Lethal Agent (Mitch Rapp #18)(72)

The husband retrieved a beer, but Esparza shook his head and pointed to the man’s fifteen-year-old daughter. She took the bottle and approached hesitantly, holding it out in front of her.

She was a sexy little thing, with thick hair, coffee-colored skin, and a body that was still a bit awkward. He gave her a hard swat on the ass when she put the beer on the table and then watched her scurry off. Normally, he’d be laying plans to have her brought to his compound for a few interesting evenings, but tonight she was nothing more than an afterthought. Something to briefly distract him from the matter at hand.

They’d begun Rapp’s test at 9 a.m. and it was now 3 a.m. the next day. One of the dogs had been recovered but the others were still on the loose, running off thousands of dollars’ worth of his product. The heavy rains and loss of their tracking ability was allowing the CIA man to move through the darkness with impunity—an opportunity he was taking full advantage of.

At least seven of Esparza’s men were dead. Some from bullets, others from knife wounds, and one who had been found with a tree branch wedged in his eye socket. So much equipment had been stripped from the bodies that it seemed certain Rapp was creating caches in the jungle. Preparing to survive and fight for as long as was necessary to reach his objective.

A burst of automatic fire erupted outside and Esparza swore loudly before edging toward the open doorway. He had four vehicles at the crossroad out front, two of which were idling with their headlights on. The rain had slowed and there was enough illumination to see the five men who had taken refuge behind them. All efforts to bring in further reinforcements had gotten bogged down in the mud miles from there.

The shooting stopped and, predictably, the shouting started. Fucking idiots. If they saw or heard something, it was a guarantee that Rapp wasn’t there. Terrified for their own lives and enraged at the loss of their comrades, they’d begun shooting at ghosts and fighting among themselves. Exactly what the CIA man wanted.

Esparza stayed hidden behind the doorjamb as he scanned past the vehicles into the darkness. Was he kilometers away, planning his next move? Had he decided to run and take his chances as a fugitive? Or was he out there just beyond the circle of light?

The sound of a struggling vehicle became audible to the east and Esparza reluctantly crossed the wood deck, descending into the mud. Headlights began playing off the trees as his men dug in further. As though Rapp would just get in a car and drive up the road to them.

Idiots.

He took a position in the middle of the crossroad, shielding his eyes as the pickup drew near. One of his enforcers was driving and there were no passengers. At least no living ones. The vehicle stopped and Esparza looked at the man in the bed. He was stretched out in a bloody pool of rainwater, with his throat slashed from ear to ear.

“Find this motherfucker and bring me his head!” Esparza screamed as the rain gained force again. “Do you understand? Bring it to me now!”

No one moved. Finally, one man inched forward. “The dark and the rain are working against us, se?or. Maybe we should try to get back to the compound. It’s supposed to clear tomorrow and when the sun—”

Esparza pulled a pistol from the holster on his hip and shot the man in the chest. “Does anyone else have something to say?”

None seemed to, so he stalked back toward the building and the cold beer waiting for him there. How much was he paying to be surrounded by a bunch of weaklings? If this was the best they could do, he was a dead man. The other cartels would run over him like he wasn’t there. Rapp was one man. One fucking man bumbling through jungle terrain he knew nothing about.

He stepped back onto the porch and went for the open doorway. Maybe he’d invite the girl to join him for a drink. His anger and nerves were building to the point that his head was starting to pound. It seemed almost certain that she could find some way to help him relax.

When he entered, Esparza saw a man in fatigues sitting at the table where he had left his beer. He was backlit by the kerosene lamp, but wore an immediately recognizable bandolier. Hand-tooled leather with a holster on one side and a similarly ornate scabbard for his silencer on the other. Pedro Morales had always seen himself in the romantic terms of a nineteenth-century Mexican bandit. But he’d served Esparza well. That is, until his naked body had been found in a ditch six hours ago.

“So if I remember right,” Mitch Rapp said, “our agreement was for two hundred and fifty grand a month.”

Esparza noticed that the holster was empty and Morales’s nickel-plated Colt Government Model 1911 was lying on the table inches from his hand.

“That’s your agreement with me,” Esparza said, having a hard time thinking clearly under the American’s stare. “But I’m not sure about my men. You’ve killed a lot of their friends.”

Rapp remained motionless for a moment but then began screwing the matching silencer onto the pistol. He stood and Esparza silently cursed himself for his own stupidity.

Rapp walked past him and the cartel leader heard the sound of his footsteps on the wood porch. He didn’t bother to turn, though. It was clear what was coming. His words had condemned what was left of his men to death. They’d see the camouflage-clad man coming from the restaurant and assume he was one of theirs.

Esparza could shout a warning of course. Or even pull out his own weapon and shoot. But then his role in this would fundamentally change. At that moment, he was the man with the job and money Rapp so desperately needed. All it would take was one sound, though. One wrong move. And then he would become just another of the CIA man’s victims.