The Powers That Be
Cliff Ryder

www.mirabooks.co.uk

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jonathan Morgan for his contribution to this work.

PROLOGUE

Francisco Garcia Romero’s world had been reduced to two sensations: light and pain.

The light came from the bare, wire-caged, hundred-watt bulb in his windowless, four-by-eight-foot punishment cell. Always burning, it turned the already sweltering space into a cramped oven, and had long ago stripped Francisco of any notion of the time of day. It limited his sleep to fitful minutes here and there, throwing his arm over his eyes until it cramped and he moved, which exposed his face to the harsh glare again. Its brilliance burned into his retinas. The light exposed every mark on his naked body, every bruise, every cut, every mosquito bite, every sore in stark relief, revealing the pitiful shell of the man and father he used to be.

Emaciated and filthy, he huddled on the dirty concrete floor of his cell in Quivicán maximum-security prison, with no mattress, blanket or even a concrete bed to sleep on. It had been a good day so far, because the hole in the floor where he relieved himself—when he could muster both the energy to do so and the fortitude to handle the pain it caused—hadn’t overflowed yet. Also, he had managed to keep down the cup of watery, unidentifiable soup and handful of rice that had been doled out a few hours earlier. But the rattle of his cell door as it was unlocked meant that time was at an end.

“¡Número treinta y cinco, salga!” One of the fatigue-clad guards barked the order. Since his detention had begun here, the guards had only referred to him by a number—thirty-five.

Francisco crawled to the door and out into the hallway, where the two men grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet, ignoring his whimper of pain as his shoulder was wrenched back. They placed him against the wall and searched him—a seemingly useless gesture, since he was already naked, that was meant to humiliate and further degrade him. Francisco waited with his legs apart, wondering which pair would accompany him this time. There was only a casual inspection of his buttocks today, so it must have been Guards Three and Four, as he called them. The other pair of guards, One and Two, took an unpleasant interest in certain parts of his anatomy, and used every opportunity to torment him with the ends of their batons or other items.

Satisfied he wasn’t carrying any contraband, the two guards pushed him down the hall toward the interrogation area. As he did every time this happened, Francisco whispered his usual litany:

“Padre nuestro, que estás en los cielos,

Santificado sea tu Nombre.

Venga tu reino,

Hágase tu voluntad,

En la tierra como en el cielo….”

He always tried to finish the Lord’s Prayer before being silenced by one of the guards or entering the interrogation room. If he could do that, he believed it gave him the inner strength to resist whatever they had planned for him. And just like every other time he had been taken to these small rooms, a part of him wondered if this time he would break under the endless torture, and tell them everything he knew.

As he shuffled down the hallway, he tried to ignore the flashes of pain from his battered body. Everything hurt, from the deep throbbing of his improperly-healed shoulder, injured in his very first interrogation and beating, to the burning pain in his rectum from the near constant diarrhea combined with torn sphincter muscles and the resulting infection from when he had been sodomized a few weeks earlier. The assault hadn’t come from the guards, but from an enforcer for the “prisoners’ council”—trustees given limited authority by the warden—when they learned he was planning a hunger strike to protest the inhumane conditions. Those, along with numerous other injuries, were a constant reminder of every minute he spent here, and also what had been stripped from him since his very first night in captivity—not just his limited freedom on the outside, but his dignity, health and free will.

Ever since he had been rousted from his bed in the dead of night so long ago and herded through a bewildering series of prisons, interrogations, torture and starvation, Francisco had clung to the slim hope that he might be released, or at least be allowed to stand trial for his supposed crimes. But as the days had stretched into weeks, and then months, and he had endured the near daily beatings, the deprivation of basic human needs and other mental and physical tortures, Francisco realized that he wasn’t going to be saved. Unlike others, such as the poet Armando Valladares, who had gained international recognition for the abuse he had endured, Francisco was just one of hundreds of low-level political prisoners trapped in the grinding wheels of the government’s relentless repression of basic human rights—what he had been fighting for every day.

Now, with his incarceration stretching into its sixth or seventh month—he wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been—Francisco had lost hope of ever seeing the outside world again. He hadn’t seen his wife and son in at least three months, and wasn’t even sure they knew where he was anymore, since he had been moved several times before ending up at Quivicán. All he could do now hold one rational thought in his mind. No matter what happened, he would never betray his fellows still struggling to free Cuba from the Communist dictatorship. It was the one goal he still clung to—even though he couldn’t be sure, given his semi-lucid state from hour to hour, that he hadn’t already done so.

The interrogators had certainly tried hard to break him. They had taken him from his stifling cell to an air-conditioned room and left him there for hours before questioning him, when he could barely answer through chattering teeth. The beatings and malnutrition were bad, but it was during the third month that they had come closest to breaking him.

Just when he was coming to terms with the cruel conditions, the guards had come to his cell and told him he was being released. They had allowed him to wash up and shave, given him a decent meal, then escorted him to the main doors of the prison. And there, with freedom just a few yards away, the commander of the prison had walked up and told him that it was a mistake, that he was going back to his cell. It had taken three guards to wrestle him back into his cell that day. He had been beaten for resisting them, and that night he had been beaten again by fellow prisoners, who suspected he had made some kind of deal with the government to betray them.

Since that day, Francisco had resisted his captors as much as possible, but he had steadily weakened. He was on the edge of telling them whatever he could to get out of his punishment cell, receive some medical treatment, even just get a bare concrete bed to sleep on. His only solace was that if they ever broke him, he wouldn’t be able to tell them much. His mostly bare-shelved bodega had been a drop point for messages among cells of the resistance, but he had never known who any of the contacts really were besides the man who had recruited him long ago. Francisco wasn’t a government informer, but obviously someone in one of those cells he had serviced was.

Guard Three opened the interrogation-room door and entered, followed by Francisco, who stumbled in, assisted by a shove from Guard Four. The room looked like every other room he had been questioned in. A rattling air conditioner blew cold air across his fevered skin, and there were the standard two chairs and a small table in the center of the room. What was different, however, was the man sitting in the chair on the other side of the table.

He was a high-ranking member of the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces, at least a major, according to his epaulets. He was taller than the usual Cuban soldier. Even seated he loomed over the table. His features were unusual, too. He didn’t have the usual dark caramel coloring of the majority of the people. His skin tone was a few shades lighter, almost café au lait. Francisco thought he was mulatto, perhaps part African, but that his nose wasn’t broad, but narrow and long, almost patrician. And his eyes—which had locked onto the prisoner with the usual single-minded zeal—were a common light blue, not the expected dark brown.

The two guards came to attention and saluted. The man sitting in the chair tossed off a crisp but casual salute to them.

“Abandónenos.”

The order to leave made the guards look at each other in confusion. “Mayor?” one asked, confirming Francisco’s suspicion about the man’s rank.

The major waved his hand at the door. “Leave us,” he ordered again.

“But, sir, all interrogations are to be supervised in the event of an attack by the prisoner,” a guard said.

The major leaned back in his chair. “As you can see, this man is no threat to me. I wish to question him in private. Now.” The genial expression hardened in the blink of an eye. “Or must I report this insubordination to your superiors?”

“No, sir!” The two men saluted again, and left, closing the door behind them.

Francisco shivered in the cold, unable to take his eyes off this man who held his life in a black-gloved hand.

“Please, sit. You must be weak after everything you have endured.” The major pushed his chair back and stood, making Francisco cower, tensing in expectation of the first blow.

“No, no. Come, sit, please.” The tall man took an overcoat from the back of his chair and slowly walked toward Francisco, holding it out like a matador approaching a nervous bull. He eased it around the wasted man’s shoulders, then led him to the second chair and gently pressed him down.

“Thank—thank you.” Francisco pulled the lapels of the coat around him and huddled into the cloth.

The major did not return to the other side of the table, but walked around to stand behind Francisco. “No, it is I who should be thanking you, Francisco Garcia Romero. You have survived agony that would have broken a hundred lesser men, yet you have not bought yourself any comfort by providing even a scrap of information about the counter-revolutionaries that plague our great nation. However, all men have their limits, my friend, and I am afraid that my superiors have reached theirs.”

The odd choice of words made Francisco start to turn to look up at the major, but as he did, he saw a shadow rise above him, and the last thing he felt was an impact at the base of his neck, then merciful blackness.

The hammer blow to Francisco’s neck fractured his second and third vertebrae, causing a piece of bone to punch inward, severing the spinal cord. The shock to his nervous system killed him before the pain impulse reached its final destination.

The major relaxed his interlaced hands and examined the prisoner, satisfied that he had broken his neck and killed him as painlessly and quickly as possible. Turning his back to the door, he quickly made the sign of the cross over the body and bent low to the man’s ear.

“The people thank you for your dedicated service. You will be remembered when our nation is truly free.”

He walked to the door and knocked on it, looking over his shoulder at the body slumped on the table. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”

1

Kate Cochran somersaulted through the air, maintaining enough control to tuck into her fall and roll with it instead of slamming to the mat on her back. Rising, she immediately assumed a defensive posture, feet shoulder width apart, legs slightly bent, arms close to her sides, fists clenched at her waist with knuckles up, ready to either punch or block.

A burst of laughter came from behind her. Kate turned, keeping her fists ready, to confront the man who had just sent her sailing across the room.

“My, my, don’t you look tough.” The man was a full head taller than her, and all lean, wiry muscle. His ink-black hair was cropped just short of high and tight, making it impossible to grab in a fight—as she had already discovered. He regarded her with amused, dark brown eyes that missed no detail of their surroundings.

“Kate, I’m not training you to fight in a dojo. What I’m teaching you—well, trying anyway—is how to survive on the street. Pure down-and-dirty fighting, where no one is going to wait for you to assume the position. By the time you’re ready, your attacker will have already incapacitated or killed you.”

“That’s what I have you for, remember?” She slowly stepped toward him, keeping her center of gravity balanced, waiting for him to pounce again.

“Well, let’s assume for this exercise that I’m already fighting two—no, make that three other guys, and you’re on your own.” His white teeth flashed in a razor-thin grin, and Kate knew who would win in a three-on-one fight with the man standing in front of her—Jacob Marrs, her bodyguard and instructor. “Now, relax that horse stance of yours, and for god’s sake, stand like you’re walking down the street, not some extra in a kung fu movie.”

Kate straightened up and dropped her arms to her sides, unclenching her fists. She walked toward Jake, maintaining eye contact the whole way, ignoring the spectacular view her floor-to-ceiling town house windows afforded of the Manhattan skyline to the west. Sweat dripped in to her gold-green eyes.

She walked to within a foot of him, but nothing happened. Turning on her heel, Kate strode back across the room, ready for a chokehold from behind, or a grab at her platinum-blond hair or any one of a dozen other possible attacks. Still nothing. Peeking at him out of the corner of her vision, Jake still stood there in loose pants and his sleeveless gi, hands on his hips, as if he were carved from stone.

With a sigh, Kate whirled around to ask whether they were sparring or posing, only to find her trainer already in motion. Arms blurring like striking cobras, he took one large step forward and grabbed her arm. Instinctively, she stepped back, using his momentum to yank him off balance. Grabbing the collar of his gi with her right hand, she pulled him farther down while her right foot swept his outstretched left foot out from under him. Jacob lurched forward, and Kate directed his fall to the ground, raising a fist to follow up with a blow to his temple—

But Jake wasn’t lying still like a good foot-sweep victim. He lifted his legs and scissored them toward her head instead. He caught her between his muscular thighs and snapped her forward, flipping her to the ground. Before she could scramble away, he was atop her, pinning her shoulders to the mat and leaning back so that his weight almost crushed her abdomen, but not quite.

