impression of our work here. I think I can change your mind… Convince you to see things our way…”
Palmer glanced at the high definition screens a final time. He watched a man injecting one of the monkeys with poison, looked away immediately.
“Don’t bother, Dr. Reed,” Palmer replied. “Nothing you say could ever change my mind. As of this moment, consider the Malignant Wave Project cancelled.”
From behind mirrored sunglasses, Pizarro Rojas placidly observed the Las Vegas strip as it rolled past his windshield. The MGM lion blazed rose gold in the fading light, the sun a radiant ball of fire in the fast purpling sky.
In the seat beside him, his twin brother Balboa snored quietly. But Balboa had been in America for months now. The Las Vegas strip was nothing new to him. In fact, his brother showed very little appreciation of America, or perhaps he merely missed his wife and family back in Colombia.
For Pizarro this place was astonishing, a revelation. Though he’d heard about such luxury, never in his wildest imaginings did he envision the spectacle.
Pizarro Rojas reclined his seat, stretched his short, powerful legs. The middle row of the sports utility vehicle was roomy and comfortable, the air conditioner flooded the compartment with cool filtered air, enough to stir his long, curly hair. In all respects, he decided this was a much better ride than the steel box he and his two bodyguards had ridden in across the U.S./Mexican border.
“What do you think, Carlos?” Pizarro called to the driver. “Does this vulgar display of capitalistic excess offend your socialist sensibilities?”
Carlos Boca, an ex-Cuban special forces commando, glanced at his young boss’s reflection in the rear view mirror.
“What offends me is that Fidel was such an ass,” Boca replied with a sneer. “After the Revolution, in 1960, casinos like this… All this money… It could have belonged to Cuba. If Castro had nationalized the resorts, modernized them, then he could have used the jobs and the influx of foreign capital to benefit the Cuban people.”
“If he catered to foreign economic interests, then our beloved Fidel would have been no different than that pig Batista.” As he spoke, Roland Arrias ran his fingers along the jagged scar that ripped a canal down the right side of his face. Like the driver, Roland had a powerful build, thick neck and a shaved head.
“You are wrong, my brother,” Carlos replied. “Vietnam and China are models for the future. Not the economic cesspool Cuba has become.”
Pizarro Rojas knew the two men were as close as brothers — with their powerful physiques and army haircuts, they even resembled one another. Only Roland’s grotesque scar set the men apart. The pair bickered constantly, usually over Cuban politics. Somewhere along the line, Carlos had lost faith in his Supreme Leader and the Communist Revolution, while his fellow Cuban remained a committed ideologue. The pair looked to be in their forties, but Pizarro didn’t know which was older, which the younger. All he cared about was the fact that both men were ex-Cuban Special Forces and trustworthy allies.
Back at Big Dean’s Truck Farm, the Cubans had traded their dusty denims and work boots for dark suits and black silk shirts. Under the jackets, in shoulder holsters, each man carried a Russian-made Makarov PM. Carlos also had a long Spanish steel stiletto strapped to his leg. Stashed in a secret compartment hidden under the floor mats were their AK–47s, along with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Somewhere along this route, another SUV with six other military trained Cuban expatriates was moving toward the same rendezvous — Bix Automotive.
Roland Arrias snorted. “You are the fool, my friend. Russia lost the courage of their convictions, turned to Western-style democracy — which there is no such thing. Now the Russian people live in a gangster state.”
Listening to these men, Pizarro was reminded of the conversations he and Balboa shared with their youngest brother, Francesco. Little Franco never cared for politics. He loved music and women. Always a hothead, Francesco was beloved by their mother and doted on by their father. As leader of the cartel’s hit team, Francesco was also respected by the men under his command, some much older than he was. And young women could not resist his charms, either. When he was gunned down by an unknown American agent in Nicaragua, Francesco left two bastard children behind, from two separate mothers. At least his children would live on, under the care of their paternal grandparents.
It was those same American agents that stole back the technology his family had paid dearly for — in money
Behind his sunglasses, Pizarro’s expression darkened. Ahead of them stood the many tiered tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino. A banner fluttered from the building’s mammoth portico, proclaiming the resort as the site of the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. The Cubans also fell silent as they passed the target of their impending operation.
In just a few hours Pizarro Rojas would return, along with his brother Balboa, and his team of Cuban assassins. He would return to this majestic place to exact a measure of vengeance for the crimes committed against his family — not just vengeance against America, but against other Latin American governments and law enforcement agencies who dared to oppose the Rojas cartel.
After the daring assault and the multiple assassinations to come, the defeats of the past would be forgotten. With their honor and respect fully restored, the other cartels would clamor to join a new alliance forged and ruled by the Rojas clan. Soon his family would control all of the cocaine production and distribution in the Northern Hemisphere, just as the Saudi Arabian sheiks controlled the oil flowing out of the Middle East. Even America, with all of her military might, would be paralyzed with the dread of another cartel attack. Their leaders would make speeches, promise to wage yet another war against drugs, while sitting on their pristine, perfectly-manicured hands and doing nothing.
For nearly an hour, Curtis Manning saw no one enter or leave the multiple-block compound of Bix Automotive, though the mysterious activity inside the garage clearly continued. Occasionally Curtis would see the flash of a welder’s torch visible behind the garage’s oily windows, or someone would step outside for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, only to be ordered back into the enormous garage by Roman Vine, Bix’s strong-arm man. Manning noted that today Vine was carrying an illegal sawed-off shotgun, and he wasn’t shy about flashing it.
Curtis was about to report in when he observed a Saturn minivan roll up to the garage door. Roman Vine spied the car and waved it forward. Curtis quickly counted four men inside the car before they drove into the garage. He didn’t get a good look at the faces, though he did notice that one man wore reflecting sunglasses. Curtis noticed this because the man stared directly at the abandoned Tool and Die factory as if he were looking right at Curtis.
Dutifully, Curtis snapped a digital image of the men with his PDA, then forwarded it to Morris O’Brian at the Cha-Cha Lounge. While he performed that task, another SUV — this one a Chrysler — pulled onto the Bix lot. Curtis had no time to snap digital pictures of the men inside that vehicle. They all appeared to be Hispanic males in their late twenties or early thirties. Curtis counted six men in the car.
Curtis had just pulled the cell phone out of his pocket when his PDA sounded. He checked the display and discovered his data drop to Morris had not gone through.
Suddenly alarmed, Curtis then checked his cell phone and found he could not get a signal, no matter how hard he tried. That should have been impossible, because he’d used the cell phone when he last checked in with Morris, less than thirty minutes before.
Someone was jamming the signals in the area, which meant that Bix or his men probably suspected someone was in the vicinity, spying on them. Curtis tucked the devices into his pocket, then reached for his jacket. It was time to go.
Carlos Boca looked up from the liquid crystal display screen. “You were correct, Pizarro. There was someone in that building across the street. I believe they are still there.”
Pizarro stood in the middle of the crowded garage. Hugo Bix had come down from his tattered office to greet the Colombian brothers and their Cuban allies, only to be silenced by an angry Pizarro Rojas. Chewing his lip, Pizarro
