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  “Now, now Phillip, don’t jump to conclusions. There are safer ways to kill you – safer for me that is, not so much for you.”

  The statement confused Weaver even more. He’d heard the click of the pressure switch. He damn well knew the sound. It wasn’t the first time. He’d used them before for training and in the field. “Then what was that sound, if not the sound of a pressure switch, Andres?”

  Camacho chuckled, “Hefe, Phillip, you will call me Hefe from now on. Are we clear?”

  Weaver got it. This was about Camacho’s ever-increasing ego; nothing else. The switch was dead; a warning what he COULD do if he was so inclined to choose. He was making a point h did Agent Weaver was in no position to ignore. He wouldn’t forget it either; the slights and now this. “Well then, Andres,” he said to make his point, “Hefe it shall be,” He raised his glass in return and drained the whiskey in a swallow.

  “Now, that wasn’t so hard Phillip,” said Camacho after he drained his glass. “It is a small thing that will give me status in the cartel. If an agent of the daunting Central Intelligence Agency refers to me as ‘Hefe’, no one will question my authority.” It was a flawed theory, but not the worst Weaver had ever heard when it came to psychopathic drug lords. He nodded in agreement as he filed the offense away.

  “Let us begin again,” said Camacho. “What brings you to my beautiful home today, Phillip?”

  Weaver put on his best political face, the one he usually saved for the appropriations committee. “I needed to ask you a question, Hefe. One that could not be risked over communication lines.”

  Camacho smiled at the word ‘Hefe’ and nodded his approval. He flicked a bit of lint off his Armani slacks before answering. “Then it must be very important,” he replied.

  “It is,” said Weaver. “I need to know if you were involved in the kidnapping of an El Paso operative of the CIA this morning?” Weaver delivered the question without emotion.

  Camacho shrugged. “I have no knowledge of any kidnapping in El Paso, Phillip. If one of your agents is missing, it has nothing to do with me.”

  Weaver knew he was lying. Camacho was too vain to disguise the almost joy in his voice as he made the denial. Weaver had his answer. “That’s what I expected you to say, Hefe. If it had been your people, I have no doubt you would have advised me so I could cover your tracks.”

  That took Camacho by surprise. “Cover my tracks?” he asked. “Why would I need you to cover my tracks? If I had taken this agent of yours, that is.”

  Weaver took a small measure of satisfaction when he saw the reaction to his next statement. “Well, Andres… uhm, Hefe, whoever took this man has got more than he bargained for. The kidnapped agent happens to have very close ties to the man they call the Chameleon. I believe he was the man who took out your uncle, was he not?”

  Camacho froze, but only for a few seconds. A few seconds was long enough for Weaver.

  “Hefe, if you discover who took the agent known as Mr. Black, please call me.”

  “Why call you?” asked Camacho, his mind obviously occupied.

  ‘Call me, because I can help whoever took him. Let’s just say the Agency wouldn’t object to the demise of Mr. Black, under the right circumstances, of course.” Weaver was lying. It was personal with Derek. He didn’t give a shit what the Agency thought. Grimsrud had taken his job. The job in El Paso he had strived for, trained for, spent 15 years pursuing only to watch it given to someone with less than 4 years in the company. Four fucking years! Weaver could only believe that Derek had a special friend in the Agency. It never once occurred to Weaver that Derek was an ex-Navy Seal team leader with over one-hundred successful missions during his 6 years operating in the Middle East. Derek was combat and mission proven. Weaver had never been in the military; zero experience in combat training and tactics. It didn’t matter to him. He was going to see ‘Mr. Black’ burned one way or another.

  *****

  Weaver thought he had Grimsrud by the balls after the raid on Los Trios. He called it a raid, Grimsrud called it an extraction; semantics. Weaver knew it was off the books and he wanted Grimsrud to pay for it. There couldn’t be any possibility operations would ignore this. Three weeks after the op, he called Washington.

  “Fisher here,” said the General. He knew it was Weaver, corporal Kristofferson had put the call through. General Fischer wasn’t a fan of Weaver. He wasn’t even sure why, but he didn’t trust the man.

  “Good morning, General, Phillip Weaver here.”