“Two lessons here. One, the most important thing I’m trying to instill in you is to always expect an attack, because the moment you don’t, the moment you relax your guard, that’s when your opponent will strike.” Jake leaned forward, his face inches from hers. “Second, why in the hell aren’t you trying harder to escape right now?”

Kate arched her back as high as she could, hoping to throw him off enough to free an arm, but his weight was too much. He simply relaxed and settled down, forcing her back down to the mat. He readjusted his leg for a better pin, and Kate managed to wrench her left arm free and immediately brought her elbow down toward his groin. Jacob blocked it with a low forearm just before it would have made painful contact.

“Better. Let’s try that again, and I’ll show you another couple ways out of it—”

“Whoa, am I interrupting something, ’cause I could definitely come back later.”

The voice from the doorway of the exercise room made both Kate’s and Jacob’s heads turn. Recovering first, Kate reached between Jake’s legs with her free hand and grabbed his crotch while scooting down underneath his legs. Emitting a startled yelp, Jacob reared up on his knees, enabling her to emerge from under him and whirl around, finding him ready for her with a small yet genuine smile on his face.

Framed in the doorway was Kate’s live-in housekeeper, Arminda Todd, holding a stack of folded towels and grinning from ear to ear. A couple of inches taller than her employer, she was slender and willowy where Kate was more muscular and toned. She shifted from one foot to another, fiddling with her waist-length hair, currently bound in a thick braid that curled down over her shoulder.

“That’s okay, Mindy, we were just sparring. We’re done for now,” Kate said.

Jake stood and offered his hand. Kate accepted it warily, expecting him to try another takedown maneuver. However, once on her feet, he simply released her.

“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Jake said. He walked by Mindy, snagging a towel as he passed. Kate noticed the college student’s gaze follow as he left the room, and put on her most disapproving stare as the young woman turned back.

“What?”

Kate shook her head. “Don’t be thinking what I know you’re thinking.”

Mindy’s eyes widened in shock. “I just—like watching him leave, that’s all.”

“As long as that’s all you’re doing, then we’re fine.” Kate wasn’t the jealous type and Jacob wasn’t even close to the kind of man she’d be interested in. However, pretty little Mindy, all of twenty years old and usually wise beyond her years in most matters, seemed to have a soft spot for the laconic bodyguard. Owing to the unusual relationship between the three of them, Kate wanted to make sure that Mindy didn’t do anything she might regret later.

She wasn’t concerned about Jake. He understood the rules, and wasn’t about to bend any of them for anyone, officer, civilian or otherwise. As he liked to say, “This ain’t that bodyguard movie with Costner, but real life, and there’s a world of difference between the two.”

The best way to remind Mindy of that was to get her mind back on the job. “I assume you didn’t just stop in here to deliver towels?” Kate asked.

“Oh, right. You had two messages. One from Mr. Tilghman—” Mindy scrunched up her pretty face as she said Kate’s soon-to-be-ex-husband’s name “—regarding some papers you were supposed to sign and scheduling that conference call to discuss more terms.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Great, he probably wants to discuss dividing the weekends at the Hamptons cottage. Someone ought to remind him that he was the one cheating on me, not the other way around.” Noticing Mindy’s sympathetic gaze, she shrugged. “Never mind, thinking out loud again. Okay, I’ll get back to him—sometime soon. Please tell me you have something more pressing than that.”

“The other message is from Judy.”

Kate’s internal antenna went up. Judy Burges was the liaison between Kate and her superiors—the men and women who headed up Room 59—and the various division heads and agents around the world.

“What did she say?”

“I asked if she wanted to wait while I got you, but she muttered something about you being indisposed and just said to pass along this message. She was very specific, as always.” Mindy smoothed out a crumpled piece of paper and handed to it to Kate. On it were two lines of neat script:

Contact soonest you receive this.

Trouble in Paradise.

Although it sounded cute, Kate knew instantly what Judy was referring to. “Paradise” was their current code name for Cuba, and trouble meant something had happened to their asset there. Without a word, she grabbed a towel from Mindy and wiped her face and neck, then draped it around her shoulders as she headed to her home office.

When Kate had been appointed as the director of Room 59, the town house she lived in had been swept and cleared by the agency, and modifications had been made to every room, particularly this one. As she pulled her chair up to the glass-topped desk, Kate slipped on a pair of Micro Emissive Displays eyescreen glasses, enabling her to access and surf the Web not only wirelessly, but without a keyboard. With precise eye movements, she selected where she wanted to go and blinked to activate programs. She quickly logged in and sent a page to Judy.

Judy Burges was the consummate diplomat. Recruited from England’s diplomatic service, she was the only person, besides the shadowy heads of the agency, to have been with Room 59 since its inception. As always, she looked perfect, from her sleek, highlighted brown hair done up in a simple chignon to her immaculate navy pantsuit. Kate smoothed her rumpled gi and thanked her lucky stars that she could only be seen from the neck up.

“Good to see you, Kate.” There was a barely perceptible pause. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Kate berated herself for assuming that Judy wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. “Not at all. I was just working out when I got your message.”

“Naturally.” Her clipped tone made clear what Judy thought of Kate’s excuse. “You have my message. Our asset in Paradise has not made any of his drops in the last seventy-two hours. Given the rumors of increasing instability there, there is concern that he has been compromised. The heads would like a sitrep and proposed plan of action in an hour. I’ve downloaded all of the pertinent information for you. Shall I expect you in the conference room at eight-thirty?”

“I’ll see you then.” Kate broke the connection and leaned back for a moment, taking a deep breath while frowning at the wall. She knew as well as Judy that they had to work together, but that didn’t mean they had to like each other. Kate was proud of the work she did, but she couldn’t help getting the feeling that the polished Ms. Burges sometimes considered her nothing more than glorified middle management just because she had come to her position through her intelligence-analysis work at the CIA. Kate was extremely aware of the difference in her current position. If I screw up in this business, it’s not just that an operative dies. Hundreds, maybe thousands more could die with him, she thought.

Kate brought up her instant-message screen, finding Mindy online as usual.

“Hey, what’s up?” Mindy typed in response to Kate’s greeting.

“Just coffee and a plain bagel this morning—duty calls.”

“Right away.”

“And let Jake know I’ll be in conference until at least nine.”

“You got it.”

Rising, Kate walked into the adjoining master bath. Shucking the gi, blue belt, white cotton pants and her under-garments, Kate stepped into the shower, already analyzing and discarding plans and possibilities. Assuming he has really been compromised, and given the island’s current state, will they go for an insertion to get real-eyes intel, or just write him off and move on? If the former, who’s available with the necessary background? She reviewed dossiers in her mind, until a likely candidate popped up. Marcus would be the perfect choice, if he’s finished with that mission in cattle country.

2

Shit, this is not how it was supposed to go down, Marcus thought, eyeing the meth-cranked biker brandishing a meter-long rusty iron pipe.

“I’m tellin’ you, guys, we got a fuckin’ rat in the house, and we’re all looking at him right now!”

Robbie “Horse” Jenkins shook with the conviction of his drug-fueled suspicions. The biker was a long-term user—in his case, several years, and his face and body showed the ravages of his addiction. His words sprayed out from rotting teeth and his lips, along with the rest of his face, were scabbed and cracked, a by-product of the constant thirst and poor hygiene methamphetamine induced in addicts. His limbs trembled from the damage to his nervous system, but his grip on the pipe was as solid as a rock. The pungent odor wafting from the biker’s filthy jeans, T-shirt and grimy leather vest made Marcus think of summertime on his godfather’s ranch in Texas, where dead cows would bloat and burst from the heat. Given the choice, he’d rather have smelled one of those stinking carcasses than Horse at the moment.

Marcus adjusted the do-rag atop his curly black hair and grinned. “Hey, Horse, take it easy now. Maybe Terry’s a rat and maybe he isn’t, but before we pass judgment, let’s hear his side of the story, huh?”

The good news was that Horse wasn’t inciting the rest of his gang to beat or kill Marcus. The bad news was that he was directing the others’ drug-heightened psychosis at their chemist. The skinny, long-haired guy holding both his hands out in front of him had used his two semesters of college chemistry to produce batches of the most potent meth around, which the Death Angels had been distributing to unsuspecting college kids and hard-core addicts throughout a four-state area.

With the government cracking down on the base ingredients for cooking the drug, a pipeline for pseudoephedrine from Asia had been flooding the Pacific Northwest during the past year. Assigned by Room 59 to track the flow back to its source, Marcus was wearing the same pair of jeans and leather jacket he had on when he’d first infiltrated the Angels two months earlier, insinuating himself up the chain of command. He tried hard not to think about what he’d had to do to get there—serve as muscle as the Angels got their shipments and payments, stand by and watch helplessly as the bikers spread their chemical death, inwardly seething with anger as he saw kids with their whole lives ahead of them trading it all for an insidious, deadly addiction. He’d worked through it by concentrating on the end, not the means used to get there, and finally he’d won enough trust for the Angels to take him to the source.

They were in a converted warehouse in the deserted plains of Montana, their drug lab, manufacturing base and the next link in the chain across the Pacific. But his potential link to the supplier was about to get his head bashed in because their strung-out leader was riding a paranoia high.

“For Christ’s sake, listen to Smooth, man. I haven’t ratted on anybody.” While Horse and the rest of the Angels reeked like month-old dirty laundry marinated in sweat and beer, Marcus smelled the fear oozing out of Terry’s pores ten feet away.

Horse whipped his head around, wild eyes fixing on Marcus. “Yeah? Why you standin’ up for him, man? Maybe you’re in on it, too. You and him got a sweet deal goin’? Sell us all out and take over yourself!” He moved toward Marcus, the pipe held in front of him like an orange baseball bat.

Although Marcus knew at least four ways to disarm Horse, six ways to disable him and more ways than he could count to kill him, that was the last thing he wanted. “Hell no, man, I roll with ya, you know that. Just sayin’ you want to think a bit before you cap our cook. He’s a wizard with the rock, that’s all. Be a long time ’fore we find anyone that good at baking again, y’know?” And if you splatter his brains against the wall, my connection goes with him, Marcus thought.

“Yeah…yeah, maybe you’re right….” Horse said.

The thing about meth addicts was that their addiction was so powerful, if they could be distracted from their train of thought for a few seconds, they often forgot what they were doing in the first place as the gnawing need made its demands known. Marcus waited. Horse started lowering his pipe.

“Why don’t you go take a ride on that M-train and chill?” Marcus relaxed his shoulders and hands, blowing out his breath and shaking his head in mock disapproval at the biker’s antics.

Unfortunately, Terry—who was still smart enough to not use his own product—put two and two together at that exact moment. “Holy shit, Horse, that’s why he was asking about our supplier last night and angling for a meeting! Smooth doesn’t want to take over—he’s the goddamn rat!”

For a moment, everyone froze, including Marcus, who maintained his composure even as his mind shifted into overdrive. I can’t believe a dropout college punk just blew my cover—and after I saved his ass, too.

Before he could say a word, everyone turned to stare at him. And as fast as Horse’s rage had dissipated, he whirled and charged, his drawn face twisted in a mask of hate, the pipe raised overhead to crush the other man’s skull.

Instead of ducking or dodging out of the way, Marcus stepped forward to meet the biker’s wild lunge, pistoning his cowboy-booted foot up and out in a front kick straight at Horse’s chest. The heel slammed into the junkie’s sunken ribs with a sickening crack, and Marcus felt two of them break under his foot. The sudden impact made Horse fold over Marcus’s leg, and the pipe came down slowly enough for Marcus to catch it and twist it out of the collapsing biker’s hands.

