Ken intercepted the hit team sent to ambush him, and after a short, brutal firefight in the street he killed all but one of them. The last one lived only because Ken chose to spare him, and having shot the man he then tracked the hitter back across Bogota to the hideout where his handler waited to kill them all instead of paying them off. Ken didn’t stop the handler from killing the loose end, but he did get into a firefight with that spook. Ken wounded that man, and attempted to track the spook to his boss, but this guy had the presence of mind to just kill himself instead.
The dead spook did not remember to frag his phone, so Ken lifted the spook’s phone and waited for his boss to put in a call. Ken traced the call, and then paid the boss a visit unannounced. He arrived as the boss and his staff exited their safehouse, provoking a running firefight through the streets and on the highways of Bogota that involved the police as Ken chased the boss and his staff in a car chase that Hollywood directors would envy. This ended as the boss approached the American Embassy, where the chase went into a nearby carpark; Ken killed the staff in a series of sublime shots to their skulls, and put down the boss as he ran for a waiting helicopter.
Ken took off the boss the rogue spies’ operational codebook, and then took off in the chopper to meet with the boss’s superiors: the C.I.A. faction of the rogue network, operating out of Narco turf in the jungle. He passed word on the Israeli and British factions’ presence to Marisol, who passed it to the Colombian government factions that she trusted, and they moved swiftly to roll up those networks; they went down in vicious urban firefights that leveled a city block apiece.
Ken did not hesitate when he landed. He shot the welcoming party, catching them by surprise. Taking their guns, he ran a one-man army assault on the compound killing everyone he came across; no friendlies stood in that compound, so he felt confident in ensuring that naught but the dead remained to testify to his presence.
He blasted his way into the compound’s citadel and engaged with those rogue C.I.A. agents. Two of the three went down in seconds. The third got under cover, and then seized the little girl that Ken came for to use as a hostage. Ken shot the man in the eye, forcing the man to drop the girl, but it did not kill him. With one eye remaining, the man shot at Ken and then at the girl in rage. Ken took a few shots in covering the girl as she ran for shelter, putting him on the floor as he moved to reload.
The rogue spy aimed at Ken, about to shoot him dead.
“Surprise!” The Colonel said, standing in the doorway with one arm in a sling, and killed the spy.
“Good plan.” The Colonel said, “Try not to nearly die next time.”
Showing posts with label Marisol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marisol. Show all posts
Friday, November 16, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
The South American Incident-12
Marisol gathered up her courage and dealt with the police again, themselves still in some shock at the unexpected attack upon their families. Now that the kidnapping had become national news, and had hit the international wires, backing down on either side became unthinkable. As Ken told Marisol in a text message, “The die is cast.”
The call came, and this time the rogue agents in charge gloated as to their superior position. As Ken said, Marisol did the talking. She surprised the agents by not meekly acceding to their demands, but instead insulted them and mocked them- “acceptable losses”, she said.
“What can you do now?” she said, “Your violence is front-page news throughout Colombia, and the wire services now tell the world of what you’ve done here. You wanted my daughter so you could bargain with my husband, but he is now dead. You took the sons and daughters of honorable men that sought a peaceful conclusion when we challenged your desire to negotiate honestly with us. You men call yourselves ‘professionals’? You are nothing of the sort. Professionals are not so easily roused to senseless butchery to assuage bruised egos.”
Quietly, in her earpiece, Ken said “Keep going. I’ve found their line and I’m tapping it.”
“You are in no position to say shit to me.” said a rogue agent, “We got to your man, and we got to your cops’ kids and women. We can just skip this and take you out too.”
“Oh? Is that so? Then this is not about money, is it? You wouldn’t say so if it were.”
“I’m in.” Ken said, “Tracing.”
“No, you’re after The White Death. No, don’t bother denying it. It’s all people on the street, or online, talk about now. You show up in the wake of our nation’s—our region’s—liberation from decades of collusion between the narco-trafficking syndicates and corrupt officials throughout the continent by this one man, a man strong enough and tough enough to do what should have been done generations ago, and then exposes their ties to Washington D.C. and the Anglo-American Empire based there.”
“Got it.” Ken said, “Sending coordinates.”
“Oh no,” Marisol said, “you’re here to bring us back under your banksters’ boots. That is not going to happen.”
Just then, a shot echoed into the house from across the street.
“They had a hitter in position; he was about to take the shot.” Ken said, “He’s dead, and I know where they’re hiding.”
A few moments passed, and the rogue agent on the other end went silent.
“Your man is dead.” Marisol said, “The White Death got him. He knows where you are, and he’s coming for you. If you value your lives, you had better run.”
“I don’t think so.” The agent said, “We have what you want.”
“And if you don’t return what is ours, unharmed, then pray that the White Death finds you first. We will not be merciful; we are The People of the Sun.”
The call came, and this time the rogue agents in charge gloated as to their superior position. As Ken said, Marisol did the talking. She surprised the agents by not meekly acceding to their demands, but instead insulted them and mocked them- “acceptable losses”, she said.
“What can you do now?” she said, “Your violence is front-page news throughout Colombia, and the wire services now tell the world of what you’ve done here. You wanted my daughter so you could bargain with my husband, but he is now dead. You took the sons and daughters of honorable men that sought a peaceful conclusion when we challenged your desire to negotiate honestly with us. You men call yourselves ‘professionals’? You are nothing of the sort. Professionals are not so easily roused to senseless butchery to assuage bruised egos.”
Quietly, in her earpiece, Ken said “Keep going. I’ve found their line and I’m tapping it.”
“You are in no position to say shit to me.” said a rogue agent, “We got to your man, and we got to your cops’ kids and women. We can just skip this and take you out too.”
“Oh? Is that so? Then this is not about money, is it? You wouldn’t say so if it were.”
“I’m in.” Ken said, “Tracing.”
“No, you’re after The White Death. No, don’t bother denying it. It’s all people on the street, or online, talk about now. You show up in the wake of our nation’s—our region’s—liberation from decades of collusion between the narco-trafficking syndicates and corrupt officials throughout the continent by this one man, a man strong enough and tough enough to do what should have been done generations ago, and then exposes their ties to Washington D.C. and the Anglo-American Empire based there.”
