to tell about it unless you’ve got some big cojones and serious skills.
Franco told him, in Spanish, that the man was waiting for Señor Kyle in the Situation Room. La Sala de Situación. That was the name he’d given to the hut where he held his meetings. It was kind of a joke, but no one else got it.
They walked through the encampment, past a cluster of small thatched huts set among the trees. The jungle was thick here, and even though the late afternoon sun was blasting overhead, it was dim on the forest floor.
Camp Tombstone. Every camp needed a name, and that’s what Kyle Mercer had picked for this place. Another inside joke that was only for him. Franco had politely asked about this choice when he’d learned the meaning of the word: “Is this not a morbid thing, señor?” Mercer had explained that it was named in honor of a town in the American state of Arizona where some famous banditos made a stand. That seemed to satisfy Franco.
They reached a small clearing, where a Pemón man was building a campfire while another was cleaning a fresh catch of catfish from the river. They looked at Señor Kyle, but did not say anything to him. No one spoke to Señor Kyle unless they were spoken to.
Mercer looked up at the small patch of unbroken blue sky. From the air this would look like any other indigenous village. He’d thought about suspending camouflage netting to cover the opening, but a drone’s thermal imagery would pick up their heat signatures regardless. No different than Afghanistan, really. Nowhere to hide so long as the Predators knew where to look. But Mercer didn’t think they did.
In the distance, he heard the crack of gunfire. His men were keeping busy on the rifle range. Some of them were real sharpshooters. Others were liable to blow their own dicks off. But the training was helping.
Franco and Mercer approached a large open-sided hut on the far end of the clearing. In the middle of the hut was a bamboo table surrounded by log stumps that served as chairs. A man sat on one of the logs, smoking a cigarette.
Mercer dismissed Franco and walked into the hut. The two men looked at each other. Mercer did not sit, so his visitor reluctantly stood.
General Ricardo Gomez was a stocky guy in his sixties with a dark complexion and tightly curled salt-and-pepper hair. A lot of African and indigenous blood, like his hero Hugo Chávez. And proud of it too, just like Chávez. To men like him, looking the way he did and wearing a military uniform with two stars on his epaulettes was itself a revolutionary act. Except he wasn’t wearing his uniform today—just a sweaty white dress shirt and jeans. No one who was headed to this camp wanted to draw attention to themselves.
Gomez took a drag and blew a trail of smoke. His eyes were deep-brown slits beneath heavy eyelids, which made him hard to read. “Good afternoon, Comrade Kyle.” He spoke heavily accented but otherwise perfect English.
Comrade. He’d first got called that by one of those Chavista thugs in the barrio, and it seemed to stick, at least among the true believers. He preferred Señor Kyle, but maybe comrade was better than captain, a rank he’d renounced and would never go by again.
“Buenas tardes, General,” Mercer replied. He would use the general’s military title, of course, but would never salute him. He got the feeling this irked General Gomez, but he didn’t really give a shit.
“I have this for you. From SEBIN.” Gomez took an envelope from the pocket of his jeans and tossed it on the table.
Mercer picked up the envelope and removed a long, typed list of names, locations, and job titles. Manuel Gutiérrez, Caracas, Student Activist. Tomas Palacios, Maracaibo, Journalist. Alberto Fernandez, Ciudad Bolívar, Lieutenant Colonel, National Guard. Each name also included an address.
“What is this?” asked Mercer, knowing the answer.
Gomez looked at him with his narrow, inscrutable eyes. “A list of people who need to die.”
Mercer tossed the document back on the table. “A lot of these are civilians. You don’t need me for this shit.”
“Some of them are not civilians. More importantly, all of them are working with your government.”
“It’s not my government.”
“Sí. You are a man without a country.”
Mercer stared at Gomez. He thought he sensed a hint of sarcasm in the man’s tone and expression, but he could never tell.