12. History Revealed Checkpoint
history revealed; checkpoint
Scarlett
S olomon stares at Inez for so long it becomes awkward. “Your… husband ?”
Inez huffs. "It's complicated."
Lorenzo laughs. "It's really not, though, is it?" He pats Inez on the shoulder. "I can explain if you'd like."
I don’t miss the fact that he can touch her, but Solomon can’t—I know Sol hasn’t missed it, either.
Inez flips a hand. “Be my guest."
Lorenzo thinks for a moment or two. "Head for Quito." Inez nods, and Lorenzo sits back. "So, this woman, whom it seems you know as Inez, was born Sophia Bruna Santos de Silva. She is true cartel royalty. Her father, Bruno de Silva, was a warlord who took control over several of the largest militias back in the early eighties. Sophia was bred and raised to be his successor. As a child, she went everywhere with him—attended every meeting, watched him execute rivals, watched him deal with insubordination. By the time she was sixteen, he'd put her through elite combat training, everything from hand-to-hand to C-Q-B to room clearing. At eighteen, she led his bodyguards and occasionally acted as his personal executioner."
I look at Inez, shocked down to my fucking bones, but she refuses to look at me or Sol, gazing steadfastly out the windshield.
Lorenzo continues. "I was one of the bodyguards. I came from the poorest favelas of Rio, and I was...besotted. Obsessed with her. She was out of reach, though. She may as well have been a star in the heavens for a nobody like me."
"Just stick to the facts, Ren," Inez murmurs. "They don't need the storytelling."
"Oh, I dunno," I say, grinning at her. "I could use a little narrative drama."
Lorenzo chuckles. "This is part of the facts, darling. It's relevant."
"Quit with the endearments," she snaps. "You know how I feel about it."
He just rolls his eyes. “You can imagine my shock when she noticed me after two years of working under her. It was stupid and foolish, but we began a romance. Her father would never have approved, so we kept it secret from everyone. It was very exciting. The best years of my life."
Inez shakes her head. "Foolish. We both knew how it would end."
"True, we did," he says, without a trace of bitterness. "And it ended exactly as we both knew it would—her father discovered our secret. He intended to have me killed, but I got wind of it and fled. Joined the Brazilian army and ended up in the special forces, where even he couldn't touch me."
Inez says nothing.
"To punish her for sullying the de Silva name by dallying with the likes of me, he betrothed her to his little protégé, Rafael, who later began calling himself Mercado. Rafael is the son of one of Bruno's closest friends, who served with him in the Brazilian Army back in the sixties and seventies. They were like brothers. Rafael's father was killed in the fight to take over the favelas, and Bruno took in Rafael and treated him like a son. Even though Sophia was the apple of his eye and the natural successor, Rafael was the true inheritor of Bruno's business dealings."
"I was to marry him and be the dutiful wife. An advisor at best. Too bad the old bastard raised me to have a mind of my own. He came to regret that," Inez says.
"Why raise you as a successor, only to put a man in charge?" Scarlett asks.
“Because my mother was killed by a rival. It scarred him. So he raised me like a boy. Taught me to fight so I couldn't be killed like Mama was.” She says it ma-MAH. “ Eventually, it became clear I was not suited for the business. I had no problem killing rivals and executing those who crossed lines or disobeyed orders. But the drugs, the prostitutes, the slaves? I didn't like it. I had no taste for it. Rafael had no such reservations, so Papa put the mantle of succession on Rafael. I was happy enough not to have that burden, which I never wanted in the first place."
Lorenzo shrugs, waves a hand. "Old Bruno thought he could control everyone. He assumed Rafael would be content to take the wheel when Bruno retired. But Rafael had other plans."
"A coup?" Solomon suggests.
"Pretty much. But he bided his time. He’s no fool. Sophia was given no choice regarding the betrothal. She hated Rafael, mainly because he's a vile pig with poor hygiene and disgusting sexual habits. She told her father she had no intention of marrying Rafael, which is when the trouble began."
"He locked me up. My father, I mean. Told me either I married Rafael, or he'd let his men run a train on me."
"Your own father let his men rape you?" I ask.
Inez nods. “Repeatedly, for three days."
"Holy shit."
Inez doesn't answer. The hard, cold, ice-queen expression says everything.
"Fuck me," Solomon mutters. "This guy must be bad news if that was the better choice."
"When Bruno realized that she wasn’t joking, he pulled her out of the hole he had her chained up in, got her cleaned up, drugged her, and married her to him anyway. She was catatonic through the whole thing.” His voice is dark and angry. "I watched through a sniper scope. I nearly put a slug through her skull out of mercy."
