Slayton ran the American end of Operation Phoenix and was the man to whom Culler had essentially subcontracted Avery, since the Special Activities Division and Latin American Division chiefs at the National Clandestine Service, CIA’s operations arm, unequivocally refused to authorize sending a paramilitary operator on a black mission into Venezuela at the request of the DEA. The Drug Enforcement Administration was essentially the US’s primary intelligence collector for all things Colombian or FARC.
Avery had worked with DEA the previous year, running security for one of their teams in El Salvador. That had been the overt part of the job, which was cover for a black op, completely off the books, to neutralize an MS-13 crew assassinating DEA agents and Salvadoran cops.
Exhausted, dirty, starving, and still wearing the same clothes with soaked socks and blistered feet, Avery sighed, flung his backpack over his shoulder, and jumped down from the Blackhawk. He kept his head bent forward beneath the blades whipping around above him as he stepped clear of the rotor wash.
“Welcome back, Carnivore,” Slayton said.
Avery nodded in acknowledgement of the DEA agent and then said to Culler, “What’s up, Matt?”
“We’ll talk inside. You’re not going home as soon as planned.”
It didn’t matter to Avery. Home for him meant a small cabin in the backwoods of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. He liked it there, but aside from the tranquility and the scenery, there was nothing and no one waiting for him. After a week or two, he invariably grew anxious and irritable, waiting for Culler to call with a job.
Passing American airmen and marines along the way, Avery followed Culler and Slayton to the building where the DEA’s offices were housed. Avery was so fatigued and dehydrated that just walking the short distance felt like a grueling workout.
“Good job on Phoenix, by the way,” Culler said.
“Aside from that bit of excitement in the jungle, it was simple, went down as planned.”
“Whatever you say,” Slayton said, “but the Colombians are fucking ecstatic about Moreno. And so are we. That son of a bitch personally raped, tortured, and killed Pamela Schreen two years ago in Belize. She had two kids. She was one of ours, DEA, and we never forgot what happened to her.”
With his shaved head, thick neck, and hooked nose, Mark Slayton had the straightforward, authoritative attitude of a big-city cop, which is what he’d been prior to DEA. Tall, black, and a Bronx native, he’d done eight years in NYPD’s Detective Bureau and three more in its Emergency Services Unit before being recruited by the Drug Enforcement Administration’s Office of National Security Intelligence. DEA agents fired more shots than any other federal agency, and Slayton had seen his share of action across North and South America, as well as Afghanistan. He’d also led the sting that arrested Russian arms dealer Victor Bout, the Merchant of Death, in Bangkok.
“I owe you big time when we’re both back in the States, beer, a steak, whatever you want,” Slayton added. “We couldn’t have pulled off Phoenix without you.”
Avery didn’t intend to take Slayton up on the offer, but he nodded anyway.
He didn’t view a killing as an achievement. Once, his Ranger chalk came to the rescue of a wounded navy SEAL, the sole survivor of a chopper crash in the Safed Koh Mountains. By luck, Avery’s Rangers managed to reach the SEAL before the Taliban’s Chechen mercenaries found him, and he lived to see his first daughter born. Avery thought that was an accomplishment, something of which to be proud.
Moreno meant nothing. Killing always came easy.
Slayton took them to a secure conference room that had been electronically swept for audio surveillance within the past hour. The room was air conditioned, and there was a platter of assorted mini-sandwiches and tortilla chips with salsa, plus coffee and bottled vitamin water.
Avery took a seat and helped himself to the food without waiting for an invitation. His body craved the calories and hydration, and the cool air felt refreshing after the time spent in the sweltering jungle. He untied his boots and slipped them off. He took off his jacket and stripped down to his t-shirt, unconcerned with the odor.
“The Colombians are worried about blowback from Operation Phoenix,” Culler told Avery. “We’re waiting on Daniel from ANIC, who will explain the situation.”
The Agencia Nacional de Intelligencia Colombiana, or ANIC, was the new agency formed after President Santos shut down the controversial and scandal-ridden Department of Administrative Security (DAS). DAS waged a notoriously ruthless and brutally effective war against FARC, ELN, and M-19 terrorists, and the drug cartels, until its dissolution in 2011, when the agency was caught spying on the president’s left-wing political opponents.
While Avery worked on stuffing food down his throat, Culler and Slayton filled the silence by making small talk. Soon as Culler started asking about the best restaurants in Bogotá, and Slayton went on about the coffee he’d sent back home to his wife, Avery tuned out. With his stomach filling up, his next priority was a shower to wash the jungle filth and grime from his body and a bed.
The doors to the conference room opened three minutes later.
The Colombian man who entered had light skin, indicating that he was likely of mixed European descent, most likely Spanish or Italian. The graying of his black hair was partially concealed by its short cut, and he sported a trimmed mustache. He wore blue jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, with the top two buttons undone.
Culler and Slayton rose from their chairs to greet the man. Perfunctory handshakes were exchanged and verbal back-patting over the success of Operation Phoenix, like men in a bar celebrating a sports team’s victory, but the Colombian lacked Culler and Slayton’s enthusiasm.
From his seat, Avery watched quietly and with disinterest, waiting for the relevant bit.
“This is Daniel from Colombian intelligence,” Slayton introduced. He did not provide Avery with the man’s surname, and Daniel likewise wouldn’t get Avery’s full name. That’s how it was done at this level, even among friendly services.
Avery made no move to stand up to greet the man, did not offer his hand, and Daniel likewise sat down at the table across from Avery without acknowledging him beyond giving him a quick appraising look, seeing the dirty camouflage and the mud-caked boots and the patchy, smeared remains of grease paint on his face, and the Colombian likely smelled the filth and the cordite still fresh on Avery.
Daniel had a serious demeanor. Deep stress lines and tired, strained eyes made him appear older than he probably was, and he smelt of fresh tobacco. He had a long and angular, almost gaunt, face.
Avery immediately sized him up and assessed him as an intelligence type, definitely not a shooter, but he also wasn’t an analyst or staff officer who spent his time in an office. No, Avery pegged him as a field officer doing undercover work out of Medellin or Cali, finding and running agents and living his life in the shadows, probably hard and cynical, and he was probably more committed to his work than his wife — Avery noticed the wedding band around the left ring finger — if she was still around.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, gentlemen.” Daniel addressed Culler and Slayton, but his eyes stayed on Avery. “I must admit that I’m a little confused. I specifically requested that this meeting be kept between the three of us, did I not?”
“Sorry, Daniel, but I asked Avery to sit in on this,” Culler said. “I don’t like keeping my people in the dark, and if we are to proceed with the extraction, then Carnivore is the man who will be sent in again.”
Daniel’s face displayed his displeasure, but he opted not to argue about it.