“Yes, several times. Mostly go-fasts and submersibles like today. Months ago I bagged a King Air near the Yucatan Peninsula; low-slow flyer on the deck, non-squawking, lights out, heading north… that guy isn’t a tourist. I flew close aboard to ID him, then chipped away at his right engine with guns before finishing him off. The guy was a fucking plastic surgeon from Alabama carrying a load of poison for our kids. Yeah, I sleep soundly.”
Wilson sat absorbing it, stunned.
Weed broke the tension that followed with his familiar grin. “Skipper, you better get back to the squadron. We’ve been alone here for some time, and people are going to talk.”
Wilson, still in his flight gear, gathered his helmet bag and stood. “We will talk again?”
“Sure, Kemosabe! But not about Century Ratchet. That is discussed here only, and I cannot emphasize enough, my friend, the importance of operational security. You have some experience in this area, and, if I were you, I wouldn’t sneak up on me and hide behind clouds again.” Weed’s face went from jovial to serious as he spoke the words.
In the past, Wilson would have made a crack about Weed’s poor lookout doctrine or his poor eyesight. Not today — and maybe never again.
CHAPTER 17
With a cup of coffee, Daniel Garcia enjoyed the sunrise over the Golfo de Paria from his mountaintop estate above Puerto Hierro, the dark landmass of Trinidad barely visible from thirty miles away. As the red warmth began to break through the clouds that hung over the mountainous island, Venus showed itself in the royal blue sky. To the south a large ferry plied the gulf. En route to Port a Spain, he surmised. Unusual for this hour.
To his left and north the Caribbean met the Atlantic, the limitless ocean, now dark and serene as the glow from the east began to illuminate the cottony clouds that floated above the peaceful waters. From his picture-window observatory, he had a near 360-degree view of the sea and sky around the Peninsula de Paria. Here, as the day began, long before Annibel and the girls awoke, he could think.
Medellin. A continent away and a lifetime ago…. In reality, it had been only ten years since he left the city where he had made his fortune. Not that he missed it. The Pacific was what he missed, his boyhood home of Buenaventura along the coast. A boy as restless as the Pacific surf, he had left paradise for Cali and the coke, the girls, the money — and the power a tough, smart kid like Daniel could wield at a young age. He regretted the murders, and was glad he no longer had to burden himself with the violent end of the business. He didn’t regret leaving bitchy Marta, who had refused to leave Cali and her super-bitchy mother. Marta did not know how close she came to death when she lit into Carlos that night in Medellin. She has her money now, he thought, and her annulment. If she remarried, however, he would have her new husband killed. Daniel would ensure she spent the rest of her days alone.
Yes, this mountaintop estate, far from Medellin, far from Caracas, was where Daniel and his cartel had moved in order to stay in business. Why had Colombia turned on him? He and the others had paid off all the senators, the generals, the police. The campesinos loved him. Why did they do it? Colombia was the perfect base to ship product up the isthmus, along the vast Pacific or through the Caribbean islands and wash bushels of money in Panama. Yet, almost overnight, the Ejército Nacional had pushed out the FARC. How? With help from the hated Americans, of course.
Reports from the field were troubling. Not only were shipments not getting through — although a fraction still meant a handsome profit — but the mules operating the vessels and airplanes were missing. None of the seaborne shipments were showing up in the Yucatan distribution centers and just a trickle in the Bahamas through Puerto Rico, overall a net loss. Baja distribution networks using the Pacific routes were down but acceptable, but his main territory was the Caribbean through Yucatan. While mules could be replaced with eager recruits, they were still an asset, and losing all of them was bad for business and recruit training. He knew of the whispers on the waterfront: You move product these days and chances are good you won’t come back. His intel was drying up, as was his reserve cash.
And it wasn’t just Daniel; all the cartels were feeling the pinch.
Who could it be but the Americans? he thought as he sipped his coffee. Learning their tactics, and how to counter them, was his immediate challenge. The sun was up now, bright orange rays signaling that the day was here, reality was here. Sadly, the magical twilight period of tranquil magnificence in this lush tropical paradise had transitioned all too quickly to harsh responsibility.
Soft footsteps from the stairwell indicated he was about to have company. A moment later, Annibel appeared in her nightshirt with fresh cups of coffee for each of them. She placed a cup next to Daniel, kissed his head, and curled up on the sofa next to him. Lost in her own thoughts, she, too, gazed out at the sunrise as she sipped her coffee.
“Where are the girls?” Daniel asked.
“Emma is still asleep, but Juliana is up. She was up most of the night. Maria has her.”
Daniel admired his wife, the former Miss Aragua State, as she gazed at the dawn in silence. Hair tousled, no makeup, she still looked incredible. Her beautiful smile, however, was missing.
“What are you doing today?” she asked.
“Meeting with Marco and Paul at ten, then fishing this afternoon. Why don’t you join us?”
She took another sip and said nothing. She then answered. “No. I won’t have them leer at me, and who’s going to watch the kids?”
“Bring Maria and the kids.”
“No, Maria gets seasick, and I won’t subject the children to your crude language when you men are together. I’ll just stay here in this palatial estate — my prison.”
Here it comes, Daniel thought. He turned away as he shook his head. “Then go to Caracas. See your friends and go shopping. You can be there by lunch.”
Annibel shook her head. “No, I’ve been away from the girls too long, and I think Emma is coming down with something.”
“Fine, then, Maria can watch her, and I’ll send the plane, and your friends will be here after lunch. You’ll have the afternoon to sun yourselves and my ‘leering friends’ will be far away from you. Why do you do this to me?”
Annibel said nothing as she took another sip. Though fifteen years younger than her husband, she was his intellectual equal and took no crap from him. She was careful, though, not to humiliate him in front of the men, a behavior that kept her alive. If she feared his wrath, she didn’t show it, and Daniel respected her ability to spar with him. He liked having at least one member of his train that kept him honest. She then spoke.
“You’ve become distant. You all but ignore the girls, and you do ignore me — unless I come up to your lair before Pepé and the others get to you. You haven’t touched me in days, and you are snapping at everyone.”
“Didn’t I just invite you to go fishing?”
“Daniel, not with them!” Annibel shot back, pointing downstairs. “And even if you took me out on the boat alone, they would be following us in the other, keeping ‘security watch’ over the most powerful man in Venezuela. I can’t be myself with you out there, but at least I can understand why. Up here, in our home, I cannot understand why. You tell me I have everything. You have everything, including me and the girls, and yet you are unhappy. Why? Just talk to me!”