Oath of Loyalty (Mitch Rapp #21)(37)
In a way, it felt familiar. The Taliban were the masters of intimidation, but when the US military was around, they tended to keep their mouths shut and crawl back in their holes. Unfortunately, that was where the familiarity ended. Rapp knew virtually nothing about the country or city he was in, didn’t speak the language, and had no support from either the Guatemalan government or US intelligence assets working in-country. And while MS-13 wasn’t the first strange bedfellow in his career, he wasn’t normally this reliant on them. For all intents and purposes, he was now an honorary member. The failure or success of this mission turned on how reliable his new allies proved to be.
The man to his left cracked opened a beer and Rapp watched him drain it in one long pull. By his count, that was the eighth since they’d picked him up thirty minutes ago. Not exactly confidence inspiring and one of the reasons that Scott Coleman was operating independently with a different MS-13 faction. It was the best thing they could come up with to spread the risk.
Rapp checked the screen on his phone but found nothing from the former SEAL. Slightly worrying, but not yet panic-inducing. Coleman was actually the one doing the heavy lifting in this particular operation, and it made sense that he’d be off-line.
Damian Losa had identified Marroqui’s current location as a heavily fortified and well-protected mountaintop in the southern part of the country. Ironically, it wasn’t much different than the one Nick Ward had set up in Uganda and was probably damn near as secure. No roads came within fifteen miles of it, the terrain was extremely rugged, and the entire thing was surrounded by a heavily guarded concrete wall. What it lacked, though, was Ward’s antiaircraft capability. At least that was the hope.
As popular as Rapp was in Uganda for dealing with their terrorism problem, Coleman was even more popular in Latvia for helping them deal with an incursion by the Russians. That made it relatively easy for him to get on the phone with their generals and quietly order up some military-grade weaponry. Add to the mix a few professional smugglers and they’d soon be in possession of an item that would send a clear warning to anyone else out there with a grudge against Claudia Gould.
The driver turned into a tarp-covered gap between two houses and slowed. The makeshift tunnel was steep—probably a ten percent grade—and went on for longer than Rapp would have thought possible. Eventually they came to a large graffiti-covered door that was rolled back by an armed guard. They passed through a number of similar doors before coming to a parking area covered with still more corrugated metal and containing maybe ten other cars. By then the vague thumping that Rapp noted when they’d entered the tunnel had turned into deafening Spanish rap music. To what he calculated to be the north, colored lights swirled through a gap in the wall.
Three of his new companions wandered off when they got out of the car, but the driver motioned for him to follow. They slipped through the gap and Rapp found himself in a similarly covered enclosure probably a hundred feet square. The people packed into it were roughly split between men similar to the ones he’d arrived with and young, attractive women. Likely selected for those very features from a local population not really in a position to argue.
The dancing crowd parted for him and his guide, eyeing them as they passed. The building had been kludged together from debris but was accented with opulent flourishes. A Ferrari that looked like it had never been driven was parked on a platform in the middle. A marble fountain sprayed water from Italian-looking sculptures. A well-stocked bar that would have been at home in a Monaco casino dominated the far wall. Things people bought when their criminal enterprise generated a lot of cash, but not many opportunities to spend it.
They finally arrived in an area that had booths reminiscent of a high-end nightclub. Rapp was led to a corner seating area that contained a number of men in their thirties along with the youngest, prettiest, and most scantily dressed of the women in the room. On the table was a silver tray filled with shots and lines of what might or might not have been cocaine. His escort peeled off, but it was clear that Rapp was to continue forward and present himself for inspection.
When he got within a few feet, a man approached from the right. He was wearing a silk shirt completely unbuttoned to reveal an impressive set of pecs and an even more impressive set of tattoos. He started screaming in Spanish and then shoved Rapp with enough force to make him stumble backward into the dancing mass of humanity behind. The man at the back of the booth—clearly the one in charge—made no move to interfere.
Not an ideal situation. In total, there were at least fifty intoxicated gang members in the room, he had no backup, and, worse, he needed their help. Beating this asshole to a bloody pulp wasn’t going to go anywhere good. But neither was bowing down to him. In the end, it was a situation that needed to be handled diplomatically.
Not exactly his forte, but it was never too late to learn.
The man reached out to shove him again and Rapp grabbed his thumb. A hard jerk combined with a foot sweep put him down on the back of his shaved head. He was dazed, but instead of taking advantage of that to finish him off, Rapp adjusted his grip and pulled him back to his feet. Laughing, Rapp grabbed a couple of shots from the tray, handed one to the confused man in front of him, and slammed back the other. It went down like battery acid.
The man stood frozen with the glass in his hand as Rapp became aware that the dancing had stopped and everyone in the room was watching. All this prick had to do was drink the shot. If he did that, everyone would save face and they’d both survive. If not, things were going to get interesting.