Viper: A Thriller (9 page)

Castillo gestured toward the door with his Barak and took
a few steps back, careful not to allow Avery to become too close. The Colombian
let Avery pass him and then followed him out of the bedroom.

“If you don’t want to kill me, why the hell was your
sniper taking shots at me?”

“Hey,
I
don’t want to kill you. It doesn’t
matter to me what happens to you. But the thing is, there’s this crazy bitch,
and she sure as fuck wants to kill you. Her first preference would be up close
and personal. Sorry, man. You’d have been better off eating the grenade or
getting sniped, because she’s one nasty, demented cunt.”

Avery didn’t have a clue what Castillo was talking
about.

“How much did they pay you, Jon?”

They stepped over Muňoz’s body and crossed the
kitchen.

Avery saw another Latin shooter standing near the
doorway. He wore a t-shirt, and his arms were adorned with the same gang
tattoos as the first man Avery had dropped. The gangbanger stepped out into the
hallway and then called out to Castillo in Spanish, telling him that it was
clear.

“Fifty-thousand,” Castillo answered. “It was an
impulsive decision. I heard that I was being turned over to that guy Daniel to
back you up on some secret spook shit. Right after this guy from the cartel
says FARC is offering money for anyone with information about an American codenamed
Carnivore. I fucking couldn’t believe it, man. Sometimes you just get lucky.”

Avery lifted his eyebrows, surprised to hear that his
life was worth $50,000 to someone.

Castillo guided Avery into the hallway. The
bullet-riddled bodies of four hotel security staff were heaped on the floor,
oozing blood. The hallway was silent now. All of the guests had either fled or
were hunkered down inside their rooms, too afraid to leave. 

Avery and Castillo followed the gangbanger down the
hallway toward the stairwell, where he opened the door and stuck his head into
the stairwell to take a peak before venturing inside. Avery and Castillo were
right behind him.

“Sorry, man. It’s nothing personal, but money’s
money,” Castillo said as they descended the stairs.

“Gonna take care of your kids with that?”

“Yeah, get them the fuck out of here, give them a
fresh start. Give me one, too. No more doing shit like this or getting bit to
hell by bugs in the jungle.”

“Who bought you out, Jon?” Avery asked as they
descended the stairs. Each step sent a flash of pain through his upper back.
The feeling grew more intense as the adrenaline wore off.

Castillo didn’t answer.

Leading the way, the gangbanger stepped onto the
thirty-first floor landing. As he turned the bend for the next set of stairs,
he saw something and shouted a warning in Spanish, urgent and surprised, and
brought up his pistol, but his warning was cut short by a single gunshot.

The gangbanger’s head snapped back, spraying a small
red mist through the air, and he fell over onto the concrete landing.

Felix Aguilar came up the stairs and met Avery and
Castillo on the landing. Seeing his teammates, he lowered his weapon, surprised
to see Castillo.

“Where the hell did you come from, Jon?” Aguilar
glanced down at the body near his feet. “I saw this guy standing outside
Canastilla’s room when I walked by a minute ago. I knew he was carrying, and I
recognized his tattoos. He’s Los Perros.”

“Come on,” Castillo said, taking a step forward. “Let’s
go. This place is filling up with police. My fucking radio died.”

But Aguilar saw that Avery, a step behind Castillo,
didn’t budge. He read the expression in Avery’s eyes, quickly assessed the
situation, and glanced back to Castillo.

“I asked where were you, Jon?”

Castillo raised his Uzi in Aguilar’s direction. As his
finger tightened around the trigger, Avery dived into him from behind, wrapping
his arms around him and knocking them both over. As they tumbled down the
stairs, Castillo’s hand lost the Uzi, and he came to a stop with Avery on the
next landing. He head butted Avery, stunning him and breaking his nose. He
pushed Avery’s weight off him, offering Aguilar a clear shot.

Without a second’s hesitation, Aguilar fired twice into
Castillo’s forehead. Then he holstered the Barak, covered the remaining stairs
to the landing, and extended a hand to help Avery onto his feet.

