Chapter 2

Caracas, Venezuela

It was mid-afternoon when the taxi dropped Taylor off at the address he’d given the driver, a run-down bar that looked like its last paint job was a hundred years ago. The driver had checked with him twice to make sure he meant this address, and again as they arrived, suggesting this wasn’t the safest place for a gringo ... or really anyone.

Taylor was sure.

The streets were absolutely packed with people going in every direction, but Taylor definitely did not blend into the crowd. He could feel people watching him. Normally, his attitude would be ‘let them,’ but he could also feel the absence of a sidearm, which was pretty much the same thing as walking around naked for him.

Still, there was nothing to it. The taxi practically shot away as soon as he pulled his duffle bag out of the car and slammed the door shut.

Taylor pushed his way through a door that seemed barely on its hinges and took a second while his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. There were a few scattered patrons nursing beers at tables that had seen a lot of use over the years, while a fan lazily stirred the thick, smoky air.

He could feel the bartender, and several of the patrons, look at him, probably wondering what a gringo was doing there. Taylor ignored them. He saw who he’d come to meet in a far corner, with his back against the wall and his feet up on a chair, a half-empty beer bottle in front of him. He looked up as Taylor approached, a grin spreading across his weathered face.

“John Taylor, as I live and breathe,” Sergeant Emilio Flores, retired, said, reaching out and clasping Taylor’s hand in a firm shake. “Never thought I’d see your ugly mug down here.”

Taylor chuckled, dropping into the chair across from Flores, after pushing his feet off the chair.

“Trust me; I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.”

“How’d you even find me?”

“Sergeant Franklin.”

“Holy shit! That old goat’s still alive?”

“Yep, runs a mechanic shop in Florida. Plus, he does some occasional moonlighting.”

Flores signaled the bartender for two more beers and said, “Not one of us can stay out of the business, can we? So, what brings you to my neck of the woods? I’m assuming you’re not on vacation.”

“You assume right. I’m here on business. Need to extract someone.”

“I heard you were some big shot fed these days. Kind of out of your jurisdiction.”

“I’m here on my own dime.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” Flores said. “So who is he?”

“She, not he,” Taylor said, taking a swig of the beer the bartender had just dropped off. “American woman. Caucasian, black hair, green eyes, about five-eight. Goes by a lot of aliases and I’m betting she’s set up a new one here, so no idea what she’s calling herself. She might be on the run and there’s a chance she was involved in some violence or seen around a crime scene recently.”

“The violence wouldn’t happen to include foreign mercenaries, would it?” Flores asked.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know about any white woman, but there’s been this outfit calling themselves Paladin Solutions in town, involved in a couple of shootouts. Gunfights aren’t all that uncommon around here, especially along the border between the various gangs, but a bunch of white guys start shooting, that we notice. It’s been the talk of the town. Well, certain parts of town.”

“Do you know anything about these guys?”

“Not much. Some rinky-dink merc outfit out of Chechnya. I poked around a little when they first started making a scene, just to make sure that they don’t mess with my thing. They’re amateur hour. Did some work for the Russians in a couple of the Stans. Other than that, just hired muscle.”

“So high casualties then?”

“Of course. You know how these guys operate. They’re basically one step up from the fundamentalists back in the sandbox. What’s weird, though, is a bunch of them got scooped up by the police after a nasty shootout a week ago, but they were back on the street a few days later. I mean, this city’s corrupt, but even for Caracas, that was weird.”

“Paying off the cops, or is someone protecting them?”

“Who knows? But I’ll tell you this, amigo; the gangs own most of these streets, and the cops? They’re almost as corrupt as the gangs, just more expensive. So whoever your girl pissed off, they’ve got some serious juice.”

“Well, that’s the best lead I’ve heard so far. It might even lead me to the person I’m tracking. Do you know where I can find them?”

Flores drained his beer, setting the empty bottle down with a thunk. “Yeah, they’ve set up shop in this ratty hotel just outside of town. The place is called the Hotel El Ávila. It’s a real shithole.”

“Alright,” Taylor said.

“Listen, Taylor, I know you’re a tough son of a bitch, but be careful with these guys. Most of them might be amateurs, but their leader, he’s a former Spetsnaz. He’s got a rep for being dumb as a box of rocks, but the man knows how to handle himself in a fight.”

“I appreciate the warning. I have a feeling I’m going to need a gun before this is over, and I can’t exactly go to the Venezuelan government for help. Is there any way...”

Flores waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make some calls, get you set up. But you’re going to owe me for this, Taylor.”

Taylor finished his drink and stood, extending his hand. “I always pay my debts, Emilio. You know that.”

Flores gripped his hand, pulling him into a quick embrace, slapping his back. “I know. That’s why I’m helping you. Take my jeep. It’s the green one out back. Try to bring it back in one piece, will you?”

Taylor caught the keys, “No promises.”

Flores laughed, shaking his head as Taylor turned and headed for the door. The jeep was right where Flores had said it would be, a battered green thing that looked like it was on its last leg. But then, so did half the cars he’d seen so far.

Taylor threw his bag in the back and climbed behind the wheel. The engine sputtered to life on the third try. He pulled out, dodging a taxi and a bicycle.

It wasn’t hard to find the area Flores had mentioned and Taylor parked the jeep two blocks from the Hotel El Ávila, tucking it into an alley between two dilapidated buildings. He grabbed his gear, since anything left in the car in this neighborhood wouldn’t stay there for long, slung his bag over his shoulder, and moved through the streets toward the hotel.

Emilio wasn’t wrong. The place might have been nice when they first built it, probably in the fifties, but it was practically falling apart now, its front faded and crumbling. The only good part about this section of town being so run down was that there were several abandoned buildings facing the hotel that he could use to watch it.

It took a few tries, but Taylor found one he could force his way into without too much obvious destruction. Inside, he found a bare room with a few broken pieces of furniture and a guy sleeping in one corner, which is probably why the door was so easy to open.

Taylor kicked the man in the foot to wake him up and said, “Necesito que te vayas.”

The guy sat up, swatted at Taylor a few times before really looking at him. He seemed like he was going to argue, until he looked up at Taylor’s face.

“Ahora,” Taylor said.

“Okay, okay, me voy. No quiero problemas,” he said, grabbing a ratty backpack and edging around Taylor, trying to give him as wide of a berth as possible before rushing outside.

Taylor watched to make sure he was gone. He wasn’t worried about the homeless guy, who’d probably find another abandoned building to sleep in. Taylor just didn’t love the idea of focusing out a window with some random person he didn’t know in the room behind him. Taking one of the broken chairs and wedging it under the door, just in case anyone else wanted to come in, Taylor dragged the other to a dirty window that faced the hotel across the street.

He settled into the chair, pulling a pair of binoculars from his bag. He trained them on the hotel’s entrance, scanning the area for any signs of activity. The street was quiet, save for a few locals milling around, going about their daily business.

Taylor pulled a camera out of his bag. For what he was doing, he didn’t actually need pictures, and it could have just been habit from working with the FBI, but there was an off chance he might need to get IDs on people and it would be easier than trying to use cell phone pics.

Besides, it let him look at the building up close, and it’s not like he had a rifle and scope with him. At least if someone showed up, he could explain he was just taking pictures.

For ten minutes, there was no sign that this hotel was anything out of the ordinary, not that he doubted Emilio. He’d been on enough stakeouts with Whitaker to know that these things took time. Finally, he got confirmation this was the right place when a black SUV pulled up and four guys in the most obvious tactical gear he’d ever seen stepped out.