Spy Thriller
Date Published: 11-25-2019
Who can you trust when corruption and danger are a way of life?
The CIA never left Latin America, and is facing catastrophic blackmail at the hands of an erratic Guatemalan drug lord: the infamous patrón of Antigua – Pablo Puentes. Desperate for a swift solution, the agency calls in their black operative fixer: John Carpenter.
John is a cold-blooded professional ready for the job. But the mission doesn’t have a simple fix. Pablo has a disastrous kill switch in place.
John is still haunted by the mysterious death of his best friend who died on a far too similar mission, and now is uncertain about how much he can trust his handler or his sensual partner.
Back at the agency, tensions are running hot as the stench of corruption is growing to a boiling point. If things aren’t put to rights – and soon – the entire mission will go up in flames and take the CIA down with it.
Only John Carpenter can bring this drug lord to justice and get the answers he deserves.
Because this mission is personal…
If you like the relentless tension of Daniel Silva and the gritty reality of Lee Child then you’ll love this first book in the John Carpenter Trilogy!
Prologue
The gunshot slammed into Brian’s
chest with the force of a charging bull. It hadn’t been the first time he’d
been shot. But he’d also never taken a direct hit in the torso or lost any
vitals before. The slug threw him against the veranda door he had just snuck
through, smashing glass and raking his arms as he crumpled painfully onto his
back.
He managed not to moan – he was a
professional even in the worst situations – but he couldn’t stop himself from
hyperventilating. He was in shock. He knew he was in shock. He tried to kick
it. Clear his mind, focus on the task at hand. He’d been shot. He needed to
eliminate the threat. He had to finish the mission.
The searing pain was beginning to
drip into his system now, a slow whine that overtook his adrenaline and as his
pain tolerance started to be overwhelmed, he wanted to cry out, desperate for
reprieve.
There was no one here to help him.
If a mission went wrong, if someone was captured or killed, there would be no
rescue. That’s how The Firm’s agent’s operated. That was how they kept the
United States government far away from any political fallout. And besides, they
never made mistakes.
Brian crawled painfully to cover,
feeling blood smear against shards of glass against the floor. He pressed a
hand to his chest, not bothering to look at how bad the wound was. He didn’t
need to look at it. He knew what that kind of bloodflow through his gloves
meant. He managed to pull himself next to a cabinet, leaning his back against
the wood and tried to calm his breath. His sigh turned into a cough. He raised
his other hand instinctively to cover his mouth and he found he hadn’t dropped
his gun when he’d fallen. He held the reliable Beretta in white knuckled
fingers that refused to let go, shaking from the effort of his training that
refused to abandon him against all odds.
He looked down at the glass. Some of
it had been decorated with a metal coating. He placed his gun in his lap and
retrieved a large piece, angling it to see where his attacker was hiding. It
was dark and his vision was beginning to blur. His thoughts began to wander.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
It was supposed to be a simple hit. Kill the head of an Antiguan drug cartel.
Snatch some information off a computer while he was at it. An upper level
operative had confided in him that something was wrong with this cartel.
Something about corruption. Something way above petty drug wars and trafficking
operations.
He had slipped past security. Gotten
into the estate. His target should have been here, caught unawares. A silent
chuckle escaped him. Had he gotten that rusty? He coughed up blood.
As if to answer his unspoken
questions, a figure emerged from the darkness. Brian watched it through the
mirrored glass, but it was getting increasingly difficult to concentrate. The
man was a large figure; imposing, he held a handgun and even as his
consciousness ebbed and flowed, Brian couldn’t help but admire what a well-tailored
suit he was wearing. He always tried to be an optimist. The man continued to
walk toward Brian’s hiding place, waving the handgun as he spoke. His low voice
pierced the darkness.
“Looks like my deal is better than
your deal, mamón. I almost feel bad.
But business is business.”
That was his target, no doubt about
it. Sandor Puentes. But Brian didn’t understand what the man was saying. He
couldn’t piece anything together. His mind was a fog. In his final moments,
bleeding out, desperately attempting to complete at least part of his mission,
Brian thought of his best friend John Carpenter, and the painstaking Spanish
lesson he’d received. He’d wanted to master at least one good swear word.