As he pushed off Horse’s suddenly limp body, Marcus planted his right foot and brought the pipe down in a diagonal arc, blocking the punch coming from another Angel on his right and breaking the man’s arm. He screamed and fell to his knees and Marcus kept turning, tracking his next target. He saw Terry bolt into the depths of the warehouse, but he still had four crank addicts between him and the chemist.

With a wheezing Horse on the ground and another biker moaning and clutching his broken arm, Marcus had only a few seconds until the rest got it together and rushed him. He snapped the pipe out again in a wide arc, keeping them back, but saw them psyching up to charge, so he moved first. Stepping near the guy to his left, he feinted at the biker’s head. When the man flinched and leaned back, Marcus swept the pipe down into the Angel’s knee. The punk dropped with a howl, clutching the shattered joint, his riding days over for a long time.

The other three all moved at once, the far pair trying to rush Marcus’s flank while the nearest one grabbed at his leather jacket. Sliding his right hand to the middle of the pipe, he jerked it up, the capped end thudding into his attacker’s solar plexus. The biker’s breath whooshed out and he started to fall, but Marcus kept him upright and shoved him back into the other two, both of whom aborted their attacks to dodge their injured buddy. The stunned Angel plopped to the ground on his back, trying to draw breath into his reddening face.

Marcus faced the last two, who had regrouped and now exchanged uneasy glances, having just seen him take down four of their buddies in less than fifteen seconds. Marcus tucked the end of the pipe under his arm, held his other hand out at low guard and stared at them. “If you don’t want to end up like them, get the hell out of here right now,” he growled.

The pair glanced at their prone comrades and took off, their boots clattering in the cavernous warehouse as they ran for their bikes. Marcus straightened up and turned toward the back of the building, scanning for Terry. The roar of an engine starting warned him of danger even before the pickup truck’s headlights came on. The speeding vehicle surged right at Marcus, making him dive out of the way, skidding to a stop on the oil-stained floor. He heard a scream as the truck barreled by, followed by a thump, and then a shriek of shearing metal as the warehouse doors were torn away by the truck roaring out of the place.

Marcus got up and took a step toward the bikes outside, but stopped as he heard the explosive whoosh of fuel igniting behind him. Glancing back, he saw a bright blue flare of natural gas. Damn it, he set off the fuel supply. He looked at the receding pickup truck, then back at the bikers and ran back to them. Even though they were drug-dealing junkie scum, no one deserved to die like that, he thought.

One look at Horse told Marcus he was the one who’d been killed by the truck. The impact had sent him skidding across the floor, his chest and face a bleeding broken mass. The broken-armed biker had gotten to his feet and was trying to help out his stunned buddy, leaving the guy with the blown knee for Marcus. He grabbed the guy’s leather collar and dragged him across the concrete floor, barking, “Get the hell out of here!”

The other two Death Angels staggered out behind him just as the volatile chemicals in the warehouse began cooking off, exploding in bursts of shattered glass and metal. “You two keep going, this whole place is gonna blow!” Marcus said. “And take gimpy with you.” He patted his man’s vest pockets, coming up with the keys to his bike, then shoved him at the other two. “Go!”

Running around to the front of the warehouse, Marcus found the motorcycle that fit the key, switched it on, kicked the starter over and gunned the powerful engine. The straight pipes blatted as he shot away from the burning warehouse and past the trio of bikers, now about forty yards away. He had just shouted “Get down!” when the entire building went up in a huge fireball, spraying sheets of metal and timber framing everywhere.

The shock wave rolled out around Marcus and the motorcycle, forcing him to fight to retain control. Once he had stabilized his ride, he glanced back to see the trio of bikers sprawled on the ground, but all still moving, and none of them on fire. He shifted into second until he hit the dirt road leading away from the warehouse, then opened the bike up, trying to eat up the distance between him and his prey. With less than ten miles to go before the highway, there was a good chance the chemist would reach the main road and be long gone before Marcus got there.

Cresting a small rise, the Room 59 operative caught sight of the pickup as it bounced along the rutted hardpan a half mile away. He twisted the throttle hard. The bike’s back tire sprayed gravel as it thundered down the hill. The truck had no chance of outrunning the powerful bike, and Marcus soon drew within a few yards of the pickup, hunching as Terry slewed the vehicle back and forth, kicking up rocks and dirt and forcing Marcus to keep his distance.

He blinked through the cloud of dust thrown up in the truck’s wake, his eyes tearing. Okay, I’ve found him—now what? he wondered. The answer came in the next fifty yards. The dirt road curved sharply, and Terry was forced to slam on the brakes or lose control as he headed into the turn. Seeing his chance, Marcus aimed the bike left of the truck and pushed the road bike up to the truck’s rear fender. He hopped up on the seat, balanced there for a moment, then leaped into the open bed of the pickup.

Though he tried to keep his legs under him and his body loose, Marcus landed hand, falling to his hands and knees and banging his ribs on the wheel well. He shook off the stars and crawled to the back window, rising up and enjoying the sight of Terry’s wide, terrified eyes as he saw the scowling biker coming for him in the rearview mirror. The kid slammed on the brakes, pitching Marcus forward to crack his head on the window. Then he jammed the gas pedal to the floor, sending him skittering back across the bed to slam into the tailgate.

“This son of a bitch is pissing me off,” Marcus muttered. Using the side of the truck bed, he pulled himself toward the driver’s side of the cab. He wedged himself into the corner and yanked off one of his boots, then popped up again and swung the heel at the side window, which exploded across Terry in a spray of safety-glass pellets. The kid shouted and jerked the wheel to the right, the pickup fishtailing as he wrestled for control.

Marcus tossed his boot into the cab and reached in, grabbing Terry by the throat. “Stop right now, or I’ll tear your goddamn head off!”

The terrified kid hit the brakes, but Marcus was braced for it this time, and rode with the truck as it skidded to a stop. “Turn it off, slowly,” he ordered.

Terry did so, unable to protest due to the steady pressure on his windpipe. Marcus released the scared chemist, then popped him in the jaw, sending him flopping over on the bench seat, out cold.

“Damn, kid, didn’t think I hit ya that hard.” Marcus swung down from the bed, opened the door and pushed him over to the passenger side. He retrieved his boot and slipped it on, then started the truck and headed for the interstate. “Lost the lab, and the bikers got away. At least I got the guy I came for—and he’s even still alive. Asia pipeline, here we come.”

He ruffled the unconscious kid’s lank hair, then Marcus’s expression turned cold for a moment, thinking of that Indian Chief motorcycle he’d had to ditch to get him. Even though he stank like body odor and felt like chopped roadkill, he had enjoyed the riding, the wind in his hair, the feeling of freedom on the open plain. Maybe when all this was over, he’d get himself a bike. But before that, he wanted a long, hot shower, although he doubted the stink would ever wash away—and the wounds to his soul were another matter entirely.

Marcus shook his head as he turned onto the Montana highway. “The things I do for my job.”

3

Showered and dressed, with her still damp hair brushed away from her face, Kate had just swallowed the last bite of her toasted bagel when what she liked to call her “analyst alarm” went off—that feeling in the back of her head that something wasn’t right.

Why would the agency call a full meeting just to discuss a possible compromised turncoat? she wondered. Something bigger’s in the wind. Opening her notebook computer, Kate assessed the file Judy had sent and scanned the contents quickly. The summary title told her everything she needed to know.

“Evaluate Potential of Cuban Exiles Raising PMC Forces for Force Insertion into Homeland.”

Kate skimmed the report, whistling at what she read. Now, this definitely calls for our intervention, she concluded. She checked the clock in the corner of her monitor. Ten minutes until the meeting. Calculating the time difference, she placed an overseas call that was answered on the second ring.

“Good morning, Kate.”

She smiled at hearing the polite tone, with just a hint of a German accent coloring the man’s words. “Keeping Eastern Europe quiet for us, Jonas?” she said.

“Other than your country and Russia still squawking about planting antimissile systems along the bear’s border, everyone’s either concerned with their own problems or keeping an eye on the Southeast. I gather this isn’t a social call, however.”

Kate had liked Colonel Jonas Schrader, their Eastern European section head, from the moment she had met him. A fit, no-nonsense, career law-enforcement man, he had made his mark with GSG-9, the antiterrorist arm of the German Bundespolizei, or Federal Border Guard. He had retired several years earlier, but his stellar career had brought him to the attention of Room 59’s spymasters. He was an invaluable resource in keeping an eye on all things east of the Rhine, particularly when Russia had started flexing its new energy-backed might.

Unlike Jake, who could often be blunt to the point of rudeness, Jonas retained that European sense of pragmatic calm every time she’d seen him, although she had no doubt he could take care of himself when the time came for deeds instead of words. And, as always, he had gotten right to the point.

“I know this might not be your normal field of expertise, but have you heard anything about exiles making a move on Paradise—whispers of European or other PMCs involved, anything like that?”

She didn’t get the reaction she had hoped for—there was an indrawn hiss of breath, then Jonas’s calm voice returned. “I haven’t thought of Paradise in a long time. Officially, I’ve never even been there. I would have thought Denny would be your go-to man for this.”

“I figured your background would give you more expertise, given your former company’s interest in antiterror operations.” Kate checked her watch. Eight minutes left.

“Since the Bay of Pigs failure, there have been militant organizations, such as Alpha 66 and Assault Brigade 2506, that have advocated a violent overthrow of the government. But there hasn’t been anything large scale other than the attacks by the now disbanded Omega 7 group in the late 1970s. Over the past three decades there have been small-scale events, the occasional bomb threat or kidnapping, but nothing indicating a bigger operation lately. There are always rumblings of varying degrees, but as far as I know, there hasn’t been any real movement on a grand scale, just guerrilla operations, small hit-and-run and sabotage missions. I take it things have changed?”

“Apparently, since I’m heading to the conference room to discuss that very possibility. I’ll probably be convening a meeting of the department heads afterward, so don’t go anywhere. In fact—” she tapped a few keys on her computer “—I’m making the file available to all department heads now. Take a look while I’m getting approval, and if you’d care to draw up some plans, I’d appreciate whatever input you can provide.”

“Kate—” Jonas paused, as if he was thinking about what to say, which she found odd. The ex-commando was never at a loss for words. “As I’ve said, I was never officially there. But if something is happening, I’d like to be involved.”

“No offense, Jonas, but I thought you were retired. And besides, isn’t Paradise a bit far from your normal field of operations?”

He chuckled, a warm sound through the phone. “Kate, what the world doesn’t know about some countries’ special-forces missions could fill a hundred books, and still not tell everything. Besides, do you remember how we got that particular asset in Cuba? He was on a training junket in Spain when our man made contact. As the agent in charge, I was closer than you might think. Just keep it in mind, if you would.”

“Of course, Jonas. I’ll be in touch afterward. Goodbye.”

Kate broke the connection and paced, pondering the conversation. Jonas had probably already been to Cuba, as GSG-9 had operated around the world, and he’d also been involved in some kind of elite search-and-recovery team inside the organization. Although she knew he kept himself very fit, and could probably still handle himself in most situations, he wasn’t an operative in his prime, either. Still…he would be an excellent lead for the operation, particularly if an extraction was needed. Marcus could be the operating pointman, with Jonas gathering intel in the Cuban population in Miami. He could serve as backup if needed.

Kate sat in her desk chair again, mulling over the sketchy plan. It was a risk—typically, Room 59 missions were carried out as clandestinely as possible, using local resources as available. Sending not one, but two officers with direct agency ties into an area could prove extremely hazardous if the mission failed. Kate imagined the look on Judy’s face when she gave her the news, as well as the one on the British woman’s face if it all went wrong. I’ll just play this by ear and see what comes of it, she decided.

