Targets of Revenge (5 page)

Just as Sandor prepared to move out, the sentry straightened up, threw down his cigarette, and began to walk toward Sandor’s right. It appeared to be part of the man’s patrol, a simple stroll along the edge of this large complex. Sandor placed the binoculars on the ground, crouched behind the large cedar, and waited. The guard moved slowly, passing across Sandor’s field of vision toward the other light post off to the right.

As soon as the man’s back was visible, Sandor did not hesitate. Leaving his rifle and submachine gun behind the tree he came out fast and low, his knife drawn.

By the time the sentry heard the sound behind him it was too late. Sandor hit him with the full force of his weight, driving the guard facedown into the soft earth with a thud, the sharp blade of the Ka-Bar already at his throat. With his left hand Sandor yanked the man’s head back by his hair.

“Habla inglés?”

The sentry barely managed to say “No,” the pressure of the knife already drawing a trickle of blood that ran down his neck.

“Bueno,”
Sandor said, then spoke to him in Spanish. “How many guards?”

The man tried to shake his head, but Sandor pulled tighter on his hair.

“You screw with me and I’ll kill you right here. How many guards on patrol?”

“Two.”

“You mean you and two more, or you and one more?”

“One more,” the man told him.

“Where is he?”

“Other side.”

“Any laser detectors?”

The guard did not respond.

“You understand laser?”

“I understand. No, no laser.”

“Anything else, any alarms?”

“No, not here,” the man said, then began to struggle against Sandor’s hold.

“I told you, you move and I’ll kill you.” The guard stopped moving.

“Where are the alarms?”

“Some buildings.”

“Which buildings?”

“Main house. The guardhouse above the laboratory,” he said.

Sandor did not like surprises, so he was not about to admit he knew nothing about a laboratory. “Where’s Adina?” he demanded.

The man’s body tensed. “I don’t understand.”

“Hell you don’t. Tell me which building? Where do I find Adina?”

The man suddenly began speaking very quickly, something about narcotics Sandor could not make out.

“Speak more slowly.”

He did, saying something about cocaine, accusing Sandor of coming here to steal drugs. As the man rattled on he tried to move his left hand, which was pinned underneath him, reaching for something along his side. He made a sudden, desperate effort to break free but the pressure of Sandor’s hold was too strong, the knife too tight to his throat. As the man tried to spin to his side, the razor-sharp blade sliced through his windpipe and carotid artery. Blood began pumping out of his neck as he gave up grasping for his gun, now clutching at his throat. He died facedown in the dirt without uttering another word.

“Damn,” Sandor said through gritted teeth as he rolled off the man’s back and raised himself to a sitting position. He looked around, but everything was quiet. He cleaned his knife on the guard’s pants, replaced it in its sheath, then stood and, taking the dead man by his ankles, dragged him into the jungle.

Sandor knew it was not going to be long before the guard’s disappearance would be discovered. He took the man’s walkie-talkie, realizing there were probably regular check-in times.

“Damn,” he said again.

His timeline had just been accelerated.

T
HERE WAS NO
way of knowing how much of what the sentry had said was true, but it was Sandor’s experience that intel obtained from a man with a knife to his throat tends to be fairly reliable. Once he covered the body with some dirt and leaves, he snatched up his weapons and made tracks through the jungle again, this time circling the complex as quickly as he could to find the second guard. He discovered him on the other side of the compound, sitting against a tree. His automatic rifle was nestled in his lap and he appeared to be asleep.

Sandor moved quietly, not rousing the man until he was close enough to level the silenced barrel of his .45 at the sentry’s ear and cock the hammer. The guard started, making a reflexive attempt to get to his feet, but Sandor clamped a strong left hand on the man’s shoulder and whispered in Spanish, “Sit still or you’re dead.”

The guard eased himself back down. His hands remained in front of him as he glanced at his AK-47.

“Uh, uh, uh,” Sandor warned, then grabbed the barrel of the rifle and tossed it behind him.