  “Yes, Weaver, I know it’s you, corporal Kristofferson told me,” growled the General into the phone. “Get to the point and make it quick.”

  “Yes, sir, General Fischer,” said Weaver. “I’ll get right to it.” He took a deep breath and began, “Agent Grimsrud of El Paso black ops, has gone rogue, sir. He ran an op at the personal request and on behalf of the international assassin, known as the Chameleon, a wanted man in several countries, including ours.” Weaver opened his mouth to continue and was cut off.

  “Stop right there, Weaver,” the General barked into the phone. “Mr. Black was operating with my full knowledge and consent when he executed the extraction in Los Trios.” Fischer had heard about the op after-the-fact, but it was none of Weaver’s business.

  Weaver was taken aback but not dissuaded from continuing. “General Fisher, Grimsrud’s team killed 6 civilians in that operation. Was that with your knowledge and consent as well?” Weaver couldn’t even begin to comprehend how far over the line he’d just gone.

  “Jesus H. Crist, Weaver!” the general shouted into the phone. “How stupid are you, exactly?” Weaver didn’t answer, he couldn’t – he was in shock. “I’ll tell you exactly just how fucking stupid. You call me, the Director of Covert Ops and accuse ME of not knowing what one of my agents was doing in Texas?” The longer he went on the madder he got. “You’re a fucking moron, Weaver! To top it off, you bring it up on an open line?”

  Weaver was stunned. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. In his mind it just confirmed Grimsrud’s benefactor was none other than the General himself.

  “Let me make myself clear, Weaver,” the General continued with pure venom in his voice. “You are so far above your pay-grade right now I could have you shot for treason. You don’t ever fucking call me on an unsecure line again. You don’t ever fucking question my field operative’s motives or orders again.” General Fischer’s voice suddenly went calm. “One last thing, Agent Weaver, if you ever mention the Chameleon again in the same sentence as one of my operatives – it will be your last fucking day in the Agency; hell, it might just be your last fucking day, period. Have I made myself clear, Agent Weaver?”

  “Crystal,” replied Weaver out of habit more than anything else. His head was reeling from the verbal beat-down General Fischer delivered. Weaver decided it was all Grimsrud’s fault; all of it. Logic meant nothing. Grimsrud was going to pay someday and pay dearly. He didn’t even notice the General had hung up on him until the phone started beeping in his ear. Yes, Grimsrud was going to pay for this; there was no doubt at all to the humiliated agent.

  ~6~

  November 11

  1:00 pm – est

  Lazarus was wheels up by 1:00 out of Key West, over the Gulf of Mexico, vectored into Cancun International Airport. There he would pick up Derek’s team and continue to Costa Rica. The flight plans filed were accurate. Lazarus made several flights a year to Cancun or Costa Rica. There were definite advantages to be the primary benefactor of the Second Chance Foundation; such as owning your own private jet.

  Lazarus was one of the 20 wealthiest entrepreneurs in the world. Traveling under his own name was commonplace. Through one of his many corporations, Lazarus owned an old banana plantation, one of many that failed during World War II. Its location was 30 miles east of the northern Costa Rican city of Liberia. The Daniel Oduber Quirós International Airport allowed for uncomplicated travel to and from the area. There were plenty of car rental and transport services to
get you anywhere you wanted. Lazarus kept a Toyota Land Rover and a highly modified Jeep Wrangler in his private hangar. He would need both for the trip to the old plantation.

  Lazarus engaged the autopilot on the Gulfstream G200 and headed back to get something to eat. The plane was well stocked with ready to eat food, most of it microwaveable. He never kept alcohol onboard, only water and Powerade. If he was entertaining a client or pursuing a donor Lazarus brought the guest’s favorite for those rare occasions. Lazarus had chosen the Gulfstream over Citation-X, the best plane in its class of jets for one simple reason. The G200 had 6’3” headroom. Just enough for him to walk down the center without stooping. Sure, the Citation was faster and could handle altitudes up to 51,000 feet compared to the G200’s 41,000. Comfort won out over performance, and he could live with a top speed of 540 knots as well.

  Ten minutes later he was back in the cockpit. He settled behind the controls with a short laugh. Langston was seated in the co-pilot’s chair, his head pressed against the window.