Slipping on the viewscreen glasses again, Kate scrolled through her options until the conference room was highlighted. Activating the connection with a blink, the projected computer desktop faded away, replaced by a comfortably appointed meeting room, with nine leather chairs arrayed around a hardwood conference table. Judy was already there, nodding curtly as Kate established her presence through the virtual private network that let her meet with the heads of the International Intelligence Agency, the overseers of Room 59.

Even though she had been the director for more than a year, Kate always felt a thrill whenever she came before the IIA board. Every time a mission was approved, she knew this was why fate or circumstance or maybe even her own dogged persistence had placed her here—to cut through the red tape of partisan opinions and complacency and do what needed to be done.

After the 9/11 disaster, governments around the world had tightened their intelligence and security protocols in many different ways. Some, like America’s white elephant, the Department of Homeland Security, were in vain, public attempts to show that the wounded superpower was actually doing something in response to the blood that had been shed with the fall of the Twin Towers. It didn’t take long, however, for the organization to become just as compartmentalized, overgrown and slow to act as the rest of the intelligence community. The bickering and partisanship began all over again, only with a brand-new participant scrabbling for its slice of the budget pie and squabbling over duties and powers, instead of doing the job it had been created for—protecting the nation from all threats, foreign and domestic.

Kate had often thought that if the President had really wanted to utilize his post 9/11 goodwill effectively, he’d have summoned all the heads of Washington’s alphabet soup—CIA, FBI, NSA, DOD, DIA, Joint Chiefs and all the rest—together in a room, locked the door and placed armed guards in front of it. He’d tell them they were staying there until they came up with a comprehensive plan to improve intelligence gathering and sharing among all of their agencies, both at home and abroad. Of course, that would have required independent thought and a will to actually get something done on Capitol Hill, Kate thought. Instead politicians did the next-best thing in their minds—spent billions of dollars on a very public but useless solution that couldn’t even help its own citizens in a time of national emergency, like a hurricane striking the Gulf Coast.

Fortunately, a group of like-minded individuals from around the world saw the need for an organization that could accomplish what the Homeland Security was supposed to do, only on a global scale. They also recognized that, despite the tremendous cost, they had been given the perfect opportunity to create such an agency. Room 59 was the result of that consensus. It was a completely decentralized agency with the power and ability to go wherever it was needed and do whatever was necessary to defuse, derail or otherwise prevent a potential or growing threat from becoming a full-blown crisis situation. Operating with the secret mandate of the United Nations, and the unofficial approval of every major espionage agency around the world, Room 59 handled the blackest of black operations, and viewed its operations with an eye toward protecting the world and its population, not simply one country, region or continent.

Naturally, this required a special kind of intelligence officer to execute the wide-ranging and hazardous missions assigned to Room 59 operatives. Having the absolute authority to go anywhere, any time, and take any measures necessary to accomplish a mission could corrupt the noblest of motives. Kate was determined to ensure that didn’t happen. The one adage that stuck in her mind was a well-known.

“Who watches the watchers?”

From her first day, she had assumed that mantle, and while she would take whatever measures necessary to protect both her operatives and the agency, she also knew that there had to be safeguards in place to ensure that the board or a department head didn’t take on a personal vendetta or crusade.

That, she thought, is what Judy doesn’t understand about my position. Judy was the operational liaison. She moderated between the spymasters and the operatives in the field, but felt more of a kinship with the department heads and other personnel—hence her thinly veiled view of Kate as a detached, bureaucratic middle manager. Kate, on the other hand, had to balance mission information, parameters and necessities with the desired goals and oversee operations with a minimum of overt agency involvement while giving the operative the best chance of coming back alive.

But, as Room 59 had been designed to operate independently of all known governing bodies, that also meant that there was no one to call for help when a mission went bad. If an operative was caught or killed while on a mission, Kate was supposed to walk away. That had taken some getting used to. She had a mind-set like many military special-forces units—never leave a person behind. However, she also knew that sacrifices were sometimes required to protect the whole, and had reconciled that part of the job as a necessary evil paired with the opportunity to accomplish so much more.

Like we’re about to do right now, she thought as the leaders of the IIA convened in the virtual conference room. Unlike Kate and Judy, the ranking members were not visible. Instead, computer-generated avatars in the form of nine black silhouettes represented each member of the board. A small national flag floated above each dark form, representing the United States, United Kingdom, France, Germany, Israel, India, Russia, Japan and China. Neither Kate nor Judy knew who made up the IIA board, and Kate, at least, preferred it that way—if she was ever captured and interrogated, no matter how remote the possibility, she couldn’t reveal their identities.

The IIA board approved every mission undertaken by Room 59. Potential operations could be brought up by Kate or other division heads, or by individual members of the board, but in the end, the board voted on each mission, its members presenting various pro and con arguments until a three-quarters vote, either yes or no, was achieved. Even then, the Room 59 heads themselves had the power to veto a mission, but that was rarely exercised, and Kate had never used it during her tenure.

The flags glowed when the person they represented spoke, and the shadow below the Stars and Stripes began the meeting. “All members of the International Intelligence Agency board are present. This meeting is now in session.”

Every board member’s voice was unaccented, gender neutral and electronically modulated to prevent recognition. As she looked around the table, Kate wondered about these anonymous people who put their personal or political loyalties aside to look at doing what was best for the world in general, and what they brought to the table in terms of knowledge or ability. All the members present had shown a remarkable ability to look at the big picture, and not just at a single region or nation. They were the global policemen of the new century, and they did their job very well. And Kate was determined to do her job equally as well—or better.

The Russian flag flashed. “This discussion is in reference to the potential situation in the Third World country, Cuba. Recent intelligence has suggested that there is a growing movement by exiled hard-liners hiring foreign private military contractors to launch an incursion to overthrow the current Communist dictatorship and install a more democratic government.”

Although Judy had referred to Cuba in code across unsecured lines, in the conference room there was no way the conversation could be spied on, as some of the best hackers and electronic security personnel in the world had programmed pieces—with none of them ever knowing the entire project they were creating—of the electronic suite and the secure countermeasures that enabled all of them to meet in perfect seclusion.

The silhouette under the Union Jack responded. “Although on the surface this could be viewed as the fastest way to introduce change, since the human rights abuses that occur in this country have been numerous over the decades, recently reports indicate that with the current leadership in declining physical health, and the infrastructure in growing disrepair, the population is taking steps to establish a more representative government model. A military incursion now could provoke a response by Cuba’s armed forces, which are on high alert. The resulting power struggle could create a civil war that could further destabilize the nation.”

The U.S. flag picked up the narrative. “Recent exploration of Cuba’s coastal waters for oil reserves has drawn attention from nations around the world, particularly those in the Western Hemisphere. Some refining is already happening, and if more resources are found there, the nation’s standing will increase dramatically. Certain interests in world government have expressed their desire to slowly relax embargoes and open trade relations with Cuba again.”

Kate pursed her lips but refrained from commenting. The more things change, the more they stay the same, she thought. Everything—security, freedom, basic human rights—still followed the money.

“The IIA has determined that it is in Cuba’s best interests to assist the peaceful transition to a democratic government, and therefore to investigate and prevent any possible threats to that ongoing process.”

The U.S. flag continued. “In our ongoing investigation, we had established contact with a military asset inside the country. Our most recent report indicates that contact with this asset was recently lost. Is that correct?”

Kate cleared her throat. “At this time, there has been no verified contact with our asset in-country for the past three days. We are trying to ascertain whether he has been discovered by the government, or has been captured or eliminated by other factions within the country.”

India’s flag glowed. “If the threat is coming from an external source, isn’t the asset less important than verifying that a party is indeed planning to launch an incursion?”

Judy intervened. “The asset has been a valuable source of information regarding current events, including the government reaction to what is happening. If he has been compromised, while there is nothing to connect him with us, a valuable source of information will have been lost. And if he reveals surveillance activities under interrogation, the military could be activated again, creating potential blowback onto the civilian population.”

The golden stars on China’s flag twinkled as its representative addressed the group. “Also, is there the possibility that this asset was a triple agent, and has simply returned to the fold?”

“A hazard of our business,” the voice under the Russian flag said, drawing murmurs of assent from the rest.

The Union Jack shone. “Kate, your thoughts?”

Kate leaned forward and made sure to look at each country’s silhouette as she replied. “The proposed mission would consist of two parts—locating the elements behind the possible buildup of a paramilitary force and preventing them from launching such a mission, and also the insertion of an operative into Cuba to ascertain whether the asset has been compromised, determine whether an extraction or termination is necessary and learn whether a faction on the island is involved in his unknown status, as well. If there is an internal aspect, and it isn’t stopped, it could foment more resistance at a later date, further hampering the progress toward democracy.”

The board members all seemed to concur with her reasoning. The Israeli flag glowed. “What external assets do we have that can be utilized?”

Whenever possible, Room 59 tried to use third parties to accomplish a mission goal—whether the person or group being used knew what their true goal was or not. Some of their best missions had been accomplished with no one knowing that Room 59 had been involved in the first place. Sometimes, however, the most effective way of handling a task was with their own people.

Kate placed her hands on the desk and rolled the dice. “Given the sensitive nature of the insertion, we suggest using one of our own operatives, since it would be not only time-consuming to bring in an outside element, but the chance of them being an informer or double agent would be high. As for the mainland operation, I think we should assign a lead operative to this, as well, someone who hasn’t been on that scene and can go undercover and extract the necessary information. I already have some of our department heads working on likely candidates who could provide support for such an operation, as well as possible access venues to make initial contact.” She saw Judy’s eyebrows rise at this, but the British woman said nothing. I’m sure I’ll hear about that later, Kate thought.

“Are there any other questions?” The U.S. representative asked, but no one spoke. “I propose that we move to vote on the mission.”

Usually, the missions were prepared in a way that almost ensured acceptance, although there were times when the discussion ranged from polite to heated over whether Room 59 should get involved. Kate knew that the American representative had brought up business interest in Cuba as a tacit way of acknowledging that other factors were at play here. She was interested in seeing how the Chinese and Russian members would reply, since Cuba had been establishing relations with both countries after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the post–Cold War chill of the 1990s. Ultimately, the board was supposed to take a world-view of the missions that they put forward or accepted, but Kate also knew that personal or national politics could undermine even the best intentions.

For the vote, all the representatives would signal their position by activating one of two lights above their flag—green indicated approval, red indicated disapproval. Abstention wasn’t allowed—a representative could be for or against an action without explaining why, but there was no sitting on the sidelines.

This time, the outcome wasn’t in doubt. All of the board members flashed green.

Apparently no one wants another potential civil war breaking out—at least, not in such a high-profile area, Kate mused.

“The board votes unanimous approval of this mission.” The lights disappeared and the U.S. flag glowed one last time. “Kate, Judy, good luck.”

4

The U.S. Marine, Springfield M-1 rifle at the ready and steel helmet pushed back on his head, advanced across the windswept, snowy ground, his ice-blue eyes scanning for any sign of the enemy. Upon seeing a Chinese Communist soldier, the Marine lifted his rifle and took aim. He froze in place, allowing the grunt to mow him down with ease.

“Scheisse.” Jonas tapped his keyboard in frustration. The bug in his program, a real-time computer simulation of the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir during the Korean Conflict, was preventing his units from engaging, or even reacting to a nearby enemy. Jonas had tried everything he could think of to eliminate it, but the fact was that his mind simply wasn’t on programming at the moment.