"You should have," Inez snarls. "Would have saved me a lot of pain."
"Jesus fuck ," Sol growls. "I hope you killed his ass."
"Oh no, Rafael did that," Lorenzo answers. "Within twelve hours of marrying Sophia, he murdered Bruno with his own two hands and took control of Bruno’s empire, establishing himself as one of the major players in South America. Since then, he's only expanded his influence. Very few outside a few intelligence communities know this, but he quietly controls most of the cartels across South and Central America, especially after El Chapo's capture. He lets them run things their way, but the bulk of the proceeds go to him, and they answer to him. He owns politicians, police forces, generals...he's all but untouchable."
I frown, noting that Solomon is just as lost. "We've both worked down here extensively, and we've never heard of him."
"By design," Inez says. "Even US Intelligence only knows the vaguest outlines about him. He's deeply paranoid, intensely secretive, and absolutely impossible to get to. The CIA doesn’t even know his name, only that he exists."
"How the hell is that possible ?" Sol asks.
"Layers and layers of secrecy and security," Inez says. "Every decision is filtered through dozens of people, none of whom know anything more than they're told. All they know is that they receive orders, and they follow them to the letter. If you don't, you end up dead. And not just you—everyone you know, everyone you love. Everyone you've ever even spoken to—friends, exes, old roommates. Anyone who knows you ever existed is wiped off the map. You are erased completely. And because he controls everything and everyone, there's no investigation."
I groan. "So the fact that we got away from that camp..."
Inez shrugs. "A good bit of luck, a lot of skill, and a lot of them underestimating the both of you. He’s arrogant—no one has bothered even trying to stand up to him in a long time."
"So what does he want with you?" Sol asks.
She twists to look at Lorenzo, who only shrugs.
“Yours to tell, not mine," he murmurs.
She sighs. "His son— my son.”
Solomon rears back. " What ?"
"He won't kill me. He can't. I’m the only one who knows where his son is.” She rubs her face with one hand. "He impregnated me after our wedding. I...I played the scared, submissive little wife. Let him..." She trails off, swallowing hard. "He forgot who I am. Forgot my training. Saw what he wanted to see—the dutiful little wife cowering in the corner every time he came into the room, spread legs and a closed mouth. After I bore the child, I made my move."
Lorenzo picks up the thread from there. "She slaughtered everyone in that house. Guards, maids, cooks, everyone. Everyone . Took the child and fled. Disappeared. No one ever saw her or the child again."
"Except you," Solomon guesses.
He nods. "She came to me. Asked for help. She was..." he frowns, sighs. "In bad shape. It was a brutal birth, she'd lost a lot of blood and then slaughtered twenty-six people, fled on foot, bleeding, with a newborn, from her father's estate. She won't speak of it, but she somehow made her way to my barracks in Goiania. She should have died. I’ve always thought she survived out of sheer stubbornness.”
"The child was innocent. He deserved a chance to live," Inez murmurs. "I did it for him."
"Where is the child, now?" Solomon asks.
"I'll never say. I am the only one who knows who he is and where he is. He does not know who his father is. He has never met me. He will never meet me. I put him with a good family. He is happy. That is the only thing that matters."
"Do they know?" I ask. “His parents.”
A shake of her head. "No. They do not."
"So, he wants you and plans to torture the whereabouts of his child out of you?” Sol asks.
"Torture, coerce, bribe, threaten…whatever it takes."
"Why does he care?" I ask. “From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to care about doing the right thing by his child.”
"He was involved in a helicopter crash a few years ago. Some believe it was not an accident, not that it matters. He survived, but his new wife and son died as well. He was grievously injured and will never sire another child. So his son— my son—is his only legacy. He wants to pass it on, create a dynasty." Inez shrugs, flips a hand. "He knows who I work for, about all of you, everything. But our employer is protected even from him. When you left for the funeral, he saw a chance to lure me out—he knows who I am, he knows I care about you seven. He knows I would come if he took one of you. So, he did. He didn't know about Scarlett, however."
"Do you think Lash's disappearance was engineered by him?" Sol asks.
Inez nods. "It is possible, yes. It is also possible that Lash's own past caught up to him—his enemies are quite powerful and well-placed enough to pull off making Lash vanish. It is ill-advised, not only because Jean-Paul is a very bad enemy to have and that jet cost a fantastic amount of money, but Lash himself is...well, he isn't easily angered, but I truly pity the one who does manage to do so, and Lash takes his loyalty to you men very seriously.”
"Short answer, you don't know," Sol says.
