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.
SEVEN
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.”