Jonas leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze wander around his sparsely furnished Munich apartment. He had told a white lie to Kate during their conversation, one he was pretty sure she had seen through. But certain things from the past simply couldn’t be revealed. He ran a hand over his close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair as he thought about the first time he had been to Cuba and what he had done there.

June 19, 1973

HIS MOUTH WAS AS DRY as the rubber raft as he approached the night-shrouded Cuban coastline. He glanced at the other members of his insertion team, each dressed from head to toe in black fatigues with HK assault rifles slung over their backs. A thousand yards out, their leader cut the engine, and the other four men broke out paddles and propelled the raft silently toward shore.

After the massacre of Israeli athletes by members of the terrorist group Black September during the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, the GSG-9 had been formed to combat terrorist actions within Germany. They had also been tasked with the top-secret mission of tracking down the remaining three members of the terrorists and either terminating them or capturing them for extradition to Israel.

Israeli intelligence had let them know that one of the survivors, Mohammed Safedy, had gone underground, and their resources had reliable information indicating he had appeared in Cuba, for reasons unknown. Jonas and his team had been airlifted to a German freighter off the Cuban coast with authorization to infiltrate the island, locate and extract Safedy. They had a twelve-hour window to accomplish their mission, so every second counted.

With powerful strokes the team made landfall, pulling the raft onto a narrow strip of rocky shore that was almost immediately swallowed by the thick jungle. Jonas got out with the rest to haul the raft ashore, but as he jumped over the gunwale into the water, his foot slipped between two rocks and he felt a sudden stab of pain shoot through his ankle. Gritting his teeth, he didn’t make a sound, but hobbled ashore instead, still carrying his section of the raft. He tried to assist with camouflaging it, but his team leader, a small, tough man named Aurel Reinmann, noticed Jonas limping. When he found out what had happened, he decided they would make their initial contact as scheduled, then head inland and find a spot to hole up while figuring out how to best proceed.

Their pointman, Hans, signaled that there was a dim light coming toward them. Everyone froze, and Hans and the man next to him carefully raised their rifles, aiming them at the bobbing light. Jonas extracted his brand-new HK P-9 9 mm from its holster, quietly chambering a round. His breath was fast and rapid in his ears, and he did his best to ignore the pain in his leg, straining to draw a bead on the light as it approached. The flickering light stopped, then vanished, reappeared, then vanished again. Reinmann straightened, waving at his team to stand down.

“Our contact is here.” He held up his own compact flashlight and flicked it on and off twice, waited, then flicked it on and off three times. The light answered in kind, and Reinmann motioned for Hans to go out to guide the person to them.

When the tall man returned escorting their contact, Jonas was hard-pressed to conceal his shock. The person who was to provide cover for them was a slender young woman, her hair concealed by a tightly bound kerchief, perhaps twenty years old. She didn’t smile, but looked at each man intently.

“One of my men is injured,” Reinmann said in German-accented Spanish, pointing at Jonas. “We are continuing the mission, but he will have to stay somewhere while we are gone. Can you hide him?”

The young woman glanced at Jonas, her lips tightening in a thin line at the change in plans, then nodded toward the jungle behind her. “Vámonos.”

A STEADY BEEPING SOUND made Jonas shake his head, banishing the memory back to the distant past. He thought he’d left all that behind him, buried as part of the things he’d had to do for his country. But judging by his reaction when Kate had told him where the trouble was, that wasn’t the case. Deep down, he’d known that someday, what he had done so long ago would come back to him, and now it looked as if it was finally happening.

He had kept an eye on the country, following its slow decline, especially after the Soviet Union disintegrated. Information, even from government sources, slowly dried up as Castro tightened his already suffocating hold. Gradually, Jonas had turned his attention to more-pressing matters, but every so often, a part of him remembered that first mission. He’d been a green recruit tossed halfway around the globe to a place that was completely foreign to anything he had known before. And when the chance had come to acquire a high-ranking mole in the Cuban army, he had led the operation to successfully bring the man into their fold. Now it seemed that was going to extract a price, as well.

He picked up his chirping cell phone, the tone indicating a text message was waiting. He flipped it open to read: “R59 ops room. Five minutes.”

No time like the present, he mused, slipping on his own pair of viewscreen glasses and navigating to the Room 59 virtual opps center. Two people were also logged in and Jonas nodded to Denny Talbot, the operations director for North America, and Samantha Rhys-Jones, his counterpart in the United Kingdom.

Kate and Judy appeared in the virtual space. Unlike the board meeting, people were linked face-to-face, and Jonas spotted immediately that something had gone down since he had spoken to Kate earlier that morning. Her expression was grim, her lips compressed together in a tight line. Judy, on the other hand, looked even more reserved and unflappable than ever, a sure sign that something was bothering her, as well, since the stoic side of her came out primarily during a conflict.

Kate started without any preliminaries. “Thank you all for meeting on such short notice. Directors Planchard and Ramon are attending the Middle Eastern crisis conference and Director Kun is observing the China–North Korea summit meeting, so we’re it. I trust you’ve all had a chance to review the dossier on the mission that’s just been approved. It’s a two-pronged mission, with an insertion into Cuba, as well as an undercover operative going to Miami and finding out who’s behind a possible invasion.”

“Pardon my skepticism, but are we actually going on a hypothesis that someone is actually going to attempt a Bay of Pigs sequel?” Denny crossed his long legs and leaned back, cradling the back of his head in his hands. “The Cuban army can field anywhere from forty-five to sixty thousand soldiers, probably double that with conscripts, along with artillery and land armor to match, including tanks. They don’t have much of an air force nowadays, but can probably put some gunships up to pin down a force long enough for the army to engage at will. Bottom line, while they wouldn’t stand up to any first world nation, they certainly ought to be able to pound the hell out of even a sizable insurgency force.”

Jonas leaned forward. “All good points. However, based on what I’ve seen in this dossier, there is a good chance that this group of exiles will have contacted resistance cells in Cuba, and will coordinate with them around an event that would shake the government there to its very core—like an assassination.”

Denny snorted. “Of Castro? The man’s bulletproof, for god’s sake. His own head of security estimated there’s been more than six hundred attempts to kill him over the past forty years, so what makes anybody think this time will work?”

“Yes, but when something is tried six hundred times and fails, that makes those who try the next time all the more determined to succeed,” Jonas replied.

“Yeah, I’m more fond of the maxim that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” The agency director stared at the virtual ceiling. “Sounds like a lot of running around and risking necks for one missing double agent,” Denny said.

“Gentlemen, I think the main point is being missed here.” Samantha Rhys-Jones, recruited straight from British intelligence, regarded them all with her limpid, dark brown eyes. “As I’m sure Mr. Talbot and Mr. Schrader would agree, an invasion of Cuba will likely not resemble other fourth-generation-warfare scenarios, such as the Iraq debacle. The fact is, anyone with enough money can now field a well-equipped, suitably armed force to take over a small Third World country. If the right preparations are made—and I would certainly include assassination of the current leaders to be among those preparations—along with a sizable force already there turning against the current government, then the resulting confusion could allow the overthrow of the regime. Castro certainly accomplished that with his own ouster of the Batista regime in ’59. From what I’ve seen, so far, this threat is real and should be dealt with before it gets out of hand.”

“Thank you, Samantha.” Kate brought the meeting back on track. “Recent intel indicates that some of the army generals have grown irritated at the scaling back of the military, as well as their own reassignment to oversee the country’s economic holdings. We hadn’t any more details before we lost contact with our man. However, we believe there are groups in Cuba that are considering revolution regardless of where it might lead the country, figuring that any change is better than the status quo.”

“Which could lead to regional warlords carving the country up into spheres of influence, or an even more totalitarian, corrupt, influence-peddling system arising, where bribes and threats are the only way to get things done—well, more so than they already are,” Denny pointed out. “While I’m as cynical as the next intelligence agent—it’s hard to believe that their current system is still the way to go.”

“As Raul Castro had begun training officers in the military in successful business techniques—before his brother shut it down—it’s not that far-fetched. Change can happen internally—look at Libya,” Samantha replied.

Kate’s gaze swept the virtual room. “We have an operative in mind to handle the insertion onto the island, but need a second to handle the Florida end of things. Denny, I expect you have someone to put forward?”

Jonas cleared his throat. “Actually, Kate, I’ve been giving this some thought, and would like to volunteer my services on the American end.”

Everyone turned to Jonas, who glanced around at each of them, returning to Kate to find her narrowed eyes locked on him. He saw Judy stiffen slightly, but didn’t let it phase him. There was something already going on that he didn’t know about, but that wasn’t his problem.

“I wasn’t aware that this was what you meant by being involved, Jonas. It’s highly irregular to let a department head undertake a field mission, especially on such short notice.” Kate’s gaze dropped to the table, and Jonas knew she was thinking furiously. “Denny, this is your theater of operations—therefore, it’s also your call.”

Now Denny leaned forward in his chair. “Sell me, Jonas.”

Jonas smiled, knowing the ex-Navy man would give him a fair shake. Kate, on the other hand, might be a different story. “There are several advantages for me to be the point agent on this mission. First, the majority of our American agents are ex-military, and therefore listed as such on rosters everywhere, despite the agency’s best efforts to remove or suppress that information. Even with an excellent cover provided by us, the exiles will most likely be suspicious of an American wishing to provide goods or services, whereas a native German who does not appear on any foreign or domestic military service registers might have an easier time of it.”

Denny stroked his chin as he weighed the possibilities. “What cover were you thinking of going in under? Not a mercenary?”

“If the exiles already have an existing contact with a PMC, that would simply cause unnecessary tension. But there is something that both of these groups will want for their operation.”

He glanced at Denny, who pointed his finger at Jonas and simply said, “Bang.”

“Exactly. An arms dealer will be the perfect cover, and if necessary, we can set up a ship in international waters holding the rest of my supposed wares—all with the right papers and registration, of course. Restricting this to a simple business transaction should lower their guard even further.”

“There are several vessels available to us that could serve that purpose,” Judy said. “If this moves forward, Dennis, you and I could review suitable ones after we’re done here.”

“Lastly, any agent that you send in will very likely not be familiar with Cuba, given the risks of insertion in the first place. I have been there several times—” Jonas glanced at Kate and saw the corner of her mouth quirk up in a wry smile “—and am familiar with the locations where our operative is likely to be during his investigation. I would be happy to advise in a mentoring capacity, as well on site if needed—no offense in that regard, Denny.”

“None taken. Well, Kate, I don’t know about you, but he’s got me hooked.” He looked expectantly at their director.

Jonas knew Kate was no fool, and figured she was wondering why a department head would volunteer for a mission like this when there were those who were equally or more qualified for the job. He didn’t feel the need to explain anything to her, although he wasn’t sure what he would do if she asked.

Judy broke the silence first. “What about the current operations you’re overseeing? My primary concern is if there is an emergency while you’re on assignment and you are unavailable to handle your primary duties.”

Jonas had expected Kate to bring this up, but his answer was ready nonetheless. “The current assignments can be routed to headquarters, and I will have up-to-date dossiers prepared on all of them before I leave.”

Kate glanced at her liaison. “Judy brings up a good point, however. I’m still having a difficult time reconciling the idea of assigning a department head to a field mission, leaving his ongoing missions in the lurch, possibly to be compromised. I have to think of what’s best for everyone, both here and in the field.”

“I have an idea.” Denny had been leafing through virtual operative dossiers while keeping one ear on the exchange. “I think I know who you want to put into this assignment on the Cuban end—Marcus Ruiz, right?”

“He was one of several candidates on my list. However, he just finished his current assignment and was supposed to have some downtime,” Kate replied.

