This changed everything.
If Luis could capture this bastard, if he could prove that the US had operatives on Venezuelan soil....
His brother-in-law would be indebted to him for giving him the biggest public-relations coup of his time in office. Luis would demand an important ministerial appointment or a military rank as his reward for turning the soldier over for interrogation.
Of course, Luis would take his pound of flesh from this commando bastard first.
“Is the nun still with him?” She might be easier to identify.
“No one saw them leave the building, so we cannot be sure.”
“Who knows about this?”
“About the commando? No one outside of yourGuachimanes, Jefe.”
“Keep this secret for now. Put police checkpoints on all the roads in and out of the city. Search every taxi, bus, and car that tries to leave. Cover the airport in Caracas, too.”
“Sí, Jefe.” There was hesitation in Mono’s voice. “No one saw his face.”
There were days when Luis wondered if he was the only one in his operation with a fucking brain. “He’s a gringo. Check everyone’s identification. He won’t have an ID card, or, if he does, it will be fake. He probably won’t speak Spanish. Detain any man traveling alone with a nun. Bring any gringos you find to me.”
“What about the nun?”
Luis wondered if she would try to protect the gringo out of gratitude for rescuing her. “When you find her, bring her here. And, Mono, she must not be harmed. We have no quarrel with her. I’ll see her returned safely to the mission.”
“Sí, Jefe.”
8
It was more difficult making their way through the city than Gabriela had imagined. The streets were crawling withGuachimanes, recognizable by their black uniforms and their rifles. It didn’t take CIA training to figure out that someone had witnessed the fight in the street last night. Sánchez knew they were here.
The rumble of a truck engine.
Dylan drew her into an alley, the two of them ducking down behind a large steel trash bin. The truck, another troop transport, stopped at the corner, a dozen men leaping to the ground, their boots echoing up and down the street.
“It’s getting too hot out here.” Dylan had his pistol in hand. “We need to get off the street,Hermana.”
They spoke only Spanish, as the sound of English would make them stand out.
“That’s not going to be easy.”
They had skirted the edge of town to get here, sticking mostly to stretches of park and forest, trying to reach the Carretera Panamericana—the Panamerican Highway—that would take them to Colombia. But this part of town was mostly apartment buildings.
The thud of heavy boots on asphalt grew closer.
“Hide in the trash bin, Sister. Quickly! I’ll give you a boost.”
She grabbed the edges of the heavy steel container, strong hands lifting her from behind, steadying her as she hoisted herself over the top and dropped into a waist-deep sea of garbage. The reek was awful—rotten fish, dog poop, cigarettes. Still, she didn’t complain. She’d take bad smells over being caught any day.
Dylan dropped his pack over the edge and climbed in beside her, throwing a piece of discarded plastic over her, closing the lid, and retreating behind several full garbage bags. “Stay hidden no matter what happens. Don’t worry about the rats.”
“Rats?” She couldn’t see in the dark, but she could hear them. “Shit!”
Boots. Men’s voices.
Lying in the putrid darkness, she heard Dylan check his pistol, and her pulse picked up. She fought her fear, focused on listening.
“Perez, check behind the trash bin.”