"No, not for certain," Inez agrees.
"So, what's our plan, then?" Sol asks. "Get to Quito, and from there to San José—I assume you mean Costa Rica, not California. Then what?"
Inez shrugs. "Avoid Mercado. He has influence and reach, but there are forces in Central America who resent Mercado. They don't like his constant expansion. He's taking slices of pie that don't belong to him, and he's making enemies who can be dangerous even to him, especially if they combine forces. Lorenzo knows some of these people. If we can get to Costa Rica, we can get in touch with some of them, and they can protect us until our employer can get to us."
"He can't get to us down here?" Sol asks. “He can’t just put a jet or a helo down somewhere?"
"We’re within Mercado's sphere of influence right now. Costa Rica is outside that sphere."
"And killing him isn't an option?" I ask.
Inez shakes her head. "As much as I'd like to, no. It's really not. Getting to him, even with a sniper, is not feasible. I told you, he's deeply paranoid about assassination, rightfully so. He never appears in public. He has a massive estate with all possible sightlines controlled. Patrols range as far as two and three miles around the borders of the estate, on top of the patrols within it. State-of-the-art security on the house and ground. He has a fortified underground bunker where he can hide out indefinitely, with tunnels to an underground garage and armored cars that the President of the United States would be safe in. His private helicopter is a former Russian gunship. So no. Assassinating him is not a possibility."
Sol blows out a breath. "So, letting him get his hands on you is not an option either."
"Most assuredly not," she says, her tone dry.
We circle back south and head out of the city without issue—almost too easily, it feels. For several hours, Inez drives us south and west, and there's no sign of pursuit.
"I don't like this," Lorenzo says, eventually. "Too easy."
Inez nods. "Indeed. He has a nasty surprise waiting for us somewhere, I imagine."
After a couple more hours, we stop to refuel; Lorenzo brings carryout, and I take the wheel for the next leg. Despite all of us keeping watchful eyes on our six, there's still no sign of anyone. It’s too easy by half. It only makes me nervous for what's to come.
I still have that bad feeling in the pit of my stomach—I’d hoped it would go away after we got away with Inez, but no such luck. It still bubbles away in my gut, an oily, acidic uneasiness. A foreknowledge that something is going to go terribly wrong at some point.
Sol is still in the front passenger seat, dozing. In the backseat, Inez and Lorenzo have been whispering to each other in Portuguese for quite a while. I tune them out since I don’t know the language; it's a private conversation anyway.
At one point, some four hours into my leg of the drive, Inez dozes off, her head tipping to the side, resting on Lorenzo's shoulder. Lorenzo's eyes are closed, and his breathing is slow, but he's definitely not asleep. Sol notices, shaking his head in bemusement.
We stop in a tiny place called Garzón. More refueling, more carryout food, another switch. Lorenzo drives, now. I'm in back with Sol, and Inez is in front with Lorenzo.
We're all uneasy, on edge, and unable to relax.
More boring, uneventful hours. We’re in the mountains, still, the air thin, clouds wafting past us in shreds and clumps as we navigate along knife-edge precipices.
"Fuck, fuck," Lorenzo says. "Get ready."
All of us were dozing when says this—we go from nodding off to combat-ready in an eye-blink. Ahead, traffic has slowed to a stop. Brake lights burn red, smeared into blurry streaks of dull crimson as a steady rain drizzles down. The wipers thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk and the defroster struggles to keep the windshield clear.
"Checkpoint?" Sol asks.
“Yeah, but not government. This is for us." Lorenzo draws his sidearm, checks the load, taps it back in place.
"Plan?" I ask.
Lorenzo shrugs. "Depends on what it looks like ahead.” He speaks English almost without accent, only a faint hint of one here and there. "Just be ready for anything."
The cars creep forward, passing through the checkpoint one by one. After nearly thirty minutes, we're finally close enough to see what's going on: a pair of technicals—light trucks with machine guns mounted in the beds—are parked across the road, leaving just enough room for cars to pass through single file. The chokepoint is manned by a dozen armed men, and traffic is backed up in both directions for miles as they let a single car through at a time from each direction in turn, after a thorough search.
Inez, in the front passenger seat, sighs. "Well, this is going to be difficult."
Lorenzo nods. "Yes. We have no choice but to shoot it out."
"With this many civilians?" Sol asks. "I don't like that."
"Me either," Lorenzo answers. "But there's no way out of it. We can't turn around, we're several hours past the last place we could have taken an alternative route, and I guarantee you he has that monitored, too."
