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Striker was on the team that had negotiated the surrender of over eight thousand weapons from a number of FARC combatants reported to be twice that.
The treaty had been historic in that it had taken fifty years to bring the conflict to an end, but the implementation of the accord was beyond optimistic. The government and FARC weren’t the only two entities vying for power in Colombia—the drug cartels had more power than each of the two on their own, but less if they joined forces.
No matter who was involved—politicians, insurgents, or drug barons—corruption was rampant. Not to mention the Islamic fundamentalists who had settled in Buenaventura. The entire country was a ticking time bomb.
“At least we know what we’re dealing with when it comes to FARC, the government, and even the cartels. For me, the big unknown is the Islamics.”
“What’s your take on Jimenéz?”
“Don’t trust him,” said Monk.
Striker raised his head. He hadn’t realized Monk was paying attention, although why wouldn’t he be?
“Yeah, Monk?” said Razor. “What’s your take?”
Monk hes
itated long enough that Striker wasn’t sure he was going to respond to Razor’s direct question.
He watched as the man scrubbed his face with his hand. Monk was a hard man to read, but his combined anger and pain sat too close to the surface for anyone to miss.
“Think about it,” he spat. “Jimenéz agrees to meet with Striker; Juan Carlos is killed between the time you leave the States and arrive in Colombia; Ghafor moves the arms, and the peace treaty falls apart.”
“Who do you think is orchestrating this?”
Striker paid more attention to Monk’s physical responses to Razor’s questions than to his answers.
“One of the cartels makes the most sense,” Striker said.
Monk nodded. “Keep going.”
“Which one has Jimenéz in their pocket?” asked Razor.
“All of them.”
Striker agreed.
“There are no good guys,” murmured Monk, sadness evident in his voice.
Monk was right. Whatever was happening in Colombia, the US had to go on the assumption that there was no one they could trust, from the president down.
“We should let ’em annihilate each other.”
“If only.” Striker scrubbed his face with his hand. “What about the plane? You think this is a coincidence, Monk?”
“Fuck no. Somebody set us up.”
“Any idea who?”
“How’d you find out the plane was in the air?”
“Jimenéz contacted me.”
“Exactly. Here’s my question—how the hell did anyone know that I was the handler on the op? Someone like Jimenéz could’ve assumed you were the lead, but why would Onyx pull the trigger on the flight plan without checking in with me first?”
Striker nodded. “You didn’t hear a word from him?”
“You don’t think that’s the first place I went? Not a fucking word.”
