He didn’t deny her statement or defend himself. There was no point. It wouldn’t change anything now and would only make him appear even weaker in the Viper’s eyes. Besides, what she said was true, and he knew she wouldn’t have made the threat without evidence. It stood to reason that she’d collected her own intelligence over the years, to use as security, because she’d never fully trusted her political masters.
With the peace talks underway in Havana, and government forces decimating FARC, Flores had decided it was prudent to look into securing his own future. He had over two million dollars that he’d accumulated over the past couple years held in numbered Cayman Island bank accounts and he’d privately negotiated with the Cubans for future asylum in Havana.
Flores wasn’t going to allow Arianna Moreno to interfere with that future. He felt no animosity toward her. He reserved his anger for himself, for recognizing the Viper as a liability years ago and never dealing with it.
“Now that it’s clear where we stand,” Flores said, “what do you want from me?”
“You will do two things for me. You will give me Carnivore. I do not care what you have to do or how much it costs you, but this man is mine to do with as I please. Is that clear?”
Already a plan began to formulate in Flores’s mind, his thoughts shifting back to the problem of the spy who had betrayed Emilio Reyes in Venezuela. Flores thought that perhaps he could remove two birds with the same stone.
“What else?”
“I think you know. You will give me the weapons.”
“These aren’t some M16s or RPGs. Each unit will be inventoried, accounted for, and tracked.”
“Then it’s a good that you are now well motivated to help me,” the Viper replied.
“If you use those weapons, you will destroy the peace talks.”
“You’re only encouraging me, Andrés. The so-called peace talks are a complete farce. The old men on the Secretariat are selling us all out. You know it, too. Why else would you need to sell drugs and negotiate with the Cubans?”
“I can have you killed, you know.”
“You have no one better than me to do the job, and there will be nowhere you can hide after they fail. Stop wasting time. If you cross me, I promise I will slice your throat. Do what I ask, and you will never see me again and you can start thinking about buying real estate in Havana.”
Flores weighed his options. There wasn’t much to consider, really. He envisioned a hacienda in Cuba, overlooking the beaches along Nipe Bay, a young wife, a new name, and a modest fortune. If he wanted that future to become a reality, then he had no choice. And what did it matter to him? He had no stake in the peace talks. Either way, he had too much blood on his hands for the Colombian government to ever grant him amnesty. He’d either spend his life in a prison, where FARC’s right wing enemies could reach him, or he’d have to spend the rest of his life hiding in the jungle. And Arianna was right. Flores didn’t trust the Secretariat not to turn him over to the federal government as a concession in order to save themselves.
“I will arrange contact for you with the arms supplier and the transfer of funds, and then you will be on your own, and you will make no further demands of me. The Central High Command and the Secretariat will disavow you, you know. There will be no protection for you.”
“Do you think I care?”
“You will become the most hunted person on the planet. Wherever you go, the Americans and their proxies will pursue you until you are dead. Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia, even they will not harbor you. Maybe North Korea will take you in, but I do not believe you’d like it there very much.”
The Viper was accustomed to operating alone. She’d never had use for anyone in her life other than her brother. They’d always been so much more than siblings. Aarón had been the first and remained the only man she’d ever given herself to. He was the only human being in this world to ever love her. They’d shared, since her birth, when Aarón was five, a deep spiritual connection, unbroken even now, that she believed she would never possibly know again. Without that, she saw little meaning in life.
Arianna Moreno had nothing but her anger and hatred now. She felt it radiate within her, simmering, fueling her. The overpowering, primal desire to unleash her fury on the world gave her purpose.
FOUR
Six days later, Pablo Muňoz shoved a wad of cash into the driver’s hand without counting it. Then he climbed out of the taxi with his suitcase. He shut the door, turned, and was nearly struck by a speeding motorcycle. He heard the crack of the four cylinder engine and saw the flash of movement as the bike whipped past him, less than three feet away.
For a split second he’d thought that this was it, the moment he’d been expecting every day for the past decade, but then he realized the Central High Command would not execute him on a public street in a foreign country. Drivers, motorcyclists especially, on Panama City’s notoriously gridlocked streets were simply reckless and aggressive.
It didn’t much matter, though.
Death no longer held any fear for him. Death would come as a release from the perpetual cycles of mental anguish and inner torment. Although raised Catholic, Pablo had never been a believer until, in a desperate time, with nothing else, he’d turned to his Savior for guidance and comfort. He’d done terrible, deplorable things. He’d become a traitor and a terrorist because someone convinced him that was how he could best serve his country. Innocent people were dead because of him.
He knew that Hell waited to receive him.
Pablo Muňoz had never been an introspective thinker, a trait that made him a desirable candidate for Deep Sting, but ten years living a double life of secrets and treachery was enough to take its toll on any man, and Pablo had gradually deteriorated into a neurotic mess. He felt his physical and mental wellness decline by the week. There was no longer a single person he trusted, not even himself. There was nowhere he felt safe, neither from FARC nor his masters in the intelligence service. Even his own wife, the woman who gave birth to his children, a committed Marxist and FARC loyalist, would gladly put a bullet in his head if she knew what he really was.
When he truly felt trapped and without hope for the future, he considered putting a bullet through his own head, not only as a means of escape, but maybe as a path to redemption, too, for the things he’d done. He’d held the gun to the side of his head with his finger over the trigger; so simple and easy, but somehow the mental blocks were still in place and wouldn’t allow his finger to comply with his desire to pull the trigger.
Pablo already lost thirty pounds. His once toned, fit military physique and endurance withered away, and he looked much older than his thirty-five years. Most nights, he could barely sleep, and when sleep did finally come, he re-lived, with vivid and painful clarity, the execution of the army captain. He drank constantly to keep his nerves settled, less he become overwhelmed and struggle with placing the gun in his mouth again. He even indulged in cocaine in the times when his survival was dependent on a sharp, focused mind.
When Daniel first approached him for Deep Sting, Pablo had no idea that it could possibly go on this long. He’d anticipated spending a year or two undercover, and then collecting the money Daniel promised. But every year, when he was ready to come out, they pressed him and pushed him to stay on. After four years, when he thought he could take no more, and the stress and burden became too much, the black American from the DEA promised him American citizenship and a brand new life. All he had to do was continue a little while longer.