Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

His old friend van Delden was a physical monster, second to none in close-quarters combat, but this Ryan guy was no wimp, either, according to Bykov’s description. Was it possible a financial analyst was able to take out his number two? No. Impossible.

“There is one other thing. The CIA bitch told Ryan the name ‘Sammler.’”

“What does Ryan know?”

“Nothing, according to our CNI friend. Moore just mentioned the name to Ryan as she died.” Bykov chuckled. “Last thing she thought about before going tits up.”

“Something isn’t right about this guy.”

“I did a little of my own checking on Hendley Associates. They handle big international accounts, mostly corporate, sometimes individuals. In my experience, these high-end finance guys hide their identities as best they can because they work with a lot of shady characters. It gives them an advantage in negotiations and protects them from the more dangerous elements. I’ve seen it before.”

Guzmán scratched his beardless chin. “I don’t buy it. This Ryan cabrón ‘accidentally’ shows up to a meeting with a CIA agent that he already knows just as she’s about to meet the target? The next day he goes to the U.S. consulate and meets with the CIA chief of station while he is also working with the CNI. You really think this is just a finance guy?”

“If you feel he is a threat, I can make him a borscht easily enough.”

Guzmán grinned at Bykov’s little joke. Making Ryan a borscht was the Russian’s way of saying he would make the man into a blood-red soup, dissolving his corpse in a barrel of acid, the same way the Mexican cartels disposed of their opponents—sometimes before they were dead. It was a gruesome but effective way of destroying DNA evidence.

Something told Guzmán that Bykov was right. And the Russian operator was, after all, the man on the ground.

But if Ryan worked for a big financial firm run by an American ex-senator, that meant he had powerful and influential friends. If Ryan really was just a financial analyst and had no real connection to the operation in Barcelona, it would be an unnecessary mistake to eliminate him—an “unforced error” as they said in American baseball, which he loved with a passion.

Yet, Bykov was onto something. If Ryan was a threat, he needed to be eliminated. Things were too far along now. They couldn’t afford to have Ryan throw sand into the gearbox. Whether Ryan was merely a businessman or a security operative, if he posed a threat, he needed to be eliminated. But Guzmán needed evidence that Ryan was, in fact, a threat. More important, he needed to know if Ryan was responsible for van Delden’s death.

“What do you propose, Bykov? You’re the man on the ground.”

“When Ryan left the restaurant, our eyes met, though only briefly. Perhaps it was an accident. Perhaps not. But he has the look of a predator and that makes me nervous.”

“Was he carrying a weapon?”

“Not that I saw, though I admit, I didn’t have much time to observe him.”

“Your recommendation?”

“Kill him.”

—

Bykov was a good operator, not prone to panic. Like all of the others under Guzmán’s authority, he had previously served with a national military organization before selling his combat experience to the private sector.

Guzmán was different. He’d been forcibly retired from the Guatemalan Army.

He joined as early as he could to escape the grinding poverty of subsistence farming in the highlands. At first, Guzmán was mistaken for another dull campesino, but his incredible physical and intellectual skills stood out from his first days in uniform.

A born hunter, he moved swiftly and silently through the bush, his bloodied machete an extension of his wiry arm. More important, his cunning mind seemed perfectly tuned for small-unit tactics.

But it was his capacity for violence that made him truly stand out, and he was immediately accepted into the Guatemalan elite Special Forces unit, the Kaibiles. He not only raised and killed his companion puppy—a notorious initiation ritual in Kaibiles training—he gladly skinned and roasted it over an open flame, and devoured it in front of his approving officers. He daily proved himself a dedicated warrior in service of the unit, eager and able to carry out the most difficult orders in the government’s war with the cartels.

Guzmán rose through the ranks, one of the Kaibiles’ most competent and trusted commanders, whose instincts on the battlefield were matched only by his steadfast devotion to the men under his command. These were the reasons why his unit was selected to fight in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. His troops dominated the field, and in true Kaibiles fashion, showed no mercy to their enemies, military or civilian. When charges were raised by international rights groups, the Palacio Verde—Guatemala’s White House—demanded Guzmán punish the enlisted men involved. He refused.

For his devotion to his men, he was forcibly cashiered from the Army. But it was that devotion that compelled two dozen of his best fighters to follow him into private employment, even out here, to the very depths of the merciless sea. And it was that devotion that bound another seventy-odd operators to him today, including Bykov.

Guzmán blew out a long breath, thinking. He had a reputation for completing his missions and fulfilling his contracts to the letter, a record he was proud of. A point of honor, in fact. This particular contract they were working on was the most difficult and dangerous of his career.

It was also the most lucrative.

He also had the reputation of protecting the lives of his men at whatever the cost in blood or treasure. It was Guzmán’s point of honor to always ensure that both mission and men were protected.

When the two came into conflict? Normally, he sided with his men. But fulfilling this contract was especially important.

“Bykov, I want you to step up your surveillance of this Ryan asshole. Take it as far as you need to without touching him and report back to me tomorrow. If necessary, we’ll snatch him and find out what he’s really up to before we let you toss him into the pot. ¿Me entiendes? ”

“Perfectly.”

“Good.” Guzmán ended the call. He zoomed in on Ryan’s photo, studying the young face.

If Ryan was responsible for van Delden’s death, he needed to suffer badly.

17

BARCELONA, SPAIN

Renée Moore had BEEN KILLED ONLY yesterday. Her murderers might have already fled the country. Time was their ally, his enemy. So Jack kept pushing. It was his only hope of getting justice for his friend.

Jack rubbed his tired eyes. After hours of reviewing the CCTV images Gavin had secured, he still wasn’t sure what he had, if anything. No audio didn’t help, either.

Part of the problem was that he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The story Brossa and the CNI had settled on was pretty straightforward. A bomb was clearly detonated inside L’avi and a member of the terrorist group known as Brigada Catalan, Noèlia Aleixandri—the Bluetooth Blonde—was inside at the time.

All of that was verified on the digital file. The explosion itself destroyed the only working camera. Before the explosion, the blonde was standing at the bar not too far from him.

Brigada Catalan’s motives were well known, thanks to its radical online manifesto. It had claimed credit for the attack in social media just minutes after the explosion. Jack could tell by Brossa’s demeanor that she felt the case was closed. In a way, he couldn’t blame her. Cops and case officers liked closing cases, and the easiest ones to close were the simplest ones. Occam’s razor and all of that.

But his review of the digital files had raised a few questions he couldn’t quite answer.