“Yes, there is that, and also the rather explosive way that his last mission ended, even if it was successful. Perhaps it would be a good idea for him to go into the field again, this time under the eye of a more experienced man, learn a few techniques on covert operations. Get back on the horse, so to speak. I can think of only a few better men to learn from than Jonas,” Denny said.

Samantha frowned. “From what I read, he stated that the destruction of the warehouse wasn’t his fault, given the highly volatile chemicals stored there, as well as the sabotage by one of the drug dealers. Do you have doubts about Mr. Ruiz’s capability to handle himself? Given the sensitive nature of this mission, perhaps it would be best to go with someone new, perhaps already in place.”

Kate shook her head. “One, it sounds like there’s no time, and two, given the high levels of secret police and informants on the island, we wouldn’t know if we could trust anyone there. Regardless of his past performance, Marcus is an excellent choice. He’s an American-born Cuban, speaks the language with the proper accent and will blend in like a native, which is exactly what we want—someone who won’t arouse suspicion.”

Judy smiled tightly. “Very well. If Jonas can reroute or clear his schedule, and Denny, with your approval, as this still falls under your oversight, by the way—”

“Then let’s get to it,” the rangy Tennessean replied. “Jonas, let’s conference about setting up your identity after this.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Kate said. “Denny, please contact Marcus and offer my apologies, but I’m afraid we’ll need him to be ready to go in the next twelve hours. After this, however, he’ll receive the mandatory month off—he has my word. Jonas, looks like we’ll be seeing you stateside soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Any other questions?” Kate asked.

“Just one more, if I may?” Jonas leaned forward. “The double agent on site—I assume it is the same one that we turned in Spain?”

“Correct. Is there anything else?” Kate rose from the table. “That’s all, people. Let’s get to work.”

Jonas cut the connection and slipped off the glasses, wincing at the slight headache they always gave him. He stared at the frozen Marine on the computer screen in front of him and, with a sigh, saved his progress on the program and turned it off.

He envied that young agent who would be heading to Cuba, for a moment even wishing he could take his place. And what do you think you would do then, old man? Charge over there and invade Cuba yourself? Maybe you should just let the past remain as the past and not go chasing old ghosts.

Jonas walked to the steel-and-glass bar on the other side of his living room and poured himself a drink—Maker’s Mark bourbon, his first and last of the day. As he swallowed the fiery liquid, he considered the real reasons for going over there.

I do have the knowledge and it’s extremely unlikely that any of the players would make me for anything other than who I’ll pretend to be. And even Denny said it was a good idea to keep an eye on this young agent, he told himself.

But as he drained the glass, he ignored the voice in the back of his mind that was quietly telling him it was all bullshit—that the reason he was putting himself in harm’s way again was entirely personal.

His cell phone chimed again, and Jonas looked at it for a moment, then shook off his doubts and got down to business. “Hello, Denny…Yes, it will be good to get back into the field again.”

5

With a huge yawn, Marcus Ruiz opened his eyes and reveled in the sensations all around him—a real bed and clean sheets, the aroma of frying ham and toasting bread from the kitchen below, the feel of his hair without weeks of sweat, oil and grease in it. Marcus rolled over and basked in the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows, one thought on his mind.

It’s good to be home.

After delivering Terry to his superiors for interrogation, Marcus hadn’t wasted a moment getting out of Montana on the first available flight to Florida. Along the way, he had been debriefed by Denny Talbot, and had taken some heat over the destruction of the warehouse and the meth lab evidence. Marcus had defended his work, saying, “Hey, it was six on one, and I still managed to get the guy out in one piece. Now, if you had told me you wanted the place intact, well, I would have done what I could, but you guys said get the link to Asia, which I did—alive—which I also did. Sorry if the locals are stuck sifting ashes. If they wanted to build a case against the Death Angels, someone should have told me. And by the way, the best news I can deliver is that gang won’t be pushing crystal meth on anyone for a long, long time.”

Denny had said that he would have to take up the mission’s parameters with his superiors, and Marcus had replied that he had to do what he had to do, but, “If there’s nothing else you need from me right now, I’m heading home.” Denny had assured him that he’d certainly earned some downtime and told him to enjoy it.

And now, twenty-two hours and three flight changes later, he was relaxing in his parents’ house in Little Havana, his rumbling stomach telling him it was time for some real food for a change. Not like the junk or fast food eaten on the run—when the gang had eaten at all. Marcus suspected he had lost about twelve pounds running with the meth-snorting Angels over the past eight weeks. Time to put some of that back on, he thought with a grin, rolling out of bed and heading for the shower. He had taken one when he had gotten in late last night, but wanted another, just to enjoy it.

Seven minutes later—his Army training still in full effect—dressed in loose cotton pants and a two-pocket guayabera shirt, Marcus ambled downstairs just in time to see his two younger brothers, wrestling in the living room, about to crash into the coffee table.

“¡Párese!” Without waiting to see if they would heed his command to stop, Marcus leaped forward to intercept the twins before they damaged themselves or the furniture. “¡Venga en! Mother has breakfast waiting.”

The trio trooped into the kitchen. The cheerful room was painted bright yellow with a pattern of blue-and-green curls decorating the walls. Marcus gazed around at the kitchen he had grown up in and where his parents were now raising another generation. They had planned on only having Marcus, but had been surprised with the twins a dozen years ago. Marcus suspected his father, Reynaldo, had secretly been pleased at his virility, as he doted on the boys, often mentioning his plans for them to join the family business.

Their mother, Maria, scolded them, her tone teasing as she delivered the piping-hot, traditional breakfast she always served when Marcus was home—tostadas, coquetas, rolls of ground pork and ham dipped in egg batter and fried until golden-brown and strong, sweet café con leche.

Marcus had two helpings of everything, then tipped his chair back and stifled a belch. “Gracias, Mama.” Even though he had his own apartment in the neighborhood, Marcus loved his family and always tried to spend as much time with them as possible, especially after a mission.

“Marcus, will you take us to the movies this afternoon?” Esteban pleaded. He was fascinated with the cinema, and was already making films in the backyard, intending to be the next Steven Spielberg or James Cameron.

His twin brother, Ismael, glared at him. “No, he doesn’t want to stay cooped up all day. We should go to the marina, see the speedboat exhibition.” A budding speedboat racer, he was as addicted to ESPN and other boating channels as his brother was to film. He could recite statistics on famous powerboat pilots, either current or past champions, with ease.

“All right, that’s enough from both of you.” Maria silenced the chattering boys with a raised finger. “Marcus has just gotten here. It’s not right for you to demand such things from him like this.”

“It’s all right, Mama, but I wanted to talk to Papa first.” Seeing her turn back to the sink, he waved at the boys to head outside and play. Clearing the table, he brought the stack of dishes to her. “How is the store doing?” His father ran the same neighborhood grocery store that he had founded when they had first arrived in America. Marcus had been born three months afterward, making him the first Ruiz to be a natural-born citizen.

“It seems all right, although he says that the big box stores keep cutting into his business and taking his workers, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to stay open if this continues.” She turned to face him. “I’ve told him that he needs to talk to the chamber of commerce about organizing some kind of referendum, but so far he hasn’t listened.” She turned away again, rattling dishes as she worked. “Oh, Marcus, you aren’t here to listen to me prattle on so.”

Marcus took his mother’s hand, warm and rough from years of housework, and brought it to his lips for a kiss that left the smell of lemon detergent in its wake. “Mama, that’s exactly why I come here, to talk to you. I’ll head over to see Papa a bit later, but first I’ll take the boys off your hands for the rest of the after—”

The shrill chime of his cell phone interrupted Marcus, and he glanced down in surprise. He shouldn’t have heard that tone for another twenty-nine days. He looked up to his mother’s face, who also recognized the sound, and now she took his hand, clasping it between hers. “Go on, answer it.”

He flipped the phone open. “Hello…Yes, sir…No, I’m available. It’s where?…All right, I’ll pick him up tomorrow afternoon…Yes, sir…It’s all right, but let her know I’ll hold her to that. Thank you, sir.”

He closed the phone and slowly replaced it in his pocket. For a moment, he stood there with his mother, neither of them saying anything. The chatter and shouts of the twins playing outside reached their ears.

“They need you again.”

It wasn’t a question. Marcus’s parents hadn’t been exactly thrilled when he had joined the Army, and less so when he had applied for the Ranger program. But they had learned to respect his passion for the military, and when he had taken this new job, which he described as “government consulting,” he knew his mother wasn’t naive enough to think it was simple travel and advising. But in their conversations, he had told her that this was what he wanted to do, to give something back to his homeland and their adopted country. Unfortunately, that also meant that there was only one answer he could give her.

He nodded.

“Oh, Marcus, you were gone so long this last time. You tell us not to worry, but I cannot help it—”

He put a finger to her lips. “I know, I know. They wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t necessary. At least it shouldn’t be too long. They said perhaps five to seven days, so I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Do you have time to stop by the store and see your father? He would be upset if he didn’t see you before you left.”

Marcus had spoken with both his parents when he had first arrived, but he’d been so tired he didn’t remember much of the conversation. “Of course, Mama. I don’t actually start until tomorrow, so at least we’ll have this day together. I’ll be sure to spend some time with the boys, as well.” He walked to the door, then turned in the archway. “At least I’ll be doing something you always wanted for me this time.”

She frowned in confusion.

“I’m going back home.”

6

Major Damason Valdes sat alongside several soldiers from his brigade in a small, sweltering room, pressing headphones to his ears, straining to hear the hushed conversation in a room a few blocks away. He ignored the sweat, the smell and the restlessness of his men, concentrating instead on picking out the vital words that meant he and his unit could go in and do their job. While most other high-ranking officers in Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces would have assigned this job to a sergeant, Damason was a firm believer in not ordering his men to any task that he wasn’t willing to oversee personally. As a result he’d wound up perspiring in a closed room, listening to a smuggling transaction at two in the morning.

Since the government had been forced to relax the strict sanctions against foreign trade and investment, Cuba had recovered somewhat from the crippling economic blow dealt to it by the breakup of the Soviet Union, their only benefactor since the early 1960s. However, with that inflow of trade had come side effects the country had been ill prepared for, such as an increase in crime. From street violence and robbery to drug and human trafficking, the police were hard-pressed to stem the sudden rise in illegal activity.

Well, they cannot do that and continue to monitor and report on our citizens at the same time with the efficiency the government demands, Damason thought sourly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Since much of the military had also been reassigned to civilian business projects, he had come up with the idea of using his trained soldiers as an adjunct to the police force when necessary. Formed into handpicked units, the additional men had been paying dividends in the form of a marked decrease in overall crime in the areas they patrolled. But even now he faced rising lawlessness in areas not doubly patrolled, as if the criminals had learned of the combination of police and military, and simply set up shop elsewhere. His commander, General Alejandro Marino, was putting increasing pressure on him to not let the crime spill over into the high-profile tourist areas. The vice squads already had their hands full trying to contain the prostitution that had infiltrated the luxury resorts. If our great revolution would allow educated people to earn an honest wage, then our great leader wouldn’t have joked about the prostitutes having college degrees to that American filmmaker a few years ago, he thought bitterly.

Pressing the earphones tightly to his head, Damason heard the words he had been waiting for. “Here is the money—fifty thousand dollars. Now, let’s see the merchandise.”

What sounded like a cargo door of a panel truck was opened, the racket nearly deafening in his ears. He held his hand up, index finger pointing up, and felt all of his men straighten to attention. Pistols and rifles were quietly checked as he listened for the signal to begin the raid.