“Mind telling me what the fuck just happened?”

Avery used the back of his hand to wipe Castillo’s
blood off his face. His own blood gushed from his nostrils, but he didn’t care
about that, except for the attention it would draw. He hated getting other
people’s blood on him.

“Castillo sold us out. I don’t know to whom. He was
right about one thing, though. We need to get out of here.”

Fuck, his back hurt. It was getting worse. He could
barely stand. Now his head hurt, too.

“You okay, man?” Aguilar asked.

“I took a bullet back there. It’s bad.”

Aguilar slipped a hand beneath Avery’s vest, slowly
felt around for holes in his flesh, and shook his head. His hand came out dry.

“No, you’re good. It didn’t go through. You’re going
to have a hell of a bruise, though.”

Avery retrieved the pistol—a Brazilian Taurus
automatic—from the Los Perros corpse.

They went down another flight of stairs. Then they
took a crowded elevator to the foyer and walked to the main entrance, blending
in with the roving crowds of people who were in a hurry to get to safety. One
cop stopped them, when he saw Avery’s bloody face, and Aguilar said that he was
pushed over during the stampede. The cop accepted the answer, telling them
there were paramedics outside, and moved on. More police armed with submachine
guns ran in the opposite direction.

___

The
Viper passed the rail-mounted telescopic sight once more over the large bands
of people pouring out in disorganized waves from the brightly lit front
entrance of the Trump Ocean Club Tower some four hundred feet below. Police
officers directed people away from the building to make room for the newly
arrived ambulances and fire trucks. As guests and residents streamed out, police
in tactical gear continued going into the tower with paramedics standing by
outside until they were told it was safe to enter.

Scanning the crowds, the Viper looked out for the
bright blue windbreaker worn by Castillo, or Carnivore’s black hoody, but she
could not discern either in the mass of bodies. She’d lost them the moment
Castillo had escorted the American out of the hotel suite in the adjacent tower
directly across from her.

She’d fired two shots at the American, using 9mm SP-5
subsonic ammunition. They’d been good shots, and she’d successfully eliminated
targets with this weapon at longer distances, but her mind still struggled to
process the fact that she’d actually
missed
.

Never before had the Viper pulled the trigger twice
and not eliminated her target.

The VSS Vintorez, or Thread Cutter, was a
Russian-manufactured rifle, essentially a modified AS Val assault rifle, designed
for KGB spetsnaz. This one originated from Soviet stockpiles originally
provided to Cuba, later passed on to FARC. Vintorez was a good weapon, but the
drawback was that the heavy, subsonic tungsten-tipped, armor piercing
ammunition wasn’t suitable for long distance kills. The rounds continuously and
rapidly dropped in flight. 

The Viper’s first shot missed because the target had
jumped up from his hiding spot behind the table the split second she hit the
trigger. Ridiculously good luck on his part.

The second shot should have gone through his back, but
he apparently wore a quality plated vest and the bullet, fired from a downward
angle, must have grazed the ceramic plate rather than striking it head-on.

Seeing him for the first time, the image of Carnivore
became seared permanently into the Viper’s mind. With his closely buzzed black
hair, and stubble beard of matching length, and his trim, muscular build, he
looked so typically, obnoxiously American. His voice was confident and
priggish. Even if she didn’t have the recording, she’d still never forget that
voice. She wanted to hear it scream and beg.

The Viper was normally dispassionate when it came to
killing. But this time she felt an overpowering urge to take a life. She’d
killed Americans before—there was the diplomat in Bolivia, done with the VSS—but
never one like Carnivore, a supposedly elite soldier. She relished the
opportunity and thought that she would use blades on him. She wanted to open
him up and see what lay inside him.

The Viper swiftly disassembled the VSS, taking apart
the suppressor, the receiver, the scope, and the buttstock, and placed the
components into a small, specially fitted briefcase. She packed the audio
surveillance equipment, and looked over the room once more to make certain that
she left nothing behind.

