Act of justice, p.5
Act of Justice, page 5
Thinking of all the jobs he had planned with Roman, Kosolov smiled at his good and faithful servant. The expression quickly faded, as his mind took him back to the explosion, the American drone strike. He clenched his jaw muscles. Cowards. They attack in secret…too afraid to face us on the field of battle. He swirled the wine around the inside of the glass before tipping back the vessel, emptying the contents and setting the wineglass on the table. He spun the stem between his fingers for a moment. So we too will strike…in secret.
A flash of light forced both men to turn their gaze away from the fireplace, toward a woman wearing a white, three-quarter-sleeved sweater over a knee-length black dress. Black high heels and pantyhose finished off her ensemble.
“I’m sorry if I interrupted you.” She swiped her finger over her cell phone’s screen several times. “I just had to get a picture of that gorgeous fireplace.” She gave each man a look and smiled before sauntering back to her table.
Kosolov ogled the woman.
Roman faced him. “You want me to get her phone?”
Pursing his lips, Kosolov squinted at the woman with brown hair that just touched her shoulders. A moment later, he barely shook his head. “No…it makes no difference. Nothing can stop us now.” He stood, never taking his eyes off the woman’s face, as she laughed and drank with her female companions. “Then again,” he buttoned his jacket, “why tempt fate?” He eyed his henchman. “Be discreet.”
Roman watched the seated woman pick up her glass and lean sideways into one of her friends; both of them giggling. “I always am.”
“Try the restaurant’s craft wine.” Kosolov straightened his shirt cuffs, “It’s excellent,” and made his way toward the door.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 8: Hot Box
8:53 p.m.
Maracaibo, Venezuela
La Chinita International Airport
Dark-skinned, dark-haired, sporting a thin goatee and wearing a disheveled tan uniform, the five-six customs officer squinted at Hardy. Lifting the passport higher, the Venezuelan official shifted his eyes left and right—Hardy’s face, Hardy’s document…face, document.
Cruz, Dahlia and Charity—all wearing knee-length shorts, sandals and lightweight blouses of varying colors—had cleared customs and were waiting, further into the airport’s small lobby, where passengers from private planes entered the country.
Dressed in khaki pants, a Hawaiian shirt and brown boat shoes, black sunglasses resting on top of his head, Hardy caught Cruz’s attention and shrugged before coming back to Goatee. “Is there a problem?”
Closing the booklet, Goatee jerked his head to his left and motioned toward the same direction. “Ven conmigo.” He walked around the counter, grabbed Hardy’s upper arm and repeated his directive. “Ven conmigo.”
Rolling a shoulder, Hardy brushed off the man’s grasp. “What the hell is this?” He pointed. “My credentials are in order.”
Goatee beckoned an armed guard, who rushed toward the twosome.
Led by Cruz, the three women came up behind the trio of men.
“Quedarse atrás,” shouted Goatee, while thrusting out an open hand at Cruz.
His hand clamping down on his pistol, “Detener!” the guard spun around and planted his palm square in the middle of Cruz’s chest, forcing her to take a step backward.
Hardy shoved Goatee and advanced on the man touching his woman.
Sidestepping Cruz, Dahlia swiped at the arm clutching Cruz’s shirt, breaking the soldier’s grasp on her teammate’s torso.
The guard lifted his sidearm from the holster.
From behind, Hardy’s left arm locked around the guard’s neck, while his free hand grabbed the man’s gun hand and shoved the weapon back into the holster.
Spotting Goatee charging toward Hardy, Dahlia circled around her team leader and cut off the government agent with a forearm blow to his sternum. “Back off, Señor.”
Weapons drawn, two other security personnel ran toward the scuffle, shouting in their native tongue. Seconds later, two guns were aimed at the visitors, one at Hardy, one at Dahlia.
Charity put her back to Cruz’s, balled her hands and pivoted her head left and right, keeping the armed men in her sight. A month ago, she would have stood still, her mouth hanging open, watching the action take place. Today, thanks to Dahlia’s daily physical and mental training regimen, the information specialist’s instincts were calculated, more refined. In short, she was becoming more of a tactical operator.
