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Contreras stared at his monitor, watching his target as the man took a sip out of a mug. The Mexican’s eyes flicked up to a readout so he could keep watch on his drone’s battery meter, and he waited for some indication from Cyrus that the assassin was approaching the target.
Cyrus’s voice came through his headset a short time later, his professional tone again leading Contreras to the conclusion that he was an American military officer. “The asset is arriving at your position. You will support him directly.”
“Wait. He’s coming to me?”
“Affirmative. Call sign is Lancer. Alert your security team of his arrival.”
Quickly, Contreras told the two Cubans up front that someone would be approaching the van, and no sooner had he done so than the driver opened his door and began confronting a man on the sidewalk side of the street.
Contreras himself took a quick glance at the monitor to make sure the drone was steady, then rushed out the back door.
There, in front of him, stood a white man. Taller than he, with big shoulders and biceps pushing against his black hoodie, a brown goatee, and a weathered maroon ball cap on his head.
Contreras looked around to make sure no one else was on the street, then he said, “Lancer?”
“Yep. You’re Zero One?”
“That’s right.”
The American pulled out his phone, and together they tied their earpieces in to a Signal voice communications net. This done, Lancer said, “The target is stationary?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else watching over him?”
“Not from my vantage point.”
Lancer nodded, then looked to the driver. The other security man—short, stocky, and bald, much like his mate—had also climbed out and come around the front of the van. “I need these two guys.”
Contreras was confused by this. “But…they are my security.”
Lancer looked up and down the street. “You’re not the one going into battle, kid. They’re coming with me.”
Reluctantly, Contreras was about to translate for the Cubans, but the driver put a hand up. “We speak English.” He turned to Lancer. “Five thousand cash. U.S. Each. For that we’ll come support you.”
“Done.”
No one moved for a moment till the driver said, “Now.”
Lancer sighed. Pulled up his T-shirt and unzipped a money belt. He had twenty grand in hundred-dollar bills on him, and he pulled out a stack, split it in half, and handed it off to the men.
The goon from the passenger side began counting his, but when Lancer saw this he drew his pistol, pointed it in the man’s face, and said, “We go now, or you give me the fucking money back. Your call.”
Both of the Cubans pocketed the money. Lancer reholstered and told them to follow him.
As he passed by Contreras, still standing there on the sidewalk and feeling somewhat forgotten and alone now, the American said, “Keep feeding me intel, amigo. The job we’re about to do…this is the big-time. You get that, right?”
Contreras nodded. “The big-time,” he said softly.
And then Lancer was gone, heading down the road on foot with the two Cubans at his side.
The Mexican left behind took a few seconds to control his breathing; he was on a live call with Lancer now and didn’t want to sound as nervous as he was. Then he darted back into the van and shut and locked the doors behind him, determined to get back to work, so he could then get the hell out of here.
FORTY-NINE
Chris Travers rose above the waterline, shielded from view on the sunny morning by a small wooden jetty that extended from the quay at the container terminal, just south of where the Estelle now sat.