Next, she moved the furniture back to where it
belonged and shut the sliding glass doors and opened the curtains, removing any
traces of her sniper hide.

Carrying the rifle case, she slung her backpack over
her shoulder and was out the door. She left the hotel without checking
out—she’d used a fake passport and credit card under an assumed identity
prepared for her years ago by the Venezuelans—and disappeared into the
pandemonium outside.

Upon
arrival at the Palanquero air base, fifteen hours later, the medical staff who treated
Avery’s wounds expressed how lucky he was that the Vintorez’s 9mm hadn’t gone
through his vest. If the bullet had hit him straight on, he’d have been dead.
They removed the larger shrapnel fragments from his shoulder, which required a
couple incisions and stitches. A couple smaller pieces were left in place, but
they weren’t the first bits of metal left in Avery’s body. It hurt, but the
shoulder was still functional, and the ball and socket weren’t damaged. He also
sustained bruised spinal cord tissues, which needed time to heal. He was fatigued
and sore all over, but was expected to fully recover within a couple weeks,
assuming he followed instructions, which basically consisted of getting plenty
of rest, keeping his head elevated, and not exerting himself. He’d probably
need surgery in the future to fully repair the nose, but he wasn’t going to
worry about that now, and doubted he ever would, unless it hindered his
breathing.

Adverse to drugs and toxins in his body, wanting to
keep his mind and reflexes sharp, Avery declined painkillers. The hell of it
was that his body no longer repaired itself as quickly and painlessly as it had
just a few years earlier.

Regardless of Culler’s plans for him, Avery intended
to follow up on the action in Panama. Someone had made it personal and went to
great lengths to get a shot at him, and he wanted to know who and why. Not just
to satisfy his curiosity, but to tie up any loose lends. He didn’t want someone
holding a grudge to catch up with him in the future and put a bullet in his
head when he didn’t expect it.

His mind was still going around in circles trying to
make sense of what took place in Panama.

After escaping the hotel, Avery and Aguilar slipped through
the concentric layers of police, and eventually returned to the Holiday Inn.
There, Avery iced the purple, soft-ball sized bruise already forming on his
back and applied disinfectant and gauze to the multiple open cuts and gashes in
his arm and shoulder.

They knew they were in trouble when Aguilar turned on
the television and they saw Avery’s picture from his forged passport plastered
on every other channel with the announcement that he was sought by police in
connection with the violence at the Trump Ocean Club. News anchors also
reported that the grenades had killed a man staying in the neighboring suite and
critically injured his wife and son.

A spokeswoman from the American embassy announced that
the embassy was offering full assistance to the Panamanian authorities in
identifying and locating the American suspect. Avery imagined that COS Panama
was smugly pleased with the turn of events, and Culler would likely be placed
in the hot seat at Langley. American diplomats had enough on their plates
following the raid in Venezuela. They weren’t going to cover the ass of an
American spy caught in a shootout in Panama City.

Culler would later learn that CIA’s Panama station had
provided to local authorities Avery’s description, the name under which he’d
entered the country, and a description of his vehicle, thereby ensuring that he
never returned to Panama again, and possibly compromising his ability to
operate in neighboring countries, too.

From the hotel, Aguilar and Avery then immediately gathered
their things and fled in the rented Explorer. Aguilar drove with Avery stuffed in
the back, concealed beneath a blanket between their duffel bags and suitcases. The
police officers who stopped them at two different vehicle checkpoints never
went further than asking for Aguilar’s ID and shining their flashlights through
the Explorer’s windows as they walked around and looked inside. Fortunately
Aguilar’s Bolivian ID and passport were quality forgeries.

Once clear of Panama City and the surrounding metropolitan
area, the remainder of the ninety mile drive to the rendezvous point, north of
Darien National Park, near the Colombian border, was quiet and uneventful.

There, they ditched the Explorer, leaving behind
nothing that could be used to identify them or be traced back to them, walked
across the border through the rainforest, remote territory populated only by
indigenous tribal people, and were picked up by the stealth Blackhawk.