“Got it.” Ken said, “Sending coordinates.”
“Oh no,” Marisol said, “you’re here to bring us back under your banksters’ boots. That is not going to happen.”
Just then, a shot echoed into the house from across the street.
“They had a hitter in position; he was about to take the shot.” Ken said, “He’s dead, and I know where they’re hiding.”
A few moments passed, and the rogue agent on the other end went silent.
“Your man is dead.” Marisol said, “The White Death got him. He knows where you are, and he’s coming for you. If you value your lives, you had better run.”
“I don’t think so.” The agent said, “We have what you want.”
“And if you don’t return what is ours, unharmed, then pray that the White Death finds you first. We will not be merciful; we are The People of the Sun.”
Friday, November 2, 2012
The South American Incident-11
When Marisol called Ken, he already knew what had happened.
“How is your husband?”
Marisol calmed herself enough to say “He is still alive, barely, and he’s under guard at the hospital.”
“Have you gotten a call demanding ransom yet?”
“No. When should I expect it?”
“Soon. They need to secure a hiding place for your daughter first, and then ensure a secure line between that place and where they’re going to make that call.”
Marisol sighed.
“These men are professionals. They expect the police to attempt a trace, so they’re setting up a decoy location to test for it.”
“And?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be shaken up, and a bit bruised from rough handling, but they need her alive and unspoiled for this to work. When the police come to handle the ransom call, cooperate as best you can with them; let them do their jobs. What I want you to do is to record everything, start to finish, and let me follow that. Then there’s something I need you to pass to your husband.”
“What?”
“He needs to pretend to die, and you need to go along with it. If the bad guys think that they got him on a slab, then they’re going to think that you’re going to fold faster than Superman on laundry day, and that means that they’re going to come out of hiding to scare the crap out of you and push you into giving them everything that they want- assuming that you’re too weak to defend yourself.”
Marisol paused, and then said “This is very dangerous.”
“I’m good, but I still need a lead if I’m going to track them. This is going to put themselves out where I can get to them- and you know what happens once I get my teeth into them. They’ll freak out, and in their panic they will lead me straight to your daughter.”
After a moment, Marisol said “Okay, as you say then.”
Marisol then hung up. While Ken broke down his kit and quickly moved to his next spot, Marisol went to the hospital and spoke with the Colonel about Ken’s plan. He silently agreed, and with the aid of his doctors they performed a convincing spectacle of a failed emergency surgery followed by a public announcement of his death.
The police then came to Marisol, and asked her to cooperate with the kidnapping matter, and as Ken said she complied and cooperated. She also began recording the entirety of her dealings with them, and Ken kept abreast of the situation there through those recordings. When the call came, the police did attempt to trace that call. They found the location that the Intelligence network wanted them to find, which was empty and abandoned, making a mockery of them and outing their identities to these rogue agents; their own children got kidnapped, and some of their wives, within the day in retaliation.
When Marisol called, Ken made it simple: “Keep them talking. You know how.”
“How is your husband?”
Marisol calmed herself enough to say “He is still alive, barely, and he’s under guard at the hospital.”
“Have you gotten a call demanding ransom yet?”
“No. When should I expect it?”
“Soon. They need to secure a hiding place for your daughter first, and then ensure a secure line between that place and where they’re going to make that call.”
Marisol sighed.
“These men are professionals. They expect the police to attempt a trace, so they’re setting up a decoy location to test for it.”
“And?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be shaken up, and a bit bruised from rough handling, but they need her alive and unspoiled for this to work. When the police come to handle the ransom call, cooperate as best you can with them; let them do their jobs. What I want you to do is to record everything, start to finish, and let me follow that. Then there’s something I need you to pass to your husband.”
“What?”
“He needs to pretend to die, and you need to go along with it. If the bad guys think that they got him on a slab, then they’re going to think that you’re going to fold faster than Superman on laundry day, and that means that they’re going to come out of hiding to scare the crap out of you and push you into giving them everything that they want- assuming that you’re too weak to defend yourself.”
Marisol paused, and then said “This is very dangerous.”
“I’m good, but I still need a lead if I’m going to track them. This is going to put themselves out where I can get to them- and you know what happens once I get my teeth into them. They’ll freak out, and in their panic they will lead me straight to your daughter.”
After a moment, Marisol said “Okay, as you say then.”
Marisol then hung up. While Ken broke down his kit and quickly moved to his next spot, Marisol went to the hospital and spoke with the Colonel about Ken’s plan. He silently agreed, and with the aid of his doctors they performed a convincing spectacle of a failed emergency surgery followed by a public announcement of his death.
The police then came to Marisol, and asked her to cooperate with the kidnapping matter, and as Ken said she complied and cooperated. She also began recording the entirety of her dealings with them, and Ken kept abreast of the situation there through those recordings. When the call came, the police did attempt to trace that call. They found the location that the Intelligence network wanted them to find, which was empty and abandoned, making a mockery of them and outing their identities to these rogue agents; their own children got kidnapped, and some of their wives, within the day in retaliation.
When Marisol called, Ken made it simple: “Keep them talking. You know how.”
Friday, October 26, 2012
The South American Incident-10
The global media exploded once the Colonel corroborated the confessions that the C.I.A. agents in the video made, and an international incident resulted when the Colombian government arrested the Americans as spies and bound them over for trial. Meanwhile, the blogosphere erupted with posts that the one making the video had to be “The White Death” himself while others claim that these are either fake agents or burned agents sacrificed to save the Agency from political scrutiny in the United States.
The knowledgeable conspiracy bloggers keyed into the Skull & Bones connections, and soon traced the families of these Americans down; they found that their elders held high-ranking posts in the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, the State Department, the Joint Chiefs of Staff (i.e. the Pentagon’s top echelon), and many current and former Cabinet officials or White House staffers.
In addition to that are current and former Congressmen, Federal Reserve officials, officers at firms like Goldman Sachs, Disney, or Penguin and faculty at Yale, Harvard, Georgetown, Vassar or the more prominent state schools: UC-Berkley, U Chicago, etc. These American spies were well-connected indeed, scions one and all of the Anglo-American Establishment.
