Chapter 24
CHAPTER 24
T his was sugarcane country.
Ghost peered out of the small plane window at the landscape below. Endless cane fields stretched out, eventually swallowed by the rainforest. Through the dusky haze, he spotted the farmhouse where Miguel lived with his family, along with several other outhouses scattered across the sprawling property.
Miguel was a wealthy, well-respected farmer in these parts, but despite his subpar harvests, he still managed to provide a lavish lifestyle for his family. His real income didn’t come from agricultural produce.
As they descended toward the dusty road that would serve as a landing strip, Ghost made out the large, semi-derelict barn on the edge of Miguel’s property where the deal was set to go down. Surrounded on three sides by cane fields, there was nothing nearby for miles except the encroaching jungle.
From a distance, the barn looked abandoned, but closer inspection revealed its fortifications: a steel-reinforced door, boarded-up upper windows, and no back entrance. The place was a fortress.
Miguel, paranoid about his own safety and his family’s, never attended these deals. Entry to the barn was controlled by a ten-digit code that had to be entered into a sophisticated security panel hidden behind a crooked wooden slat. Despite its rundown appearance, the barn had a state-of-the-art setup powered by an internal generator.
The Cessna’s engine growled as they landed hard on the bumpy road, the wheels kicking up dirt and gravel. The plane rattled along the makeshift runway before coming to a stop.
“Follow me,” Ghost said to the others, three of whom were armed, their fingers twitchy. One wrong move, and this would all go to hell.
Ghost led them to a beat-up pickup truck parked by the side of the road, its keys in the ignition.
“Someone should stay and watch the plane,” he suggested.
It wasn’t necessary—the pilot was being paid by the hour—but any chance to thin out their group was worth taking. One less gun to worry about.
Markov pointed at one of the thugs. “You. Stay here and guard the plane. Make sure the pilot stays put, no matter what. He’s our ride out of here.”
The thug nodded, his hand instinctively reaching for the weapon at his back.
Ghost wondered where the FBI agents and the Colombian authorities were hiding. He guessed they were camped out in the rainforest, which was less than a hundred meters from the barn and provided excellent cover. He already knew where Pat and the other Blackthorn Security operators were; he’d given them the passcode yesterday before flying out.
“Any funny business, and your girlfriend gets a bullet to the head,” Markov snarled, still as paranoid as ever. Ghost raised a hand in mock surrender.
They piled into the truck, with Markov sitting up front, gun trained on Ghost, and Ramirez in the back with the two thugs.
Ghost started the engine. “The barn’s at the edge of the property. This is the only road there.”
They drove through towering sugarcane that was as tall as a bus, making the thugs visibly uneasy. Ghost enjoyed watching them squirm.
He glanced sideways at the arms dealer sitting next to him. Your days as a free man are numbered, you ruthless bastard.
“I don’t like this, Alek,” Ramirez shouted, banging on the dividing window. In the rearview mirror, Ghost could see sweat patches spreading under Ramirez’s arms. “Something’s off.”
Markov frowned. It was clear he didn’t like it either, and while they might have Becca as insurance, Ghost was still calling the shots. He was the only one who knew where the merchandise was.
Besides, they’d taken his phone, so he couldn’t warn Pat about Becca being held hostage.
This was happening whether he liked it or not.
He had to stop Markov before he gave Carlos the order to kill her. The gunrunner would do it the moment things went sideways. Failure wasn’t an option. Becca’s life was on the line.
Gritting his teeth, Ghost pulled the truck to a stop in front of the barn.
Markov and Ramirez, flanked by the two armed thugs, got out of the pickup. Ghost took his time, letting their nerves stew even more.
“Where are the buyers?” Ramirez snapped, swatting at a fly.
“They’ll be here soon,” Ghost replied.
While they waited, he walked to the barn door, pulled back a loose board on a side panel, and entered the ten-digit code that Miguel had given him when the merchandise had been stored. The code changed with every delivery.
One of the thugs snorted as the double doors swung open, released by a spring mechanism.
Ghost pushed them wide, and Markov marched inside. His face broke into a smile when he saw twenty crates stacked neatly in the center of the barn.
“Check it,” he ordered the thugs, who rushed to inspect the goods.
“It’s all here,” one of them confirmed after opening several crates.
He had barely finished speaking when a low rumble echoed from the approach road. They stepped outside to investigate but could only see a dust cloud in the distance.
“That’s them now,” Ghost said. “Right on time.”
They stood still as the dust cloud got closer, and soon they could make out a dark rectangular shape. As it neared, the shape became an eighteen-wheeler.
“What the hell are they bringing that for?” Markov asked with disdain. “You can see them coming from a mile away.”
Ghost knew why: they had a small army hidden inside, along with crates of papaya, avocados, rice, or whatever other produce they were using to hide the weapons.
“Things work a little differently here,” he said. European and Middle Eastern buyers preferred to keep things low-key, but out here, there was safety in numbers. That’s why they needed the new weapons—more firepower meant more respect.
Ramirez was shifting uneasily again, sweat soaking through his shirt. Markov, outwardly calm, betrayed his tension through his clenched jaw. The two thugs took up defensive positions, legs apart, knees slightly bent, weapons trained on the approaching truck.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” Ghost warned. “They can be a little jumpy.”
He would know. He’d been dealing with the cartels for years and understood how they operated. His pulse didn’t even quicken as the truck came to a stop and twelve heavily armed men jumped out, carrying assault rifles and submachine guns, all aimed at them.
“Put down your weapons,” Ghost told the thugs. It was pointless to fight—they were outgunned.
The man in charge of the cartel delegation nodded. “Do what he says.”
The leader was about forty, with piercing black eyes and a stocky build. Despite the heat, he wore a starched white shirt, open at the neck, and black trousers, giving off a flamenco-style vibe. Ghost had to admit, he looked sharp. It was clear from the way the others deferred to him that he was calling the shots.
Markov gestured to his men, and they reluctantly lowered their guns.
“Kick them over,” barked the cartel leader.
As the thugs kicked their weapons away, Markov stepped forward, holding out his hand with a congenial smile.
“Alek Markov,” he said, his voice impressively calm. Dom knew the man had ice in his veins. Markov had been conducting deals like this for years, always managing to stay cool in dangerous situations. He had the hard-man stare down to an art. With a nod, he added, “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Federico,” said the man in charge.
They shook hands, and some of the tension in the air lifted.
Markov locked eyes with Federico. “I expect you’ll want to inspect the merchandise.”