Shadow Master's War: A Gun-for-Hire Thriller (Gun-for-Hire Thrillers) Page 2
“Come on. Come on. What the fuck.” O’Brian said under his breath as he watched the lights on the monitor and listened to everything going on over the taps. On the advice of Obregon and Menoya, he had opted not to have any direct means of communication. What would be the point? These men were professionals and needed no over-the-line direction to do their job. If something went wrong, they would abort the operation and get out. In either case, there wouldn’t be anything either he or Obregon would be able to do. A communication system would just be problematic. How many thieves had their operation screwed because some asshole outside, not knowing what was going on, tried to make contact and gave them away?
Menoya was equally annoyed with the slow progress of their work. Granted they were doing a complex task while working in the dark and having to rely on night vision goggles which both strained the eyes and quickly caused eye fatigued. Still, this was something they did regularly and had even rehearsed their process several times prior to this execution. But like all missions, things never went as smoothly as planned. The attempt to wire a bug into a lamp at the desk was going badly; the man handling it had tried and failed at least four times so far to get the device properly set up. He thought he finally had it but, after testing it, he discovered that it wasn’t active and had to start the process over again. It was the prime one so, unfortunately, they didn’t have the luxury to ignore it and move on.
In the next room, the two men working there were having equal trouble trying to find a place to fix the taps. All the good places were too far from where any discussions were likely to take place. And what they did have to work with wasn’t ideal. At least they had gotten some taps in, so they weren’t entirely a circus of idiots. Thankfully, according to her routine schedule, the owner was not scheduled to be home for a few more hours.
Then he heard voices outside in the hall. It was a woman speaking to someone. Everyone in the condo immediately perked up and realized it was the lawyer. She had come home early, and she was not alone. Her voice was soon joined by those of men, at least two by what they could hear. Instinctively, everyone turned in the direction of their leader, who was desperately using hand signals to get them to hide.
Like a family of cockroaches, the intruders quickly made for the nearest hiding spot. Ducking into closets and anywhere else that took them out of sight, they just made it into hiding when they heard the familiar click of the door unlocking. The voices were now inside the condo. Seconds later the lights flicked on. The lawyer continued to speak in Spanish using a profoundly serious tone. A man’s voice interjected, cutting her off, speaking about future financial concerns with his associates in Colombia. From the refined manner of his speech and the way he seemed to command everyone else, he was clearly a man of power.
At once the thought that raced through the minds of all the break-in men was that they had stumbled onto a meeting with a member of a cartel. Hearts began thumping at the thought of what would happen if they were caught and the dire consequences they faced. Hector Velga was pouring sweat as he finished ducking behind the corner of a wall. As a subconscious reaction he reached for the double barrel shotgun he had tucked into his pants. It had been sawed off to be easily concealed. He gripped it tightly.
Anita Batera was oblivious to everything except her two guests following closely behind her into her home. Victor Ortega-Louis, a US Congressman from Miami, a very large man in an expensively tailored suit, and Victor Castanzo, a billionaire shipping magnate. Behind them was congressional aid, Manuel Filipe, and Castanzo’s two bodyguards. It was only when they had all gotten completely inside that she noticed movement just inside the other room. “Wait!” She commanded suddenly. “Something is wrong. I think there is someone here.”
Her comment took everyone by surprise. At once Castano’s bodyguards moved ahead of the group intending to investigate. Their guns were drawn and held at the low ready as they moved further into the condo. Suddenly, Velga emerged from behind the wall with his shotgun held at waist level and aimed in the direction of the approaching bodyguards. The blast was thunderous as it boomed like a cannon shot. The cloud of pellets tore into the closer of the two bodyguards. At a range of only a few feet, they ripped into his stomach sending out spatters of blood in all directions.
Heavily trained and well-practiced, the second guard pivoted on the ball of his foot as he brought his pistol up in line with the assailant at the same time Velga was turning toward him. As this was happening Alonzo DeCruz, another member of the break-in team who had also brought a weapon, allowed his nerves and paranoia to get the better of him. Following the first blast, DeCruz jumped from his hiding place in a closet near the office. His Glock automatic was fully loaded with a round in the chamber. Racing into action, he saw the group of strangers between him and the door and began firing wildly in the direction of the woman and the remaining three men. His adrenaline was rushing and all he could think about was escape or death.
The first round whistled past everyone who were too stunned to move. The second bullet hit Castanzo right in the mouth shattering his jaw completely. It was followed by another shot that hit him directly in his throat. The swarm of metal continued with one eventually hitting Ortega-Louis in the groin and another in his leg. Batera caught one in the stomach. Only Filipe managed to remain unscathed, though he was clearly shaken as the gunman pushed past him and continued out the door.
Menoya couldn’t believe what was happening. Why had any of his men brought guns? He had never worked with firearms on a job − they were trouble. He watched as DeCruz fired into the group and knocked them over as he made his escape. In the same instant Velga was opening fire again on the second guard while the second guard was firing a quick burst toward Velga. It was a three second fire storm that left the guard on the ground like his comrade and Velga moving awkwardly as he too went to make his escape.