Culler and Slayton had watched the news reports that
night coming out of Panama about gunshots, explosions, and bodies at the Trump
Ocean Club Hotel. Then, when Avery’s team reached the pick-up point, they’d
heard the radio transmission that not only did the team not have Agent Canastilla
in tow, but they were also short one of their own team members.

It had been a tense twelve hours for Culler and Slayton,
and they were both relieved when the Blackhawk finally returned to Palanquero.

With the Canastilla extraction a failure, Daniel
aborted the mission to bring out Pablo Muňoz’s family. It was a cold
decision, but there simply was no need for them, and they weren’t worth the
risk. It wasn’t difficult to surmise what their eventual fate would be. Left
behind families of
sapos
could expect to receive a visit from a FARC
security unit, followed by an unmarked grave, and NSA intercepts would soon
confirm that Muňoz’s wife and children were picked up.  

Listening to Avery and Aguilar’s version of events,
Daniel was torn between guilt for sending them into this situation and
irritation for their failure to bring his man out. He also felt no small
measure of guilt over Muňoz’s family. He was already craving the bottle of
aguardiente in his quarters. It required a conscious effort for him to control
the tremor in his hands, and he caught Avery looking at him with knowing eyes.

“Seven civilians are dead, along with a valuable
intelligence asset and another man who I pray the Panamanian authorities will
never identify as an active duty member of National Army Special Forces.”
Daniel shook his head. “This is a complete disaster.”

“Hey,” Avery said, his nose bandaged and stuffed with
gauze, “I wish I could have walked away with Canastilla too, but the enemy were
in total control the entire time. The whole thing was a setup, and for some
reason they specifically wanted me. Felix and I were lucky to make it out
alive.”

 “I can tell you now there is no way I can keep this
from my superiors,” Daniel said. “Many people will not accept the standard
cover story that Sergeant Castillo was killed during a training exercise. They
will demand an investigation into what happened to him.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Avery said. “Let them. He was dirty.”

 “There are many people who will find that difficult
to accept, especially taking into consideration the reputation of the Central
Intelligence Agency’s so-called scorpions,” Daniel said, using the nickname for
CIA contractors.

“Wait a minute,” Culler said. “What the hell is that
supposed to mean?”

“This isn’t the first scorpion operation to result in
a gun battle and civilian casualties.”

 “Daniel,” Aguilar cut in impatiently. “I was there. I
can vouch that Carnivore made all of the right calls. He saved both our lives.”

But Avery knew that didn’t matter. He understood what
was really going on here. With Colombian presidential elections coming up, this
might become a political issue, as invariably did any failed operation of the
security services. The last political scandal borne from the intelligence
services resulted in the elimination of ANIC’s predecessor agency and a total
re-organization of the Colombian intelligence and security establishment, plus
the termination of numerous careers. 

“We can place blame later,” Special Agent Mark Slayton
said. Addressing Avery and Aguilar, he asked, “Did you guys see or hear
anything that might help us? Was there anything that caught your attention? Anything
at all?”

“Yeah,” said Avery. “I was getting to that before
Daniel started threatening us with bureaucratic political bullshit. Canastilla did
tell me something before he died. Actually, he wanted me to pass it on to
Daniel.”

“What is it?” Slayton asked.

“Canastilla said that the Viper has hijacked Plan…Estragos,
that’s it, and is bringing Estragos to the United States.”

Culler didn’t react, clearly as out of the loop as
Avery, but Slayton exchanged worried looks with Daniel.

“Obviously that means something to you guys,” Avery
said. “Estragos means, what, havoc?”

“Right,” Slayton answered. “Plan Estragos refers to
FARC’s battle plan following its acquisition of an unknown quantity of MANPADs,
specifically SA-24. FARC intends to distribute the missiles amongst their
military blocs for air defense against the helicopters and attack planes that
have been so instrumental in giving the Colombian government the upper-hand and
finally forcing FARC to the negotiating table.”

