they could starve Boyacá of vital support on the ground in Venezuela and stop the operation in its tracks. And maybe they were right.
At any rate, SEBIN could deal with all these people, but Mercer suspected that the regime was getting international heat for eliminating its opposition, and they wanted to outsource the killings to make them appear to be the work of patriotic Venezuelans who had risen up to defend the duly elected government of Nicolás Maduro. There were no such people, so Señor Kyle got the job.
Mercer looked at Gomez. “We’ll make it happen.”
Gomez nodded and took a long drag on his cigarette. “There is something else. Disturbing news from Caracas that I received just before boarding my plane. There were two Americans going around Petare this morning asking about you, Comrade. Their names are Clark and Sarah Bowman, and they claim to be your friends.”
“Never heard of them.”
“I am sure these are not their real names.”
“Good deduction. Who did they speak to, and what were they told?”
Gomez took a long drag on his cigarette. “They were stopped at a National Guard checkpoint, where they said they were looking for you. They even had your military portrait. The guards tell them nothing and wave them through. Then two Americans, a man and a woman of the same description, were sighted at a health clinic by the colectivo. And finally, an American man matching the same description as Mr. Bowman, along with a Venezuelan driver or maybe bodyguard, went into a bordello called El Club de los Malditos to inquire about underage girls. The man at this bordello directed them to El Gallinero.”
The Hen House had been a good spot—a no-go zone for foreigners and police, where he could get laid when he wanted to, and be left alone when he didn’t. Also, he’d recruited a few colectivo gangbangers there, and they were here with him now. More importantly, the Hen House was a place where powerful men came to not be seen.
But now, someone had tracked him right to it. But who? And how?
A rat in the National Guard or the colectivo could have been bought off by American Intel, but if that were the case, the Bowmans would have known to go directly to the Hen House instead of parading around the slums drawing attention to themselves…
“Comrade?”
Mercer looked at Gomez. “The Americans will return to Petare tonight. Either the man will attempt to enter El Gallinero, or they will stake out the place. Get word to your barrio thugs to be ready for them.”
Gomez appeared to bristle at being given orders by a man he outranked. He said, “This was already done before I boarded the plane to come see you, Comrade. The Americans will be taken care of.”
“Good. Then it’s nothing to worry about.”
“Is this so?” asked Gomez. “This sounds like something yanquis say. No worries. But I do worry, Comrade.” He added, “The Americans are making connections. They know of you and El Gallinero, and perhaps of me and you.”
Mercer stared at Gomez, who looked back at him stone-faced. General Gomez was no doubt pissed off that the Americans had learned of Kyle Mercer’s Caracas hideout. Gomez was the only direct link between Mercer and the regime, and Gomez was the regime’s bagman, carrying money to the renegade yanqui and his men. But Mercer had already made a contingency plan in the event this relationship soured.
There was a cocaine lab in the vicinity, and his men were more than equipped to hit it and take what they needed to fund themselves for a while.
Mercer said, “I can handle anything that comes, General.”
Gomez stared at him a moment, nodded, and then threw his cigarette in the dirt. He walked around the table toward Mercer and extended his hand. “My government is grateful to you.”
Mercer took his hand, looked in his eyes. “I’m not doing it for your government.”
Gomez let go of his hand. “I understand this. Nonetheless, the people of Venezuela will owe you a debt when the last of the imperialist elements in our society have been eliminated.”
Actually, thought Mercer, as soon as the regime felt it didn’t need him or his men, they’d be happy to send an army battalion to his camp and kill all of them. That’s what his Special Ops friends had tried to do to him in Afghanistan. It hadn’t worked there, and it wouldn’t work here. When your masters teach you how to kill, and tell you who to