One by one, the American spies broke ranks and turned on each other. One by one, each of them tried to buy leniency by fingering their fellows and painting themselves as hapless innocents. One by one, each of them—desperate to get out of their predicament, unable to cope with the knowledge of their abandonment by even their own mothers—contributed to their final doom as they sought some measure of solace, of mercy, from the Colombian government.
Monitoring the situation from afar, the handful of Intelligence community officials running this rogue network met over a secured line for a regular conference call. They antagonized each other, with all of them claiming that the American, British and Israeli members conspired amongst themselves to take out and usurp the South American members. The words became deeds, and soon infighting broke out; within a week, the South American members were all dead, murdered in ambushes or poisoned by assassins.
The American, British and Israeli faction then met to decide on what to do. They agreed that they had to personally handle the matter now, so each flew to Bogota and set up a headquarters there where they received their best cleaners and hitters and briefed them on the situation. They agreed that the Colonel was the one route to “The White Death”.
The endgame finally began.
The knowledgeable conspiracy bloggers keyed into the Skull & Bones connections, and soon traced the families of these Americans down; they found that their elders held high-ranking posts in the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, the State Department, the Joint Chiefs of Staff (i.e. the Pentagon’s top echelon), and many current and former Cabinet officials or White House staffers.
In addition to that are current and former Congressmen, Federal Reserve officials, officers at firms like Goldman Sachs, Disney, or Penguin and faculty at Yale, Harvard, Georgetown, Vassar or the more prominent state schools: UC-Berkley, U Chicago, etc. These American spies were well-connected indeed, scions one and all of the Anglo-American Establishment.
One by one, the American spies broke ranks and turned on each other. One by one, each of them tried to buy leniency by fingering their fellows and painting themselves as hapless innocents. One by one, each of them—desperate to get out of their predicament, unable to cope with the knowledge of their abandonment by even their own mothers—contributed to their final doom as they sought some measure of solace, of mercy, from the Colombian government.
Monitoring the situation from afar, the handful of Intelligence community officials running this rogue network met over a secured line for a regular conference call. They antagonized each other, with all of them claiming that the American, British and Israeli members conspired amongst themselves to take out and usurp the South American members. The words became deeds, and soon infighting broke out; within a week, the South American members were all dead, murdered in ambushes or poisoned by assassins.
The American, British and Israeli faction then met to decide on what to do. They agreed that they had to personally handle the matter now, so each flew to Bogota and set up a headquarters there where they received their best cleaners and hitters and briefed them on the situation. They agreed that the Colonel was the one route to “The White Death”.
The endgame finally began.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The South American Incident-09
Ken and his fast friends took up a room in the hostel that night. The group, thinking Ken to be One of Them—part of their class, if not another Agency asset—paid him no mind as he made himself a party facilitator. They failed to notice that he handled their drinks, and as such failed to notice that he slipped a drug to them that would be their undoing: Scolopomine, “The Devil’s Breath”. Within a half-hour, all of them were under its sway and Ken had them trapped. Now Ken would compel the leader of this Intelligence network to come to him.
First, having seized control of his targets’ minds, he compelled them to divulge all. They took turns confessing that they were all C.I.A. agents, assigned to South America as part of an operation to seek out and identify a figure known as “The White Death” here. Unable to resist Ken’s commands, they explained that this guy had interfered with a long-running operation that the Agency uses to finance the most important—and unpolitic—operations that would not receive Congressional approval.
Second, they told Ken in detail of their own connections—familial, fraternal, social—to their superiors, and how this was a milk-run assignment meant to give them some easy field experience before being rotated into the fast track towards the top of the Agency. The men were all members of Skull & Bones, while the women were daughters of Bonesmen betrothed to junior Bonesmen, and so they felt no real danger despite being in the middle of Narco country. If anything went wrong, all that they had to do was hit a panic button and an evacuation team would be on its way from the Embassy.
Third, they went on to brag about how this would all turn out to their advantage in the end. This “White Death”, as they explained, had so cleaned out the region’s criminal syndicates that their superiors would now be able to install loyal puppets throughout the network and rebuild it into a far more profitable and effective machine that would allow American influence to remain dominant here for at least another 25 years, and probably 50 or more. Killing all of those gangsters and government officials meant that, after some short-term disruptions, instead of getting rid of now-useless locals themselves all they had to do was to groom and install new tools to keep the game going.
Ken recorded all of this, filming the entire conversation. Then he put them to sleep, and while they slept he uploaded the entire thing to YouTube, Vimeo, and other social media video sites using a series of backup accounts as well as a proxy server to mask tracking back his location before it was too late. Ken knew that the Scolopomine would induce amnesia in these poor suckers, so his identity was safe from C.I.A. identification for now. Then he sent a text message to the Colonel where to pick them up; he did.
First, having seized control of his targets’ minds, he compelled them to divulge all. They took turns confessing that they were all C.I.A. agents, assigned to South America as part of an operation to seek out and identify a figure known as “The White Death” here. Unable to resist Ken’s commands, they explained that this guy had interfered with a long-running operation that the Agency uses to finance the most important—and unpolitic—operations that would not receive Congressional approval.
Second, they told Ken in detail of their own connections—familial, fraternal, social—to their superiors, and how this was a milk-run assignment meant to give them some easy field experience before being rotated into the fast track towards the top of the Agency. The men were all members of Skull & Bones, while the women were daughters of Bonesmen betrothed to junior Bonesmen, and so they felt no real danger despite being in the middle of Narco country. If anything went wrong, all that they had to do was hit a panic button and an evacuation team would be on its way from the Embassy.
Third, they went on to brag about how this would all turn out to their advantage in the end. This “White Death”, as they explained, had so cleaned out the region’s criminal syndicates that their superiors would now be able to install loyal puppets throughout the network and rebuild it into a far more profitable and effective machine that would allow American influence to remain dominant here for at least another 25 years, and probably 50 or more. Killing all of those gangsters and government officials meant that, after some short-term disruptions, instead of getting rid of now-useless locals themselves all they had to do was to groom and install new tools to keep the game going.