We're still a hundred yards or so back. Lorenzo taps the steering wheel in a random drumming pattern with his thumb and forefinger—he's thinking. Finally, he snaps his fingers. "Sol, Inez, get in the bed and lay down flat. Wait till I shoot, and then take out the gunners. After that, take 'em all out and try not to kill any civilians.”
Sol eases the rear passenger door open and climbs directly into the bed from the cab; Inez climbs into the rear and out the same door and into the bed. They both lay down flat, rifles on their chests.
I climb up front, seatbelt off, handgun ready.
The rear passenger door opens, and a pair of vests are tossed in, and the door closes again. Lorenzo and I both don a bullet-resistant vest.
We inch forward.
My heart pounds—it always does in the minutes before the shit hits the fan.
All too soon, after what feels like a million years, we're only two cars back.
The men working the checkpoint are not military—no uniforms and everyone is carrying a different weapon. Their checks are thorough, though. Lorenzo has his window down, as do I; he has his hand hanging out the window, and he taps three times on the side of the door—a signal. A triple tap on the floor of the truck bed tells us that Inez and Sol got the message—be ready, it's about to get spicy.
I have my silenced Glock along the outside of my thigh, another handgun shoved between the seat and the console, with plenty of spare mags in the footwell.
Closer.
A car from the opposing direction squeezes through the chokepoint. The car ahead of us pulls forward; the driver gestures with his hand out the window, communicating annoyance as he argues with the soldier, terrorist, whatever the fuck he is. Meanwhile, more men are working in tandem, checking under the cars with long-handled mirrors, peeking in the trunk and backseat. Another car from the other direction is checked and waved through.
Lorenzo taps once—Inez returns it.
I pull back the hammer, swallowing around my pounding pulse.
"Wait for me," Lorenzo murmurs.
"Copy," I mutter back.
We’re waved forward as the car ahead of us vanishes into the drizzle. Lorenzo has his handgun in his right hand, held across his belly, the gun hidden by his left arm, steering with his knee while keeping his left hand hanging casually out the window.
The men in the truck seem bored, and the others milling around with their assault rifles dangling from the straps, barely paying attention. They've probably been here for hours in the soggy, cold night, dreaming of warm barracks, a smoke, and a hot meal.
"Hello," the lead guard says in Spanish as he approaches, rifle held loosely, finger nowhere near the trigger. "Security check. We will have you on your way shortly. We apologize for the delay." He says this in a rote voice, having repeated it who knows how many times.
“No problem," Lorenzo says, grinning. "Great weather, eh?"
The guard doesn't reply as his compatriots approach to check the bed and undercarriage. They're mere feet away, now.
One of the gunners in the technical lights a smoke, takes a drag and hands it down to a friend, takes it back.
Lorenzo waits until the other two are about to peer into the truck bed before he makes his move. It happens so fast I almost miss it. With a tilt of his wrist, Lorenzo squeezes off a single suppressed round—I never even saw him put the suppressor on.
POP!
The guard's head jerks backward, blood spraying. For a moment, nothing happens.
And then everything happens all at once.
I crack off a quick pair of shots, dropping the two soldiers nearest the truck; at the same time, Sol and Inez jump to their feet and fire over the roof of the cab.
Inez takes her gunner down with a headshot, Sol with a gutshot—Inez finishes Sol's off before he can topple backward.
Lorenzo puts the truck in park and kicks his door open, dropping to one knee in the opening between door and body, pistol tossed to the seat and his MP5 at his shoulder. I follow suit, sticking with my Glock, dropping mark after mark.
Inez is a one-woman killing machine—she hops out of the truck bed and jogs forward into the open, takes a knee, and cracks off rounds in efficient three-round bursts, each one dropping a mark; switch mags—keep firing.
Approximately fifteen seconds have elapsed since Lorenzo's first shot, and the guards have gotten off maybe half a dozen wild shots.
Silence.
Thirty seconds have elapsed, and every single guard at the checkpoint is dead.
None of us says anything for a long moment.
Inez jogs over to one of the trucks, sits half inside behind the wheel, and moves it onto the narrow shoulder, out of the way. Sol hops out of the truck bed, and he and Inez haul the bodies out of the way. I move the other truck while Lorenzo helps stack the corpses on the shoulder.
All of this takes place in the rain-dappled wash of headlights from the waiting pileup of cars; no one gets out, and no one seems shocked or panicked by the sudden violence.
Once the road is clear, we hop into our truck and move on.
About a mile or so later, Sol clears his throat. "I can't believe that worked."
No one answers him because none of us thought it would work, I don’t think.
Too bad I still have the uneasy pit in my stomach: that wasn't it, either.
Fuck.