plane back to Caracas—back to the squalor and the misery of his revolution.
They are coming for you. But who?
He thought back to his chance encounter in the whorehouse two weeks ago. He couldn’t believe his eyes at first. Seeing a couple of doughy Americans in a place like that was already strange, but when one of them started staring at him and Mercer realized it was that fuckup Al Simpson he’d befriended in basic training a lifetime ago… He should have killed him, but… then he’d have had to kill the other American with him, and also the locals who’d brought them there. And that might be too many corpses for the Hen House to dispose of.
In any case, Mercer had figured that Simpson was too drunk, too scared, or too embarrassed by his own presence in a brothel to report it to anyone. But apparently he had. And that changed the equation. That meant CID might be in Venezuela.
Whoever these two Americans were, they’d likely meet their end tonight in Petare. But whether they were Intel or CID, they were part of a larger machine, and once that machine’s gears start turning they don’t stop.
He also thought of that whore Carmen, who would sell him out for a pack of cigarettes. She would have no clue where the camp was, but if anyone managed to find her and speak with her, she’d help them make a few more connections… It occurred to Mercer that he was leaving too many witnesses alive.
Mercer glanced again at SEBIN’s list of the soon to be dead. There were women on the list. Also a priest. They were probably all good people—Venezuelan patriots. And probably some of them were backed by the Americans. The CIA. And also the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Which meant they were working for Brendan Worley, and therefore, they had to die.
CHAPTER 37
Mercer walked out of the hut and turned onto a path that led deeper into Camp Tombstone. The camp had grown darker as the sun sank beneath the towering trees, and the Pemón were lighting torches on the paths. Mercer’s men were starting to return from the obstacle course and the rifle range, hungry for dinner. The changing of the perimeter guard would take place at exactly 8 P.M. Kyle Mercer ran a tight ship, and the men hated the discipline. They were by nature anarchists. But he, Kyle Mercer, by the sheer power of his will and his command presence had transformed these men into a coherent fighting machine. He treated them with dignity and respect—something most of them were not used to. And in return he demanded—and earned—their loyalty. They weren’t exactly Delta Force, but they followed orders, and they would follow Señor Kyle to hell if he led the way.
Mercer continued along the dark trail. The tree canopy rustled with birds and monkeys. Insects buzzed and chirped; lizards skittered through the underbrush. This jungle was bursting with life, with sounds and smells, unlike the craggy brown wastes of the Afghan frontier, a dead place where all you could hear was the mournful wind and the sound of your own breathing.
The trail ended at a small bamboo hut where a tall, muscular man stood, wearing jungle boots, camo pants, a tight black T-shirt, and a holstered pistol. This was Emilio, who, like Franco, was a veteran of the brutal and unending drug wars. Emilio had once been a hit man for the Sinaloa Cartel in Mexico until the Zetas killed his family and Emilio got out of the drug business. This part of the world produced an abundance of cocaine, corpses, and dead souls.
Emilio stood straight as Mercer approached. “Buenas tardes, Señor Kyle.”
“Hola. Cómo está el prisionero?” How is the prisoner?
“Alive. Wishing he was dead.”
Mercer knew that feeling. “If he dies on your watch, you will take his place.”
Emilio nodded.
Mercer opened the bamboo door and entered the windowless hut, which his men had nicknamed la Capilla—the Chapel. Light and air filtered through the bamboo walls, so this wasn’t the worst prison cell Mercer had ever seen—that honor went to his own stone hut where he’d spent more than two years lying on a dirt floor, baking in the summer heat and freezing in the winter cold. This jungle hut also had a dirt floor, but it was covered with palm fronds, a bit of luxury for the important prisoner.
In the middle of the floor lay a huge log, and embedded in the log were two eyebolts, anchoring chains