Her head on a swivel, her open hands slowly pumping the air around her, Cruz spoke to the men in Spanish, a language her father had taught her when she was a child. “Okay, everybody just take a breath and calm—”
“Estan conmigo—They’re with me.” Six foot tall, displaying a similar getup as Hardy’s, and his skin tanned from many hours in the sun, a man pushed his way into the center of the gathering. All eyes turned his way. He glanced at Hardy before approaching Dahlia, who still had a hand on Goatee. “Release him, Agent St. James.”
She gave the newcomer a quick scan. Her gaze zipped back to his piercing black eyes. After ogling them for a moment, she stared at the man she held before taking a step backward and letting go of his wrinkled shirt.
“Vicente,” Black Eyes spread his hands wide, slipped an arm around the customs officer’s shoulders and escorted the man away from the crowd, “ya sabes como soy. Hemos hecho negocios antes—you know me. We’ve done business before.”
Guns remained pointed at Hardy and Dahlia. Charity never turned her attention away from the men holding the weapons. Cruz watched the two men conversing in Spanish; arms waved, heads shook, terse words were exchanged. Black Eyes handed over a white envelope. Goatee flicked a thumb over the contents, pressed his lips together and stared at Black Eyes. Black Eyes rolled his head, shot a look toward Hardy and produced another envelope. Goatee repeated the thumbing procedure, shoved the thick packets into a pants pocket and gave a short nod to the taller man.
“Gracias,” Black Eyes patted Goatee’s upper arm, “Gracias, Vicente,” and backed away from the man. Pivoting, Black Eyes nodded at Dahlia, brushed by Hardy, “Let’s go,” and acknowledged Cruz. “Follow me.”
Hardy pulled his arm from around the guard’s neck; the man drew his weapon.
“No.” Goatee waved his hand. “Déjenlos pasar—Let them pass.” When the guards did not move, he shouted at them. “Baja tus armas. Que sigan su camino—Lower your weapons. Let them be on their way.”
After a few seconds of hesitation, the security personnel holstered their firearms.
Hardy took Cruz by the elbow and gave Charity a nudge. “Let’s move.”
The two women grabbed their luggage and fell in step behind Black Eyes.
Hardy slung his duffel bag. “Dahlia, you’ve got our backs.”
“Copy that.” Her own duffel in hand, she brought up the rear of the column, occasionally shooting looks over her shoulder at the armed men.
… … … … …
Outside of the airport, Black Eyes fast walked to a white Toyota Land Rover. After opening the hatch on the vehicle, he and Hardy threw duffel bags onto other bags already present in the compartment.
Backing away and peering at the three-quarter moon in the black sky, Hardy fanned his shirt a few times before wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. I hate humidity. Nine o’clock at night and it might as well be high noon in the desert.
“Don’t worry.” Black Eyes slammed the door and jabbed a finger at the Toyota, “This baby’s got A/C,” before striding down the left side of the SUV.
Claiming the front passenger seat and shutting the door, “Well crank that sucker up,” Hardy eyed the people in the backseat. Charity had drawn the short straw, sitting between Dahlia, on Charity’s right, and Cruz; all three women were pinching blouses and waving hands, cooling themselves. Moonlight showed their glistening cheeks and foreheads. His gaze went lower; three pairs of legs had a moist gleam on them.
Scowling at her man, her chest heaving, Cruz breathed through her mouth.
Hardy knew her disdain for hot weather. Even though she had grown up in Texas, she had never become accustomed to the climate. Seeing similar looks on the other women’s faces, he acknowledged his chauffeur. “Seriously, get the air on.” He looked out his window. I don’t think I want to be trapped in here with three overheating women. He cracked a thin smile. At least they’re not armed yet.
After starting the Land Rover and working the dashboard dials, sending cool air into the cabin, the driver pivoted his upper body toward his passengers. “I’m Ramirez…Miguel Ramirez.” The CIA officer held out his hand; Hardy accepted the gesture. “You sure do know how to make an entrance.” He extended his arm into the backseat; the women shook his hand. “Your stunt cost me double to get you people into the country.”
