Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

Castilo’s eyes gleamed with the fire of the true political radical. “As for the event that will launch the real revolution—my man inside the army is going to assassinate Raul Castro later this very morning. That is when the true liberation of Cuba will begin.”

Jonas remained still as he digested the news, but kept his pistol pointed at the motionless woman’s skull. “Go on.”

“Recently we received word that Raul will be touring agricultural companies outside of Havana, and that our man will be coordinating security. It is the perfect chance.”

“So you have a way to get in touch with him—you can call it off,” Jonas said.

Castilo shook his head. “No, once he has left the city, he will not be in communication with us until the invasion begins. The timetable is already counting down, and neither you, I nor anyone else can stop it.”

His words made Jonas lean back, only for a second, but it was enough. Castilo brought his arms, still under the sheet, up and pushed the pistol away from his wife’s head, shouting, “Security! Intruder!”

Jonas pulled away, wrenching his arm out of the other man’s grasp just as the door burst open, and another man rushed into the room. Hearing the sound of the door, Jonas had already turned, and tracked the bodyguard as he came in, hoping to catch the intruder by surprise. Jonas’s gun discharged, and the man halted in midstride, then collapsed to the floor, his pistol falling from his hand.

“¡Bastardo!” Castilo screamed.

Jonas tried to head for the French doors, but was stopped by a strong hand on his arm. Hearing running footsteps in the hallway, he twisted around and brought the butt of the pistol down on Castilo’s forehead, laying open his scalp. The businessman released him and fell back against the head-board, clutching his bleeding forehead.

Jonas cut around the corner of the bed and ran for the door. Sensing movement behind him, he dived as a fusillade of shots erupted from the hallway, one of the bullets scoring a burning line across his back. Jonas had planned to roll to the far wall and return fire, but a dead weight smashed into him, pinning him to the floor.

“Damn! I think Castilo got in the way.” Jonas heard Theodore’s voice in the hallway. “Looks like we got them both.”

Jonas played dead, hoping they would relax their guard.

“Clear the room, I’ve got to get on the horn and see what we’re going to do. This may scrub the whole damn op.”

Footsteps approached, then Jonas felt his pistol get kicked out of his hand. Someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him onto his back. “What the hell?” A goateed, wiry Hispanic frowned when he saw the mask covering Jonas’s face. “Hey, you should take a look—”

Jonas didn’t let him say anything else as he set off the flash unit mounted in the mask’s forehead. The 250,000-candlepower light burst in the merc’s eyes, blinding him. He screamed as Jonas stripped the pistol from his hand, jammed it into his chest and pulled the trigger twice. The bullets shattered ribs and carved through his heart and left him bleeding out on the hardwood floor.

Jonas kept going, shoving the body away and aiming at the hallway, catching a glimpse of Theodore dodging out of the way while shouting for backup. Jonas grabbed his pistol from the floor and ran to the doorway, a gun in each hand.

He tucked the guard’s pistol under his arm, grabbed the EMP gun and set it to overload, then launched it down the hallway. There was a loud pop and suddenly all of the lights in the house winked out.

Jonas readied his guns and walked to the archway that led to a landing overlooking the large, two-story, cathedral-ceilinged living room. He heard Theodore bark commands while he tried to raise someone on his suddenly useless cell phone. Peeking around the corner, Jonas recognized one of the men as the African who had helped load the Stinger crate on the yacht.

“Goddamn it, I can’t get a hold of anyone. Get some night vision over here—the bastard’s probably already split. And find out what the hell happened to our dogs! You two, with me,” Theodore shouted.

That’s a ballsy move, Jonas thought. Although if it was three on one, they’d still stand a good chance of capturing or killing him, most likely the latter. As for himself, Jonas had no wish to get involved in the barely controlled chaos of a firefight, particularly in a confined space. Now that he had paused for a moment, the graze on his back throbbed and his vest and shirt were sticky with blood. He needed a way to even the odds quickly. Taking a quick inventory of his equipment, he came across the large canister of tranquilizer he had used on the dogs, and the plan immediately came to him.

The two men were already at the foot of the stairs, backing each other up in a crisp leapfrog pattern. First one would advance, then crouch and cover while the other one moved forward. Jonas didn’t have time to admire their synergy, as they were already halfway up the stairs. He set the nozzle to wide-pattern spray, laid the canister down at the top of the stairs and let it rip.

The cone-shaped cloud of heavier-than-air tranquilizer drifted right into the faces of the men. Before they could react, they leaned groggily against the wall or the balustrade, then both slumped to the floor, unconscious.

“It’s just you and me now, Theodore,” Jonas called out, his modulated voice sounding eerie in the cavernous living room. Three pistol shots answered his taunt, followed by the thump of running feet. Jonas popped up to try a shot, but the larger man eluded his sight again as he rushed out the main doors. Jonas considered pursuing, but he had bigger problems than the mercenary returning with reinforcements.

If he did contact his employer—assuming he really was working with the PMC—and they pulled their forces, the men left on the island would be without any reinforcements.

It would be the Bay of Pigs all over again.

Staying low, he trotted back through the bedroom to the sunroom. The entire house was still dark, and he shimmied down the wall without a backward glance and disappeared into the forest. He heard shouts from the front of the house as he hit the beach, ran to the raft and dragged it into the surf.

Jonas gave the boat one final push and threw himself aboard just as bobbing handheld lights pierced the darkness on the shore.

How in the hell did they find me so quickly? he wondered. He triggered two shots from his pistol, hoping to keep their heads down, then remembered the silencer on the end and cursed. Stabbing the electric start button with his finger, he felt the engine shudder to life. Twisting the throttle, he sped away into the night, ducking low as muzzle-flashes flared from the beach, the shots smacking the water around him. Jonas returned fire, knowing it was futile, and thanking his luck that they weren’t carrying automatic rifles.

The sudden scream of an outboard motor as a speedboat raced out of a hidden cove told Jonas his situation had not improved. The boat sped by, and Jonas saw a flash of muzzle-fire as someone took a shot at him with a short-barreled submachine gun. Fortunately, they were moving much too fast for the bullets to even come close, but if the pilot had any idea what he was doing, Jonas knew he’d get it right on the next pass.

Jonas opened up the motor’s throttle, trying to get far away from the beach while the speedboat came back around.

When at last he was caught in the fixed spotlight of his pursuers, he pushed the raft’s tiller hard left and dived over the right side, letting the Atlantic waters close over his head as the speedboat roared past to crush the raft without stopping.

Damason leaned back in the passenger seat of the 1961

Chevrolet flatbed truck his commanding officer had assigned to him for the duration of his mission. He tried to relax. With Lopez at the wheel, they traveled down the highway that ran from Havana through Matanzas and into the province of Villa Clara, where Raul Castro’s first stop was scheduled, a visit to the sugar and tobacco plantations.