his head and staring at the ground. “You know the rest.”

“Yes,” Alejandro agreed. “And soon Adina will know, too. You can only hope for your sake that the others have caught this intruder by now. Come,” he said as he bent down and grabbed hold of Carlos under the arm, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

————

The intruder, Jordan Sandor, had made his way around a group of thick-trunked trees until he was within striking distance of the four vehicles. As anticipated, there was a sentry posted on the rear portico of the house, not twenty yards away, the veranda giving him the high ground and an excellent view of the surrounding area just as the sun began to make its appearance at the edge of the morning sky. The guard was armed with an automatic rifle that he held at the ready and his head was in constant motion as he scanned this section of the compound for any unwanted activity.

In the tradecraft of Sandor’s profession, the high ground can sometimes be overrated. An early mentor pointed out that cover is often more important than position. “Finding your advantage is the key,” he said. “Always remember, if you find yourself in a fair fight, you didn’t plan well enough.”

Sandor drew the .45 from his holster and gave the silencer a hard twist to make certain it was secure, then took aim. From a kneeling position he fired off two rounds, the first striking the man in the face, the second catching him square in the chest before he fell to the ground.

Sandor leapt to his feet and ran as fast as he could toward the four parked vehicles. He had a quick check of the ignitions and inside the consoles, then felt around the tops of the tires. There were no keys.

He had no way of knowing who might still be in the house, who might have seen the sentry go down, or who was already heading this way. One thing was certain—he could hear voices coming toward him.

He figured one of the Jeeps would be his best bet out of there.
Easy to hot-wire, agile through the jungle, and unlikely to have any sort of alarm.

He scrambled into the newer-looking model and, working under the dashboard, managed to get it started. He twisted the wires together so they would hold, then went to work on the remaining transportation.

Moving with haste and precision he shot out all twelve tires. Having already snapped the second magazine into his .45, he fired the remaining shots into the three gas tanks. The steel-jacketed rounds tore through the metal siding, causing gas to begin pouring out onto the ground.

The sound of the approaching security detail grew louder as Sandor jumped into the driver’s seat of the running jeep and took off along the narrow path that lay dead ahead of him, the road that Carlos told him would lead straight into the jungle and toward the shore of the Lago de Maracaibo.