Shadow Master's War: A Gun-for-Hire Thriller (Gun-for-Hire Thrillers) Read online

  Shadow Master’s War

  A Gun-for-Hire Thriller

  J. E. Higgins

  Mercenary Publishing

  Also by J. E. Higgins

  Other Gun-For-Hire Thrillers

  The Montevideo Game

  The Devil’s Shadow

  The Sauwa Catcher Series

  The Dublin Hit

  The Bosnian Experience

  Cyprus Rage

  The Izmir Situation

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Sometime After

  The Players

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Miami 0100 hrs

  The tension was thick as Alonzo ‘Rex’ Menoya let the four men of his group out of the elevator onto the eighth floor of the Papa Canterro Condominium building. It was a lavish construct at the heart of Brickell Avenue, in Miami’s financial center, that catered to highly paid professional types that weren’t quite part of the wealthy elite, just the next rung under. They exited into the hallway with the last man of the group removing his hand from across the glass plate that protected the security camera lens situated just above the control panel. He had slid his hand inside the elevator and placed it over the camera obstructing its visual capability just before he and the rest of the men entered. He just as casually removed his hand after the men had exited and disappeared from its view. As nonchalantly as it was done, the security guard on duty, who they knew would be patrolling around the outside grounds and only randomly viewing the monitoring screens, would likely dismiss it as some lazy asshole leaning against the panel and accidentally covering the camera. The practice was all too common amongst elevator users.

  They filed into the hallway glad to see it was completely deserted. However, they could hear the deep pounding of Latin music resonating from one of the rooms just a few doors down. It was the holidays, and most of the other residents were out of town for the next several days. The one staying behind, a young Harvard graduate who was a personal banker to some foreign businessman, had taken the opportunity to throw the party he had been dying to host since moving in two months earlier. It offered the perfect cover for his men to get inside the complex without raising suspicion. They had planned the whole operation around this party that had been rather well advertised. The young man had placed a notice on the message board near the front desk and was incessantly bragging at the places he frequented for lunch with his friends.

  Moving down the hall, the men stopped at the door leading to the stairwell. A quick push on the steel handle and they were filing through the doorway and down the stairs. The plan had been to assume the appearance of party goers as a way to get inside without being questioned. It also helped to be on another floor from their target. If security got suspicious, they would be tracking the suspects to the wrong level. Better yet, a large party full of drunks who didn’t know each other would keep the guard or police busy for quite some time if they came looking. Leaving a guard at the door to keep it slightly cracked open, the rest of the men proceeded on.

  Two flights down they were at the entrance leading to the sixth floor. Fishing a small leather pouch from the pocket of his trench coat, Menoya produced a plastic card that he slipped into the door’s card reader. While the hallway doors were generally open in case of a fire; the stairwell side retained a security lock that could only be accessed by residents who lived on the floor. The card reader flashed with a series of small green lights followed by the loud metallic click signaling the door was open. Menoya exhaled a deep sigh of relief. There had been no chance to previously test the card. The thought of what would happen if it didn’t work was inconceivable. Moving up one of the flights of stairs they called down to their lookout who quickly rejoined them.

  The men calmly slipped through the door one at a time. If they were seen, they wanted to give the impression they belonged there. Quick, furtive moves, as they were accustomed to using when on usual jobs, would only bring unwanted attention should they encounter anyone. The sixth floor was also empty. It was deadly silent. Forming a loose group they leisurely strolled down the hall. No one spoke, it was unnecessary. If they met someone coming out of a room, they had rehearsed a dialogue about some sexual encounter one of them had had that they would all instantly join. It would add to the natural appearance while offering a topic that would make a passerby uncomfortable and keep going, not wanting to initiate any conversation. This proved unnecessary as they managed to reach the end of the hall without incident.

  Reaching his intended room, Menoya inserted the card into the door’s latch. As with the hallway entrance door, green lights flashed with an accompanying loud metallic click. Pushing open the door the men quickly slipped inside. The time for casual had ended. It was time to go to work. Throwing open their trench coats they began removing the tool belts concealed around their waists and kit bags strapped to their sides. It would have been highly conspicuous to appear as partygoers carrying side bags and briefcases.

  The group split into two teams and made for different parts of the condo. The condo was spacious. It had two large bedrooms and a large living room that was expensively furnished and included a minibar containing several extremely expensive labels. There were two other rooms; a room lined with several bookcases filled to capacity, and a couple of different cushioned chairs accented by tall standing lamps. The second room was an office perfectly equipped for a VIP. A long glass desk sat at the far end positioned in front of even more bookcases filled with law books. In front of the desk were two chairs for visitors. Beyond that was a prominent glass meeting table surrounded by six chairs.