“Que
te folle un pez!” Brian cried, bursting from behind the cabinet and
preparing to unload his magazine into Sandor Puentes, brutal cartel boss of
Antigua, probably one of the largest sex traffickers in all of Latin America. I hope you get fucked by a fish!
All people deserved justice. Some
people’s justice was death.
Gunshots tore through the air like
vengeance.
***
“In here!” Juan Puentes yelled to
the guards. Where were the guards?
He had heard his mother and father
yelling, and gunshots. The deals they had made with the other cartels were
holding strong. Who could be attacking them? His heart pounded in his chest,
his soul itched for battle. If there was trouble, he would protect his family.
He clutched his shotgun and bounded into the foyer where he was sure the
commotion was. Guards flooded the room alongside him, some shining flashlights.
Idiotas, Juan thought, pushing a
guard out of the way. He flicked on the light switch, turning on the lavish
electric chandelier.
Pablo and Isabella, his uncle and
mother were in the room, holding each other, shaking and weeping. Juan stared
at them in shock. His eyes drifted over to his father’s desk, and he saw a
handgun resting idly there. He was hardly aware of anything else until his
uncle spoke and pointed near the door.
“I’m sorry, sobrino. Nephew. Truly, I
am.”
A man dressed all in black laid in a
bloody heap on the floor. Blood and broken glass were everywhere. Juan didn’t
understand.
“I suppose it is not sobrino, anymore, mi hijo,” Pablo’s words hung, foreign in Juan’s ears. My son.
It was then that Juan saw.
Sandor Puentes, his strong and
determined father - his loving father – lay beside the other man, his forehead
blown apart, mouth twisted in a sneer.
Juan let out a wail, overwhelmed by
the sight of his father, firing his shotgun into the air. The ornate chandelier
exploded in a shower of glass and crystal. Its shattered remains fell all
around him as darkness covered the room once more.
Chapter
1
One
hundred people a week are murdered in Guatemala. It is one of the most
dangerous countries in the world, yet Antigua is known for its safety. That was
because many cartels kept their children in Antigua. Teenage guards held
shotguns guarding storefronts. They were never robbed. Who would be stupid
enough to commit a crime with cartels keeping the city peaceful?
The government and local authorities
were corrupt. This was known. Everything was owned and run by economic elites
known as the oligarcas familias. The family of oligarchs. Mostly everyone
else was poor.
Yet Antigua was called the ‘jewel of
Guatemala’ because of its beauty.
Pablo Puentes believed in Antigua.
Pablo was slightly shorter than
average and had a squatter frame, olive-brown skin and beady eyes. Anyone would
recognize him as a Mayan. He was proud of this. He was one of the many whose
descendants had originally flourished before Spanish conquest and colonialism
had wiped the existing civilizations and created an underclass that lasted even
today. But unlike the majority of Mayans in Guatemala who were poor and
destitute, Pablo was wealthier than the city itself.
He lived on Cortega street, one of
the richest neighbourhoods in the city, boasting a line of trees decorating
either end, shading passersby from the sun. His estate was at the end of the
street, vast and with ten foot walls, keeping itself hidden away from peering
eyes. Vines crawled up the towering walls and were lined with barbed wire. It
surrounded the largest courtyard in Antigua. Guards wearing camouflage uniforms
and colored berets patrolled the walls and the dozens of long hallways and
luxury suites. They held wicked Remington Model 870 tac-14 shotguns.
It had been two weeks since his
brother Sandor Puentes had been killed. Pablo Puentes was now the new head of
one of the largest cartels in Guatemala, and today would solidify his position
more than anything he had done so far. But there was no wealth without danger.
“Tío, please,”
Juan Puentes pleaded,
folding his arms to stop himself from using them as he spoke. He was trying to
live up to his station, and be the strong imposing man his father had
been. “Blackmail has never been our business.
