Free Eye for an Eye by Ben Coes Page A

your father, if you tell anyone for that matter—your father, your mother, your brother, your sister, your priest, the police,” he whispered as he moved the suppressor to the side of her head, “if you so much as tell your parakeet, you’ll die. So will they. Got it?”
    Marisol nodded her head, eyes closed, cheeks wet with tears, as she cowered against the door.
    “Now leave,” he said quietly.
    *   *   *
    At the private terminal near Lima’s Jorge Chávez International Airport, Raul parked his red Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10R. He wore a light green T-shirt that showed off his muscled arms. He wore jeans and red running shoes. He had a backpack. His hair was long, down over his shoulders, and unbrushed. He had on silver sunglasses that reflected the sun. He walked across the tarmac to a white-and-blue jet, a Gulfstream G280. He climbed up the airstairs.
    Inside, he popped his head into the cockpit, saying hello to the two pilots.
    Seated on one of the four white leather captain’s chairs inside the cabin was a tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man. He wore a charcoal suit, no tie, and smoked a cigar. He studied Raul as he climbed aboard, tossed his backpack in one of the empty seats, then sat across from him.
    “Are you coming?” asked Raul.
    “No,” said Pascal.
    “Why are you here? Is it the money?”
    “No,” the man said, “Ming-húa called back. He’s worried about blowback.”
    “I’ve killed Americans.”
    “Not ones connected to the government. Not ones who know the president.”
    Raul smiled.
    “I’ll be careful.”
    “After he’s killed, the United States is going to investigate.”
    “Are the weapons clean?”
    “Yes, of course. The point is, don’t get caught.”
    “Thanks for the advice.”
    “Bhang has informants scattered all over Argentine Federal Police. You need to understand what I’m saying. If you get caught, you’ll die. I know Fao Bhang. If you’re caught, you’ll be dead before America has time to interrogate you and find out who sent you.”
    Raul nodded at a large steel box lying across two seats.
    “RPGs, M4s, UZIs,” said Pascal. “German, Russian. It won’t raise any eyebrows when they run the ballistics.”
    “Is my rifle in there?”
    “Yes, the Dragunov. You meet the agents in Córdoba. A guy named Hu-Shao has tactical authority, but you’re the shooter. Get it done as soon as possible, then get out. I wired the entire million.”
    “Who’s the American?”
    “His name is Andreas. He’s ex–Special Forces.”
    “Why are we doing this?”
    “It’s what we do. That penthouse apartment you live in?”
    “I want more money.”
    “You’re a greedy kid, you know that? I’ll get someone else.”
    “Fine,” said Raul, standing up. “This sounds like a shit show anyway.”
    “Sit down.”
    Pascal was silent for several moments.
    “I’ll pay you two million.”
    “Okay,” said Raul.
    “Call me when you’re done.”

 
    13
    CÓRDOBA, ARGENTINA
    It was morning when Dewey and Jessica landed in Córdoba. The Córdoba airport was small, quiet, and nearly empty, despite the fact that it served the second-biggest city in Argentina.
    Inside the terminal, after going through customs, a teenager stood, holding a small sign that said ANDREAS . The boy was tall with long brown hair, a cowboy hat, in khaki shorts, an orange polo shirt, and knee-high riding boots. Standing next to him was a beautiful girl, perhaps a year or two older than him, with long blond hair, wearing tan riding pants stained with dirt, knee-high black boots, and a white T-shirt. She had a big smile on her face. Dewey guessed she was seventeen or eighteen years old and that the boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen.
    “Ms. Tanzer?” the boy asked as they entered the small lounge. He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Alvaro Sabella, from El Colibri. This is my sister, Sabina. Welcome to Córdoba. How was your flight?”
    “Hi, Alvaro,” said Jessica, shaking