Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

“If I had wanted to simply complete the mission, you would already be dead,” Jonas said. He heaved a shuddering breath.

“Instead of sending my partner in here alone to kill you, however, I came to see you face-to-face, to try to prevent you from going down this road, that once started, cannot be undone.”

“You are very, very late to be trying to tell me what I should do. My life is not even my own anymore—it has been shaped and molded by a dictator for his own power. Perhaps if my father had been here, things might have been different.”

“But they still can be. You can leave this place, and make a new life somewhere else.” Jonas hated the pleading tone in his voice, but if it would get through to his son, he would beg if he had to. “Come with me. It’s not too late. You can start over, do anything you want to.”

Damason regarded him with a strange expression. “What about my family? You are a grandfather—a grandfather to my children, and I do not even know your name.”

Jonas pushed himself up onto his elbows. “My name is Jonas, Jonas Schrader. I can help get them out, too. Your wife and children can grow up in the U.S., in Germany, wherever you would like them to live. I can arrange it all.

For the sake of your family, don’t do this, don’t throw away your life and put them in the same position you were in.”

Jonas thought he had convinced him, for Damason seemed to relax for a moment, but then he gripped the MP-5 tighter and thrust the barrel into Jonas’s face. “It was you who put me in that position. It is precisely for my children and the thousands of children throughout Cuba who are forced into serving the revolution every year that I am doing this.” He sat back on his heels, the weapon drifting off target.

“I believe it was an American who said long ago, ‘The tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’ I will do my part to help that tree plant its roots. And now I ask you—as your son, who has never had the chance to ask anything of you before—to do the same.”

Keeping the submachine gun trained on Jonas, Damason crab-walked back to his original position and turned to watch the refinery again. He picked up the sniper rifle. Jonas pushed himself to his feet and stood for a long moment, staring at Damason. Then he slipped the mask back over his head, turned and vanished into the jungle.

“Jesus, what the hell was that all about?” Marcus had almost taken the shot when he had seen Damason turn the tables.

“I thought for sure he was going to waste you.”

“And if he had, you would have shot him, correct?” The older man’s voice was neutral, toneless.

“Damn right I would have.”

“Kate contacted you.”

“Sure she did.”

“Then I suggest you carry out your orders.”

“What? Look, I don’t know what just went down between you two—”

“What went down is that I failed to stop an assassin who is going to murder a Third World dictator if you do not pull that trigger. Now carry out your mission, Alpha.”

Marcus was struck silent by the command. He had killed men before, and the mission was worthy—kill one to save hundreds, probably thousands.

“Do it!” Jonas’s voice cracked in his ears.

Marcus steadied himself, settled the crosshairs of the scope on the officer’s upper back, exhaled and, when his lungs were empty, squeezed the trigger. The suppressed M24 made a muffled sound as it fired. The target jerked, then slumped over, the sniper rifle falling from his lifeless hands.

Marcus straightened up and replaced the covers on the sight, then slung his rifle. He crept forward to the edge of the clearing in time to see Jonas step back out, his mask in his hand again. He walked over to the still form, knelt and took the body in his arms, enfolding it close to his chest.

Although he didn’t make any sound, his body shook with silent sobs.

Marcus gave him as long as he could—a minute, perhaps—then came up behind him. “Jonas, we have to go.”

His back still to the younger man, Jonas slipped on the mask, drew his pistol and stood up. “Let’s move out.”

With Marcus in the lead, they headed due north again, slipping through the foliage to the edge of the refinery’s perimeter. The sun’s rays were illuminating the eastern horizon, with golden-and-red fingers.

Just as they were about to leave the jungle to cross the first field, Marcus held up his hand, and Jonas froze.

“I thought I saw something to the east, but there’s a lot of heat bleeding off the factory, so I can’t be sure.” Marcus gave himself a second. “Can’t confirm it—let’s keep moving before someone does spot us.”

He took a step out into the open, and the pop of an AK-47 on full auto shattered the silence. Marcus spun to the ground, hit by at least three rounds that perforated his clothes and chest. Sudden pain washed over him.

“Marcus!” Jonas hit the dirt and crawled to him. “Hold still!”

“Shit—wasn’t planning on buying it here. Funny, my arm doesn’t work anymore.”

Jonas swung his MP-5 up and peered down the sights through his mask. Rifle rounds spit over his head. They both heard shouting from the sugar mill. Clawing off his mask, Marcus lifted his head just as Jonas fired a long burst, then dropped the MP-5 and picked up Marcus’s rifle. “He’s down. Now, let’s get you out of here.”

“No—I’m not going anywhere,” Marcus said.

“The hell you aren’t. I’m not leaving you here to die.

Now, get up!” Jonas yanked on Marcus’s shirt, hauling him upright and slapping a pressure bandage in his hand. “Keep that tight on your shoulder. This is going to hurt—a lot.” He bent over and threw Marcus over his shoulder in a modified fireman’s carry. Marcus found himself staring at the ground as white spots faded from his vision.

“Jonas, you’re gonna get us both killed.”

“Don’t talk, we’re getting out of here. Keep that bandage tight against your shoulder.”

Unable to speak, Marcus shook his head and held out his hand. Jonas held it tightly as he carried him into the forest.

Part of Jonas’s thoughts screamed that he was out of his mind to even think he could bring this man out of the jungle alive.

He didn’t consider the very logical arguments for leaving Marcus behind, but concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, staying in the tree line and moving as fast as possible.

After about one hundred yards, he crested a small rise and ducked behind it, then cut north and trotted as quickly and quietly as he could, listening all the while for sounds of pursuit.

With each step he saw brighter glimmers of sunlight creeping over the horizon, and knew they were really racing the break of day, with more than ten miles to go before reaching safety.

“How you holding up back there?” he asked.

“I think I’m gonna be sick from all the up and down but otherwise, I’ve been worse. How ’bout you?” Marcus said weakly.

“No problems—we’ve only got about ten miles to go.

Piece of cake.”

Jonas didn’t hear anything behind him yet, but he knew that didn’t mean much. Crossing the highways would be the most dangerous. He figured he had covered another half mile when he heard the roar of a racing engine. Whirling around, he saw an old pickup truck with a man standing in the back behind a light machine gun that had been mounted on the roof. It was barreling down the road on a parallel course to him.

“Company coming, got to set you down for a minute.”

Jonas dropped to one knee and rolled Marcus off him. He unslung the M24, aimed at the engine, then changed his mind and put a bullet into the gunner and more in the windshield. The sound suppressor made it seem as if the shots had come out of nowhere. The truck lurched forward, then drifted right and rolled off the road into the ditch, where it stalled.