The small microphone he had cannibalized from a drug dealer’s karaoke machine last year transmitted the frightened whimpers of the “merchandise” the dealers were haggling over—women. They were to be transported to Mexico and used there or in the United States as sex slaves, then killed when their usefulness was at an end. The inhumanity made Damason’s blood boil. These men were dealing in human lives as casually as if they were selling cattle, inflicting degradation and suffering on hundreds, maybe even thousands of women. Until tonight.

Damason’s middle finger popped up next to his index. The deal was almost consummated. The money was fake, of course. Real dollars had to be pumped into Cuba’s flagging economy, to prop up the claims of excellent health care and free education, both of which were provided, but at a terrible cost.

Just when he was about to order his men to move out, a distant rattle caught his attention. It was the sound of another door opening, the garage door to the building. Shouts of “¡Policía!” and “¡No muévase!” rang in his ears.

“¡Mierda!” He yanked off the earphones. “That pig Gustavo went in too soon! Come on!” Drawing his .45, he yanked the slide back and led his men out the door and down the narrow alley to the crumbling building where the transaction was supposed to be taking place, berating himself for letting the police sergeant in on the raid in the first place. Damason knew how ruthless these slave traders were. He’d seen the report of them throwing their living cargo overboard when accosted by Cuban or U.S. Coast Guard patrols, hoping the ship would stop for the former captives and allowing them and the rest of the cargo to escape. And even now, as he led his men to the garage, he heard gunshots as the smugglers tried to blast their way out of the trap.

Damason assigned two men to head around the back to see if they could catch the thugs by surprise, while the rest of them took positions at the front of the building and readied their AK-47s. “The truck can only come out this way. Remember, if they try to escape, shoot only at the tires unless you have a clean shot at one of them. They’ll still have the women as hostages in the back.” It had gone ominously silent inside, with only a hanging light swinging crazily.

He pointed at two more of his men. “Take cover across the street at the corners and make sure that truck doesn’t leave.” To the other two men he said, “Follow me.”

Damason bent over and trotted to one side of the door, his two men right behind him. He smelled gunpowder and blood and heard a truck engine turning over. He ran to the other side of the closed door, then motioned his men to pull it open.

Headlights pierced the darkness as they did so, lighting up the alley as the truck rumbled forward. Automatic-weapons fire strobed the night as a man leaned out the passenger window, spraying bullets into the street. As the truck swerved into the narrow road, Damason stepped up onto the running board and slammed the butt of his pistol into the driver’s head. The man fell over, rendered unconscious by the blow. On the other side, the shooter slumped half out of the truck cab, his chest spouting blood from the gunfire of his men.

The truck, still in gear, lurched toward the other side of the street. The two men there ducked back into the alley as Damason wrenched the wheel to the left, turning the vehicle down the street with the barest scrape of a dented fender against the nearby building. He popped the door open and shoved the smuggler over, grabbing for the gearshift and kicking at the clutch to bring the truck to a stop before it plowed into something. With a screech of clashing gears, it shuddered to a stop in the middle of the street.

Damason turned off the engine, grabbed the motionless driver and dragged him out of the cab, handcuffing him. His men gathered around, and after Damason found keys on his prisoner, he assigned a soldier to guard the man and the rest to come with him to the back of the truck.

They unlocked the doors and opened them to reveal about two dozen women from the ages of fourteen to midtwenties, all dressed in filthy T-shirts and underwear and suffering from dehydration and heat stroke. The cargo area stank of sweat and feces, and Damason spotted a five-gallon bucket in the corner with a hole cut in the top. The majority seemed to be Cuban or Latin American, although there were a few Asian girls, and Damason saw a flash of red hair in the back, which meant at least one European or, heaven forbid, American was inside. They were all huddled together, staring dully at the fatigue-clothed men.

“Get water for these women,” he ordered. Two of his men trotted off. Damason turned to his second in command, a smart black sergeant named Elian Garcia Lopez. “Sergeant, make sure these women are given water and treated respectfully. Above all, they are not to be transported from here without my approval.”

“Sí, Major, it will be done.” Elian assigned one man to go in to talk to the women, leading them out one at a time, then began doling out water, cautioning the dazed women to drink slowly.

Another soldier ran up to Damason and saluted. “Major, Sergeant Lopez-Famosa y Fernandez wishes to see you inside.”

Damason stifled a sigh as he walked to the building. The police sergeant’s name wasn’t the only flowery thing about him. He was a preening cock of the walk perfumed with aromatic hair oil and aftershave at all times. The scent drifted around the room in a sickly-smelling cloud. That’s probably what gave them away—the smugglers smelled him coming, Damason thought.

He spied Fernandez standing with three other police officers near a prone form that immediately drew his attention. The sergeant prattled on about the good work, but Damason hardly heard him as he knelt next to the body.

The man who had volunteered to act as the buyer for the sting operation had been a quick-witted, genial young man. Santiago Cantara had seen his mandatory army service as a way to learn business skills that would help his family start their own venture someday. In the meantime, he had been the joker of the unit, and morale had soared when he had joined the men. Damason had to talk to him about becoming an officer, as he had possessed all of the skills the army was looking for. Now he was lying on the floor, dead.

Damason put his hand on the man’s chest, feeling the stillness of the body, knowing the heart inside would never beat again. He closed his eyes, trying to tamp down the rage coursing through him at this senseless tragedy. He swept the staring eyes shut and muttered a brief prayer over the body, not caring if anyone heard him. Then he stood and turned on his heel, fighting the urge to plant his fist in the oily sergeant’s face.

“An excellent job. Everyone will be commended in my report.” Sergeant Fernandez nodded with satisfaction.

“What happened to your man?” Damason’s voice was low and calm. Cantara had been paired with a veteran undercover police officer, who was nowhere to be found.

“Ah, Officer Garcia was wounded in the leg during the heroic struggle. He was taken to the nearest hospital and is being cared for now. Unfortunately, there was nothing that could be done for your man,” the police officer said.

Unfortunately? It should be you lying there in a pool of your own blood, you arrogant bastard! Damason fought to keep his thoughts to himself. He took a step toward the police sergeant, staring at him with his cold blue eyes, knowing his intense stare often unnerved those who weren’t used to it. “Why did you order your men to come in before my soldiers were in place?”

The slender, immaculately dressed sergeant didn’t quiver, but flicked an imaginary bit of dirt off his uniform lapel and shrugged. “We thought we heard a struggle, so we came hoping to stop these criminals before anyone was hurt.” He glanced down at the body and shook his head in feigned sympathy. “Alas, we were too late. When they saw us, they started shooting, and we had to defend ourselves. By the time it was over, I’m afraid your man was already dead.”

Damason knew the man was lying—whether it was for glory, or just, as he suspected, simple stupidity, the officer had bungled the raid, and one of his best men had paid the price.

“You did stop the truck, correct?” Fernandez asked, as if the reason for their mission had just occurred to him.

“Correct, and we captured the driver alive.” No thanks to you. “With a bit of persuasion, he should lead us to the group that supplies him with the women,” Damason said coldly.

“Excellent work, Major! I shall note your men’s bravery in my report, as well.” He strode to the door. “All that remains is to collect the women and make sure they are secure until preparations can be made to return them to their homes.” He turned to walk out of the room.

“My soldiers will help escort the women to a safehouse,” Damason said.

Sergeant Fernandez halted in the doorway. “Pardon?”

Damason slowly walked toward the sergeant. “I said my men will assist with escorting the women to a safehouse. There is a large number of them, and they have been through a terrible experience. We want them to feel safe now.”

Fernandez half turned, so that his profile was visible in the moonlight. “Major, although I appreciate your offer, it is not necessary. The presence of soldiers has no doubt already confused and frightened these poor women. It will be best for all concerned if we handle them from here.” He turned to exit the building.

“Sergeant!” Damason enjoyed putting the steel tone of command in the title.

Fernandez stopped again.

“I must insist, I’m afraid. As this is a joint operation between the police and the military, we all must do our duty and see it through.” Besides, if I leave those girls in your hands, they’ll likely end up raped or resold, and that isn’t going to happen, Damason thought. “I would hate to have to report to my superior that you were not cooperative in this simple matter. We must all do our part in the struggle against crime, you know.”

The police sergeant’s handsome features twisted in an ugly scowl. “Very well. Your men will accompany us during transport.”

“Good.” Damason pushed past the police sergeant to his men. “You four will accompany the police and escort these women to their safehouse.” He lowered his voice. “Sergeant?”

Elian patted a small notebook in his breast pocket. “Names and nationalities have been recorded. A couple had even memorized their passport numbers.”

“Excellent.” In the morning, he would make sure that the various consulates had been contacted, so representatives could help the girls get proper identification and travel home safely. He glanced back at Fernandez, who was glowering with his two stooges a few yards away. “Soldiers, make sure that nothing happens to these women during transport or after their arrival, and I will give each of you an extra day’s leave.”

Brightening at the carrot included in their boring guard duty, the men saluted with pride and returned to the truck. Damason pointed at the building. “Elian, get a detail in there. Cantara didn’t make it. I will visit his family later this morning.”

His sergeant’s shoulders slumped. “Sí, Mayor.” He headed inside to collect the private’s body.

Another truck arrived to take the women. As Damason watched them go, he couldn’t stop thinking of the lives that had been lost to free them. Cantara would have said it was right, that it was just, he thought. But if I had known what would have happened beforehand, would I have sacrificed him to save them?

Although he knew what his answer should have been, it brought him no comfort as his men brought the sheet-wrapped body outside.

7

Kate paused in her review of after-mission reports and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Even with all of the red tape we can cut through, the paperwork never ends. I don’t know how any of the normal agencies ever get anything done, she thought.

“You look like you could use a break.” Like magic, Mindy appeared in the doorway, holding a frosted glass. “I brought you some honeysuckle-lemon iced tea.”

“How do you do that?” Kate flipped the viewglasses up on her forehead as she accepted the cold glass. The tart-sweet liquid was heaven sliding down her throat, which she hadn’t even realized was dry until that moment.

“Do what?” Mindy asked.

“Read my mind when I need something.”

Mindy shrugged. “Suvi-Tuuli says it’s my gift, that I sense when people I care about are hurt or in distress, and try to help—that’s all.”

Suvi-Tuuli was Arminda’s Estonian grandmother. Kate had met the wizened woman once, and was still trying to decide if she was a contemplative philosophical genius, or simply buck-nuts batty. Whichever it was, at least the good side of her genes ran true in her granddaughter. “That’s why I hired you,” she said.

“What can I say, serendipity is a wonderful thing.” Mindy beamed, and Kate smiled with her, enjoying the pleasant moment.

The room’s silence was shattered by the clamor of multiple electronic devices going off. Kate grabbed for her cell phone and slid the glasses down over her eyes. “Yours or mine?” she asked.

Mindy checked her tiny phone. “Not mine. Laundry’s done and the Dr. G: Medical Examiner marathon is starting. If it’s okay with you, you’re on your own.”

Kate stared at her glasses, reading the message she didn’t want to see: “Incoming from Judy Burges.”

“Ah, crap. Go, get out of here while you still can. This might not be pretty,” Kate said.

Mindy slipped out of the room as Kate steeled herself for the call.

Judy’s handsome—no one would ever call her pretty—face appeared on the screen. She was pristine, as always, and stared at Kate like a disapproving nanny would regard a misbehaving child. How does she do that—she’s only five years older than me? Kate thought, trying not to squirm under the other woman’s stare.

“Judy, how are you?”

“Fine, Kate, thank you. I was wondering if you had a moment to discuss this afternoon.”

“Well—” Kate looked at the virtual pile of reports to review, and then there was a conference with Denny to follow up on that meth assignment, as well as a half-dozen other operations in progress that needed attending to.

