Viper: A Thriller (19 page)

The Black Eagles questioned him again and repeatedly
for the next thirty minutes, trying to catch flaws in his story or trap him in
a lie, but he was consistent and insisted that they find Sean Nolan. Even under
further torture, with more holes drilled through his bones and organs, and
threats to do the same to his wife, Rivero was unable to provide a location for
Nolan, stating only that he travelled between Colombia and Bolivia, but Rivero suggested
they look for him in Cali. That’s where he did most of his business.

When it became clear that Rivero had nothing else to
offer, and Daniel notified the Black Eagle leader that he was satisfied with
the information, Cesar Rivero was finally put out of his misery with a single
shot through the center of his face.

“I think we’re through here,” Daniel said.

“What about the family?” Avery asked.

“What about them?”

“What happens to them?”

“What do you think is going to happen to them? Unless
you are a true sadist and want to watch, we should leave immediately.”

Daniel turned his back to Avery and walked away.

Avery had been ordered or forced to do plenty of dirty
things for the Agency, but even he couldn’t believe how easily Daniel could
abandon this woman and her daughters. For Avery, children were always off
limits. The objective part of his brain commanded him to leave with Daniel, but
a deeper, intrinsic voice, one he didn’t hear often and usually tried to ignore,
told him about the right thing to do.

He was conscious of the weight of the Glock at his
right hip. It carried a full magazine of fifteen .40 caliber rounds. The Black
Eagles had two guns amongst the four of them—the pistol in their leader’s hand
and the Uzi sitting on the workbench, ten feet out of reach of the nearest man.
Avery thought he could quickly and easily take them on. His mind choreographed the
movements, and assessed the position and threat potential of each target and the
order in which he’d take them. He re-positioned his right arm slightly so that
his hand hovered over the holstered Glock. 

“Let it go,” Aguilar said, breaking his concentration.
 

“The fuck?”

“Trust me. You’ll only get more innocent people killed.
These guys aren’t stupid. They’ve told their commanders that they’re doing an
operation for the security services. If they turn up dead, the Black Eagles
will think they were double-crossed, and they’ll put dozens of police officers
and their families in danger.”

Fuck it. Avery sighed, relaxed his hand, switched off
the emotions, and tuned out the dissenting voices telling him what to do. The
clouds dissipated from his mind, restoring cold objectivity to his thoughts.

It was a shit deal for Rivero’s family, but that’s the
way the world worked.

Avery thought of all the other people raped and murdered
in this country, names he’d never know. What difference did a couple more make?
Why were they more important than any of the others? Because this time he had names
and faces to put to the victims?  

Avery started after Aguilar, who was now halfway to
the doors.

But he stopped short when one of the girls screamed.
Desperate, terrified, and powerless, she cried out for help, the only thing she
could do.

The child’s plea was bad enough, but the sadistic
cruelty of the man’s laughter that followed finalized Avery’s decision, and he
at once felt disgusted with himself for thinking he could turn away and still live
with himself.

 He turned back around to see the Black Eagles, thirty
feet away, beneath the glow of the lights, going to work on Rivero’s daughters,
holding them down, smacking them. The elder daughter’s shirt and bra were
sliced open, exposing her breasts, putting her on display, and a Black Eagle
was on his knees between her legs, with a hand undoing his belt. Another Black
Eagle had the younger girl pinned face down, one hand holding a bundle of her
hair, while Rivero’s wife remained tied to her chair, crying, forced to watch.

As he stepped forward, Avery detected one Black
Eagle’s gaze on him, and saw the glint of realization in the man’s eyes,
recognition of an impending threat.

The Black Eagle tried to alert the others, but they
didn’t hear him, too preoccupied with the girls, and by the time he finally
caught their attention, Avery had already drawn the Glock. He took the Weaver
stance with his arms extended straight out in front of him, left hand wrapped
around the right, finger over the trigger, with his left foot stepped forward.

He kept a tight grip around the Glock, struggling
against the painful tremor in his shoulder, to keep his sights level and still.
He held the tiny green dot over the only armed Black Eagle, who was on his
knees with the barrel of his Taurus pistol inserted into the mouth of the
younger Rivero daughter.

Avery aimed high so that he didn’t place the girl in
danger. He hit the trigger twice, the shots thundering loudly inside the
factory and at once silencing and freezing everyone else in place.

The bullets cored through the target’s face, and
fragmented inside his chest skull. His blood spattered the screaming girl, and
his slack body fell on top of her.

Continuing forward, Avery shifted aim and drew a bead
on his next target.