“Yeah…what was that all about back there?”
Ramirez turned back and faced Hardy. “Vicente—” he glimpsed Dahlia, “your dance partner...”
A scowl on her face, Dahlia huffed.
“…he runs a little scam on tourists. If women are traveling with only a single male, he separates the man, while his friends kidnap the women.” Ramirez wagged a finger at the surrounding area. “They’re somewhere around here, waiting for the call to snatch whoever he tells them to grab.”
Hardy shot a look at his teammates and came back to the CIA man. “I think I already know the answer, but…what happens then?”
Ramirez peeled away from the curb and made his way to the road. “The women are held for ransom.”
“And if payment is not—or can’t—be made?”
Ramirez shrugged. “Sometimes a lesser amount is agreed upon, sometimes they are released…and sometimes,” he rolled his head toward Hardy, and the men exchanged a knowing look.
Charity held out her upturned palms. “And the police just let it happen?”
Spinning the steering wheel with one hand, Ramirez glimpsed her reflection in the rearview mirror. “Welcome to Venezuela. Keep your loved ones close, and never go anywhere alone.” He stroked his thick, black mustache and snorted before bobbing his head. “Maybe that should be the country’s motto.”
“Were you—”
“Hey, Hardy,” leaning forward, while tugging on his headrest, Dahlia thrust her arm between the front seats, “direct that fan back here.”
After adjusting the dashboard louvers, “Were you able to,” he felt the direction of the escaping rush of wind, “get everything we requested?”
She fell back against her seat and moaned. “Oh…that’s the ticket.”
“It took some doing, especially on such short notice, but I got it all.”
“And the drone?”
Ramirez nodded.
“Good.” Hardy gaped at the terrain ahead of him. “I want to put it to use. How far away are we from the target site?”
“Two hours.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“You don’t want to check in at the hotel first…get something to eat…rest a bit?”
Hardy spied his teammates. They shook their heads at him and he did the same to his contact. “We’ve seen hotels. We ate on the plane. We can rest when the mission is over, and we’re,” after wiping sweat from his brow, he rubbed fingers on his pants, “out of this hot box…and back on American soil.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 9: It’s What They Do
11:11 p.m.
North of Dabajuro
10 miles from the Gulf of Venezuela
Ramirez had taken an isolated side road and had driven to within a few miles of the target property. Hardy had not wanted to risk getting too close, drawing unwanted attention. After finding a sparsely populated grove of trees that provided good cover from prying eyes, the team went to work, setting up a computer and launching a drone.
“Why do you get to play with the cool toys?” Dahlia leaned forward, against the Land Rover’s grille, working the laptop computer that was perched atop the vehicle’s hood. “I’m always the one stuck busting heads, while you get the fun jobs.”
Studying the laptop’s screen, holding a controller in one hand and pushing a joystick forward with the other, Charity—standing to Dahlia’s right—flicked her eyes toward her partner before quickly zeroing them back on the screen. “Please,” she maneuvered the stick, and the top of a tree disappeared at the bottom of the screen. “Don’t tell me you’d rather be doing this than,” throwing her hips to the right, she sent the drone in the same direction, narrowly avoiding a tree branch, “busting heads…as you say. Pan out some more.”
Snickering, You got me there, Dahlia zoomed out the camera, giving the pilot a wider angle of view. “Well, I don’t see why I can’t do both.” She pointed at the digital image. “Uh Cherry? You better use some more of that body English if you,” Dahlia winced, “plan to,” before leaning left, “clear that…”
The video feed jiggled when the drone clipped a tree.
“…limb. You sure you don’t want me to take over?”
“It’s this crappy ‘A’ double ‘S’ drone. The response time sucks. I feel like I’m riding a bike on a water bed.”
Dahlia smirked. “You do that often…ride bikes on water beds?”
“Just,” Charity elbowed the woman beside her, “keep me on the correct flight path.”
Dahlia’s fingers tapped the computer’s keys. “Five degrees to port.” She paused. “That’s to your left in case you didn’t—”
“Watch it,” Charity shot back. “Just…” she tipped her head to one side and half thought about sending a foot into her teammate’s leg, “you’re lucky it takes two hands to fly this thing.”