  “Langston, buddy,” said Lazarus as he reached out to scratch behind the shepherd’s ears, “There is no way in hell I’m opening that window for you.” Langston seemed to grin; his tongue hanging down the right side of his jaw. He barked, hopped down from the seat and loped down the aisle to his personal space, a well-padded compartment behind the last seat on the right of the G200.

  He spotted Cuba to the south as they cruised towards Mexico. Lazarus did love his cigars, and for all the world’s efforts, there was still a certain mystique to Cuban cigars. Most of the fine cigars were grown from Cuban tobacco seeds, smuggled out of Castro’s domain. Still, there was a unique flavor to a true Cuban. It has been described like smoking a vanilla shake, with a kick to the head in the finish. Lazarus pulled out a Gurkha Chairman but didn’t light it. He wasn’t opposed to smoking in his jet. He did, however, have a rule the pilot had to abstain. Even flying alone, Lazarus lived by his rules. Flight time to Cancun International was roughly an hour and twenty minutes, and he was already half way there. If everything worked out, Derek’s team would be arriving within an hour of landing.

  November 11

  1:23 PM – EST

  Lazarus was 45 minutes out of Cancun when his sat-phone auto-answered and routed the call to his headset.

  “Hey there, sweetie,” he answered, knowing it would be Katsumi.

  “Good afternoon, Sir,” replied the petite Japanese girl Lazarus had saved from a life of slavery and forced prostitution. He rescued her with the help of his friends, the psychologist Dr. Hellen Hunter and her husband Darnell, both members of the Dark Lords, one of Chicago’s largest street gangs. None of that mattered to Lazarus. They had good hearts and would do anything for him.

  “What do you have for me?” prompted Lazarus.

  “Mr. Black is now airborne, sir. The signal is moving at approximately 180 MPH to the south and east.”

  “Perfect,” said Lazarus. “I know right where they are taking him. Thank you, sweetie.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” answered Katsumi with pride in her voice. “Sir?” she added.

  “I’m here,” answered Lazarus.

  “Hello there handsome.” Angelique’s voice came through loud and clear. He loved her Lebanese accent. It was almost gone but not completely. It added an extra touch of sexiness to her voice.

  “Hello, Mon Cherie,” Lazarus said. “How’s everything at home?”

  “It’s going great, actually,” replied Angelique. Lazarus could hear the bit of surprise in her voice.

  “And that surprises you, why?” chuckled Lazarus into the mic.

  “It doesn’t surprise me, Lazarus,” she laughed. “Okay, maybe a little. I really was worried about Cheyenne getting along with another dog. Especially since Langston isn’t around. Yet, everything is going great with her and Baxter. Of course, Rebecca has no issues right now. She’s spent most of the day in the pool or on the beach showing off.” Lazarus could feel the eye roll from Angelique.

  “Why shouldn’t she?” he asked. “Rebecca is beautiful, and she knows it. Just keep an eye on the neighbors. I don’t want one them having a heart attack over that sweet ass of hers. They’re in their 70’s and 80’s on either side of the compound. Hell, it’ll probably do Mr. Drefcinski some good. Pauly doesn’t get out much other than for the occasional bike ride, but he still has an eagle eye for the ladies.”

  Angelique laughed. “Good lord, Lazarus, she’s bad enough without knowing she’s winding the clock on a couple of antiques!”

  Lazarus grinned and replied, “They are NOT antique, Angel, just a little on the high mileage side of life. Now, I’ve got to go, Angel. We have a lot of plans to finalize.”

  “I understand, Lazarus,” Angelique answered solemnly. “I can’t help I am a little worried; just a little mind you, but it’s there.”

  “Spend time with Kat,” he said. “She is far stronger than she looks. In fact, she just might be the strongest person I’ve ever known. She will see you through.”

  “Thank you, Lazarus. I love you,” said Angelique,

  “I know,” Lazarus responded, “and my heart beats within your chest.” He ended the call.

  November 11

  2:11 pm – EST

  Lazarus spotted Young Bear as the team came out of customs, falling into step about 20 feet behind the former Marine, to his right. He watched Young Bear casually checking his six by looking in windows for reflections as he strolled towards baggage claim. Lazarus didn’t have good descriptions on the rest of the team, other than the 6’-7” Mumphord, who was hard to miss. Elijah was on Craig’s left keeping about 5 feet between them. It wasn’t much of a jump to conclude the diminutive but muscular female behind Mumphord and to his left was Wilson.