Ken recorded all of this, filming the entire conversation. Then he put them to sleep, and while they slept he uploaded the entire thing to YouTube, Vimeo, and other social media video sites using a series of backup accounts as well as a proxy server to mask tracking back his location before it was too late. Ken knew that the Scolopomine would induce amnesia in these poor suckers, so his identity was safe from C.I.A. identification for now. Then he sent a text message to the Colonel where to pick them up; he did.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The South American Incident-08
Ken hung up, and as he disassembled and stored his kit he maintained his awareness. Soon he slipped out of his concealed location near the power line and stepped back inside an adjacent café, got into a storage room and did a quick-change. He came out looking like a college-aged backpacker on a long holiday, complete with backpack, and took a back table in the café.
Ken’s disarming smile and warm, slightly naïve demeanor in this persona made him invisible to the locals as well as most of the travelers taking in the café’s array of food and drink; its proximity to the power line made it a local wi-fi hot-spot, hence its popularity with travelers. Taking up a cup of coffee, Ken completed his disguise by pulling a tablet out of the pack—the same one that now concealed his lineman’s kit—and appeared to all observing that he’s either blogging or plotting his next stage of his grand tour.
The news feeds—English, Spanish and Portuguese alike—all talked about the massive regional scandals involving “The White Death” and his crusade against the criminal syndicates and the corrupt in government throughout South America. Central American news outlets echoed their South American counterparts, but so far North American—specifically, American—outlets said little or nothing. Only the international newswires carried any significant information, and that was repeats from South American news outlets.
Ken went to the many sites and feeds for the alternative press, and there he found information beyond the bland narratives of the mainstream outlets. Watching a few interviews, while enjoying his coffee and a light lunch, Ken got all that he needed to know about who stood to lose if “The White Death” was not taken down: a long-running inter-agency intelligence network, including agencies from the U.S., Israel, the U.K., Canada and all of Central and South America.
“I’ve really stepped into it now.” Ken thought, “But there has to be a central group running this network, spread throughout the network’s operational area.”
After finishing his meal, Ken decamped to a nearby hostel, where he met some visiting students from Canada and the United States. He ingratiated himself with them, and accompanied them around the small town near Colombia’s border with both Brazil and Peru, saying “There’s safety in numbers, you know, and this is Narco territory.” The handful of students agreed.
While out, he charmed the guys and enthralled the girls amongst them. Ken sized up that they were, much as his own old friends were once, mostly middle or upper-class suburbanites from schools of prominence- at least, regionally. He was not disappointed: two from Yale, one from Harvard, and the last from Georgetown. He spun a tale of attending the University of Chicago, studying under students of Leo Straus, and taking some time away before taking up a position at a law firm in that same city; this got their approval, and that is how Ken knew that they were all actually C.I.A. agents.
Ken’s disarming smile and warm, slightly naïve demeanor in this persona made him invisible to the locals as well as most of the travelers taking in the café’s array of food and drink; its proximity to the power line made it a local wi-fi hot-spot, hence its popularity with travelers. Taking up a cup of coffee, Ken completed his disguise by pulling a tablet out of the pack—the same one that now concealed his lineman’s kit—and appeared to all observing that he’s either blogging or plotting his next stage of his grand tour.
The news feeds—English, Spanish and Portuguese alike—all talked about the massive regional scandals involving “The White Death” and his crusade against the criminal syndicates and the corrupt in government throughout South America. Central American news outlets echoed their South American counterparts, but so far North American—specifically, American—outlets said little or nothing. Only the international newswires carried any significant information, and that was repeats from South American news outlets.
Ken went to the many sites and feeds for the alternative press, and there he found information beyond the bland narratives of the mainstream outlets. Watching a few interviews, while enjoying his coffee and a light lunch, Ken got all that he needed to know about who stood to lose if “The White Death” was not taken down: a long-running inter-agency intelligence network, including agencies from the U.S., Israel, the U.K., Canada and all of Central and South America.
“I’ve really stepped into it now.” Ken thought, “But there has to be a central group running this network, spread throughout the network’s operational area.”
After finishing his meal, Ken decamped to a nearby hostel, where he met some visiting students from Canada and the United States. He ingratiated himself with them, and accompanied them around the small town near Colombia’s border with both Brazil and Peru, saying “There’s safety in numbers, you know, and this is Narco territory.” The handful of students agreed.
While out, he charmed the guys and enthralled the girls amongst them. Ken sized up that they were, much as his own old friends were once, mostly middle or upper-class suburbanites from schools of prominence- at least, regionally. He was not disappointed: two from Yale, one from Harvard, and the last from Georgetown. He spun a tale of attending the University of Chicago, studying under students of Leo Straus, and taking some time away before taking up a position at a law firm in that same city; this got their approval, and that is how Ken knew that they were all actually C.I.A. agents.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The South American Incident-07
Ken wired his spoofer into the landline. He scanned his surroundings for hostiles as the device did its work, and when it finished its work a light tone told Ken that he had a secure connection. Using an old telephone lineman’s kit, he called Marisol.
“Hello?”
“Marisol, it’s Ken.”
“Ken? The telecom company’s number came up on the Caller I.D. reader. How-“
“You know that I won’t answer that question, so don’t finish it. Where I am, and how I got to you, is better kept to myself.”
“Why the secrecy? You can trust me.”
“You, yes, but I don’t trust the environment we’re in Marisol. I’m staying hidden for your protection far more than for my own.”
“Considering all that’s said about you in the press, especially online, I find that hard to believe. You have no less than a score of fan pages on Facebook alone.”
“That is part of the problem.” Ken said, “Your husband told me that I’d attracted the attention of more than a few spooks, especially the C.I.A., and South America is regarded internationally as the backyard of the U.S. so I expect some backlash from the Agency.”
Just then, Ken heard another phone pick up.
“You would be correct.” The Colonel said, “My contacts tell me that American officials with State Department credentials are all over the region talking with prominent government officers, civil and military alike. Others, without diplomatic cover, are known to be talking to what’s left of the big syndicates.”
“So far, you’ve not been noticed in American media, but that could change.” Marisol said.
Ken chuckled. “The regional Station Chiefs are arguing over if I’m a useful asset or not, which is why things quieted down.”
“You think so?” Marisol said.
“No, he is right.” The Colonel said, “I told the other girls to get beyond American reach.”