The man had a furtive look to his left and right.

“If you’re expecting help you can forget it,” Sandor said.

“Manuel?”

“He wanted to be a hero. Bad choice. Unless you want to end up like he did you’ll answer my questions.”

“You’re going to kill me too.”

“Not necessarily.”

Unlike his deceased counterpart, this man appeared to have none of the hero in him. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the laboratory.”

The guard described an underground facility in the middle of the complex. Sandor’s Spanish was good enough to catch the basic points. The main product was refined cocaine, but other substances were also being manufactured down there.

“Heroin?”

“No,” he said.

“What then?”

“I don’t know,” the guard told him. “I only know it is very dangerous.”

“Explosives?”

The man responded with a blank look.

“What do they do with the coke?”

The man responded with a confused look, as if the answer was obvious. “They ship it out of here.”

“I understand that. To where?”

“Mexico, I think. Mostly to Mexico.”

“Mexico’s a big country pal.”

“I don’t know where in Mexico.”

“All right. Anyplace else?” The guard began to give an instinctive shake of his head, but Sandor pressed the tip of the silencer into his ear. “Don’t move, just talk.”

“Not sure,” the guard said. “There are men from somewhere in the Middle East; they come and go here.”

“Where in the Middle East?”

“I think Egypt.”

“Egypt?”

“Yes.”

“And where’s my friend Adina tonight?”

“The main house. To the right there, in the middle of those trees.”

“Guards on duty there?”

“Always.”

“Of course. What about the lab? Sentries posted there, too?”

“Yes.”

“You have regular times that you have to call on your radio?”

“No. Only if there’s trouble.”

“That the truth?”

“Yes. We also have a button to push in an emergency.” He began to point to the walkie-talkie strapped to his side, but Sandor stopped him.

“I get the idea. So, these drug shipments, how big and how often?”

“Every few weeks. Big.” He did his best to describe the size of the packages that were placed on trucks, then taken west toward the shore.

“Okay. How many entrances to the lab?”

“Only one.” He then explained the location of a small guardhouse that stood at the doorway down to the facility. “But you can’t take any of the coke, man. No way to get out of here alive.”

“We’ll see,” Sandor said, “but I must say, you’ve been very helpful.” Then he abruptly raised the S&W and brought the butt of the handle crashing down across the man’s temple. As the guard slumped to the side Sandor hit him again. He did not want him regaining consciousness anytime soon.

He had a look at his watch. It was nearly 3:45 A.M.

He decided to put his plans for Adina on hold for the moment and have a look at the laboratory.

S
INCE THE LIGHTS
on the four large posts at the corners of the compound were intended to illuminate the outside perimeter, the interior area was fairly dark at this hour. Now that Sandor had taken out the two guards, he encountered no resistance as he moved toward the center of this group of buildings. The entrance to the lab was just as the sentry had described, a small rectangular cement structure that served as the portal for the underground facility. The lab itself had a concrete roof at ground level.

Sandor crouched behind a large banyan tree not twenty yards from the guardhouse, his night vision binoculars in hand. He could see that it had windows on all four sides, and from the look of them it was possible they were constructed of bulletproof glass. He could also see the two men on duty inside, so any attempt to enter through this main access point was going to be a problem.

Beyond the laboratory entrance he spotted what he was looking for—the domed tops of the ventilation outlets that sat just above the laboratory’s ground-level roof. Sandor stayed low, running in a wide arc to his left until he reached the pipe that was farthest from the sentries.

His watch told him it was nearly 4:00 A.M.

Sandor worked quickly and quietly, removing the circular cap from the ventilation shaft and peering down into the wide metal cylinder. There was a lateral shaft of light at the bottom, which looked to be about eight feet below ground level. The duct was approximately
three feet in diameter and it appeared that it would be easy enough for him to shimmy down.

“Damn,” he whispered aloud.