Caught by surprise, the Black Eagle between the
teenager’s legs was in the process of jumping up onto his feet, his pants dropping
to his ankles, when Avery shot him three times high in the chest and face from
seventeen feet away, dropping him like a sack of a shit. The girl shrieked and
rolled out of the way as the body slammed face first against the cement and
emptied its bladder and bowels.  

Then the terrified girl was on her feet, entering
Avery’s line of fire as he tracked his next target. He swore and angled his
barrel up, clear of her head, as she ran past, and reacquired his target.

The third Black Eagle was on his feet and running. Avery
nailed him cold with a single shot high and center in the back, below the neck,
severing his spine.

By that time, the remaining Black Eagle had reached
the workbench, grabbed the Uzi sitting there, and spun around to confront Avery,
bringing the submachine gun to bear on him while Avery still had the Glock
angled seventy-five degrees to the left.

Avery was aware of the threat in his right peripheral.
As time seemed to freeze frame and his whole body tensed in anticipation of
catching a stream of 9mm, he knew he could never get the Glock around in time,
and he thought that was okay, because he’d at least been able to spare the
girls and he’d never have to think again about Rivero’s dead son, who he hadn’t
saved. 

But another shot exploded close by, off to Avery’s
right—it didn’t sound like an Uzi, and it came from the wrong direction anyway,
and he never felt a bullet strike him—and the Black Eagle’s head jerked back
and his arms sagged with the Uzi and his legs gave out

Avery spun fast around, leading with the Glock, and
dropped his aim and relaxed his finger on the trigger when he saw Aguilar, who then
gave the lone surviving Black Eagle, paralyzed and twitching on the floor, a
head shot.

Avery and Aguilar exchanged looks. The Colombian
looked pissed off about being dragged into this, but he didn’t say anything,
knowing that what was done was done.

 The girls flinched and cowered when Avery came near
them, seeing him not as a savior but as another violent, threatening man with a
gun. He ignored them, conscious to keep his eyes off their bodies, as he untied
their mother. She sprung up from her chair, pushed past him, and took her
children in her arms.

 “Let’s get out of here,” Aguilar said, after giving
the killing floor a once over to make sure that nobody was moving who shouldn’t.
“You’ve done all you can for them.”

“Not really,” Avery replied, knowing it wouldn’t be enough
to clear his conscience. He should have dropped those fucks, and anyone who
tried to stop him, the second they threatened the kids.

Outside, they walked to a black SUV with a Colombian
Special Forces NCO waiting behind the wheel. Daniel, who had heard the gunshots
and saw the muzzle flashes, didn’t look pleased, but he wisely kept his mouth
shut after catching the glare in Avery’s eye.

Less than an hour later, they were in
the air, flying from Medellin to Bogotá, aboard a Colombian Air Force Fokker
VIP transport. Despite functioning on less than seven hours of sleep over the
last two days, Avery had no trouble staying awake that night. Every time he
shut his eyes he saw the masked man shooting the little boy, the bullet strike
against his head.

Avery chugged a
Monster energy drink to further put off sleep for as long as he could. He
stared at the back of the empty seat in front of him and was careful not to
turn his head to the right, so he wouldn’t have to see his reflection in the
window eight inches away.

Aguilar and his
men were asleep in the back.  Avery didn’t know how they could do it, but he
supposed that Aguilar must have seen far worse. After all, he’d been fighting
this war for the past twenty years, where every life was cheap and expendable. Avery
had barely been here two weeks.  

Seated across
the aisle from Avery, Daniel drank Cuban rum, pouring it into a lowball glass.
As quickly as he downed it, he refilled the glass. Avery had declined Daniel’s
offer of a drink earlier, preferring to confront the repercussions of his
decisions sober and allow it to eat away at his soul. It was the least he
deserved. Neither man had said a word since.

At least Avery’s
stomach had finally settled down. He’d thrown up shortly after take-off, and
his body had continued to heave and go through the motions even after his
stomach had purged its contents. He’d remained in the Fokker’s tiny lavatory
after that, on his knees, where he did something he hadn’t done in over a
decade. He broke down and cried.

Then he returned
to his seat and wondered what was wrong with him. He normally had no problem
keeping himself detached and unaffected by things, but now he was ridden with
guilt, regret, shame, and anxiety. It was like the brick walls he’d carefully
constructed years ago in his mind were suddenly crumbling apart, and a dozen
memories, and all the associated emotions, suddenly came pouring through.

He no longer
gave a damn about the Viper or the mission. He was content to leave her for Daniel
and the CIA to find. He wanted only to return home, to be alone, far from
everyone, and leave this deplorable place behind.

“I told you that
it wouldn’t be easy,” Daniel finally said over an hour into the flight, reading
Avery’s thoughts and breaking the silent tension.

