But that wasn’t the kind of revenge Kyle Mercer wanted. And it wasn’t the kind of revenge he trusted. So he’d walked to the pickup truck and found the camcorder that his captors had used over the years to record his beatings and his interrogations, and to record their own stupid posturing as they played with their guns, or the time they’d recorded the torture and mutilation of a captured Afghan soldier.
Mercer felt the sweat forming on his face as he recalled all of this—his moment of freedom and his moment of truth. At some point during his captivity he knew he would not take the easy path to revenge if he escaped. He would take the difficult and unexpected path—the path an ancient warrior would take. The path to personal revenge and retribution that would lead him to Brendan Worley’s throat.
No, he wasn’t going home. His mother was dead, and his captors had taunted him with that information when they’d heard the news. His father, he hoped, would understand why his son had chosen not to come home. And if he didn’t, it didn’t matter.
Mercer stood in the Taliban camp, knife in hand, looking at his kill,illuminated in the moonlight and by the flickering fire of the torches. The two men whose throats he had cut were still face down, bleeding out onto their prayer mats, forever facing their holy city.
He filled with rage—rage at these sadistic and stupid half-wits and their miserable cult. And rage, also, at the bastards in Washington and Kabul who didn’t understand war, and didn’t understand the warriors they’d created. And Kyle Mercer raged at himself—his former self—the boy peering through the chain-link fence at Camp Pendleton, mistaking theater for truth.
That boy was dead, and so was the man he’d become—Captain Mercer was dead. And all that remained was the killing machine they’d created. But killing wasn’t enough—so he took the camcorder and began taking heads. And when he’d finished, he delivered his final verbal message to the Army: I quit. I am no longer one of you. I am now your worst nightmare.
Kyle Mercer looked up at the tepui, the dwelling place of the gods. Someday—on the day he killed Brendan Worley—he would climb up there and look down on the world. And he would step into the fast-flowing stream and be carried to the edge of the waterfall, and he would be one with the water and the air and the earth—he would be free. He would be home.
PART V
BOLÍVAR STATE, VENEZUELA
AUGUST 2018
CHAPTER 39
Captain Collins’ voice came over the PA: “All right, folks, we’re cleared to land and we are beginning our initial descent into Ciudad Bolívar’s Tommy-Can-You-Hear-Us Airport.” Collins thought that was funny, and he pretended to radio, “Tommy, can you hear us?”
Brodie smiled. The captain was a little crazy. And crazy was what they needed today.
Collins said, “Might be a little bumpy. Buckle up.”
Taylor roused herself from a half-sleep on the back bench seat, and sat next to Brodie and buckled in.
Brodie asked her, “Do you think a six-foot, two-hundred-pound man can fit back there?”
“Do you mean you?”
“You know who I mean.”
“We’re on a recon mission, Mr. Brodie.”
“Right.”
As the Cessna descended, Brodie looked out the side window. In the clear predawn he could see vast fields of patchwork farmland, and directly below he spotted acres of oil storage tanks. Up ahead were oil wells scattered throughout the farms and cattle ranches.
Collins spoke over the PA: “I guess you folks know this because you’re geologists, but this area north of the river is known as the Orinoco Petroleum Belt where all of this country’s heavy crude is located.” He added, “The largest reserves of petroleum on the planet.”
Brodie called out over the sound of the engine, “I sometimes dream about the Orinoco Petroleum Belt.” He said to Taylor, “Don’t we, dear?”
She had no reply.
Brodie looked down at the oil fields scattered among the richagricultural land, finding it hard to believe that this country was an economic basket case. Venezuela, like much of South America, was blessed by nature and cursed by men.Totally fucked up.
Brodie continued to peer out the window, and he could now see the muddy waters of the Orinoco River snaking through the countryside, and up ahead he got a glimpse of Ciudad Bolívar clinging to its southern bank. It was a small city laid out in a grid, and as they got lower and closer he could see the buildings, a mix of picturesque colonial and slapdash modern. Beyond the city to the south, there was less farmland and more forest, and he recalled that Ciudad Bolívar was called the Gateway to the South—a frontier town, beyond which were vast tracts of sparsely populated land, indigenous people, jungle, and Kyle Mercer.
Sunlight was filling the cabin now, and he looked at Taylor, who was staring out her side window. He wondered what was going on inside her head. Possibly she regretted telling him about her complicity in Operation Flagstaff—unwitting complicity, according to her version of the story. It occurred to him that only actors stuck to the script. But maybe he shouldn’t be so cynical and untrusting. Her admission had the ring of truth—though not the whole truth. Maybe she’d truly been in love with Trent, and maybe she still was. And now she was on a CID assignment to track down Kyle Mercer, America’s most infamous deserter and a possible participant in Flagstaff. So maybe this assignment was calling up the ghosts that Maggie Taylor thought she’d left in Afghanistan.
Empathy was not one of Brodie’s many strong points, but he’d seen those ghosts himself, at unexpected times and in unexpected places, so maybe he and Taylor had an unspoken bond—the brotherhood of war. She certainly had balls. He knew lots of men who would not have agreed to this mission into the heart of darkness. He made a mental note to write a glowing letter of commendation for her file. But then Dombroski and everyone else would think he’d had sex with her. So he should preface the letter by stating that he hadn’t. And on that subject, he wondered if she had regrets that she’d let that moment pass. Since the beginning of time, men had said to women, “I’m going into battle. I could be dead tomorrow. Let’s fuck.” That approach had a good success rate. But in this case, they were going into battle together—at his suggestion—so maybe she reasoned that if she’d agreed to thedangerous mission, she didn’t have to agree to the sex. His father had once told him, “If you can learn how to think like a woman, you’ll get laid more.” Good advice. Better than the old man’s advice on how to roll a joint.
Collins contacted the control tower and was cleared for the low approach toward Tomás de Heres—a.k.a. Tommy Can You Hear Us?—which Brodie saw was a small airport with a single runway, maybe a mile long, suitable for large aircraft, probably built when tourism to the south was big. But now there was only one large aircraft on the tarmac—a military transport. He also noticed a few smaller aircraft parked near the small terminal, probably carrying government oil people or adventure tourists, or maybe cartel kingpins.
Collins lined the Cessna up with the runway and communicated with the control tower. He passed over the outer marker, and within seconds he made a smooth touchdown. Brodie said to him, “Those people down there look like ants.”
