The Powers That Be

head and kill him, or for an armored limousine to drive up and for his target to appear.

“Goddamn it, get out of the way so I can pop this guy,” Marcus muttered as he stared through the Leupold Ultra M3A scope of his M24A2 sniper rifle. He had tried contacting Beta before he had taken his mask off, but the older man had turned off his communication system, leaving Marcus hanging in the wind.

After he had told Kate what Beta had said, and what he was doing, she had given Marcus his marching orders in clipped sentences. “Continue your observation.” There was a pause.

“If Jonas does not carry out his primary mission, you are to terminate the subject. If Beta tries to stop you—” Marcus couldn’t help noticing the pause “—he is to be terminated, as well, then you are to depart the area immediately afterward.”

Although the orders sounded strange to his ears, Marcus wasn’t totally surprised by them. The mission came above everything else, even a fellow operative. If Beta had suddenly gone rogue, for whatever reason, then he was a threat and had to be taken down, just like Valdes. Marcus hoped that wasn’t the case. He liked the guy, and didn’t want to kill him if he didn’t have to.

But why is he wasting time jawing with this dude? Marcus peered through the scope, watching Valdes’s face as he apparently argued with the other man. He’s got cojones, that’s for sure. While Marcus could have taken the shot at that moment, he was concerned that Beta might be wounded, as well, or that Valdes might be holding an unseen gun on the other man.

Marcus considered shifting position, but something was nagging at him. Why did Beta remove his mask? Marcus was pretty sure the Cuban army major wouldn’t welcome with a big hug the man he had earlier thought was an illegal arms dealer. But for the life of him, Marcus couldn’t figure out why Beta hadn’t simply taken him out. He had him dead to rights.

Marcus stared through the scope, taking in every detail of the man he had been assigned to eliminate. His finger tightened on the trigger and he breathed in and out one last time as he prepared to take the shot.

Lowering his gun, Jonas was at a loss. He could not order Damason to stop, and he was sure he couldn’t kill him.

There was only one card left to play.

“Major Valdes—Damason. Look at me.”

The Cuban officer slowly turned and regarded him with a flat stare.

“Earlier I d told you I worked with the Americans. Before that, I worked for my homeland of Germany, and traveled around the world, hunting terrorists. One of the places I was sent was Cuba, back in the early 1970s.”

“And?”

“While here, I met a young woman by the name of Marisa,” Jonas said.

Jonas saw Damason flinch at the mention of his mother. The soldier took a closer look at Jonas, as if really taking in his face for the first time, his eyes widening. “You cannot mean…”

Jonas nodded, not trusting his voice to say the words. He was drowning in unfamiliar waters, unsure of what to say that could possibly make this man understand everything that had come between them over the decades.

Damason stared at him, his eyes round with shock. “She told me…before she died…how my father had been killed.

An accident at the sugar mill…”

Jonas swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I—I couldn’t stay with her, nor could I get her out of the country. It wasn’t possible at the time.”

“So you just fucked her and then ran off? You left my mother and me to fend for ourselves in this hellhole of a country, alone?”

“I came back as soon as I could—I tried to find her—”

Jonas said.

“You had six years to do that. She died when I was six, leaving me to be raised by the state.You turned me into exactly what I am today, padre. ” The last word held no warmth at all.

“I had no idea that you were even alive. I couldn’t find any records of her here—”

Damason flew at Jonas, slamming into his chest, sending him tumbling to the ground, the gun flying from his hand.

Snatching up the weapon, the soldier knelt and aimed it at his father’s head. “I would think you would be enjoying this more, padre, seeing what I have become. You must have killed in your line of work, yes?”

Jonas nodded, trying to suck in enough air to speak.

“As have I, many times. Tell me something—did they all deserve it?”

Jonas thought about that for a moment. He had killed in defense of his country, and in defense of liberty, but could he truly say that everyone who had fallen in his sights had been guilty? “I—I don’t know,” he stammered.

“In my line of work, I was often ordered to arrest people who were innocent, who just wanted a better life for themselves or their families. Somewhere inside me, I knew that, but I ignored it, choosing to believe they were enemies of the revolution. But there came a time when I couldn’t stomach the lies I told myself, and that was when I knew I had to do what was right. So tell me, father, is that why you came here? To do what is right? Or are you just here to complete your mission, doing exactly what your superiors tell you to do? Is the fact that we are related just a mere twist of chance?”

“If I had wanted to simply complete the mission, you would already be dead,” Jonas said. He heaved a shuddering breath.

“Instead of sending my partner in here alone to kill you, however, I came to see you face-to-face, to try to prevent you from going down this road, that once started, cannot be undone.”

“You are very, very late to be trying to tell me what I should do. My life is not even my own anymore—it has been shaped and molded by a dictator for his own power. Perhaps if my father had been here, things might have been different.”

“But they still can be. You can leave this place, and make a new life somewhere else.” Jonas hated the pleading tone in his voice, but if it would get through to his son, he would beg if he had to. “Come with me. It’s not too late. You can start over, do anything you want to.”

Damason regarded him with a strange expression. “What about my family? You are a grandfather—a grandfather to my children, and I do not even know your name.”

Jonas pushed himself up onto his elbows. “My name is Jonas, Jonas Schrader. I can help get them out, too. Your wife and children can grow up in the U.S., in Germany, wherever you would like them to live. I can arrange it all.

For the sake of your family, don’t do this, don’t throw away your life and put them in the same position you were in.”

Jonas thought he had convinced him, for Damason seemed to relax for a moment, but then he gripped the MP-5 tighter and thrust the barrel into Jonas’s face. “It was you who put me in that position. It is precisely for my children and the thousands of children throughout Cuba who are forced into serving the revolution every year that I am doing this.” He sat back on his heels, the weapon drifting off target.

“I believe it was an American who said long ago, ‘The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’ I will do my part to help that tree plant its roots. And now I ask you—as your son, who has never had the chance to ask anything of you before—to do the same.”

Keeping the submachine gun trained on Jonas, Damason crab-walked back to his original position and turned to watch the refinery again. He picked up the sniper rifle. Jonas pushed himself to his feet and stood for a long moment, staring at Damason. Then he slipped the mask back over his head, turned and vanished into the jungle.

“Jesus, what the hell was that all about?” Marcus had almost taken the shot when he had seen Damason turn the tables.

“I thought for sure he was going to waste you.”

“And if he had, you would have shot him, correct?” The older man’s voice was neutral, toneless.

“Damn right I would have.”

“Kate contacted you.”

“Sure she did.”