“You didn’t say
anything about murdering noncombatants.”

“You told me
that you were willing to go as far as it took.”

“They killed a
fucking kid!”

Hearing the
outburst, one of the Colombian troops sat a little straighter on the edge of
his seat, looking from Avery to Daniel, and reluctantly relaxed when the latter
waved him off.

“How many times
have you done shit like that, Daniel?”

“More than I
care to think about. But I am completely willing to trade a couple lives to
save hundreds, or thousands. I don’t make the rules, I only play by them. If your
conscience is troubled, you might want to remind yourself why we came here in
the first place. If you want, I can show you the passenger manifest of Avianca
Flight 224. There were several children onboard.”

Daniel refilled
his glass after downing the rest of its contents in one gulp.

“Our world is an ugly place, and there’s no room for
moralizing, especially not by men like us. We are not moral men. You should understand
better than most. The masters you serve collaborate with killers and butchers in
Iraq and Syria in the name of freedom, liberty, and protecting the innocent.
How many wives and children has your government killed in drone attacks?”

Avery’s first inclination was to say that this was
different, but then he stopped himself. He averted his gaze forward and rested
his head back against his seat. It was all he could do to stop himself from
getting up and wringing Daniel’s neck.

___

They
returned to Bogotá an hour later, with the Fokker making a jarring corkscrew
landing into El Dorado, a necessary security measure after the Viper’s attack
less than three days earlier. They arrived in time to make the afternoon
session in the Bunker.

Walking in, Culler immediately looked to Avery and said,
“Where the hell have you been?” Then he lowered his voice. “Rangel’s been on my
ass all day. He isn’t happy.”

Avery kept his mouth shut and took a seat without even
looking at Culler, who didn’t press the matter further after seeing the look on
Avery’s face.

Keeping vague as far as sources and methods, Daniel
outlined the newly acquired intelligence from Medellin. Culler and Slayton both
knew better than to ask pernicious questions about where this lead originated. Frankly,
they didn’t
want
to know. It was better that way, professionally and
personally.

But Rangel didn’t see it that way.

“I have to ask, because it’s going to come up
somewhere at some point, and I’m going to be held accountable. Where the hell did
this intel come from, guys?”

The question was directed to Daniel, but Rangel’s eyes
bore into Avery.

“Sources and methods,” Daniel said, providing the vague,
offhanded explanation often thrown about by CIA.

But Rangel wouldn’t have any of that. Rangel was
fuming.

“I suppose it’s just coincidence that overnight,
without explanation, you two are suddenly unavailable and then this morning we
receive reports from National Police sources that Cesar Rivero’s mutilated body
was discovered in a warehouse, along with a goddamned child and four dead Black
Eagles? Police called it a blood bath, and that says a lot coming from Medellin
cops. And why should this particular incident come across my desk? Because
people are afraid this means that the Black Eagles will consider breaking the
ceasefire. I’ll tell you right now, if anyone from the Agency was involved, it
will not go well for them. The State Department will be making inquiries
amongst prison authorities about how and when Rivero was removed from
Bellavista.”

Avery knew that Rangel
didn’t give a damn about Rivero’s human rights, and he certainly didn’t care
about a dead kid. People like Rangel never did. He was worried about word of
Rivero’s torture reaching the ambassador’s office or the Seventh Floor, and
creating a new scandal for CIA in Latin America under his watch. He was willing
to keep the matter quiet, long as the Colombian police were able to do so, or
some reporter or human rights activist didn’t pick up on the incident and
publicize it.

“If anyone in
this room knows anything about what went down in Medellin overnight, now’s the
time to say something,” Rangel said, still staring down Avery.

Avery stared
right back at the station chief with unblinking eyes, daring Rangel to threaten
him. After what he saw in Medellin, there wasn’t anything Rangel could say or
do to affect him. Even now, the scenes from inside the warehouse replayed in his
mind. The screams and terror of the girls were clear as the moment it happened,
less than twelve hours ago. He knew this shit was going to stay with him for a
long time.

“Whatever took
place in Medellin is clearly a mystery,” Daniel said, “but I have full faith in
the National Police to find those responsible. Now, perhaps we can move on to
the topic at hand. We have a name: Sean Nolan, a member of the Viper’s inner
circle.”

“I know that
name,” Slayton said. “Nolan’s popped up before in past DEA investigations. He’s
a big player in the cocaine market, and the British want him for terrorism
charges.”

“The Bunker’s
databases confirm that Nolan is known to operate out of Cali, facilitating drug
deals and arms shipments, and acting as a go-between for various gangs,”
Abigail Benning said. “He’s also known to have worked for FARC in the past, but
we were never aware of any connections between him and Moreno.”