“Quite simply,” Daniel said, “our military will have
no defense against a SAM threat of this magnitude. SA-24 will deny the military
air superiority. These missiles can completely alter the balance of power in
Colombia, buy FARC the time to re-organize itself, and potentially undo everything
we’ve achieved over the last eight years. Our top priority the past year has
been to deny FARC access to MANPADS.”

After WMD, MANPADS—man portable air defense systems,
aka shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles (SAMs)—were the most sought after
weapon by terrorists. American-supplied Stingers played a pivotal part in the
Soviet Union’s defeat in Afghanistan in the 1980s. If FARC had SA-24 at Táchira,
then Operation Phoenix would have turned out very differently, with burning
Colombian helicopters, and troops stranded in Venezuela. If MANPADS were used
against defenseless civilian airliners, it would be a total slaughter.

SA-24 Grinch is the latest model of the Russian-made
9K38 Igla (“needle”) infra-red homing shoulder-fired SAM, and one of the most sophisticated
in the world. It is faster than previous Russian models, with an extended range
of 3.2 miles, and possesses upgraded defenses against known NATO
countermeasures while packing a larger warhead. SA-24 can also target an
aircraft from any direction, unlike older Russian MANPADS, which went for the
heat of the engines’ exhaust.

“What about Viper?” Avery asked. “What’s that?”

“The Viper is Arianna Moreno,” Daniel replied.

It took a second before the last name clicked with
Avery. “That sounds familiar.”

“She is Aarón Moreno’s sister, and she is a dozen
times more lethal than her brother. Aarón Moreno was a brutal thug. This woman
is a skilled, professionally trained, and capable assassin.”

“In short, she’s the most dangerous terrorist in Latin
America,” Culler replied. “She came up a couple times back when I ran CIA’s
Counterterrorism Center. This was well after 9/11. Frankly, the Seventh Floor
didn’t give a shit about one Colombian terrorist at the time. I had a feeling
I’d hear that name again at some point.”

“She might have little political value, but she’s one
of our most wanted and most elusive high value targets,” Daniel said. “For the
past six years, she’s been the target of a special Search Bloc task force.”

When the National Police’s Search Bloc unit, often
working in tandem with the US Army’s top secret Intelligence Support Activity,
set its sights on someone, that person invariably ended up dead or in jail,
often sooner rather than later. They’d hunted and took down Pablo Escobar, head
of the Medellin cartel and once the most wanted man in the world. The fact that
the Viper could elude Search Bloc so long spoke volumes about her skills and
tradecraft.

“I never heard of her,” Avery admitted.

“Most people haven’t,” Culler said. “Like I said,
she’s never been a focus for us. Not when we have lunatics from the Taliban
buying weapons grade material on the black market and the Islamic State seeking
to weaponize the bubonic plague. Despite the connotations of her cute nickname,
which is simply a codename FARC informally gave her, she doesn’t seek fame and
attention, or media adoration. She maintains a low-profile and stays in the shadows.”

“Well, I guess we know who set the trap for me in
Panama.”

 “You’re a very lucky man,” Daniel said. “The Viper is
not known to miss. Admittedly, we have precious little insight into her
psychological makeup, but by all accounts she shared an extremely close
relationship with her brother and is a generally disturbed personality. Her
brother’s death must have left quite an impression on her.”

“Yeah,” Avery grunted. “I gathered that.”

“It’s my fault,” Culler told Avery. “We knew something
wasn’t right from the beginning. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“Fuck that, Matt. It was my choice, not yours. If I
didn’t go, we’d have no idea about the SA-24 threat until planes started
dropping out of the sky. Speaking of which, you really think FARC would hit us
on American soil? Do they even have the capability? They never operated in the
States before.”

“FARC will surely retaliate for Operation Phoenix,”
Daniel said, “but it is difficult to believe that the Secretariat would ever
authorize terrorist attacks inside the United States. On the other hand, I
doubt there is little that can deter the Viper once she has made up her mind,
and, since the peace talks began, there are plenty of factions within FARC that
essentially act independently of the Secretariat and Central High Command.”