Business is our business, no? What am I missing here?” His beret spun slightly as he shook his head. It was white, the only
one among the others holding that color, distinguishing him as el comandante. Many guards in the room
wore the new black berets marking them as Pablo’s
chosen men while still others sported the red
berets of common guards.
Pablo couldn’t have been
more opposite, wearing a polo shirt with
white and cream pants made of cotton. He sat with his
legs spread wide and comfortable, elbows resting on the massive oak table. He
radiated power.
“You are right Juan. Business is our business. Every opportunity seized.” Pablo
raised a fist and clenched it. “You are thinking of money. This is a small
thing to think about. I have money. You have money. We all have money. But now
I have something no one else does.”
“Then keep it. Don’t
give it away.”
Pablo smiled and shook
his head like a man who refused to share a secret. “To become invincible, I
must declare war.”
“Yes, but tío, this opens another front in a war
we don’t need to-”
“And there is no need to call me tío. Uncle. I much prefer
being your father.”
Juan grew quiet. After his father Sandor died
Pablo had quickly married Isabella, Juan’s mother.
Pablo was now both his uncle and stepfather.
Isabella sat beside Juan
cradling a laptop. Her slender frame was
cloaked in a loose,
blood-red dress. She gave her son a look of sympathy then spoke softly to Pablo.
“Juan is right that these are not simple cartels, or even
politicians to threaten or bribe, mi amor.”
Pablo pointed an index finger down at the table and
opened his mouth to make a point but Isabella continued.
“I am not saying no. You
decided this. Juan
is simply being cautious. There is a reason he heads
your security.”
“I am not being cautious,” Juan snapped, immediately
regretting the rudeness shown to his mother as he caught her glare. He touched
her shoulder lightly in unspoken apology, before turning back to Pablo. “I am asking you to be more ambitious.
There is more we can do with this information.”
Pablo
raised a hand to cut off Juan’s protests. It was
clear Isabella would not sway him either. He had decided. Pablo reached for a
small gray cell phone lying in the middle of
the table. He opened it solemnly and handed it over to Isabella.
Isabella’s
eyes flicked from her laptop screen to the phone. She punched in a number then
handed the phone back to Pablo.
They
waited as it rang.
Pablo did not put the phone on
speaker for the benefit of his wife or stepson. He shared so much with them and
kept few things even from his guards. He had a reputation of being strangely
open and keeping little to no privacy. Yet even Pablo wanted this conversation
to be kept from his family. This moment would
be his own. He held the phone close to his ear.
The
line continued to ring.
Juan pursed his lips, eyes fixated on the phone.
Isabella’s face was a mask, unreadable.
There was a click. Static, then a breath.
“Go ahead.” The voice on the other end was hard and flat,
and full of contempt.
Pablo smiled. His voice would not be the one they
expected, and he reveled in this revealed surprise; the tension before a
magician turns his hand.
“Your man is dead,”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“But perhaps you already knew that.”
Some static and a
shuffling sound.
“Who is this?” It was a
different voice now. Another man’s voice, hard, short, strong. A voice that
gave commands instead of taking them.
“They call me the patrón of Antigua,” Pablo continued. “I have always
liked the title.”
“Pablo Puentes.”
He was surprised how quickly the man had identified him.
He had hoped for a little more playfulness in this exchange. “It seems you have heard of me.”
There
was a brief pause, and Pablo thought he could hear
the chattering of a computer keyboard. The voice spoke again.
“We know you front one of the largest illicit cartels in
Latin America, dealing primarily in cocaine and sex trafficking. You extort protection money from half of Antigua. Money
laundering. We know you have members of the oligarcha familia on your payroll - the
respected López family voted to suppress the
anti-corruption commission. We know you are currently
located at 117 Cortega street. We know your wife Isabella Muñoz 43, and stepson, Juan Puentes, 27, and son Pablito Puentes, 8.”
“It seems you know quite a
lot about me.”
“We even know you killed
your brother Sandor Puentes.