Dahlia chuckled. “Okay, bring it back to starboard one degree.”
Standing behind the drone’s bleached blonde navigator, arms crossed over his chest, Ramirez rolled his head to the right, toward Hardy, while arching his brows.
His arms folded like his male counterpart’s—Cruz on his right—Hardy spotted the other man’s gesture and shook his head. “It’s what they do.” He jutted out his chin at the laptop. “How much longer before we reach the location, Cherry?”
Dahlia half turned her head toward him, while keeping her eyes on the terrain the drone was seeing. “We should be coming up on it any second now.”
“What’s the altitude?”
“Five-zero-seven.”
“Can we go higher? I don’t want to be heard by anyone on the ground.”
“One thing this,” Charity worked the controls, “piece of crap has going for it…is that it’s a quad copter with larger, slower spinning blades.”
Hardy spied Ramirez, who cocked his head and held a shrug. Hardy eyed the back of Charity’s head. “Yeah, what does all that mean, Cherry?”
“It means—” Dahlia stuck out a finger toward the screen, “you’re on it, Cherry. The building is—”
Charity nodded. “I see it.”
“It means,” continued Dahlia, “that this drone’s propellers generate a lower frequency sound wave that blends in better with background noise. Above five hundred feet, it should be silent.”
Hardy leaned forward. “Should be? I don’t like should be. Take it higher.”
Charity rolled her head to loosen neck muscles. “We’ll lose more resolution on the camera if we do that.”
“I’d rather that than be made by a patrol on the ground. Go to five-fifty.”
“Okay…gaining altitude. Dahlia?”
Several seconds passed, while everyone watched the screen. Dahlia focused on a specific number on that screen. “Five-fifty. Level off.”
Charity thumbed a second joystick. “Leveling off.”
Dahlia gave Hardy a quick look. “Holding steady at five-fifty.”
He nodded. “Sweep the perimeter, Cherry, then zigzag over the entire property. Dahlia, turn on the infrared and start recording.”
Dahlia pecked at the keyboard and thumped the touchpad. “All systems are up and running.”
Hardy, Ramirez and Cruz moved forward and hovered over the two women in front of them. Everyone squinted at the rolling image.
… … … … …
11:48 p.m.
Charity gave the drone one last push into the foam before closing the lid on the Pelican case. Hardy hefted the container into the back of the Land Rover and slammed the door. The FBI agents took their seats and the CIA officer navigated the Toyota away from the small grove. No one said a word for the next ten minutes.
“All right, “Dahlia broke the silence, “what are we going to do, Hardy? If all those red dots we saw were enemy combatants…” she let her words hang in the air.
The driver glimpsed the other man. “We need more men. Even with a night assault,” he paused, “your team is sure to suffer casualties.”
His elbow resting on the door, Hardy repeatedly and gently bopped his puckered lips with a balled hand, while he stared out his window, watching the landscape zip by the SUV. Casualties. His mind flashed through images of Cruz, Dahlia, Charity, finally settling on one of Margaux. Unacceptable.
“I can,” continued Ramirez, “get you a team, but it’s going to take some time. And I know there’s a clock ticking. These people might move the assets at any moment. Intelligence wise…we’d be starting all over again.”
Hardy rubbed his forehead, “How,” before running the hand down his face, “did this slip by the CIA?”
“Hey, as of twenty-four hours ago,” Ramirez took his hand off the steering wheel and jerked a thumb toward the backseat, “there weren’t that many men back there. Actually, I think that’s a good sign. The woman and the girls must be on site; otherwise, the kidnappers wouldn’t feel the need for the extra firepower…in case they were attacked.”
Hardy jabbed a finger at Ramirez. “Start putting that team together. If we can’t come up with anything else, then we’ll have them as a backup.” He ran a hand through his hair before scratching his scalp. “I really don’t want to exercise that option though. Like you said, the longer we wait, the greater the chances they’ll move the hostages. I prefer to have them in custody within the next twenty-four hours.”