"That’s difficult.” Ken said, “There isn’t much space left in the world where the Agency has no assets handy to do what it wants, due to its long-standing relationships with allied agencies as well as a lack of friendly places to go.”
“True, my friend, which is why they’re going to Russia. I have an old friend there that owes me a favor, so they will be well-cared for there.”
Marisol gasped.
“Cold War remnants have their uses, my dear.”
Ken chuckled.
“So, that—again—just leaves the little one.” Ken said, “Marisol, Colonel, I would advise you to prepare for her abduction.”
“What do you mean?” Marisol said.
“The real power in this scheme will come forth now to attempt to fix things himself. He will see you two as the weak links, and will get to you through your daughter. He will use the best men available and he has plenty of quality operatives; he will get to her.”
“What will you do?” The Colonel said.
“Track her, find him, kill them all and bring your daughter home to you- as I promised you.”
“Hello?”
“Marisol, it’s Ken.”
“Ken? The telecom company’s number came up on the Caller I.D. reader. How-“
“You know that I won’t answer that question, so don’t finish it. Where I am, and how I got to you, is better kept to myself.”
“Why the secrecy? You can trust me.”
“You, yes, but I don’t trust the environment we’re in Marisol. I’m staying hidden for your protection far more than for my own.”
“Considering all that’s said about you in the press, especially online, I find that hard to believe. You have no less than a score of fan pages on Facebook alone.”
“That is part of the problem.” Ken said, “Your husband told me that I’d attracted the attention of more than a few spooks, especially the C.I.A., and South America is regarded internationally as the backyard of the U.S. so I expect some backlash from the Agency.”
Just then, Ken heard another phone pick up.
“You would be correct.” The Colonel said, “My contacts tell me that American officials with State Department credentials are all over the region talking with prominent government officers, civil and military alike. Others, without diplomatic cover, are known to be talking to what’s left of the big syndicates.”
“So far, you’ve not been noticed in American media, but that could change.” Marisol said.
Ken chuckled. “The regional Station Chiefs are arguing over if I’m a useful asset or not, which is why things quieted down.”
“You think so?” Marisol said.
“No, he is right.” The Colonel said, “I told the other girls to get beyond American reach.”
"That’s difficult.” Ken said, “There isn’t much space left in the world where the Agency has no assets handy to do what it wants, due to its long-standing relationships with allied agencies as well as a lack of friendly places to go.”
“True, my friend, which is why they’re going to Russia. I have an old friend there that owes me a favor, so they will be well-cared for there.”
Marisol gasped.
“Cold War remnants have their uses, my dear.”
Ken chuckled.
“So, that—again—just leaves the little one.” Ken said, “Marisol, Colonel, I would advise you to prepare for her abduction.”
“What do you mean?” Marisol said.
“The real power in this scheme will come forth now to attempt to fix things himself. He will see you two as the weak links, and will get to you through your daughter. He will use the best men available and he has plenty of quality operatives; he will get to her.”
“What will you do?” The Colonel said.
“Track her, find him, kill them all and bring your daughter home to you- as I promised you.”
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The South American Incident-06
Colombia exploded.
Ken went into the streets, followed leads, and let the gangsters and strongmen do their tough guy thing over and over again. Each time Ken would barge into a bar, a house, or whatever sad excuse for a place that this crew or that gang used as a hangout or a headquarters and then do his best to let the locals put up their intimidation routine while he marked all of the exits as well as the gangsters. Then he killed all but one of them, get the next link in the chain, finish him off and go.
He left the police in disarray, moving faster than they could react. He left the courts at a loss for words, because he did in days what they failed to do in years. The cartels soon saw that they could not ignore him, so they set up ambushes. They failed, and the body count kept climbing. Entire crews got wiped out. As Ken ranged wider and wider, the carnage escalated to match and soon syndicates that endured for years died in a day. Criminal brotherhoods with shadowy origins generations ago heaped into rubble within hours. Ken became “The White Death”.
Into the jungles Ken went, following the trail of clues and networks of connections. Fields long left for cultivating coca burned, and so did the cartel overseers and peasant collaborators. Fortresses in the wilderness, long held against the government, fell to Ken by himself- and he burned them all to ash.
The cartels in Colombia, which also had reach into the rest of South America, called out for aide against “The American Super Soldier”. Word in the press told of a wonder-warrior from America, a man that did what so many in so much of the world wanted done but lacked the will or the means to do so, and speculated as to what he was: a C.I.A. wetwork operative, a Blackwater contract killer, a rogue U.S. special forces soldier, a secret experiment gone wrong, and so on. The media ran with this, knowing Ken only by the heroic epithets given to him by those in the street, given Ken the aura of menace needed to make his final push.
In the last push for the cartel leadership, Ken again assumed that they would attempt to trap him and overwhelm him with superior numbers. He intercepted the plan, and it would involve a total of four international hitmen teams from across the South American underground. Some of them were also official government operatives, which made him quite happy. Once Ken confirmed the intelligence, he put into action the only viable response to such an attempt to rendezvous and crush him.
For the government crooks, Ken passed that to The Colonel. The old man, wielding Ken’s popularity like a club, went after his rivals and took them out before they could mobilize. A nasty firefight ended that threat. The Colonel then pushed the diplomatic corps to demand similar responses- it worked.
Ken went into the streets, followed leads, and let the gangsters and strongmen do their tough guy thing over and over again. Each time Ken would barge into a bar, a house, or whatever sad excuse for a place that this crew or that gang used as a hangout or a headquarters and then do his best to let the locals put up their intimidation routine while he marked all of the exits as well as the gangsters. Then he killed all but one of them, get the next link in the chain, finish him off and go.
He left the police in disarray, moving faster than they could react. He left the courts at a loss for words, because he did in days what they failed to do in years. The cartels soon saw that they could not ignore him, so they set up ambushes. They failed, and the body count kept climbing. Entire crews got wiped out. As Ken ranged wider and wider, the carnage escalated to match and soon syndicates that endured for years died in a day. Criminal brotherhoods with shadowy origins generations ago heaped into rubble within hours. Ken became “The White Death”.
Into the jungles Ken went, following the trail of clues and networks of connections. Fields long left for cultivating coca burned, and so did the cartel overseers and peasant collaborators. Fortresses in the wilderness, long held against the government, fell to Ken by himself- and he burned them all to ash.