Abigail Benning
was thirty-one years old and of medium height and slight build with pale
complexion. Unmarried, socially awkward, with black-framed glasses, her hair
tied back, and no cosmetics applied to her long, angular face, she looked like
a stereotypical chronic videogamer or outcast who rarely saw the light of day.
Most men gave her little attention, and she wouldn’t have had time for them
anyway. She kept mute and timid until the subject of SIGINT, metadata, cell
phone towers, and Internet networks came up. Then she became suddenly animated
and excitedly relayed technical information, putting it into comprehensible
layman’s terms for the others.

Avery found her
to be one of the more curious inhabitants of the Bunker.

Many JSOC kills
and drone strikes came about as a result of people like Benning. Often, the NSA
spooks that did the tracking had no idea where their intelligence went, and
were unaware that their efforts would directly lead to someone’s death. But
Benning was fully aware of the end she was working toward, and she had no
qualms about it. In fact, she was rather pleased to finally have something to do.
Now she had a name and a general location, and that was all her team of hackers
and trackers needed.

ANIC kept a sparse
file on Sean Nolan, and it offered little insight as to where to find him. Known
contacts and friends were either dead or had dropped off the grid, likely in
the US or Canada under aliases or in Ireland. Most of the Colombians’
information was several years old and came secondhand from the British embassy’s
intelligence station.

Nolan spent
seventeen of his forty-three years as a member of the Provisional Irish
Republican Army (PIRA), eventually heading up an active service unit in
Belfast. He was known to be particularly adept with an RPG and homemade
mortars, and he’d received training at Gadaffi’s terrorist camps. He survived
numerous attempts by MI5 and 14th Intelligence Company, the British army’s
undercover surveillance unit in Northern Ireland, to capture or kill him,
becoming one of the most elusive targets for the British services.

Nolan rejected
the 1998 Good Friday Agreement and the subsequent ceasefire. He was also
believed to have planned the Omagh bombing that killed twenty-nine people the
same year. Later, Nolan tortured and killed an undercover MI5 agent and two Irish
police officers in County Tyrone.

He fled to
Colombia by way of Cuba and went to work as a mercenary for FARC and the
cartels. MI5 had intelligence that Nolan was sending money and drugs back home
to the Real IRA, a group that recently threatened renewed violence in Northern
Ireland and followed through by ambushing a police Land Rover with a roadside
bomb.  

The file photos
provided by MI5 depicted a tall, lanky, clean-shaven Irishman with a soft, pale
complexion, crooked posture, youthful features, and wavy reddish-blond hair.
Most distinctive, a hairline scar ran vertically above his left eyebrow, the
result of a bar fight in Derry several years ago. Recent reports, however,
indicated that Nolan may have undergone plastic surgery in Brazil to alter his
appearance.

Colombian police
originally made finding and extraditing Nolan to the United Kingdom a top
priority, but the years passed with no leads and no results. These days, Nolan
was believed to do business for the North Valley cartel, the drug gang that
rose to power after Colombian police dismantled the Cali cartel several years
back. Colombian sources didn’t know any of Nolan’s current aliases and had no
current photos of him.

After the
meeting in the Bunker, Daniel and Slayton tasked their agents and informants in
Cali with keeping their eyes and ears open for any sighting or word of the PIRA
renegade. Within thirty-two hours, a DEA agent reported that a man vaguely but
not quite matching Nolan’s description, with a subdued south Belfast accent and
sporting Nolan’s trademark scar, was spotted in the coastal city of Buenaventura
meeting with a North Valley cartel facilitator the previous week.

Abigail Benning then
started her hunt by tasking the NSA section at the embassy with targeting all
calls in Buenaventura and in the greater Valle del Cauca department. There
wouldn’t be many Irish accents in western Colombia. The vast majority of
Buenaventura’s population of 400,000 was of African descent, with only fifteen
percent of the population coming from Spanish or European descent.

The HUMINT acquired
by DEA was critical.

 Frequently in
Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, or Yemen, NSA tracked unconfirmed targets by
metadata collection and by tracking cell-phone activity for JSOC interdiction
or drone-launched Hellfire missile strikes, sometimes resulting in the deaths
of misidentified or unknown civilians around the target. Rarely does human
intelligence play a role in eliminating the names on the Disposition Matrix,
the official, innocuous-sounding term for the White House’s kill list. Cognizant
of NSA’s methods, the Taliban have taken to randomly re-distributing their SIM
cards to villagers to trick the Americans into killing civilians.

The NSA Geo
Cell, accompanied by a DEA FAST unit, soon received the green light from the
embassy and the Colombian government to deploy to Buenaventura.