Does Isabella know that, Pablo? What about Juan? Mr. Puentes, this is an office
of the United States of America’s Central
Intelligence Agency. We don’t know a lot about you. We know everything
about you.”
Pablo had to admit, some of this was concerning. But a fire was lit in his
mind and though Pablo’s fists clenched, his smile did not waver. Instead, if
anything, his determination was steeled. His voice cut the air like a knife.
“Do you know about this, Mr. Central Intelligence
Agency?”
Pablo turned to Isabella, smiling,
and nodded to her. She smiled back and took his hand and gave it a firm
squeeze. Then she took a breath, shook herself, and sent a simple email to the
man they were speaking with.
Pablo waited patiently. There was the sound of keyboards
now – he was sure there was
more than one – and hushed whispers saying something
incoherent. Finally, the voice replied.
“You think you’re clever Puentes. You’re not. We know
about this.”
Pablo put one of his hands up, as if making a sign of
surrender, even though the man on the other end of the line couldn’t see. He was enjoying himself. “Alright, alright. It seems there are no secrets. This is
good. I hate secrets.” Pablo leaned forward in his chair and bared his teeth.
“I’m sure the American people know about this if it is no secret.”
“If you send any of this information to the-”
“It is too bad you
cannot do anything.”
“Pablo,
it appears you misunderstand the sheer power of the United States of America.
Within hours, a Reaper drone loaded with Hellfire air-to-ground missiles can be
called to strike wherever we choose around the globe. Its blast is a focused
fifty-foot kill radius. You and your family can run. We don’t miss. It doesn’t
leave dirt in its crater because the thousand-degree Fahrenheit chemical
reactions are too hot. It makes glass. I have 117 Cortega street prepared for a
priority cue. All I have to do is give the word.”
“I
don’t think the Guatemalan government would like that very much, or the United
Nations for that matter.”
“For
Christ’s sake we bankroll the United Nations. All I have to do,” the man broke
up the sentence for emphasis, “is give. The. Word. Do you know what the word is
Pablo? The word is go. I know my
drone pilots personally. Maybe they should get to know you too.”
“My brother used to say it’s not
what you do, it’s who you know.”
Silence.
“I
disagreed with him. It is what you do. That is why he is dead and I am alive. Señor, I have a very long list of emails
for respected American journalists who are very good writers, and they write
for very curious citizens. If I am killed, these journalists will receive the
same information I sent to you.”
More
silence. Pablo considered for a moment that the line was dead. He continued
anyway.
“My brother did not know what I could
do. But you, you know what I can do. Perhaps
you will be safe.”
The silence continued for a moment, then there came a
sound of exasperation.
“What do you want? What bizarre stroke of madness made
you think you could get something out of this?”
Pablo shrugged. “Maybe send some money. Maybe send some
favors.” He leaned forward again. “But whatever you do or do not do does not
matter. You cannot kill me. That is what you did not know. Now. You. Do.”
He ended the call. Pablo snapped the small cell phone in
two pieces and tossed the remains on the table in front of him. Juan let out a breath of
air through his teeth. Pablo gave him a sideways glance and winked. He probably
hadn’t liked the way he had spoken about his late father. But Juan was his son
now. He would be stronger. Juan would be part of something much bigger
now.
Isabella stroked his leg, bringing him out of his
reflections. “You have become the most powerful man in Guatemala, mi amor.”
“No,” said Pablo, stroking her cheek, although she wasn’t
wrong. “I have become the most powerful man in America.”
About the Author
Collin Glavac is a Canadian born actor and writer who lives in the province of Ontario Canada. He has written, directed and acted in two original stage plays, In Real Life, and LoveSpell. He completed his Dramatic and Liberal Arts B.A. and M.A at Brock University.
Ghosts of Guatemala is his first novel.
Collin loves hearing from readers, so please don't hesitate to contact him by email at: collinglavac@gmail.com
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Thank you very much Janet for posting the blurb, excerpts and links to my son's debut spy novel Ghosts of Guatemala. We appreciate it very much.
ReplyDeleteAll the best,
Marjan Glavac A Proud Dad