and he laughed with the two bodyguards who were never far from his side. They were short, squat men with dark hair, dark glasses and no smiles. They made a quick sweep of the garden. They glanced up at each guard post. They didn’t take any special notice of Alex. He paid no attention to them, willing them to see only what he wanted them to see—a guard on duty.
At half past five, a long white sedan wound its way up the long driveway to the villa. It stopped just shy of the iron gates. Men poured out of twin guard shacks on either side of the gate, scanning the passengers, opening the trunk and searching quickly, checking the engine and sweeping beneath the undercarriage with mirrors. Slick, quick and efficient. Alex appreciated that—under other circumstances he might have admired it.
The gates opened and the car slid in, moving at a leisurely pace. Alex watched, lost sight of the vehicle and turned his attention back to the streets. For the moment, his duty was to protect. He kept his rifle, a modified Russian SVN-98, with the barrel tipped toward the street, but low enough that anyone watching from beyond the fence couldn’t see it. They knew, of course. The police knew, the locals knew, everyone knew better than to approach the fence, but that was no reason to let down the guard. He knew what was expected, and that was what he became. It was how he operated, how he survived.
The Chameleon absorbed his environment, took on its colors.
The deal went down moments later. There were no formalities. Carrera’s men escorted a small party from the villa to the garden. There were three men. One carried a banded metal case. The other two were mirror images of Carrera’s men—short, squat, expressionless. They didn’t glance around, but Alex knew they were aware of every detail. Their lives and the life of their leader depended on it. It was all like clockwork, and that was what was supposed to make it simple.
The money was counted. The drugs were presented for inspection. Carrera lounged in a chair, indifferent to the proceedings. The man who had carried the case moments before scooped a small sample onto his finger, tasted it quickly, then pulled a smaller case from his pocket. He took out a glass bottle, dropped a bit of the powder into it, added liquid and shook. That was the moment.
Alex knew that no one would be able to resist watching that bottle. Either the drugs were good, and the white sedan would glide back out the gates the way it glided in, leaving Carrera to count the cash, or it was a setup, an ambush meant to send some message to a lesser dealer or a competitor. It mattered little to Alex. Every set of eyes was locked on the bottle, and in that moment, he struck.
He shifted the rifle in the blink of an eye and sighted in on Carrera through the integrated scope. There was no time to hesitate, but Alex was a crack shot. It was thirty feet down the opposite side of the wall, but he’d already rigged a line. The entire operation should have taken, by his calculation, about forty seconds.
The crosshairs rested on Carrera’s heart, and Alex curled his finger around the trigger, preparing to gently squeeze off the single round that would end Carrera’s life. Except, at that moment, his hand began to shake. Not a small tremor, but an uncontrollable spasm that wrenched his fingers into a locked claw. He fought to control it, and pulled the trigger instinctively. The slug slammed into the bag of cocaine and sent a cloud of powder into the air. In that momentary confusion, cursing to himself, he resighted, pulled the trigger again, and blood spouted from Carrera’s temple—the only part of him that was visible above the tabletop.
Carrera was dead, but the damage to the mission was done. Men were already on the move.
Alex dropped the gun and grabbed at his line. He slid down quickly, rappelling down the sheer stone face. The muscles of his hand clenched again, so tight that he nearly cried out. He dropped too quickly and fought for control. He heard voices calling out in the distance. He heard gunfire, probably the buyer’s men crossing with Carrera’s in the confusion. He heard the roar of an engine, and he knew they’d seen him. He hadn’t gotten over the wall quickly enough.
He hit the ground moving far too quickly. He braced, released the line and rolled, but pain shot through his legs—more pain than there should have been—and it was all he could do to keep his feet. There was a hundred yards before he’d be near any sort of cover. The first side street consisted of lines of small houses, all the same, most of them uninhabited. The few that weren’t empty held Carrera’s men and their families. It was a small demilitarized zone, more for camouflage than habitation.
Behind the second house on the left side of the street, he’d parked a Ducati dirt bike, small, powerful and maneuverable. He heard sounds of pursuit, too close. As he ran, he tossed aside his jacket and shirt. Dangling from the handlebars he’d left a dirty serape that many of the natives here wore. He whipped it over his shoulders, slid his arms in and dropped heavily onto the bike. His legs tingled as though they’d fallen asleep, and ice picks stabbed at his hips. His vision darkened for a moment from the sudden pain, and he nearly blacked out. He gritted his teeth, punched himself in the thigh repeatedly and kicked the engine to life.
He spun out and around the corner as the first wave of Carrera’s men swept out the gates and into the streets, searching for likely targets. It was five miles to the center of the city, where the streets would be busy with people and tourists and where the police would have to make at least an attempt to pay attention. Alex blinked and gripped the handlebars tighter, his hands like talons. His eyesight blurred and it was all that he could do to keep the Ducati upright.
For a time he operated on pure instinct, and the bursts of gunfire and the roar of engines at his heels became the sounds of dreams on awakening—distant and unreal. He was the Chameleon, and he needed only to disappear.
He dumped the bike at the edge of a small market, running between carts overladen with fruits and vegetables, and ducking in and out of alleys. At six feet one inch, he wasn’t small enough to remain unseen in a doorway or tucked behind some clutter in the alley. He kept moving, ignoring the protests of his body, knowing that it didn’t matter where he ended up, only that they not find him. The crowded streets were his best chance of blending in and eventually disappearing.
A car roared by the mouth of the alley where he stood. There was no way to know for sure if it was one of Carrera’s. He had to assume that it was. Alex took a deep breath, steadied himself and pushed off the wall. He stumbled at first, then found his stride and, hanging close to the wall, stepped confidently into the street. Just ahead was a small cantina with tables looking out onto the street. He lowered his head and stepped inside.
The urge to turn and scan the street was strong, but he ignored it, walking into the shadows near the rear of the bar and taking a seat. Anything he did that might bring attention to himself would be a mistake. He needed to become what he appeared to be—a tired worker in from the fields, looking for a place to wait out the last heat of the day and enjoy a drink. His clothing, the makeup he wore and even the contact lenses that turned his normally pale blue eyes a dark brown color would all serve to make him look more like a native. He ordered beer in fluent, unaccented Spanish and slouched over it. Occasionally, he turned toward the door and glanced at the street, but he was careful to make such motions inconspicuous and innocuous. There was nothing to be gained by moving now. His best bet for survival was staying put, and the way he was feeling, the rest was a blessing. There was no way to deny it—something was wrong. He had to get out of Mexico and back home. He had to see a doctor. There was no longer any way to deny the sudden, excruciating pains or the uncontrollable trembling in his hands. His physical conditioning had not slacked off, and yet he seemed to spend most of his energy trying to concentrate, or fighting the pain in his legs.
Something had gone horribly wrong and his life too often depended on the skills of his body. A mistake in his line of work could easily prove fatal. And, if he was honest with himself, the missions were often too important to the safety of the world for him to fail.
The