I don’t have time to hand-hold my liaison right now, she thought, and then was instantly annoyed at her reaction. No, it’s better to deal with this now, rather than letting it fester.

“What’s on your mind?” she said pleasantly. She had the satisfaction of seeing an inkling of surprise cross the other woman’s patrician features, as if she had expected to be brushed off.

“There seems to be some confusion over the duties that people are carrying out in certain departments. I thought we should discuss it and see if we could clear things up a bit.”

“Please, go ahead,” Kate said.

“Simply put, a liaison is a person who facilitates communication between one group or office and another,” Judy stated.

“True, although I don’t have my dictionary handy to confirm the definition.” Kate’s attempt at humor fell faster than the first and last time she had tried to cook a soufflé.

“Quite. Regardless, in this case I think that the person designated as the liaison isn’t being allowed to perform her duties to the best of her ability.”

Kate had a master’s degree in psychology, but also knew when the time came to cut through the double-talk. “If I can summarize, you don’t think you’re being utilized effectively?”

To her credit, Judy’s expression didn’t change an iota, although her voice could have frosted glass. “Correct.”

“I see.” Kate raised her eyebrows. “Well, how would you like to see the situation changed?”

A lesser woman would have been caught off guard by the verbal lob, but Judy didn’t hesitate. “Kate, quite simply, you have a lot on your plate. Directors around the world answering to you, the board calling you at a moment’s notice—like this morning—”

“And I appreciated the heads-up there, too,” Kate said.

“You’re welcome, and that’s the perfect example of what I’m getting at. Over the past several months, I’ve seen a tendency, and I hope you forgive me for implying anything, for you to micromanage things.”

Instead of flying into a rage or cutting the other woman off with a cold retort, Kate grinned. “You’ve noticed, eh?” This time she was rewarded with an answering smile. Finally cracked that frosty reserve, she thought.

“It has come to my attention. A liaison isn’t any good if there is no one to liase between. Although I do admire your aggressive attitude toward this job, which is often exactly what’s needed. But there isn’t a need to take on everything. The board has chosen the best men and women from the top down, or else neither one of us would be here. I can help, if you’ll let me.”

“My God, you must have crushed your opposition at the Oxford debates,” Kate said.

“I was part of the Cambridge team, actually, but we did all right.”

Kate had the advantage in the conversation, since she had had varying versions of it with almost everyone she had ever known for more than a month or two. Some ended well, like the dialogue with her mentor at the CIA, Herbert Foley, who had been instrumental in her getting her current position. Others, like the colossal throw down with her then husband, Conrad, hadn’t ended nearly as well. But through it all, she had let others come to their own conclusions and then moved forward accordingly. Just as she had with Judy.

“While I understand where you’re coming from, my main concern is that I certainly don’t wish to be cut off from the directors or our operatives in the field,” she said.

“Naturally, however, like every other organizational structure, there is a chain of command. Operatives report to their directors, who would then report to HQ, such as it is. There the decision would be made to either handle a situation or bring in more oversight. I can certainly prepare action briefs, or whatever you would like to call them for your review, and of course, if you request a status briefing on a particular mission or region, then we’ll crunch the data and present you with whatever is needed, within reason,” Judy said.

“Don’t worry, Judy, the one thing I’m not is a power-mad office dictator, although sometimes it can be tempting.” Kate laughed.

“Then, of course, your decisions would flow down the chain, as well, to be disseminated as necessary,” Judy said.

Kate tried to minimize her triumphant smile. It wasn’t that she was gloating; everything Judy had said made sense. In a way, she wished they had had this conversation about eight months ago, since all of this could have been dealt with and over a long time ago. “I think we have an excellent way to move forward, and I’m looking forward to it. And I think I’ll also take you up on those summary briefs you mentioned. That sounds like a perfect way to start each morning.”

“Excellent.” Judy’s smile was genuine.

“There is one catch, however.”

“And that is?”

“I can’t promise I’ll adapt to this change right away. I’m more of a take-charge-and-charge-ahead kind of person,” Kate said.

“Of course, and indeed, there are times when the circumstances may warrant that. I would just hope that you would request assistance at the earliest opportunity.”

“I’ll do my best. So, speaking of intel flowing up the chain, how are things proceeding with Jonas’s cover?”

“What is the term the kids are using today? Ah, yes, he’ll be the dopest arms dealer in Florida.” Kate almost choked on her tea when she heard the slang come out of Judy’s flawless mouth. “The allocation-request program has been extremely useful in this regard.”

When Room 59 had been established, one of the tenets that had been struck was that its operatives could use anything from another agency, no questions asked, as long as the resource wasn’t slated for the agency’s own use at the same time.

“The DEA has a lovely luxury yacht that will serve our purposes very nicely,” Judy said.

“I’m sure Jonas will enjoy that, and our other operatives can get a bit of sun as the deck crew. You’ll make sure they’re all familiarized—” Kate trailed off when she saw Judy’s eyebrow rise. “Okay, okay, hey, it’s what I do.”

“I’ve already organized a list of operatives with the necessary experience and background to handle the ship. From the captain to the cabin boy, they will all be our people.”

“And the ordnance?”

“Oh, we’ve got something that is sure to pique the interest of any PMC that’s worth their guns. On loan from Defense, but they didn’t seem particularly thrilled about it, so we do have to get everything back to them intact,” Judy reported.

“Jonas will make sure it all goes out and comes back in one piece,” Kate said. Both women checked their watches. “He should be touching down about now, with Marcus greeting him at the airport. Say, Judy, did you ever get nervous when you were in the field?”

The British woman smiled. “Every time. But you learn to deal with it. I’ve got to run. I have a meeting with Denny on Jonas’s cover, and we’re putting together the regional comm cell to handle traffic. I’ll let you know when that’s set up, as well as let you know if anything else comes up in the meantime.”

“Great. And thanks for coming to see me. I appreciate it,” Kate said.

“You’re welcome.” Judy’s visage winked out, and Kate leaned back in her chair, sighing with relief. Much better than I had expected.

A shadow at the door made her look up. Mindy stood there, her hand over the cordless phone. “Remember that message I gave you? About you-know-who?” Kate’s blank look spurred the college student on. “Conrad—the paperwork—you were supposed to call him back.”

Kate let her head thump back against the top of the chair. She pointed at the phone. “Of course. Let me have that so he can let me have it in general.” If it isn’t one thing, it’s another, she thought as she raised the phone to her ear. “Conrad?…I wish I could say the same….”

8

Jonas leaned back in his business-class seat and drained the last swallow of complimentary champagne, which he had specifically requested be brought to him before they came in on their final approach. A trim, neatly dressed flight attendant approached, and he handed the empty glass to her.

“Will there be anything else, Mr. Heinemann?” she inquired, using his cover name for this part of the mission.

“Nein, danke.” He settled back in his seat and looked out the window, watching the endless, blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean give way to the bustling metropolis of Miami. Ninety miles south, not visible, but its presence felt all the same, was Cuba. An impossible distance for some, Jonas thought, and a lifetime away for others.

June 19, 1973

THE SLENDER WOMAN LED them through the thick jungle to an abandoned sugar mill that must have been a hundred years old. Its ramshackle buildings were overgrown with jungle foliage, vines and colorful flowers slowly reclaiming the entire area.

Jonas limped in, leaned his G3A3 sniper rifle against the wall and sat down on a pile of canvas sacks before the young woman could say anything. A squeal erupted from the cloth as a half-dozen angry rats boiled out of it and scurried around him, chittering all the while. The rest of the team took up positions around the perimeter while his team leader probed Jonas’s injury with gentle fingers.

“It’s nothing, sir. I can continue with the mission.” Jonas tried not to gasp as his leader pressed on his ankle, sending a bolt of pain through the rest of his foot.

“We cannot risk you slowing us down going there or back. You will have to remain here while we head out.” Reinmann stood and turned to the woman, explained the situation and told her to remain, as well, that the team would be in touch once they had ascertained whether Safedy was actually where their contact had said he would be. Then he signaled to his team, and the group melted into the forest, gone in seconds.

With a hangdog expression Jonas watched them go. He tested his foot, but even sitting, the moment he put any weight on it, pain lanced up his leg, and he bit back a groan.

The young woman returned to stand over him, her arms crossed. “Shouldn’t you remove your boot?” she asked.

“If I take it off, the swelling will make it impossible to get back on again. Also, it is holding my foot in place, more or less, so there is less chance of causing further damage.” He eyed her, sensing her displeasure. “Believe me, I’d rather not be sitting around uselessly. I should be with my team right now, not—” he waved at the ruins around them “—stuck here.”

She nodded, then knelt by him. “Your government must want this man very much, to come all this way for him.”

Jonas’s eyebrows rose at what she knew, although he figured that their contacts here wouldn’t have let them in unless there was a damn good reason. Apparently Cuba had enough of its own problems that its people didn’t want an international terrorist holing up in their country. “What he and the rest of those animals did was unforgivable.” His eyes narrowed as a thought struck him. “Do you know the story?”

She shrugged. “The government tells us only what it thinks we should know, particularly about the outside world.”

“Then let me.” He related the story of the Summer Olympics and the invasion into what was supposed to be the world coming together in peace and celebration as the best athletes competed against each other. Jonas spoke of the Black September members, and how they took eleven of the Israeli athletes hostage, killing two of them in the Olympic Village. Even though the hurt was still relatively fresh, he told of the botched interception attempt at the airport, which left the nine remaining hostages, five terrorists and a German policeman dead.

“That is why I am here now. My unit was created to prevent something like that from ever happening again.” He’d heard rumors that the Israelis were sending their own agents to track down and kill the organizers in the Middle East, but kept that information to himself.

“But to send you and the others on such a dangerous mission. You are just a boy.”

“I am older than you,” he said.

Her smile was shy. “Perhaps.”

“Besides, from what I’ve heard about your country, your government trains children from the time they are little, indoctrinating them into an obedient, programmed state of mind to follow the orders of the people in charge.”

“Much like the Nazis and their Hitler Youth guard of World War II, yes?” the woman said.

Jonas didn’t have a comeback for that one.

“But what you say is true, unfortunately. That is why I’m here, risking my life to stop this madman so we can get help against—” She trailed off and cocked an ear, listening to the jungle.

Jonas took the cue and strained his senses, too, trying to catch what had put her on guard. Then he realized it—the animals in the surrounding foliage had gone quiet. Even when the team had been there, the area was filled with the noises of insects, birds and other nocturnal animals. Now they could be heard in the distance, but the nearby cacophony had suddenly gone still, as if the creatures were hiding—or fleeing.

Then he heard a completely different sound—the distant growl of a rough-running engine. Jonas and the woman exchanged glances. “Come on!”

She grabbed his hand and tugged, trying to pull him to his feet. Snatching up his rifle and pack, Jonas managed to get up on his good foot and was surprised when she slipped her head underneath his shoulder. “I can manage,” he said.

“Uh-huh, I watched you on the way in. No talk, just walk.” Together they hobbled out of the ruined sugar refinery and into the nearby jungle. Just as they edged into cover, pushing broad leaves aside, weak yellow light flooded the clearing.

“Down!” Jonas dived to the ground, taking her with him. She struggled free of him, but remained close, her smooth forehead now smudged with dirt. Eyes blazing, she didn’t say anything, but simply watched what unfolded before them.

A large, olive-drab truck came to a stop in the middle of the area. It had barely halted before a dozen men poured from the back, all dressed in military fatigues and carrying AK-47s. They fanned out and searched the area, covering every inch of ground. Jonas held his breath as a man swept past only a few yards away. Two of the men entered the tumbledown building, rifles ready in front of them.

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