have an asshole till she got married!”
The officer rotated and dipped the shoulder of his free hand. His fist came up from the hip and buried itself in Schwarz’s stomach. The Stony Man operative absorbed the blow passively and let himself crumple at the man’s feet. He looked up from the floor, gasping for breath.
After a pause Schwarz again addressed Hernandez. “You know what this pendejo’s most confusing day is? Yep—Father’s Day.”
His cackling was cut off as the sergeant kicked him in the ribs. Hernandez snapped an order and reluctantly the man backed off. “Leave us!” he repeated, and the officer left the room still scowling.
Hernandez moved forward and dropped Schwarz’s passport on the table. He looked down as the American fought his way back up to his feet. Hernandez watched dispassionately as the man climbed into his chair.
“This is a helluva country you got here, pal,” Schwarz said. “Tell a few jokes and get the shit kicked out of you. I should get a lawyer and sue your ass.”
“You’ll find Venezuelan courts unsympathetic to ugly Americans, Mr. Miller.”
“Yeah, well, your momma’s so fat when she walks her butt claps.”
“Why have you come to Venezuela, Mr. Miller?”
“I heard a guy could get a drink. I think it was a lie. Seriously, I’m here with some buddies to check out the sites, maybe see the senoritas on Margarita Island—but instead I get this?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t insult my officers?”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t lock an innocent tourista up for two hours in a room with a trained monkey like that asshole.”
Hernandez sighed heavily, a weary man with an odious task. “I’m sure this is just an administrative error. We’ll have it sorted out shortly.”
“You’re damn well right you will,” Schwarz snapped, playing his role to the hilt.
“In the meantime, perhaps you could refrain from antagonizing my officers? Yes?”
“Hey, Pedro—is that your stomach or did you just swallow a beach ball?”
Officer Hernandez turned and walked out of the room, studiously ignoring the thin man standing outside in the hall next to the doorway.
“Hey, who do ya have to screw to get a drink around here?” Schwarz demanded as the door swung closed.
From behind the two-way mirror the thin man watched him with inscrutable curiosity.
AS CUSTOMS OFFICER Hernandez entered the final interrogation room, Blancanales, whose own passport was made out under the name of Rosario, rose from his seat, manner eager and face twisted into a mask of hopeful supplication.
“Listen,” he began babbling, “I’m really sorry—”
“Shut up and sit down!” Hernandez interrupted. “Yes, I know, I know. You are all here innocently. You are all planning to go to Margarita Island, you are all thirsty and need a drink because you are just typical ugly Americans here to screw our women and drink tequila!”
Face frozen in a look of sheepish innocence, Blancanales settled back down in his chair. He blinked his eyes several times. “Well, er, I guess…yeah.”
Face red, Hernandez spun on a heel and tossed the blue passport on the table in disgust. He left the room and slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled in its frame.
Blancanales called after him, “Actually, I am kind of thirsty, amigo.”
Out in the hallway Hernandez marched up to his superior, who stood waiting next to the thin man in civilian clothes. “Sir, their paperwork checks out. Everything checks out perfectly. They’ve obviously rehearsed their story—or it’s the truth. Should I toss them in a holding cell?”
“That won’t be necessary,” the thin man said. “Let them go. Apologize for the mistake, wish them well.”
Hernandez slid his gaze over to his commanding officer, who glanced at the man next to him, then nodded. “Yes, we have enough. Let them go.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Basra, Iraq
The rotors of the Black Hawk helicopter were still turning as the side door to the cargo bay opened to reveal the men Major Anjali had been sent to greet. He surveyed them with a critical eye, noting the athletic physiques, flat affects and nonregulation weaponry hanging off their ballistic armor and black fatigues.
Anjali had seen enough special operations soldiers in his life to recognize the type. The elite always had more in common with each other than even with others of their own country or military. Anjali was a wise enough and realistic enough man to know he himself did not belong among their ranks. It was no matter of ego for him; his interests lay in other directions.
At the moment he remained focused on gaining these mysterious commandos’ trust, leading them into hostile terrain beyond the reach of help and then betraying them—making himself a little wealthier in the process.
The first man to reach Anjali was tall and broad with fox-faced features and brown eyes and hair. Having spent the past five years operating alongside British forces in Basra, the Shiite police officer recognized an Englishman even before he spoke and revealed his accent.
“You Anjali?” David McCarter asked.
Anjali nodded, noting the man did not identify either himself or his unit. Behind the Briton his team paused: a tall black man with cold eyes, a stocky Hispanic with a fireplug build and scarred forearms standing next to a truly massive individual with shoulders like barn doors and an M-60E cut-down machine gun. Behind the tight little group another individual, as tall and muscular as the rest, turned and surveyed the windows and rooftops of the buildings overlooking the secured helipad. There was a sniper-scoped Mk 11 with a paratrooper skeletal folding stock in his hands, the eyepieces on the telescopic sight popped up to reveal an oval peep sight glowing a dim green.
“We were briefed on the flight in,” McCarter continued. “You get us past the Iraqi security checkpoints and militia crossings until we’re within striking distance, then fall back with the reserve force should we need backup.”
“Just so.” Anjali nodded. “I’m surprised you agreed to having only Iraqi forces as overwatch. Did you work with us in Basra before?” The question was casually voiced, but still constituted a breach of etiquette in such situations.
“Has there been a change in the situation since our initial briefing?” the black man asked, cutting in.
Anjali turned to face Calvin James, noting the H&K MP-7 submachine gun dangling from a sling off his shoulders down the front of his black fatigue shirt. In his big, scarred hands the man casually cradled a SPAS-15 dual mode combat shotgun, its stock folded down so that he held it by the pistol grip and forestock just beyond the detachable drum-style magazine.
Just as with the rest of them Anjali saw the man’s black fatigues bore no unit insignia, name tag or rank designation. His voice was flatly American, however, the accent bearing just a trace of
