Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

“Easy for you to say—you just have to watch my back.

I’ve got the hard part, remember?” Damason was more than a bit irritable. The hurried trip out to sea and back, followed by the long ride across the country with no sleep, had not done his mood any good at all.

“It’s bad luck to talk about it. Let’s just get there and have a look around. I’m sure you’ll feel better once we get everything set up,” Lopez said.

“For our sake, I hope so.” Damason gnawed on an already ragged thumbnail, more worried than ever.

Lopez swung the truck left onto a narrow dirt road, and they smelled the thick, sweet-sour scent of cane pulp in the air. It grew stronger, and a few minutes later they came upon the cluster of buildings that made up the sugar refinery. There were already lights on in the yard and men walking around, no doubt preparing for their supreme leader’s visit. Lopez drove past the main group of tin-roofed buildings, continuing up the road to the next corner on his left. Turning, he went around the perimeter of the compound, he and Damason both noting sight lines, copses of trees, outlying building placement, exit roads and various places an assassin could use for cover.

Lopez shook his head as they circled the refinery.

“You’ve got your job cut out for you, sir.”

“Yeah.” Damason swiveled his head back and forth, not liking what he saw. The main entrance to the processing buildings was right in the middle of the acreage, flanked on almost all sides by other buildings or storage tanks. Three-quarters of the way around, after they had taken another left and were headed back the way they had come in, Damason pointed at the other side of the road. “Slow down.”

A rough path, little more than two tire tracks in the grass, led west between two clumps of forest. It wasn’t perfect, but as he looked through the foliage to the northwest, he saw that it was as good a line of sight to the main doors as he was going to get. “All right, finish the tour of the perimeter, and let’s go meet the head of the facility.”

Lopez sped up, following the road as it curved to the left, then straightened out again, and then made one last left turn to drive along the back of the large, corrugated-tin buildings where the sugarcane juice was refined into alcohol. They ended up at the intersection where they had first seen the entire place.

He drove up the main road again, turned left into the driveway, and parked the truck near the large group of buildings.

A man dressed in a dirty guayabera shirt with an unraveling sleeve and torn, spotted pants came over to them.

When he saw the military uniforms, he stiffened. “Sirs, we did not expect the army to arrive so soon—”

“Exactly, and neither would our leader’s enemies, which is why we are here now.” Damason swung out of the truck and introduced himself and Sergeant Lopez. “Where is the facility overseer?”

“That would be me, Julio Montoya, sir. We have been working around the clock ever since we received word that our leader would be visiting our plant, and I am pleased to say that I believe everything is ready for his arrival.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.” Damason fell into the role of supercilious military officer with ease.

“My sergeant and I will be inspecting the buildings and nearby grounds for placement of the security detail. I trust we will receive the necessary cooperation?”

“Oh, yes, sir, whatever you need, we will provide.” The supervisor nodded his head in fawning agreement.

“Very well. We will take a look around, and will summon you if necessary. You may return to your duties.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man hustled off to the main building, no doubt to inform the others that the advance guard had shown up. Damason reached back into the truck and pulled out a battered pair of binoculars. “Let’s take a look at that area across the yard.”

The two men slowly walked toward the far end of the complex, occasionally pointing out an area to each other or conferring on a particular structure. All the while they kept moving toward the large cluster of trees next to the rough grass path leading west.

When they reached it, Damason stepped into the brush and stamped down a space, hidden by a thin curtain of grass, large enough to kneel in while still being concealed. Looking out of the improvised blind, he saw a clear line of sight to the front of the processing buildings.

“Facing east, I’ll be aiming into the sun. The only possible advantage would be that the shadows cast by the buildings might give some relief.” Damason checked his watch.

“The rest of the men will be arriving in the next hour. Let’s get positions worked out for the rest of the perimeter, and place Gonzago right here.” Damason stared out at the spot about seventy-five yards away where, in the next two hours, a man would step in his crosshairs and fire a shot that he hoped would change everything he knew.

Walking through the tranquil Cuban landscape, Jonas was worried.

Upon a final review of the map of this section of coastline on his cell phone, he’d realized they would be better off tying up close to shore rather than near one of the outlying islands. They had traveled along the coast for another ten minutes, then swung the boat around the southern end of Cayo Fragoso Island, anchoring it below a long bridge that connected Cayo Santa Maria with the main island, about ten miles from their destination.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t grab a car and take the road over,” Marcus said as he adjusted the straps of his facemask for a more secure fit.

“That’s the problem with you young pups. You always want to do things the easy way.” Jonas checked the load on his pistol and replaced it in his thigh holster, then chambered a round in his HK MP-5 SD3 submachine gun with integral suppressor. “I don’t want to attract any more attention than we already have, and I don’t want to announce our arrival five miles before we get there. On the way back, if you want to commandeer a vehicle, I’ll see what can be arranged.”

“Cute. And don’t worry, I’ll try not to leave you too far behind during our walk,” Marcus replied.

“Don’t forget the suppressor for the rifle.”

“Already packed, Dad.”

“All right, then.” Jonas slid the last of his magazines into a pocket on his vest. “Show me what that Army of yours taught you about cross-country navigation.”

Marcus snorted. “With this setup, they really didn’t have to teach me anything. It’s practically cheating.”

The state-of-the-art headgear they were both wearing, besides having a tight-beam communication link that worked up to three miles away, featured a heads-up display that allowed the wearer to follow the best satellite-mapped route to a destination using GPS coordinates.

They had been on the move for an hour, and Jonas had been impressed by the younger man’s ability. Marcus had taken point and led them unerringly toward the sugar refinery, crossing two crumbling highways and setting a steady, ground-eating pace. He ghosted across the dark plains, and with the sensor suite he was alert to any possible trouble, such as the lone rattling car on the highway. They had flattened into the grass to avoid it, long before the occupants could have spotted them. Although Jonas admired the performance, he was sure that Marcus would have done just as well without the technology.

In fact, everything was going more smoothly than Jonas could have hoped. And that’s what worried him. It all seemed much too easy so far. Of course, considering what I went through the last time I was here on duty, perhaps I’m being overly concerned, he thought.

Unlike the thick jungle Jonas had encountered on that trip, this area was made up of lightly forested plains that had been divided into farm fields of various sizes, interspersed with groups of trees and sometimes heavier brush. They were making excellent time, but Jonas wanted to get as close as they could to the refinery before the sun began to rise. And he was even more concerned about getting their job done and getting out of there before daybreak.