  It was all exactly how it had been described by their employer, a man they only knew as ‘Mr. Smith’ ─ a name Menoya was sure was fake. But giving fake names was common in his line of work. He was a thief by trade, a cat burglar who occasionally played spy doing wiretapping or stealing information for purposes of blackmail if the money was right.

  All he knew of Mr. Smith was that he was a guy who needed some lawyer’s apartment wired extensively and was willing to pay a lot of money in cash to have it done. Besides, Diego Obregon, a detective with Miami’s Special Investigations Unit who was known to sometimes use his criminal connections to do favors for people with deep pockets, had vouched for him.

  At their first meeting, Menoya sized up the rough-looking Mr. Smith and figured he was working for some crime syndicate up north. It wasn’t uncommon these days for crime syndicates to employ police tactics of their own when the need arose. A syndicate from out of town wanting to establish business connections would surely want to get intelligence on the local operations before making any moves. That or they already had business ties w
ith a local operation, and they needed to do a little investigating to see if their local partners were on the level.

  The world of crime was always full of double-crosses and side deals. And, contrary to the fictional world of crime noir, the famed ‘word on the street’ was often more baseless or overblown gossip than hardened fact. In either case, what better way was there to get the best information than from the lawyers; the trusted councilors who handled everything from criminal defense to legit business dealings.

  Menoya figured this was about problems Mr. Smith was having with some Florida business partners. And given how expensive the lawyer’s place was, these had to be some rather powerful partners to be able to afford her.

  He was only slightly off in his deduction.

  A short way down the street and across the way, Diego Obregon was finishing his coffee. He had bought a large, black, with no cream or sugar, from an all-night shop. Being one of the few places open at this late hour, it was heavily frequented on the weekends by night owls looking for a warm sobering drink to end an evening of long partying.

  That made Obregon easily forgettable to the young college girl working the counter. He had also made sure to drop a crisp bill in the tip jar ─ not too much, not too little. It had been deliberate. In his experience as a cop, he had found that store clerks best remembered the big tippers and the cheapskates. Somehow, they always seemed to forget the ones in between as soon as their order was served.

  The coffee itself was also part of his cover. The evening’s activities would have him standing for a long time on the sidewalk in the wee hours. A cup of coffee in hand from the local shop presented a far less sinister appearance to anyone, particularly a policeman, who might pass by. And, if a patrol drove up and inquired, he was a cop who could easily flash a badge to settle any problem. But he’d still have to explain his reason for being out there. Worse, the patrol would have filed their encounter in their patrol log which meant there would now be a hard copy record placing him at the scene of a break-in at the time it was occurring.

  Emerging from the backseat of the sleek black SUV, his mode of transportation for the evening, Mr. Smith walked over and joined the detective on the sidewalk. “Well, they’re starting to get them placed. I’m getting reception and can hear them inside the apartment.” He spoke calmly once he was shoulder to shoulder with Obregon and speaking directly into his ear. “You picked well. Your team knows what they’re doing.”

  Mr. Smith certainly looked rugged. He was medium height, brawny, and looked like a guy who could handle himself well in a street brawl. His face was thick, round, and full of pockmarks. This alone made him look menacing, but the flat pug nose and coal-colored eyes definitely gave him the look of someone dangerous.

  “I’m glad you approve.” The detective took the final sip of his coffee before walking over and discarding it in a nearby sewage drain. “When you pay good money, James, I like to give you quality service.”

  “That’s why I hired you.”

  Mr. Smith’s real name was James O’Brian. He was anything but a mobster. Born and raised in a middle-class suburb outside of Boston, he lived a reasonably quiet life. Having enjoyed an education in private Catholic schools, he went on to attend the Annapolis Military Academy graduating as a commissioned officer in the Marine Corps. He served first, briefly, in the infantry before trying out and being selected for Force Recon. He served a tour in Iraq and another in Afghanistan where he worked a series of covert missions, some of which were run by the CIA’s Special Activities Division (SAD), where he made a few contacts. After being discharged from the Marine Corps, he was recruited into the CIA and continued his work operating as part of the agency’s covert operations program.

  For the last few years, he had been working in the South American region as part of a unit first operating against the socialist Venezuelan regime of Hugo Chavez, and then the Maduro regime. Manuel Calbara, an up-and-coming guerrilla leader, had been steadfastly gaining momentum in the jungle frontiers over the past two years. Fervently anti-communist, Calbara would have seemed like the ideal candidate for US support, except that Maduro was already gone and the current president, Juan Guaido, had been both democratically elected and appeared to be someone the US could work with.