The cartels in Colombia, which also had reach into the rest of South America, called out for aide against “The American Super Soldier”. Word in the press told of a wonder-warrior from America, a man that did what so many in so much of the world wanted done but lacked the will or the means to do so, and speculated as to what he was: a C.I.A. wetwork operative, a Blackwater contract killer, a rogue U.S. special forces soldier, a secret experiment gone wrong, and so on. The media ran with this, knowing Ken only by the heroic epithets given to him by those in the street, given Ken the aura of menace needed to make his final push.
In the last push for the cartel leadership, Ken again assumed that they would attempt to trap him and overwhelm him with superior numbers. He intercepted the plan, and it would involve a total of four international hitmen teams from across the South American underground. Some of them were also official government operatives, which made him quite happy. Once Ken confirmed the intelligence, he put into action the only viable response to such an attempt to rendezvous and crush him.
For the government crooks, Ken passed that to The Colonel. The old man, wielding Ken’s popularity like a club, went after his rivals and took them out before they could mobilize. A nasty firefight ended that threat. The Colonel then pushed the diplomatic corps to demand similar responses- it worked.
Friday, September 21, 2012
The South American Incident-05
After dinner, The Colonel told Ken all of what he knew: the government enacted a policy against the drug cartels, one of interdiction and suppression, at the behest of the United States of America (and with their assistance); the cartels retaliated by raiding the government’s strongholds to undermine the support that the people gave to the government, and part of these raids included assassinating officials such as judges; the leading faction in the government exploited this by using such posts as virtual death sentences for political rivals, which is why The Colonel got appointed as a judge upon retiring from the Colombian Army. Six assassination attempts later, The Colonel realized that the cartels will shift tactics to get to him, and the government won’t do anything about it, which is why he asked for Ken to help.
“Why would they not go abroad to abduct your older daughters?” Ken said.
“The killings are public because they are political statements by the cartels to the people that the government is not their friend.” The Colonel said, “Any alternative must fulfill the same purpose, and causing problems abroad does not do that here. So, for now, they are safe.”
“And the neighboring governments?”
“Each of the governments here in South America, behind closed doors, knows that they are in an inferior position with regard to the United States of America- the hegemon of the Americas. Even if they agree with destroying the cartels, relations with the Americans alone will impede alternatives to the American policy. The reality, however, is that all of our politics are riven with factions and rivalries that will use events to advance their goals or eliminate enemies.”
“Bottom line?”
“Don’t expect much help, and none from anyone other than me or those that owe me.”
Ken sighed. “I can handle that.”
“You and I share an associate.” The Colonel said, patting his own Browning Hi Power, “You will do just fine, if all Marisol tells me is true.”
“Well,” Ken said, “it seems that the best approach is to do something that forces the cartels to take their focus away from you and…”
The Colonel passed Ken a manila envelope. “I have a few suggestions.”
Ken nodded, intrigued. “I think it will be time to take a very personal tour of Colombia.”
The Colonel laughed. “Colombia is a beautiful country, filled with natural wonders that have to be seen with one’s own eyes to be believed. Take my advice, and follow my leads, young Ken. See all we have to see, and make joyful noises wherever you go. Let this experience be one that no one ever forgets.”
Ken then took his leave, as The Colonel wanted some time with Marisol before returning to his work in the morning. He returned to the guest room prepared for him, emptied the envelope, and read its contents: cartel safehouses, contacts, caches, etc. here in Bogata.
“After I’m done, no one will ever do this again.”
“Why would they not go abroad to abduct your older daughters?” Ken said.
“The killings are public because they are political statements by the cartels to the people that the government is not their friend.” The Colonel said, “Any alternative must fulfill the same purpose, and causing problems abroad does not do that here. So, for now, they are safe.”
“And the neighboring governments?”
“Each of the governments here in South America, behind closed doors, knows that they are in an inferior position with regard to the United States of America- the hegemon of the Americas. Even if they agree with destroying the cartels, relations with the Americans alone will impede alternatives to the American policy. The reality, however, is that all of our politics are riven with factions and rivalries that will use events to advance their goals or eliminate enemies.”
“Bottom line?”
“Don’t expect much help, and none from anyone other than me or those that owe me.”
Ken sighed. “I can handle that.”
“You and I share an associate.” The Colonel said, patting his own Browning Hi Power, “You will do just fine, if all Marisol tells me is true.”
“Well,” Ken said, “it seems that the best approach is to do something that forces the cartels to take their focus away from you and…”
The Colonel passed Ken a manila envelope. “I have a few suggestions.”
Ken nodded, intrigued. “I think it will be time to take a very personal tour of Colombia.”
The Colonel laughed. “Colombia is a beautiful country, filled with natural wonders that have to be seen with one’s own eyes to be believed. Take my advice, and follow my leads, young Ken. See all we have to see, and make joyful noises wherever you go. Let this experience be one that no one ever forgets.”
Ken then took his leave, as The Colonel wanted some time with Marisol before returning to his work in the morning. He returned to the guest room prepared for him, emptied the envelope, and read its contents: cartel safehouses, contacts, caches, etc. here in Bogata.
“After I’m done, no one will ever do this again.”
Friday, September 14, 2012
The South American Incident-04
Ken walked into the guest room set aside for him. As requested, the servants did not open his luggage and put away his clothes, so they remain on the footlocker at the base of the twin-sized bed. He took the larger of them, put it on the bed and opened it up. Underneath a few clothing articles he drew forth a pistol case. From that case he drew forth his preferred pistol: a classic Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic, chambered in 9x19mm Parabellum. He shifted the pistol to his off-hand and drew the spare magazines from the case, which he put into a side pocket on his pants, before racking the slide to charge the chamber.
“I see that you still work with Mr. Browning.” Marisol said, standing in the doorway.
“No one else enjoys his support or prestige.” Ken said, “I need a full briefing, Marisol. I assume that your husband will accommodate me.”
“After dinner.” she said, “He will tell you all.”
“I see that you still work with Mr. Browning.” Marisol said, standing in the doorway.
“No one else enjoys his support or prestige.” Ken said, “I need a full briefing, Marisol. I assume that your husband will accommodate me.”