The remaining members of the break-in team were already racing from their hiding spots and bolting for the door dropping the tools they had hastily grabbed when trying to hide. Menoya didn’t wait to make his own dash. They all ran through the group of injured and passed a cringing and terrified Filipe, who could only hold his hands up in a feeble defensive pose as they passed. Menoya had barely come through the doorway when he heard another round of gunfire. He turned just in time to see DeCruz fire another burst of shots towards a door that was slightly ajar. He continued watching as the door quickly slammed shut as a voice wailed loudly in terror from the other side. It was another tenant who had not gone anywhere for the holiday − another potential witness.
The escape had turned into a marathon as the break-in team was now a loose trail of men running frantically down the hall. Menoya followed, shouting at his men, attempting to establish order. He saw splotches of fresh blood on the floor leading from Batera’s apartment down the hall. It was an easy guess that one of his team had been seriously injured. The race towards the fire escape continued with everyone instinctively avoiding the elevator.
They continued sprinting down the concrete steps, the sounds of their feet slapping and echoing against the walls. Velga was the second one to reach the bottom. He descended the last flight of steps just as DeCruz, who was at ground floor tried and failed to push open the door. Not waiting for their leader to arrive with the security card that would open it, Velga broke open his shotgun. Extracting the two spent shells, he quickly replaced them and locked his gun back together. The rest of the team was trickling down the last flight when he brought the muzzle of the gun up to the door lock and fired. The pellets smashed into the steel body of the opening mechanism producing a swarm of pellets ricocheting right back into Velga’s face.
Velga fell back against the wall wailing in agonizing pain. Menoya and the others ignored him as they arrived at the ground floor and gathered around the door. Fumbling for the security key Menoya was relieved to find that he had not lost it. Taking a breath to get hold of his nerves, he managed to slide the card into the reader that was heavily b
attered from the shotgun blast. The lights on the reader flashed green. But when they tried to open the door, they found that the lock was too severely damaged to be opened. This led to the men kicking and ramming their shoulder against the door to try and force it open.
With their combined strength they eventually broke past the lock and ran out into the lobby just in time to see the tubby figure of the night security guard running in their direction. “Is everyone okay?” the guard asked frantically. Not recognizing the noise, he was thinking there had been a terrible accident. Seeing the men wearing party clothes and forcing their way out, he naturally assumed they were members of the banker’s party who might need help. DeCruz, still heavily under the influence of hysteria and a powerful adrenaline rush, raised his Glock and fired a few shots at the guard.
The bullets whizzed by the guard, missing his shoulder and head by a few centimeters. It took him entirely by surprise causing him to slide to the floor on his ass. Recouping, he managed to roll awkwardly around onto his stomach, then scramble to a crawl before getting to his feet where he ran as fast as he could for the door. He screamed in fear as he jiggled on. DeCruz darted in pursuit, his gun still tightly gripped in his hand.
Somehow the guard, despite his dumpy frame, managed to outpace his younger, more athletic pursuer as he raced out the door of the building. Once outside he shouted loudly for help. DeCruz burst through the glass double doors to hear the man shout. Raising his weapon, he pulled the trigger and fired what turned out to be his last remaining bullet hitting the guard in the back sending him crashing to the ground.
DeCruz stood at the doorway taking in deep heaving breaths enjoying a brief victory until he suddenly noticed a cluster of uniformed men rapidly approaching from down the street. It took a few seconds to sink in, but as they came into the light it hit him, they were cops. His spine tightened and he could feel his pants load with a large helping of solid waste as he saw what looked like a small army approaching with an assortment of tactical firearms all aimed in his direction.
Menoya and the remaining members of the team were just inside the building watching as the police approached. At first, Menoya thought to try and play off that they were only guests who came down just in time to see this spectacle. But his hopes for that ploy were dashed when he saw the guard, now being attended to by the police, point back in their direction shouting to the officers. It was over.
From down the street, O’Brian and Obregon saw the police drive toward the condominium. They heard gunfire and realized what was happening.
Nothing needed to be said as they jumped into the SUV and made their getaway. It would have been foolhardy to drive past the condominium in full view of their people who might have been able to point them out.
O’Brian made the decision to pull a U-turn and go in the opposite direction. He whipped the vehicle across his lane into the opposite lane. As he did, he failed to notice the dark navy-blue Porsche Boxster S speeding up the road with its lights off and blending into the shadows. The driver, a young and cocky tech entrepreneur, had been celebrating a major contract he had just landed. He’d been snorting the finest cocaine Miami could provide and was paying more attention to his girlfriend slipping off her panties than the road.
The Porsche hit the rear of the SUV at 60 miles per hour killing the entrepreneur and his date and sending the SUV crashing head-on into a parked car on the other side of the street. This happened as two more police cruisers, less than half a block away, were responding to the shooting at the condominium. It was definitely over.