  It was also known that Calbara had been in contact with former leaders of the deactivated right-wing paramilitary Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (United Self-Defenses of Colombia) AUC. This was a group not only known for extreme brutality in the way they executed their campaigns with barbaric mass killings and torture, but they were also known to be heavily involved in narcotics trafficking. It was bad enough that this man had the intention of taking the country by force, but the possibility that he might turn it into another narco-state was more than the agency could accept.

  A few months ago, it had come to their attention that people in Miami close to Calbara’s paramilitary had been quietly reaching out to certain groups of wealthy Latino’s who harbored strong anti-communist views. Though Calbara may have forgone his plans to take over the country, he apparently was now offering his services to continue waging his war against the communists. He insisted that Cuban advisors were working in the jungles to organize, train, and equip an army of supporters of the old regime and, therefore by extension, Cuba. Apparently, this had drawn the interest of more than a few very wealthy and powerful Cuban Americans who were quite interested in breaking up any movement that might take Venezuela for the Castro regime or, at the very least, give them a powerful foothold in the country.

  Until now, O’Brian and his superiors had only suspicions fueled by a few rumors and even fewer facts. What they had surmised from these rumors was that Anita Batera, a prominent corporate lawyer, was supposed to be serving as the private go-between in these negotiations. Officially she was not political and held no connections that would cast a questionable light on her. It was unlikely that anyone would make the mistake of conducting meetings at her firm. Instead, all business or other meetings connected to this matter were being handled at her home.

  After careful consideration, the decision had been reached that her residence should be wired and put under surveillance. The CIA had no jurisdiction to operate on US soil and, if they approached a federal counterpart for help, it would then become official and subject to legal scrutiny. That would ultimately result in losing their ability to control the situation, something the agency desperately wanted to maintain. This way if they found something, it would be much easier to use the information to affect a beneficial outcome. Such a signal would discreetly scare off any potential supporters.

  O’Brian had been selected to manage this operation. To finance it, he had been armed with three million dollars in cash that came from cocaine money the agency had seized in an unrelated activity. The seizure was never reported to anyone making it money that did not exist.

  He was put in contact with a Miami cop, Diego Obregon, through a mutual ‘acquaintance,’ each vouching for the other. Obregon was quite adept at organizing such jobs. He knew the city and its criminal underworld like the back of his hand. The promise of five hundred thousand made it an offer too good to refuse. An adept veteran of underworld business, Obregon also knew not to ask for more than he needed to know.

  After recruiting a team of professional thieves, they spent the next few months casing the building, getting to know the layout, the security, and the surrounding grounds. After careful review of the situation, it was decided that the best time to proceed would be during the holidays. Most of the building occupants were expected to be visiting family leaving the building largely deserted for a period of several weeks. Too, parties would be going on all over the neighborhood keeping the police otherwise occupied. To further prep the ground in their favor, Menoya had an associate hire a group of youthful delinquents to run a campaign of vandalism two days prior to the break-in to keep the building guard focused for long periods away from his desk or inside the building.

  As anticipated, Anit
a Batera was enjoying a night out with friends as was her usual practice when not pulling late nights at work. She hated spending evenings at home, a habit the team found most beneficial for their purpose.

  O’Brian lit a cigarette and was about half finished when he walked over and dropped it down the same gutter Obregon had discarded his coffee cup. He returned to the SUV, climbed into the front, and began listening to more of the bugging being activated. He looked down at the monitor system secured to a metallic holder just under the glove compartment. Four green lights were illuminated. Though they were part of a row of twenty lights, he was only interested in seeing three more flashes. That would signify all the bugs were in place and working. He could readily check the quality of sound by simply listening to the activity inside the condo.

  The SUV itself was set up as a surveillance vehicle because that’s exactly what it was. In the back, guarded from sight by heavily tinted windows, was a sophisticated computer system created to monitor taps on phones or offices a good distance away even through thick walls in high rise buildings. This was not the popular image of a bunch of guys in crumpled suits holed up in a van just across the street from the place they were monitoring. In reality such a place would be impractical and conspicuous garnering all sorts of unwanted attention in such an upscale neighborhood. Instead, they employed a more subtle method using a less conspicuous vehicle that could be driven around the immediate vicinity for long periods of time listening to the taps as if they were listening to the radio. Even if a cop did pull them over, they would see nothing that would look out of the ordinary.