The Powers That Be

“Unknown, ma’am.”

Kate weighed her options. No new information on Damason had come up that would necessitate what looked like a contact attempt. Operatives in the field had almost unlimited ability to do whatever was necessary to complete a mission, however, this looked like something else entirely. Even in the jungle, Jonas shouldn’t have needed to get that close to carry out a termination—the man was a sniper, after all. He should be able to tag anyone from several hundred yards out.

Kate’s instincts jangled again. Something wasn’t right, she was sure of it. “Get me Beta.” She knew it was a risk, but at the very least she had to confirm that something hadn’t gone wrong.

Kate heard the chime of the outgoing call ring again and again. “Beta is not answering,” KeyWiz said.

What the hell is he doing? “Keep trying to raise him, and get me Alpha right away.”

Kate unclenched her hands, hating what she was feeling—the rising sense that she was not in control of the situation. “Goddamn it, Jonas, what are you up to?” She opened another screen and brought up the Valdes file. What is it about him? she wondered.

NiteMaster signaled her. “Link to Alpha open.”

“Alpha, this is Primary. Give me a status report,” Kate said.

What she heard next made her jaw drop. “He told you what? ”

Once Marcus had given the clear signal, Jonas had begun his own patient stalking of Damason, slipping through the jungle with ease. The old skills had fully awakened, and his senses thrummed with the rush of information he was taking in—the dank, leafy smell of the jungle around him, the silent placement of each foot, the cautious scan of the trees and brush around him as he progressed. His instructor during GSG-9 training had often described silent infiltration as the most dangerous hunt, trying to capture or kill the ultimate prey, and at that moment, Jonas agreed completely.

He stole through the forest, each step bringing him closer to his goal.

A soft chime sounded in his ear, indicating an incoming transmission. Jonas checked the corner of the screen, grimacing at seeing Primary was calling. He ignored the call and kept moving forward. He was too close to start an argument with Kate, who was no doubt calling to find out exactly what he was doing.

He’d handle that later, regardless of the final conse-quences.

Taking a deep breath, Jonas kept sliding through the brush. The coming dawn was visible through the canopy, painting the trees in shades of pink and gold under a partly cloudy sky. For the final few steps, he switched off the thermal vision, preferring to use his own eyes. He was close enough to make out Damason hunched over in a crouch as he waited for his own prey. Another signal flashed in the corner of his vision. Marcus was getting a call, from Kate, no doubt. It was now or never.

Pistol at the ready, Jonas stepped out from the brush, about three yards away from the Cuban army major. He was careful to approach from directly behind the other man, not only making sure he wasn’t detected, but also preventing Marcus from taking out Damason before he could talk to him.

As he inched forward, Jonas saw a Soviet-era Dragunov sniper rifle held in the other man’s hands, as steady as a rock, and no doubt ready to fire. Taking another slow step, he also saw that Damason didn’t have his finger on the trigger yet.

One last step brought him right behind the waiting would-be assassin, close enough to touch him. Jonas resisted the urge to place his hand on the man’s shoulder, and slowly lowered his submachine gun instead.

Placing the muzzle of the suppressor to the man’s ear, Jonas whispered. “Do not move, or I will be forced to kill you.”

Damason froze, not daring to twitch a muscle. His first thought was not for his own safety, but for Lopez. If this man was behind him, then his sergeant must already be dead.

“What do you want?” he said calmly.

“First, set down the rifle. I know this will be hard to believe, but I’m here to help you.” The voice sounded strange, as if it was filtered through some kind of electronic device.

“I’m here on behalf of the United States government.”

Damason was sure the man was lying, but he set the Dragunov aside for the moment. “They would never send an American agent down here—too risky,” he said.

“I never said I was an American, just that I work with them. Right now, another man is aiming a rifle at your back.

I’m the only thing standing between you and him.”

“Is he with you?”

“Yes.”

“But you have come to warn me? Protect me?”

“From that, and a lot more. Over the past forty-eight hours, the plan to assassinate Castro has been detected and stopped. There will be no reinforcement from the mercenaries and your contact in Miami, Rafael Castilo, is dead.”

“How do you know all of this?” He felt the pressure of the gun barrel behind his ear ease, and looked behind him to see the man stepping back.

The gunman wore a strange mask that covered his entire face, making him resemble something out of a science-fiction movie. But the weapon in his hand never wavered.

The man reached up and pulled the mask off.

“I was posing as the arms dealer who sold your people the Stingers. It was all a setup. Our people are tracking the inserted men even as I speak, and I was sent to stop you by any means necessary.”

Damason’s jaw dropped, and he stood up and turned fully around. “But the U.S. has been trying to kill the Castros for decades. Now, when there is a real chance for that to happen, you are sent to stop me? I will have Raul in my sights in less than one hour. There will not be anyone here who can stop me. Yet you are doing just that.”

“Major Valdes, please, listen to me. This is not the way.

Although the death of the Castros would certainly be justified for what they have done to your people, there is a very good chance that it would also tear the country apart in a civil war that could last for months, perhaps years. We’ve heard of the rumblings of discontent among your generals—how long would it be before one of them decided he could take the whole island over, and place you all right back where you were?”

Damason shook his head. “No, the plan will work—it has to. The people cannot take any more of this— struggling to survive every day while rich tourists come in and support the current government with their money, and nothing comes down to help the people. Castro trains doctors, then sends them to other countries, while our own people are sick every day, forced to languish in filthy, ill-equipped hospitals. People with advanced degrees working as cabdrivers, or, God forbid, prostitutes, because there are no jobs for some, and for others, they cannot make enough to survive.”

“But change has been coming—slowly, yes, I admit it—

but surely you must have seen it. There are those in the government who feel as you do, I’m sure of it. Once the current leadership is gone—”

“When? When will that be? People have been saying that for forty years, and yet it continues. He continues. They will always continue, unless something is done to change it, now.”

Damason looked at the man again, a nagging awareness in his mind that there was something very familiar about him, but not able to figure out what. “You came to warn me. I say that if you truly want to stop me, you will have to kill me.

Otherwise I am going to pick up that rifle and complete my mission.”

“Damason, I’m asking you to listen to reason, not gamble your country’s future on a wild plan that has no hope of succeeding.”

“Even if the plan fails, I will not. My name will be spoken in the same breath as other true heroes who fought for Cuba’s freedom.” Damason’s eyes gleamed with righteous fervor.

“At the very least, I will have done something that no other person, no other government, could accomplish. I will have helped put an end to the dictatorship that has strangled our country.”

He turned back to the Dragunov rifle on the ground. “If you truly wish to stop me, then you will have to shoot me.” Picking up the rifle, he aimed at the yard again, waiting either for a bullet to punch through the back of his