Andrew Peterson - Forced to Kill

The loadmaster issued a nod.

USMC Staff Sergeant Erick Ramsland leapt into a moonless night.

Subzero air instantly whipped his jumpsuit. A slow tumble offered him a final look at the C-130J’s black form. Higher than Mount Everest, he stabilized into belly flight as he reached terminal velocity-nearly a football field per second.

He glanced at the backlit GPS device strapped to his wrist, but it didn’t register coordinates. His forward speed hadn’t bled off yet. Ten thousand feet lower, massive cumulus towers awaited his arrival. He’d be penetrating their ghostly forms within the next thirty seconds. They weren’t fully developed, but they’d still pack plenty of punch.

He took another look at the GPS. Good, coordinates were displayed. Using the compass on the opposite wrist, he made a slight course correction to the east, then a finer adjustment due south. On the western horizon, the faint glow from Porlamar foreshadowed the vast city of Caracas beyond.

This wasn’t his first HALO jump, but it could be the most dangerous. His orders were to secure tonight’s target alive and transport him to the extraction point. Using the target’s personal vehicle remained the best option, but he wouldn’t know how to play it until he assessed the situation. Ramsland considered himself a human smart bomb. Nothing more, nothing less. Questioning orders lead to doubt and this mission had no place for it.

Directly below, the wraithlike structure of the clouds looked menacing and cold. He adjusted his flight toward a valley between two immense columns, but knew he’d never make it. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. Here they come!

Ramsland cleaved into total blackness. Eddies bent and twisted his body. He stopped monitoring the GPS and concentrated on keeping his free fall stable. A wet chill penetrated his jumpsuit and the polypropylene thermal undergarment, forcing a shiver.

Things got worse when a violent wind shear jerked him onto his side and propelled him into a vertical spin. Without a horizon as a reference, he couldn’t correct the hideous sensation of cartwheeling out of control. At least there wasn’t hail in here. Being blasted by hailstones-even small ones-at 300 feet per second would definitely ruin his evening. He summoned an image of his wife to calm his mind. He took slow, deep breaths and told himself to relax. Stable air would return any second.

As quickly as it arrived, the turbulence ended and the lights of Tobago snapped on.

With a solid horizon, he arrested the spin, stabilized into controlled free fall, and checked his coordinates and altimeter. Both good.

He remained on target as he tore through 12,000 feet and welcomed the slight increase in temperature. That cloud mass had been freezing. He zeroed in on a large, dark area.

Eleven thousand feet .

He visualized the exterior layout of his mark’s house. Plantation style. A backyard pool and spa occupied a landscaped courtyard.

Ten thousand .

Two security cameras were mounted atop a ten-foot perimeter wall, with two more on the roof observing the rear yard and pool. Another camera eyed the entrance courtyard and driveway. Two Dobermans patrolled the property inside the walls. Three bodyguards were present. Two worked with the dogs, while a third monitored the camera feeds.

Eight thousand .

He stayed on pure oxygen.

Six .

Thicker air now. Five seconds per thousand. Perfect terminal velocity.

Four .

Warm air engulfed him.

Three thousand.…

Two….

Fifteen hundred - now!

The multicell, ram air canopy issued a whoof and burst open at eleven hundred feet.

His body jerked to a relative stop compared to its previous speed. He removed his oxygen mask and goggles and let them dangle around his neck. Next, he unzipped the belly pack, powered up his night vision goggles, and secured them in place on his helmet. He pivoted the device down to his eyes and adjusted the focus. The world turned bright green, resolving into perfect clarity. It felt eerily quiet now with the roar of rushing wind gone. He began a rapid spiral descent toward his LZ, the Mount Irvine Bay Golf Course. At 300 feet AGL, he lined up on a fairway and focused on the exact spot he wanted. Ten feet above the ground, he pulled hard on both toggles, executed a perfect flair, and touched down in a slight run.

Incredible.

Thirty thousand feet to sea level in under three minutes.

Juan Montez de Oca peeled his latex gloves and washed his hands in the marble sink. His richly appointed bathroom brought a smile. Ten years. That’s how long it had taken him to rebuild his wealth. The regime change in Nicaragua had stripped his military power and prestige and left him with only the clothes on his back. Literally. He’d barely escaped into Honduras. Only his lifelong devotion to fitness, endurance, and survival skills saved his life during the arduous trek through two hundred miles of jungle. Lesser men would have perished. To make matters worse, all his property and bank accounts had been seized and stolen. Never again , he had vowed. Now, a full decade later, he’d rebuilt his life and his status. One more year and he’d have enough to retire and live a secure life. He didn’t feel guilty about hoarding money. He gave plenty to an orphanage on Trinidad, more than most Tobagonians made in ten years. Having never known his own parents, he had a soft heart for homeless kids.

He removed the elastic band securing his black ponytail and shook his hair out. Hazel eyes complemented a light Hispanic complexion. Nearly fifty, Montez could still turn young women’s heads, and frequently did.

Tonight’s interrogation had concluded with solid results. He’d finally broken his latest subject and gleaned valuable information. In the living room he made an encrypted call, relayed the info he’d just obtained, and scheduled a disposal. The call ended abruptly and left him somewhat irritated. He didn’t like his contact at all. Apparently, no new subject would be forthcoming this week. No matter, he told himself. He’d use the break to do some reading.

Montez retrieved his Heckler amp; Koch P30 from the study and headed for the upper basement door. At the bottom of the stairs he opened a second door and was assaulted by the noxious smell of blood mixed with a homeless stench. Disgusting, but understandable. He didn’t hold it against the man. It wasn’t his fault. Part of breaking a subject involved denying all semblance of hygiene.

He reached inside the concrete chamber and snapped on the light.

The floor, walls, and ceiling were covered with polyurethane plastic, the kind painters used to protect furniture. Spattered blood patterns testified to what his subject had endured over the last three days. He removed his shoes and stepped into a pair of cheap slippers. The remains of a slaughtered animal lay in the corner of the room, its sightless eyes cloudy. A video camera mounted on a tripod loomed in the opposite corner.

Secured in a bloodstained chair, his subject moaned but didn’t open his eyes.

“It is over,” Montez said. “You offered a noble fight and need not feel shame. I am going to unbind you. If you resist or try to attack me, I will bury you with the carcass. You will be forever entombed with it.”

Giving this subject the respect he deserved involved a certain degree of risk. In order for the prayer to be performed properly, the man would have to be freed from the chair, but Montez would not release him without a bodyguard present. Though his captive didn’t seem to have any energy left, Montez always played it safe. Subjects in this condition were unpredictable. Two years ago, he’d dropped his guard with a female captive. The deep oval scar on his left forearm was all the reminder he needed. As punishment, he’d removed all of the vicious woman’s teeth, all of them , with a pair of pliers. Her high-pitched screaming had been hideous, but an example was needed. Many times since, Montez had used the video of the tooth extractions to show his subjects the price of defiance.