The men sat on the edge, three to a side, their waterproofed rucksacks in their laps. Riley turned back toward the pilots. Hobbes was looking at him over her shoulder. Riley gave her a thumbs-up and she hit the release on her cyclic.
The Zodiac dropped away from the aircraft and hit the water. Two at a time, one from each side, the members of Eyes Three quickly followed. The first pair, Partusi and Holder, landed within five meters of the boat. Riley was the last one off the right side. He threw out his ruck and shoved himself off the deck. As he descended he twisted in the air so that his back faced the flight direction. He put his hands behind his neck, interlacing his fingers, and touched his elbows together in front of his face. The ten-knot forward speed and the fall combined to slam him into the water, causing him to lose his breath momentarily. He popped to the surface and looked around. With a last flyby, the Blackhawk disappeared into the night sky, leaving him with the sound of the waves.
Riley put on his fins in the water and then headed for the Zodiac. Reaching it he clambered on board. Partusi, as first man on the raft, had already checked for gas fumes to make sure the fuel bladders had not leaked during the trip or drop.
As soon as everyone was on board, Riley broke out the MANPADS and checked their position.
Powers looked over his shoulder. "How we doing?"
Riley nodded. "Good. We're only about eight klicks west of where we should be." He pulled out a chart and a red-lens flashlight and plotted, confirming the readout from the MANPADS. "We go that way."
While Riley had been plotting, Partusi had locked the engine onto the rear. At Riley's direction, Partusi fired it up. Riley sat on one side of the rear and navigated while Partusi drove. The forty-horsepower short-shaft engine initially lifted the bow of the Zodiac, but as the boat picked up speed it flattened out and planed across the waves.
It didn't take a large leap of imagination on Rich Stevens's part to realize that he was in big trouble. The fact that he had been blindfolded, thrown in the back of a car, and driven for twenty minutes to his present location was only the beginning. Now he was tied to a chair in the middle of a warehouse. His arms were bound flat down on the arms of the chair and his chest was against the back. The chair itself was bolted to the concrete floor. Stevens knew he wasn't going anywhere without permission.
The two men guarding him looked as if they'd like nothing better than to empty their submachine guns into him. The DEA agent had been in some hairy situations in his career but never one where he felt so afraid and helpless.
He heard footsteps behind him, and three people walked around into his field of vision. Stevens stared at Maria, who was trailing two other men. She stared back with the hint of a smile on her face. The lead man stood in front of him. Stevens noted that the man had rings on every finger. Suddenly one of those hands flew out and struck him on the side of the face. Stevens tasted blood.
"Where and when is the raid coming tonight?"
Stevens stared at the man in confusion. How could the man know there was an attack tonight? The man must have interpreted his hesitation as defiance, because he reached forward, grabbed Stevens's face with one hand, and tilted his head up so he looked into his eyes.
"You will talk to me, pig. You will tell me what I want to know. The stupider you act, the more it will hurt, but you will eventually talk. Everyone does."
The man let go of him and nodded to the other man who accompanied him. This man, a short, squat, ugly fellow, pulled a meat cleaver out of the gym bag he had carried in. Stevens watched in confusion and growing fear as the man calmly walked over. He talked to one of the guards in Spanish. The guard grabbed Stevens's left hand and curled in all the fingers except the ring finger. Stevens stared in mesmerized horror as the cleaver flashed down and severed his finger. He was initially too shocked to feel the pain. He watched the blood squirt out of the stump. Then he screamed as the pain hit him.
The man with the rings grabbed his face again. "Where and when will the raid occur?"
Stevens was still too stunned to reply. It was all moving too fast. His mind hadn't caught up to the reality of his predicament. It seemed like a terrible dream, but the pain from his missing finger convinced him that it wasn't. The man with the cleaver moved forward and nodded at the other guard. Stevens futilely tried fighting as the man grabbed his hand and extended the middle finger.
"No!" The man in charge stepped forward. Stevens felt a moment of relief. They had finally come to their senses. "We do not have time to waste. We need the information now."
A soft voice spoke up. "I know what to do."
Stevens watched as Maria stepped forward. "Untie him and hold him up." The two guards did as instructed. She reached forward, undid his belt, and unzipped his pants. She pulled down his pants and underpants and grabbed him between the legs.
Maria smiled at him, a smile full of malice. "Why are you not growing hard like you always did when I grabbed you here before?" She turned to the man who had cut off Stevens's finger. "Give me the cleaver."
Stevens's fear overflowed his dike of professionalism. "Barranquilla! They'll be in position by one in the morning. The attack is supposed to occur at three."
Maria let go of him and stepped back. The two guards threw Stevens back in the chair. The man in apparent command came forward. "I need more information. How many men? How are they coming in and leaving? How will they destroy the lab?"
Stevens slumped down in the chair, staring numbly at his severed finger lying on the floor. "Six men. I don't know how they are getting in and out. Probably helicopter. They'll use either helicopter gunships or an air force gunship to destroy the target."
"How did your people find out the lab's location?"
Stevens shrugged. "Some contact through the CIA."
The man with the rings grabbed Stevens's face again. "That can't be. Don't lie to me."
Stevens protested weakly. "All I know is that someone contacts the CIA through a cutout down here, and they forward the information to Washington. It's been the same for all three missions."
Peter Dotson, the communications man on watch duty for the embassy, looked at the clock on the wall with growing concern and irritation. Stevens should have been back an hour ago. What the hell happens if someone calls booth one and Stevens isn't there to answer?
Dotson swore to himself. He sure as hell wasn't going to cover for the drunken asshole. The guy was probably out with that local woman from the Embassy Cafe. Dotson had seen the two of them talking in the cafe. He wondered what the hell she saw in the old DEA agent. He pictured the two together. He could easily see what Stevens saw in the woman.
Dotson looked at the clock again. He'd give it another thirty minutes. Then he'd have to do something about the net Stevens was supposed to be monitoring.
Dotson looked at the clock again. His self-imposed deadline had passed almost twenty minutes ago and he had done nothing. His stomach was churning. He didn't like the idea of raising the red flag, even if he thought Stevens was a jerk. Leaving a top secret net was a serious violation, especially when it looked as though it had been for unofficial reasons. Dotson didn't like the idea of destroying someone's career. Still…
He looked at the clock again. He forced himself to change his nervousness to anger. Stevens knew better. He had put his own ass in the crack and it wasn't Dotson's fault if he had to report him. Hell, it was his job.
Despite his resolution to grow angry, Dotson approached the comm booth reluctantly. The shit was going to hit the fan. He opened the door and sat down, then he put the boom mike on his head and keyed it. "Any station this net, this is Echo Oscar Five. Over."