  Lazarus was certain the rest of the team were within a dozen feet of Young Bear, yet he couldn’t identify them. He smiled at the thought. This was a good team and well trained. They moved easily through the crowd, never drawing attention and keeping distance between them. No one would pick them out as all traveling together.

  Craig caught Lazarus’ reflection twice in less than 2 minutes. When he checked again 2 minutes later the man was further behind him. Craig decided the man with Aviator sun glasses, wasn’t a potential threat. Craig knew he was at an extreme disadvantage; he’d never met Lazarus face to face. He had no idea what the assassin looked like. The former Marine found zero comfort in that knowledge, or lack there-of.

  Craig grabbed his rucksack off the conveyer, turned to his right and found himself eye to eye with the man in the sunglasses. He located the rest of his team, but they were busy retrieving their own bags.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Craig curtly asked the tall stranger.

  Lazarus replied with a southern drawl, not unlike his Cooper Johnson voice. “Well now Gunny, I reckon there’s sumthin I can do fer you.” He smiled as he took off the sunglasses and hooked them in his shirt pocket.

  Craig stepped backwards two feet, focused on creating space. Lazarus picked up on it immediately.

  He held his hand up, palms outward. “Whoa there, pardner,” he said with a smile. “I ain’t here to tangle with you, or your friends over there,” Lazarus nodded towards Mumphord and Wilson, both of whom picked up on Craig’s tension.

  Craig settled down off the balls of his feet taking some of the aggression out of his stance. “I’ll bite,” he said, “what exactly is it you think you can do for me?”

  Lazarus smiled with a smile that never reached his eyes, something Craig noted. “I’m here because of a friend of some good-ole-boy who goes by the name of Mr. Black. This friend of his asked me to figure out a way to get a half-dozen or so tourists to Costa Rica for a fishin trip.” The smile never faded as Lazarus scanned the crowd around him, picking up the two blond men circling to his left.

  “Gunny,” said Lazarus,” I’d appreciate it if’n you’d call them two blond fellers over here, and that Johnson feller, too. I’d hate to start a ruc
kus in the damn airport. Them Mexican Federales ain’t someone you wanna mess with. Your ass’d end up in a Mexican prison before the goddamn sun was down.” Lazarus picked up Johnson as he was speaking, the ex-soldier was moving up from the right and was damn good at it, too; something Lazarus made note of for later.

  If Craig was surprised Lazarus spotted Reichart and Sheffield, he didn’t show it, nor did he respond.

  “Lookie here, Gunny,” said Lazarus as his smile disappeared along with the accent. “We can stand here all fucking afternoon comparing skillsets or the size of our dicks, but that won’t get us one goddamn step closer to bringing Derek home.”

  It wasn’t so much what Lazarus said as how he said it that got Young Bear’s attention. He knew then and there who he was dealing with. The man spoke with a calm assurance, expecting he would be obeyed. He’d picked out 5 of the 6 team members like it was nothing. It had to be him, and there was no way he wanted a fight, if this was, in fact, the Chameleon. He put out his hand and stepped up, “Pleased to meet you,” was all he said.

  Lazarus took his hand firmly. “The pleasure’s mine, Gunny. Derek and General Fischer both speak highly of you.”

  “You know Fischer?” asked Craig.

  “We’ve talked, but never met face to face. It’s not good for me to be seen in public by very many people.” Lazarus looked around at the rest of the team he’d spotted. “Let’s move, Gunny, my plane is fueled and waiting.” Without waiting for an answer, Lazarus turned on his well-heeled boot and started back the way they came. Craig fell in about 6 feet behind and the rest of the team spread out and followed at a distance, trusting Craig’s decision.

  Lazarus flagged down a black Ford F350 van at the curb and climbed in front. Craig and the rest of the team piled in the back of the 12-seater. The van sped off before the door was even closed. No one spoke during the ten-minute drive around the airport to the waiting G200. Lazarus gave the driver what looked to Craig like several hundred dollars and climbed down from the van and headed across the tarmac to the waiting jet.