The Powers That Be

had bigger problems than the mercenary returning with reinforcements.

If he did contact his employer—assuming he really was working with the PMC—and they pulled their forces, the men left on the island would be without any reinforcements.

It would be the Bay of Pigs all over again.

Staying low, he trotted back through the bedroom to the sunroom. The entire house was still dark, and he shimmied down the wall without a backward glance and disappeared into the forest. He heard shouts from the front of the house as he hit the beach, ran to the raft and dragged it into the surf.

Jonas gave the boat one final push and threw himself aboard just as bobbing handheld lights pierced the darkness on the shore.

How in the hell did they find me so quickly? he wondered. He triggered two shots from his pistol, hoping to keep their heads down, then remembered the silencer on the end and cursed. Stabbing the electric start button with his finger, he felt the engine shudder to life. Twisting the throttle, he sped away into the night, ducking low as muzzle-flashes flared from the beach, the shots smacking the water around him. Jonas returned fire, knowing it was futile, and thanking his luck that they weren’t carrying automatic rifles.

The sudden scream of an outboard motor as a speedboat raced out of a hidden cove told Jonas his situation had not improved. The boat sped by, and Jonas saw a flash of muzzle-fire as someone took a shot at him with a short-barreled submachine gun. Fortunately, they were moving much too fast for the bullets to even come close, but if the pilot had any idea what he was doing, Jonas knew he’d get it right on the next pass.

Jonas opened up the motor’s throttle, trying to get far away from the beach while the speedboat came back around.

When at last he was caught in the fixed spotlight of his pursuers, he pushed the raft’s tiller hard left and dived over the right side, letting the Atlantic waters close over his head as the speedboat roared past to crush the raft without stopping.

Damason leaned back in the passenger seat of the 1961

Chevrolet flatbed truck his commanding officer had assigned to him for the duration of his mission. He tried to relax. With Lopez at the wheel, they traveled down the highway that ran from Havana through Matanzas and into the province of Villa Clara, where Raul Castro’s first stop was scheduled, a visit to the sugar and tobacco plantations.

The trip of about two hundred miles would take over three hours in the old vehicle, which Lopez was unwilling to push above about fifty-five miles per hour. They were going to be cutting it close as it was, and this wasn’t going to help matters. After Damason had been treated like a pack mule by that arrogant blond mercenary, he had been escorted back to his own boat with a minimum of conversation, save a warning to be sure to launch the flare once the assassination was completed. “And if you fail, you might as well turn that rifle on yourself,” Theodore had told him matter-of- factly. “As I understand it, it would probably be quicker than going through what you’d endure in your own prisons.”

“I will do my part. Just make sure that your men are ready on your end,” Damason had replied.

Once on his boat, they had sped back to the dock, and then through the quiet streets to Damason’s headquarters. There he had collected the carefully wrapped rifle and left instructions for the men who were to handle things in his stead while he was away. He also left an itinerary of his trip that would be completely void if the next seven hours went according to plan.

But as hard as he tried to focus on his approaching task, Damason couldn’t get the face of the European arms dealer out of his mind. It was like he knew me from somewhere, he mused. Which is impossible, of course. Still, I would have liked to know what was going through his mind at that moment.And yet, for some reason, he also looked familiar to me.

Sergeant Lopez, who had been very quiet all during the boat trip back, as well as the ride out of the city, cleared his throat. “Is there anything you’d like to go over regarding our mission while we have the chance?”

Damason turned to his subordinate, grateful for the interruption of his troubling thoughts. “Yes.” He unfolded a satellite map of the sugar mill and spread it out on his lap.

“Raul will be touring the sugar mill that has been converted to producing alcohol from cane juice. Of course, security will be posted around the building, as well as in the perimeter. I have placed Gonzago here.” He tapped a large cluster of trees that would give anyone in them an unobstructed view of the front of the large processing buildings. “I have manufactured evidence of his involvement with the CANF

exile group, and will denounce him as a traitor to the revolution, should the operation go wrong. I will maintain my story of having discovered the assassination plot and trying to stop him before he could attempt it. Either way, you will be backing me up, both as a rear guard and a witness, to confirm my story.”

“And afterward?”

“All I know is that outside forces are poised to land on the island once they’ve received confirmation that our target is truly dead. My contact has told me that there are other people in the armed forces who will join this revolution, but we have been kept out of communication with each other, so that if one cell was compromised, it wouldn’t lead to the capture of the others. They will block communications between loyalist units and also keep the local militias pacified so that they will not rise up and fight us. The paramilitary forces will strike near Havana and move to seize the capitol building. Once we have that, we can establish the military junta until a new government that is truly of the people can be created.”

At least, that is what is supposed to happen, Damason thought. He knew there were hundreds of things that could go wrong, and each one could have a snowball effect on the entire process. But regardless of the final result, he believed the one thing that must happen to bring any change was the removal of one of the men who claimed to have brought it to the people all those decades ago. Damason might not get his shot at the real head of the Communist snake, but assassinating his brother might accomplish the same result, by removing Castro’s successor.

Damason kept repeating that simple goal as he stared out into the darkness, coming ever closer to the dawn of a new era for his country.

“He’s where?”

Kate winced and adjusted the sound on her earpiece.

Using a thermal-tracking satellite, she had been ghosting along with Jonas as he had infiltrated Castilo’s beachfront home. Although outwardly the picture of calm, her heart was in her throat when she was forced to watch, helpless, as Jonas went down as a flurry of gunshots sprayed through the air from a man in the bedroom doorway. When he turned the tables on that same person seconds later, the three cyberjocks cheered and pumped their fists in the air. They all saw him take out the two other men and exit the house, only to be waylaid by the speedboat on the ocean, which forced him overboard and destroyed his raft. Kate had then called Karen and informed her of his current location.

“Beta is fifty yards from the stern of the boat, so please let the rest of your team know to stand down—the last thing we want is a friendly-fire casualty. You might also want to have a couple of people there to assist him.”

“Affirmative,” Karen replied.

Kate heard the message go out, and tried not to tap her foot as she waited. She picked up her cup of jasmine tea and brought it to her lips, only to find that it had gone cold during Jonas’s snoop.

The cell phone’s sensitive microphone picked up running feet, and the authoritative timbre of Jonas’s voice as he snapped out orders. “Head to Cuba at top speed.”

She heard a rustling, and then Jonas came online. “This is Beta. The Miami contact is terminated. Repeat, the Miami contact is terminated.”

“What happened?” Kate asked.

“He had more guts than brains. He tried to tackle me on the way out, and was shot by his own security personnel.

Theodore got away, unfortunately. I left the site, but was attacked by a speedboat. I evaded them in the water until they left the area, then swam back to our yacht.”

Kate heard Karen’s voice in the background. “We’re heading due south at twenty-three knots. Did you know you’re bleeding?”

“Yes, it’s a graze. Please get some peroxide and bandages. You’ll have to put a temporary dressing on it. If you can, seal it against water, too.”

“How about I just simply heal you completely while I’m at it?” Karen said.