proposition. But human snipers contended with other variables, too: stinging sweat, the need to breathe, beating hearts, nagging doubts, sick kids back home, lack of sleep, fears. Most missed shots were caused by one or more of these all-too-human frailties.
Pearce disengaged both Spartan weapons systems as a safety precaution, then powered up his own small boat and motored toward the quay, where he tied up his craft next to Castillo’s yacht.
Pearce scrambled up the winding path. There was a quarter moon out tonight and he didn’t need his night-vision goggles. His pack was heavy and he sweated fiercely. When he reached the house, he ducked inside, carefully scanning for guards he might not have accounted for, but there were none. It was strange that there had only been four men protecting the head of the entire organization.
Pearce was certain that Castillo was locked away in his panic room bunker twenty feet below the estate. His security protocol would have called for him to immediately escape into the bunker if shots were ever fired.
Pearce proceeded to Castillo’s lavish office with its 360-degree view of the gulf and opened up the hidden panel showing the live video feed of Castillo in his panic room bunker. The drug lord carried his favorite gun in one hand, a chromed .50 caliber Desert Eagle encrusted with rubies and diamonds. In his other hand he had a phone connected to a landline that led to a satellite dish on top of the house. Old-fashioned copper wiring was the only way to get a cell signal down in that hole.
Pearce pressed a button on the video console so he could listen in on the conversation. But whoever was on the other end never picked up. Pearce thought that was strange. Either the person on the other end of the line had been asleep on the job or else they weren’t following the security protocol.
Pearce watched Castillo rant like a demon, then finally give up. The raging drug lord slammed the phone receiver so hard against the wall it broke in his hands.
Pearce checked his watch. He estimated he still had fifteen minutes before he would have to evacuate. Plenty of time.
The problem with hiring one of the world’s premier architectural firms was that they designed everything on high-end CAD systems, then stored the digital blueprints on mainframes for reference on current and future projects. That was Castillo’s fatal mistake. Ian had pulled up Castillo’s palace blueprints in no time. It was the bunker on the property that convinced Pearce that Castillo would choose this location for his final stand.
Pearce located Castillo’s small safe and opened it easily with a computerized lock pick. He pulled out all of the contents and stuffed them into a dry bag. What really caught Pearce’s attention was a sandwich baggie full of SD cards, the kind used in video cameras. He couldn’t wait to find out what was on them.
Pearce dashed through the house to the kitchen area. According to the blueprints, the bunker’s air ducts were hidden behind the tiled walls of the villa, but an access door was located beneath the kitchen sink for duct inspections and repair. Pearce pulled on a gas mask, opened the access door, and snaked a long, thin plastic tube down into it, then he connected a small gas bottle from his utility belt to the line. After he emptied the bottle’s contents, he tossed the bottle aside and shut the access door.
After stripping off his mask, he jogged back to the bunker video monitor. Castillo paced furiously, a crazed, caged animal. Pearce held up his smartphone and recorded the monitor images. Castillo’s legs soon turned wobbly and he tripped, then stumbled, and finally fell to the floor, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. His arms and legs jerked wildly as his jaw clacked open and shut like a rapidly blinking eye. Seconds later, he was dead.
Satisfied, Pearce exited his phone’s camera function and pocketed it.
The last item on Pearce’s agenda was in the heavy rucksack he’d hauled up the hill. It contained a specially designed two-stage demolition device. He armed it and set the timer, then jogged back down to his boat.
When his boat and the two Spartans had sped out a couple of miles, he cut the engines and turned around just in time to watch the top of the island erupt with a deafening roar. A mushroom cloud of fire boiled up into the night sky, fueled by a canister of white phosphorus. It almost looked like a volcanic explosion. It lit the ocean surface for twenty miles in all directions. Pearce assumed that NORAD was going crazy right about now.
A gentle ocean breeze brushed against Pearce’s face. The phosphorus smelled a little like garlic. He fired up his engines and headed home.
24
Maiquetia, Venzuela
Sandwiched between the steeply rising mountains looming behind it and the vast Caribbean sea on its doorstep, the city of Maiquetia featured a deepwater port, an unlimited coastline, and the Simon Bolivar International Airport. There was also a secured compound that protected a safe house. Ulises Castillo had been its only guest for the last week. The last surviving Castillo was under the special protection of General Agostino Ribas, the defense minister of Venezuela.
Udi and Tamar were bored to tears. They had been floating off the coast of Maiquetia on a sixty-three-foot yacht for three days. Myers had forbidden Pearce to take out Ulises on Venezuelan soil so Udi and Tamar were reduced to babysitting.
The first day the Israelis arrived was the most exciting. They went onshore and planted spider drones equipped with microphones and pinhead-size cameras for data collection on Ulises, but they had been confined to the yacht at sea ever since. The boat was also equipped with long-range laser voice detection and video surveillance systems. They even had an RQ-11 Raven, a miniature unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) that could be launched by hand at a moment’s notice. But that was their only drone. They were too far away from friendly airstrips for ground-launched operations.
When General Ribas suddenly arrived at the safe house with an armed escort, Udi and Tamar scrambled into action. Ribas entered Ulises’s living quarters alone, leaving his two personal bodyguards outside the door.
Udi and Tamar tuned in to the conversation that was being recorded on video.
Ribas puffed thoughtfully on a fat cigar, clouding the small living room with blue smoke. The two men sat opposite each other on worn leather couches, separated by a glass coffee table.
“Your father and I have been friends for a long time. That is why he entrusted you to my care.” Ribas leaned forward and pointed his cigar at Ulises. “You know, I held you in my arms once when you were a small baby.”
“You and
“Whores, too. We made good money.”
“Still do, from what he says.” Ulises smiled.
Ribas roared with laughter. “Just like your old man!” Ribas took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigar before stabbing out the butt in the ashtray on the table. “Look, I have some bad news.”
Ulises frowned. “My father?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Ulises demanded.
“It does not matter. I am truly sorry.”
“The Americans?”
“Yes, of course. Who else could it be? They are animals.” Ribas observed the ruthless young Castillo carefully.
Ulises stared at his enormous hands, emotionless. “It was inevitable, I suppose,” Ulises said. “The Americans are too powerful.”
“You are welcome to remain here, of course,” Ribas offered.
Ulises glanced back up, smiling. “I can’t kill Americans sitting here.”
Ribas laughed again. “Your father would be proud.”
“How soon can you get me back to Mexico?”
