Page 19 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
To avenge his father’s murder and eliminate other vermin, Amador relied on the services of the man driving the Land Rover, Rafael Vargas, one of his father’s closest advisers and his number one enforcer.
Fierro yanked open the door and climbed into the passenger seat. He was a millennial who shared his generation’s values, eschewing the trappings of ostentatious wealth. He avoided the tired clichés of his profession like the plague. Gold-plated AK-47s, diamond-studded crucifixes, and imported African hippos were both poor investments and vulgar. He donated ten percent of his profits into projects for the destitute in his native Colombia and throughout Latin America, but this was a nod to public relations as much as it was to any humanitarian impulse. He had no religious inclinations.
The phone in the dashboard cradle rang. Fierro didn’t recognize the number.
“It’s Narcisco,” Vargas said as he handed Fierro the encrypted sat phone. The stoic cartel hit man betrayed no emotion, ever. Not even when he killed. His demeanor was cold and undemonstrative, like the smooth steel shell of a hand grenade.
“Thank you.” Fierro noted the faintest whisper of contempt in Vargas’s voice. No one else would have noticed it, but Amador had known the man for decades. Vargas was no fan of the Tamacas family, especially Narcisco. In fact, Vargas cared for seemingly no one except for Amador, whom he protected like a son. No display of affection was possible, certainly, but Vargas would kill for Amador without hesitation.
“Narcisco? How are you?”
“The line is safe?” Narcisco’s voice was electronically altered by the poor satellite signal.
Vargas punched the gas and headed back for the villa.
“Totally. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you been avoiding me?”
“Not at all. I was flying today. Had to clear my head. What’s the problem?”
“You know why I’m calling.”
“Yes, your father, I’m sure. It’s terrible.”
“What do you intend to do about it?” The electronic distortion couldn’t veil Narcisco’s rising anger.
Fierro bit his tongue. Oscar Tamacas had been warned in advance and told to leave the country, but he refused. The old fool considered himself untouchable and had relied on corrupt government officials still on his payroll for protection. In the past, judges and witnesses could be intimidated or killed, but now their identities were protected, and trials held remotely via Zoom calls inside CECOT. Oscar had completely underestimated President Olmedo’s will and determination.
And truth be told, so had he.
Fierro wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“CECOT is a fortress. It will take some time.”
“So what do you intend to do about it?”
Vargas shot a warning glance at Fierro.He’s a threat.
Fierro shook his head.Not to worry.
“We need to get your father released as soon as possible.”
“He’s an old man and he’s in danger.”
“I understand.”
The Land Rover raced along the mountain track with ease. Coffee workers smiled and waved as they passed. Fierro treated them well.
“Are you sure?” Narcisco asked. “Every moment my father rots behind bars shows us as weak and Olmedo strong. The other bosses agree with me. La Liga’s reputation is on the line.”
Fierro sighed. The El Salvadoran had a point. Narcisco looked and acted the part of an old-school drug lord like his father. Alligator cowboy boots, garish jewelry, and the worship of skeletal saints proved Narcisco had no taste. But he was no idiot. And he was an important ally, especially in La Liga affairs.
“You’re right. La Liga is at risk. We must free your father and the others as quickly as possible.”
“And don’t forget, if La Liga fails, so does Project Q.”
Fierro and Vargas exchanged a glance. That wasn’t a threat.