Sandor was a man without fear. All the same, tight spaces made him distinctly uncomfortable and, if he was not exactly claustrophobic, he certainly did not relish the idea of being wedged inside a large metal tube. All the same, the question was not whether he was going in; the question was, what would he find when he got down there?

He stood, arranged the US M24 sniper rifle across his back, and stared again into the hole. Since this appeared to be the duct farthest from the guarded entrance, it was logical to think that it would be connected to the remotest part of the lab. At this hour it was also hopefully the area most likely to be unattended.

He checked his watch. It was after 4:00 A.M. Whichever scenario he chose, time was running out. He had to act.

He clutched the sides of the duct and lowered himself into the shaft feet first. The fit was tighter than he anticipated. Bracing himself with his feet and hands he moved slowly, straining not to slip against the smooth metal surface while struggling to remain quiet as he made his descent. As he neared the bottom he reached out with his right foot and found the base of the dirt well, then allowed his weight to carry him all the way down.

Light was coming through a mesh grill to his right, around waist level, but he was jammed into the cylinder without much room to maneuver. Twisting himself around, he managed a contorted crouch, getting low enough to have a look through the vent.

It revealed a well-lit storage room that appeared unoccupied, at least for the moment.

The place had the appearance of having been hastily assembled without any care for appearance. If it was a lab it was certainly not designed for sterility. He waited to see if anyone might enter through the open doorway on the far side of the room, but from his vantage point saw no movement. The only noise he heard came from a large fan that stood on the floor in a far corner of the room that was circulating the air in his direction.

After a long minute of waiting and watching he began to work
at the grill, which proved easy to force out of its frame with barely a sound. Like the cover to the air duct above, things here were obviously not constructed for the long-term.

Sandor turned the grill sideways and pulled it toward him, placing it on the ground beside his feet. Then, removing his .45 from its holster, he climbed through the opening and lowered himself to the dirt floor, glad to be out of the Iron Maiden the vent shaft had become.

————

Once he hit the ground Sandor hurried silently across the room, stopping with his back to the wall, just to the right of the door opening. He leaned the M24 against the wall, then waited and listened. But he heard nothing above the whirring sound of the fan. He checked out the ceiling of the small room. There did not seem to be any surveillance cameras mounted in the corners. Beside him were several stacks of cloth-wrapped packages, each about two feet wide and deep, and a foot high. Pulling out his knife, he made a small incision in one of them.

A stream of white powder poured out.

He edged toward the open doorway and had a quick look into the next room. It was much larger, with two stainless steel tables running parallel along almost the length of the space. There were several industrial-looking stools, an array of glass tubing, portable burners, and numerous metal receptacles.

A bare-bones operation for refining cocaine.

Sandor could also see two doors, one on the far end that was wide open and the other, to the left, that appeared to be constructed of metal and more substantial than the other temporary installations he had seen up to now. It was closed. Sandor did not spot any security cameras in this room either, which surprised him. Adina was not the trusting type and leaving a crew of his countrymen in the midst of huge quantities of cocaine was not his style. There had to be some other means of monitoring activities within the facility.

Then Sandor spotted a man at the long table to the right. He had apparently been bending over and now sat up, engrossed in some sort of paperwork. Sandor strode into the room as if he belonged there.
By the time the man looked up Sandor was already beside him, the silencer attached to his .45 pressed hard into the man’s ribs.

“You speak English?”

“A little,” the man said, his startled expression quickly turning from surprise to fear.

“Fine. Then get up right now and come with me to that storage room in the back.”

“I’m just a technician,” the man protested, as if that might somehow excuse him from whatever this stranger had in mind.

Sandor responded by giving his pistol another shove.

“All right, I understand,” the man said, then rose from the stool and walked ahead of Sandor into the back room.

He was shorter than Sandor, of slender build, with sad, tired eyes and a bookish aspect. He certainly looked like a lab technician. As soon as they were inside the storage area he said, “Please don’t kill me. Take as much as you want. Take it all.”