“After dinner.” she said, “He will tell you all.”
Friday, September 7, 2012
The South American Incident-03
Ken arrived at the Martinez residence, a home originally built by the Spanish colonizers several generations ago and refurbished periodically to maintain and update the property, so it was a large and airy mansion on no small amount of land. This was, in the traditional sense, a proper household and the man of the house—Colonel Raphael Martinez (retired)—was himself a scion of Colombia’s upper class. Looking far more Spanish than Colombian, much like Marisol, the Colonel displayed in his bearing the charisma and vigor often expected (and rarely exhibited) by his class in society. Raphael was just the man to lead the government’s fight against the cartels, which is also why he—like his predecessors—was a marked man.
The Colonel met Marisol and Ken at the front door, kissing his wife and shaking Ken’s hands in turn as they got out of the car.
“I am pleased to meet you at last.” The Colonel said, “Marisol has always spoken so highly of you since I began courting her all those years ago.”
Ken could not help but to notice the disparity in age between his old university friend and her husband—at least ten years, if the pepper-like hair was more stress-induced than just aging—and he noted that Marisol’s affection for the Colonel, while genuine, seemed constrained by convention. He also noticed the slight printing of a pistol beneath his host’s jacket; this was, as expected, no foolish man.
“Come, then.” The Colonel said, “Let us go inside.”
Ken allowed his host to show him into the mansion. Servants took up Ken’s luggage, such as it was, and removed it upstairs where he would later find it in the room set for him. Meanwhile, he went with his host and friend to a balcony overlooking the city. The Colonel seated Marisol, and then showed Ken to another chair, before taking one himself. Another servant appeared to serve them tea.
“You came a very long way, and on such short notice.” The Colonel said.
“My business in Russia had just concluded when your wife reached me, Colonel.” Ken said.
“Indeed.” The Colonel said, producing a pen and a notepad from an interior pocket, “Your reputation with regard to your business pursuits has already attracted some attention in the circles that I often travel.”
The Colonel wrote something down and passed pen and paper to Ken.
“I do hope that I am not too indiscreet for your needs, Colonel.” Ken said as he read the note, “I prefer to keep my business to myself, and leave those unconcerned alone.”
The note read You should be aware that you have attracted the attention of the Intelligence Community, and they are not happy with you.
"You deal well with complications." The Colonel said.
"I follow Alexander's example." Ken said, "It's always worked for me."
The Colonel met Marisol and Ken at the front door, kissing his wife and shaking Ken’s hands in turn as they got out of the car.
“I am pleased to meet you at last.” The Colonel said, “Marisol has always spoken so highly of you since I began courting her all those years ago.”
Ken could not help but to notice the disparity in age between his old university friend and her husband—at least ten years, if the pepper-like hair was more stress-induced than just aging—and he noted that Marisol’s affection for the Colonel, while genuine, seemed constrained by convention. He also noticed the slight printing of a pistol beneath his host’s jacket; this was, as expected, no foolish man.
“Come, then.” The Colonel said, “Let us go inside.”
Ken allowed his host to show him into the mansion. Servants took up Ken’s luggage, such as it was, and removed it upstairs where he would later find it in the room set for him. Meanwhile, he went with his host and friend to a balcony overlooking the city. The Colonel seated Marisol, and then showed Ken to another chair, before taking one himself. Another servant appeared to serve them tea.
“You came a very long way, and on such short notice.” The Colonel said.
“My business in Russia had just concluded when your wife reached me, Colonel.” Ken said.
“Indeed.” The Colonel said, producing a pen and a notepad from an interior pocket, “Your reputation with regard to your business pursuits has already attracted some attention in the circles that I often travel.”
The Colonel wrote something down and passed pen and paper to Ken.
“I do hope that I am not too indiscreet for your needs, Colonel.” Ken said as he read the note, “I prefer to keep my business to myself, and leave those unconcerned alone.”
The note read You should be aware that you have attracted the attention of the Intelligence Community, and they are not happy with you.
"You deal well with complications." The Colonel said.
"I follow Alexander's example." Ken said, "It's always worked for me."
Friday, August 31, 2012
The South American Incident-02
Ken and Marisol, accompanied by her security detail, left the airport in the sort of luxury car one would expect from a prominent dignitary. Marisol, sitting next to Ken in the back, leaned into his firm and upright form. Ken glanced over at her, and then at the two security guards sitting across from them, before looking out the tinted windows.
“Your homeland is as beautiful as you made it out to be.” Ken said, “But you did not call me here to show me all of this, did you Marisol? Whatever trouble you’re in, it must be severe if both your own security detail and the government’s armed forces cannot handle it.”
Marisol nodded to one of the bodyguards, and he produced a box.
“Nothing grisly, I hope.” Ken said.
The bodyguard opened the box, and within it Ken saw a manila envelope all bunched up and a small photo album. He handed the album and the envelope to Ken. Ken opened the envelope and saw a hand-written letter, followed by a photocopy of a mock-up wanted poster for Marisol’s husband. The photo album displayed photographs of her husband’s predecessors, slain in various assassinations, and more depicting the worse fates of the wives and daughters of those brave men- slaves to the cartel men, or sold to others of similar character and means.
“I presume that your husband is undaunted by such threats to himself.” Ken said.
“He knows no fear.” Marisol said, “Not for himself.”
“I can feel the muscles underneath that finery. He does not worry for you either.”
Marisol nodded, confirming Ken’s suspicions.
“My elder daughters are already far, far away from here. They are in Spain, attending the same preparatory school that I did years before.”
“So, this is about your youngest child, isn’t it?”
“Your youngest, Rosa, then. This is about a threat upon her. I assume that you’re not asking me to play bodyguard, because I think that your security detail is sufficient for that role.”
One of the bodyguards cleared his throat.
“Col. Martinez acknowledges that, in his present capacity, he is trapped in a defensive position. While we can hold our present position quite well, we are dependent upon intelligence from sources that are not under our control and therefore we cannot take offensive measures to deal with the threats before they approach us.”
“So, the cartels have the imitative.” Ken said, “You also are not confident that the government is behind you.”
