demands of me. The Central High Command and the Secretariat will
disavow you, you know. There will be no protection for you.”
“Do you think I care?”
“You will become the most hunted person on the
planet. Wherever you go, the Americans and their proxies will pursue you until
you are dead. Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia, even they will not harbor you. Maybe
North Korea will take you in, but I do not believe you’d like it there very
much.”
The Viper was accustomed to operating alone. She’d
never had use for anyone in her life other than her brother. They’d always been
so much more than siblings. Aarón had been the first and remained the only man
she’d ever given herself to. He was the only human being in this world to ever
love her. They’d shared, since her birth, when Aarón was five, a deep spiritual
connection, unbroken even now, that she believed she would never possibly know
again. Without that, she saw little meaning in life.
Arianna Moreno had nothing but her anger and hatred now.
She felt it radiate within her, simmering, fueling her. The overpowering,
primal desire to unleash her fury on the world gave her purpose.
FOUR
Six days later, Pablo Muňoz shoved
a wad of cash into the driver’s hand without counting it. Then he climbed out
of the taxi with his suitcase. He shut the door, turned, and was nearly struck
by a speeding motorcycle. He heard the crack of the four cylinder engine and
saw the flash of movement as the bike whipped past him, less than three feet
away.
For a split
second he’d thought that this was it, the moment he’d been expecting every day
for the past decade, but then he realized the Central High Command would not
execute him on a public street in a foreign country. Drivers, motorcyclists
especially, on Panama City’s notoriously gridlocked streets were simply
reckless and aggressive.
It didn’t much
matter, though.
Death no longer
held any fear for him. Death would come as a release from the perpetual cycles
of mental anguish and inner torment. Although raised Catholic, Pablo had never
been a believer until, in a desperate time, with nothing else, he’d turned to
his Savior for guidance and comfort. He’d done terrible, deplorable things.
He’d become a traitor and a terrorist because someone convinced him that was
how he could best serve his country. Innocent people were dead because of him.
He knew that
Hell waited to receive him.
Pablo Muňoz
had never been an introspective thinker, a trait that made him a desirable
candidate for Deep Sting, but ten years living a double life of secrets and
treachery was enough to take its toll on any man, and Pablo had gradually deteriorated
into a neurotic mess. He felt his physical and mental wellness decline by the week.
There was no longer a single person he trusted, not even himself. There was
nowhere he felt safe, neither from FARC nor his masters in the intelligence
service. Even his own wife, the woman who gave birth to his children, a
committed Marxist and FARC loyalist, would gladly put a bullet in his head if
she knew what he really was.
When he truly
felt trapped and without hope for the future, he considered putting a bullet
through his own head, not only as a means of escape, but maybe as a path to
redemption, too, for the things he’d done. He’d held the gun to the side of his
head with his finger over the trigger; so simple and easy, but somehow the
mental blocks were still in place and wouldn’t allow his finger to comply with
his desire to pull the trigger.
Pablo already
lost thirty pounds. His once toned, fit military physique and endurance
withered away, and he looked much older than his thirty-five years. Most
nights, he could barely sleep, and when sleep did finally come, he re-lived,
with vivid and painful clarity, the execution of the army captain. He drank
constantly to keep his nerves settled, less he become overwhelmed and struggle
with placing the gun in his mouth again. He even
disavow you, you know. There will be no protection for you.”
“Do you think I care?”
“You will become the most hunted person on the
planet. Wherever you go, the Americans and their proxies will pursue you until
you are dead. Cuba, Venezuela, Bolivia, even they will not harbor you. Maybe
North Korea will take you in, but I do not believe you’d like it there very
much.”
The Viper was accustomed to operating alone. She’d
never had use for anyone in her life other than her brother. They’d always been
so much more than siblings. Aarón had been the first and remained the only man
she’d ever given herself to. He was the only human being in this world to ever
love her. They’d shared, since her birth, when Aarón was five, a deep spiritual
connection, unbroken even now, that she believed she would never possibly know
again. Without that, she saw little meaning in life.
Arianna Moreno had nothing but her anger and hatred now.
She felt it radiate within her, simmering, fueling her. The overpowering,
primal desire to unleash her fury on the world gave her purpose.
FOUR
Six days later, Pablo Muňoz shoved
a wad of cash into the driver’s hand without counting it. Then he climbed out
of the taxi with his suitcase. He shut the door, turned, and was nearly struck
by a speeding motorcycle. He heard the crack of the four cylinder engine and
saw the flash of movement as the bike whipped past him, less than three feet
away.
For a split
second he’d thought that this was it, the moment he’d been expecting every day
for the past decade, but then he realized the Central High Command would not
execute him on a public street in a foreign country. Drivers, motorcyclists
especially, on Panama City’s notoriously gridlocked streets were simply
reckless and aggressive.
It didn’t much
matter, though.
Death no longer
held any fear for him. Death would come as a release from the perpetual cycles
of mental anguish and inner torment. Although raised Catholic, Pablo had never
been a believer until, in a desperate time, with nothing else, he’d turned to
his Savior for guidance and comfort. He’d done terrible, deplorable things.
He’d become a traitor and a terrorist because someone convinced him that was
how he could best serve his country. Innocent people were dead because of him.
He knew that
Hell waited to receive him.
Pablo Muňoz
had never been an introspective thinker, a trait that made him a desirable
candidate for Deep Sting, but ten years living a double life of secrets and
treachery was enough to take its toll on any man, and Pablo had gradually deteriorated
into a neurotic mess. He felt his physical and mental wellness decline by the week.
There was no longer a single person he trusted, not even himself. There was
nowhere he felt safe, neither from FARC nor his masters in the intelligence
service. Even his own wife, the woman who gave birth to his children, a
committed Marxist and FARC loyalist, would gladly put a bullet in his head if
she knew what he really was.
When he truly
felt trapped and without hope for the future, he considered putting a bullet
through his own head, not only as a means of escape, but maybe as a path to
redemption, too, for the things he’d done. He’d held the gun to the side of his
head with his finger over the trigger; so simple and easy, but somehow the
mental blocks were still in place and wouldn’t allow his finger to comply with
his desire to pull the trigger.
Pablo already
lost thirty pounds. His once toned, fit military physique and endurance
withered away, and he looked much older than his thirty-five years. Most
nights, he could barely sleep, and when sleep did finally come, he re-lived,
with vivid and painful clarity, the execution of the army captain. He drank
constantly to keep his nerves settled, less he become overwhelmed and struggle
with placing the gun in his mouth again. He even
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