An image of an overweight middle-aged man in a suit and tie filled the screen. Balding, he had meaty features and a fat mustache.
Tower turned the remote over to Shields.
She stood. “Meet Luis Rafael Sánchez Mantilla. He’s the brother-in-law of Venezuela’s disputed president. The US has long suspected him of colluding with the Andes Cartel to move cocaine through Venezuela to the US market and Europe. He has his own paramilitary forces, which functions as his personal army of hitmen, his privatesicarios. He calls them theGuachimanes—the Watchmen.”
Shields then gave them a quick update on the situation in Venezuela—its conflicted presidency, the terrible state of the economy, the lack of food and healthcare, mass emigration, high crime rate, violence. “The government’s relationship with the US is strained, to say the least, and any US military presence, even a private company like Cobra, would create an international furor.”
Dylan had to ask. “Is there any chance Sister María or the other sisters are part of the drug operation?”
He’d heard of stranger things.
Tower shook his head. “I asked the same question. Our source at the Pentagon says the priest in charge of the Mission is involved, but the nuns reportedly are not.”
“How do they know? Where do they get their intel?” Segal asked.
It was a good question.
“They refused to say but assure me it’s ironclad.” Tower took the remote once more and clicked, bringing up a satellite image. “These intel sources believe that the hostages are together and are being held here—in a warehouse in San Antonio de Los Altos. It’s a mountainous area and close to Caracas, the nation’s capital.”
Shields pointed at the image. “San Antonio sits beside an area zoned for military use only. You can see here that it has an airfield. The DEA believes that Sánchez and the Andes Cartel might be using thisZona Militarto move drugs, but they haven’t been able to prove it.”
Hostages. A drug cartel. Corrupt government and military officials.
Dylan had been right. This assignmentwasgoing to be interesting—and dangerous.
The only easy day was yesterday.
He was eager to get airborne, the image of Sister María trying to fend off the assailants fixed in his mind. “So, what’s our play?”
* * *
Sister María saton a shipping crate, about to share a meal with thesicarioswho had kidnapped her. She waited for the men to fill their bowls and find a seat, glaring at those who tried to start eating without saying grace.
The one with the thick glasses they called Topo, or Mole, shifted guiltily under the weight of her gaze but didn’t eat.
Who’d known how much authority came with wearing a habit?
They’d let her out of the basement yesterday, allowing her to move freely up and down the stairs and making her their go-between. She took Dianne and Tim their meals, brought clean water for them to drink, and let the guards know when one of them needed to use a restroom. She’d managed to get more blankets, too, making their nights more comfortable. Their abductors had even allowed her to write a letter to her contact, disguised as a letter to the Reverend Mother in Peru, telling him that they were alive and where they were being held.
Her captors had read the letter, of course, but María had been writing in code for the past six months. Of course, she hadn’t planned on being kidnapped and didn’t have a prearranged code for “we’re being held in a warehouse in San Antonio de Los Altos,” so she’d had to improvise.
She was grateful for her freedom of movement—and for what it enabled her to see and overhear. She’d memorized the layout of the warehouse and knew the location of every guard post and every exit. She knew, too, that Luis Sánchez was behind the abduction and that he was mad as hell at his men for abducting her with the others. She’d also gleaned that Sánchez would order a military “rescue” once the ransom was paid—an attempt to ingratiate himself with the US government.
Create a crisis and then resolve the crisis while earning millions. For Sánchez, it was win-win-win—except for one tiny problem. María knew the truth.
A sad day for you, Sánchez, you son of a bitch.
“Look at all of you, intimidated by a little nun.” The one they called Pitón—the one who’d thrown her over his shoulder—walked in, filled his bowl, and sat, bowing his head and crossing himself with mock piety.
María crossed herself, the men around her,sicariosand bandits, doing the same. “Bless us, Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”
She crossed herself again, and then began to eat, the men following her example.
“Do you think you’re saving our souls,Hermanita?” Pitón looked over at her, his gaze tinged with lust.
It was only her being a religious sister that kept him from trying to do more than look—she was certain of that.
“Of course, not.” She refused to make eye contact. “Only God can do that.”