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And then suddenly a strange peace had flooded Diego’s heart. He couldn’t be certain if it was the uncharacteristic emotional outburst or something deeper, but he was aware of a strange sensation of events shifting somewhere in the invisible space of the universe, like perhaps his patronSanta Muertehad struck a deal with the merciful God of his childhood, joining forces to give Diego a shot at everything he wanted, both the good and the bad.
And part of what Diego wanted badly was to see John Benson dead.
Slowly his lips had tightened to a smile as his mind flicked forward to what might be possible if everything worked in his favor tonight. Rhett Rodgers was right in that it was increasingly unlikely that Diego would be able to kill Senator Robinson and his wife Delilah without getting caught. That bastard Benson seemed to have gotten the Senator to fortify his townhome and hire more security to travel with him as he campaigned around the country. And now, if what Rhett Rodgers said about Secret Service approving early protection for the Senator was true, Diego wasn’t going to get anywhere close to Robinson without being made.
But if Rodgers was true to his word, then Diego might not even need to get rid of the Senator.
Of course, a CIA man’s word was about as trustworthy as a snake in the dark, but Diego could play this game pretty damn well himself. Rodgers had found him once, but Diego wasn’t going to get sloppy again.
Rhett Rodgers wasn’t the only man who’d learned the secrets of the shadows, understood what it meant to be a ghost.
And so Diego had snatched up his burner phone, made a call to a Baltimore gun-dealer, praying that the guy could source some explosives that could do the job on Benson’s car. Diego didn’t need anything sophisticated—hell, he could make a pipe-bomb from stuff you found at Walmart if it came down to it.
But it didn’t come down to it. Diego’s guy knew a bent Army quartermaster from whom he bought surplus Beretta handguns, and within two hours Diego had a small block of C-4 plastic explosive with a remote detonator that would do just fine.
Now on the dark roof Diego pulled out the plastique from his black slingbag, squeezing it gently in his palm like one of those corporate stress-balls. He raised the scope to his eyes again, scanned the Senator’s townhome once more, his rubber-soled shoes tapping noiselessly on the roof as he waited impatiently for Rodgers to make an appearance.
Benson, Kaiser, and Wagner were already inside the townhome, but Diego couldn’t risk going down there now. Rodgers had assured Diego that he’d keep everyone inside for at least twenty minutes to give Diego a comfortable window to plant the explosive and then get invisible. Diego needed to wait.
Not long, it turned out.
A thrill went through his black-clad body as a Chevy Suburban pulled up and parked a block away from the townhome, well out of range for what Diego was planning. He knew C-4 like an oldcompadre, and had carefully cut the block of plastique down to a size where anyone in Benson’s car would be decimated but the blast radius would be kept to a minimum. The Cartels had turned Mexico into a war-zone, but here inEl Norteit was still considered unusual for innocent civilians to be killed in the crossfire.
And Diego was fully aware that the blast would be blamed on him, since that rat Benson had warned both CIA and FBI that Diego Vargas might be in the country and gunning for the Senator.
Very risky to draw even more heat on him, but Rodgers was the only one who knew for certain that Diego had been aboard theRivingtonand had made it ashore undetected. So long as Diego stayed undetected, Rodgers might very well keep his word about a future partnership. Killing a bunch of civilians might endanger that, perhaps even bring the wrath of the U.S. government down upon the Zeta Nation—though that was unlikely, given the CIA’s secret hand in creating the Zetas all those years ago.
A grin broke on Diego’s face as the connections struck him as funny, almost scripted, like there was some grand design working itself out here, like seeds planted years ago were finally coming into season, stories that started separately now joining together like intertwined vines of a forest where you couldn’t tell where one tree ended and another began, like it was all an intricate embroidery on a cosmic curtain which was about to be raised, revealing the players in their positions, poised to deliver their lines.
And now it was time for Diego to get in position, take his place on the stage, read his lines from a script which he prayed had been rewritten to cast him as the hero instead of the villain, the star instead of the sidekick, the savior instead of the snake.
44
“Three snakes in a pit. Who strikes first?” Rhett grinned as he shook Kaiser’s hand, then Benson’s, finally greeting Jack with a fist-bump and a wink. “Note that I saidthreesnakes, not four. I’ve learned the hard way not to insult a Delta guy, not even in a joke.”
Benson glanced at Jack, who was stoic and unreadable, his usual shit-eating grin nowhere in sight. The Delta man was all business, keeping his broad vest-clad body close to Kaiser’s stooped frame, ready to step in at the first sign of trouble.
But what troubled Benson the most right now was Rhett’s composure. Benson frowned inwardly, searching Rhett’s eyes for a sign of stress, a flash of fear, a whisper of worry. But the guy was unreadable.
Benson cursed silently, reminding himself that Rhett had survived twenty-three years completely on his own in the shadows. His skills of subterfuge and seduction had been sharpened by brutal necessity, raw survival. There was no method actor on earth who could match Rhett’s ability to play any role to perfection.
Even Benson and Kaiser couldn’t match up with what Rhett had learned from those years in the shadows. Yeah, Benson and Kaiser had put in their time as ghosts, but they’d never been NOC operators, never been more than a phone-call away from a Special Forces extraction team if things got too hot.
Rhett never had that luxury, and it was paying off now.
The guy was controlling the energy in the room. Benson could feel it in his own stiffening body, sense it in the way Kaiser’s gaze narrowed with apprehension. They’d both wondered how Rhett would play this meeting, if he’d be in full denial mode, pretend like this was really just a security walkthrough, make no mention of Paige Anderson and Benson’s phony phone call that probably saved the kid’s life.
“Expecting trouble?” Rhett shot a pointed glance at Benson’s open jacket, to where the bulletproof vest was clearly outlined beneath his white Brooks Brothers shirt. “You guys know something I don’t?”
Benson shrugged. “Diego Vargas is still out there.”
Rhett snorted. “Says who? One of your off-the-books guys who wasn’t even born when Diego slit his first throat?”
Benson chuckled. “Jack here says nobody slits throats anymore. They go for the kidneys now.”
“Then those vests aren’t going to help you two geezers.” Rhett flashed a toothy grin, then surveyed the large living room, his gaze lingering on the security cameras, each of which flashed a red blinker light. “Cameras turned off. And I suppose you guys aren’t wearing wires. Don’t want anything that happens here on the record, right?”
Kaiser shifted on his feet. Benson wondered if he’d made a mistake bringing Martin here. Kaiser was no slouch, had handled himself in active danger on both the Fay and Gale missions. But things were different for Martin now with Alice and the new twins. His mind was elsewhere, his responsibilities shifting from just the CIA to something closer to home.