Chapter 2
Bangkok Yai District, 3 months later.
The evening was pleasantly warm. It was a welcome addition to the festivities being held that night on a long barge as it sailed slowly down the Chao Phraya River. It had been an enjoyable tour that took the guests through the center of the majestic city where they gazed on the glistening lights while feasting on expensive caviar that they washed down with equally expensive libations. The party was on its way to the famous Wat Arun temple, usually a popular attraction open to the general public, but tonight it had been closed for this private event.
General Kukrit Shinawatra had taken the liberty to reserve its use for this evening’s ceremony. Tonight’s party may have looked like just another mundane gathering of prominent figures out enjoying themselves. However, the purpose of the evening served a more vital function. One that involved a serious rift that had emerged between powerful factions and needed to be carefully negotiated. The guests consisted of two carefully selected groups: ranking military officers connected to the Junta, and powerful captains of industry.
A veteran military officer of the Royal Thai army Shinawatra also served as a current member of the Kong am nuai kan raksa khwam man khong phai nai: Internal Security Operations Command (ISOC). This was a council of military officers that had reformed after the Junta and quietly continued its rule over Thailand. A close ally to the current Prime Minister and a seasoned diplomat, he had been sought out to temper relations with the country’s business community. In an effort to show the world that the government had gotten away from its authoritarian military control and embraced a more open political system, they had virtually ended, or at least softened, the crack-down on left-wing political parties. This resulted in a severe backlash from the business community who feared radical leftist groups creating violence and anarchy.
In a closed meeting with the Prime Minister, Shinawatra’s mission had been made clear. He was to ensure that all overtures for loosening political restraints would be a token at best. And further, that the government had no intention of allowing the leftists to gain any kind of momentum.
Being a skilled political operator, Shinawatra carefully assessed the complexity of the situation. He then advised that it would be wise having trusted officers in attendance as a show of sincerity; to have the function on the boat to provide time to speak at length to the concerned parties without fear they might leave too early. When the event ended with everyone disembarking at the temple, they could pay their respects together. This act would not only show solidarity but would frame them as protectors of their Buddhist faith. It would be something that would play well with the communities of devout followers.
Shinawatra also explained that it would be necessary to informally disclose a little information about Project Smokescreen. Project Smokescreen had been in the works for months as the brainchild of officers in psychological warfare and special operations. A well-crafted plan that encompassed several programs aimed at turning public opinion against the leftists and pushing support for a reinstated government crackdown. This included sending groups of soldiers posing as leftist radicals to wreak havoc in the shop districts. Using media contacts to focus attention on the most volatile fringe elements, it made them look like they represented the mainstream, and the most erratic idiots shouting on corners looked like they were key to the leadership of it all. Undercover agents were sent to infiltrate leftists ranks and exacerbate rivalries to create infighting and weaken the more effective groups. This action would be punctuated by setting off a few bombs in high profile areas that could be blamed on the movement.
Shinawatra understood the risks of divulging such a plan to outsiders. But, like his masters, he realized the necessity to maintain a much-needed alliance. The evening thus far was going exactly as planned. Everyone was enjoying themselves. The mood of the attendees had become lighter and more cordial after being apprised of the government’s true intentions towards democratization. And, as calculated, a short briefing on Smokescreen did wonders to re-energize the businessmen’s confidence in the military. For the most part, the officers mingled well with the industry captains. When they did, the conversation, as expected, turned to the issue of loosening government control on political movements and what it would lead to. Everything was going in the right direction.
Wat Arun temple was in view. The journey was coming to an end. Shinawatra turned to his aid, a slender and rather ne
rdy looking lieutenant junior grade, and instructed him to radio ahead to the reception detail to let them know of their arrival. The temple sat on a part of the river that snaked considerably. The aide shot to attention and gave a nervous bobbing nod before reaching for his mobile phone to make the call. Feeling confident, the general didn’t wait for the aide to report. Taking a puff from his favorite cigar, an Alec Bradley dark brown toro known as Gatekeeper, that was tightly wedged between his fingers, he started over to where a colonel was engaged in a lively conversation with a manufacturing mogul.
When he walked up to the colonel, the colonel was in the process of discussing his recent campaign in the far south near the Malaysian border. An Islamic insurgency had been going on for decades and, in recent years, it had become more intense as a result of the government shutting down the Sharia courts and taking other measures to limit the Islamic influence in the region. The mogul was listening intently, his head continuously nodding, his eyes occasionally widening as the colonel recounted episodes of the battle.
Shinawatra’s entry into the discussion was preceded by a cloud of greyish white smoke that intermingled with an identical cloud given off by the mogul’s own cigar, a dark Room 101. The colonel stopped his story just long enough to acknowledge the general’s presence and was thankful when the general motioned for him to continue. The fact that the conversation topics had changed to war stories was a good sign.