“Correct.” the bodyguard said, “We believe that the Colonel's rivals in the government intend to allow the cartels to assassinate him and destroy the household."
Ken sighed. Not this shit, again.
“The Colonel is not in favor with Washington, is he?”
“The State Department, and the D.E.A., make many statements praising my husband’s efforts.” Marisol said, “But the C.I.A. maintains their long-standing ties to their cartel assets.”
“Typical.” Ken said, “This really is a mess.”
“Your homeland is as beautiful as you made it out to be.” Ken said, “But you did not call me here to show me all of this, did you Marisol? Whatever trouble you’re in, it must be severe if both your own security detail and the government’s armed forces cannot handle it.”
Marisol nodded to one of the bodyguards, and he produced a box.
“Nothing grisly, I hope.” Ken said.
The bodyguard opened the box, and within it Ken saw a manila envelope all bunched up and a small photo album. He handed the album and the envelope to Ken. Ken opened the envelope and saw a hand-written letter, followed by a photocopy of a mock-up wanted poster for Marisol’s husband. The photo album displayed photographs of her husband’s predecessors, slain in various assassinations, and more depicting the worse fates of the wives and daughters of those brave men- slaves to the cartel men, or sold to others of similar character and means.
“I presume that your husband is undaunted by such threats to himself.” Ken said.
“He knows no fear.” Marisol said, “Not for himself.”
“I can feel the muscles underneath that finery. He does not worry for you either.”
Marisol nodded, confirming Ken’s suspicions.
“My elder daughters are already far, far away from here. They are in Spain, attending the same preparatory school that I did years before.”
“So, this is about your youngest child, isn’t it?”
“Your youngest, Rosa, then. This is about a threat upon her. I assume that you’re not asking me to play bodyguard, because I think that your security detail is sufficient for that role.”
One of the bodyguards cleared his throat.
“Col. Martinez acknowledges that, in his present capacity, he is trapped in a defensive position. While we can hold our present position quite well, we are dependent upon intelligence from sources that are not under our control and therefore we cannot take offensive measures to deal with the threats before they approach us.”
“So, the cartels have the imitative.” Ken said, “You also are not confident that the government is behind you.”
“Correct.” the bodyguard said, “We believe that the Colonel's rivals in the government intend to allow the cartels to assassinate him and destroy the household."
Ken sighed. Not this shit, again.
“The Colonel is not in favor with Washington, is he?”
“The State Department, and the D.E.A., make many statements praising my husband’s efforts.” Marisol said, “But the C.I.A. maintains their long-standing ties to their cartel assets.”
“Typical.” Ken said, “This really is a mess.”
Friday, August 24, 2012
The South American Incident-01
Bogota, Columbia.
Ken waited until the very end to get off the flight he took from Moscow. As he walked into the terminal, he saw the woman who summoned him waiting there, holding a sign that bore his full name. He smiled, walked up to the woman and embraced her in a mighty hug.
"Marisol!" he said, "It's good to see you!"
Marisol, a head shorter than the American, had to stand on her toes to reach him. She kissed him on the cheeks.
"I am glad that I reached you. You are so hard to find."
Ken smiled. "I move around a lot."
Marisol took Ken in one arm and lead him down the terminal towards the baggage claim area. She nodded to one of the nearby uniformed men, and he spoke into a walkie-talkie.
"My security detail will join us shortly." she said.
"Detail? I heard that you married well, but I had no idea-"
"My husband is one of the bravest men in Columbia, a judge known to resist the cartels."
Ken chuckled. "That has to be why you couldn't talk on the phone."
"Indeed, it is. Our old friends said that you hadn't changed since university, so I knew that if I could find you-"
"-I would come to your aide. True."
The two of them soon found themselves flanked by plain-clothed men with the gait and demeanor of bodyguards.
"Let us wait until we get into the car before I explain further why I need your help. For now, just tell me why you were in Russia. For a woman? For a friend?"
Marisol stared into Ken's eyes.
"Or was it something...more personal?"
Ken sighed. "Gregor. I tracked him down to St. Petersburg. I finally got him in Moscow. I got my ring back when you called. It's good that you called when you did because it gave me the cover I needed to escape his family."
Marisol gasped. She noticed a string around Ken's neck, and a ring under his shirt.
"I remember." she said, "Gregor just laughed when the police arrested him for Keiko's murder."
"Diplomatic status means nothing to a Kalashnikov rifle in my hands."
Marisol nodded. This was the Ken she remembered from her university days all right.
Ken waited until the very end to get off the flight he took from Moscow. As he walked into the terminal, he saw the woman who summoned him waiting there, holding a sign that bore his full name. He smiled, walked up to the woman and embraced her in a mighty hug.
"Marisol!" he said, "It's good to see you!"
Marisol, a head shorter than the American, had to stand on her toes to reach him. She kissed him on the cheeks.
"I am glad that I reached you. You are so hard to find."
Ken smiled. "I move around a lot."
Marisol took Ken in one arm and lead him down the terminal towards the baggage claim area. She nodded to one of the nearby uniformed men, and he spoke into a walkie-talkie.
"My security detail will join us shortly." she said.
"Detail? I heard that you married well, but I had no idea-"
"My husband is one of the bravest men in Columbia, a judge known to resist the cartels."
Ken chuckled. "That has to be why you couldn't talk on the phone."
"Indeed, it is. Our old friends said that you hadn't changed since university, so I knew that if I could find you-"
"-I would come to your aide. True."
The two of them soon found themselves flanked by plain-clothed men with the gait and demeanor of bodyguards.
"Let us wait until we get into the car before I explain further why I need your help. For now, just tell me why you were in Russia. For a woman? For a friend?"
Marisol stared into Ken's eyes.
"Or was it something...more personal?"
Ken sighed. "Gregor. I tracked him down to St. Petersburg. I finally got him in Moscow. I got my ring back when you called. It's good that you called when you did because it gave me the cover I needed to escape his family."
Marisol gasped. She noticed a string around Ken's neck, and a ring under his shirt.
"I remember." she said, "Gregor just laughed when the police arrested him for Keiko's murder."
"Diplomatic status means nothing to a Kalashnikov rifle in my hands."
Marisol nodded. This was the Ken she remembered from her university days all right.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)