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Holtz knew the news was bad when the satellite phone buzzed this early in the morning, but he had no idea how bad it could be. The first words out of Dorshak’s mouth once the phone connected were, “Boss, they are killing our men!” After half a minute of shouting and shooting in the background, Holtz heard a banging sound, a crash, then muffled voices.
“Holtz?” a fresh voice said.
“Yes?”
“We have your boat, your crew, and your lab workers. Pay us twenty million euros, or we kill them all.” Holtz knew the voice. It was the cartel’s lead man, whose face was a mask of tattoos. The one Holtz believed was thoroughly intimidated by the power and reach of the 252 Syndicate.
“Do you know who you’re talking to, asshole?”
“Tráelo!” Holtz heard a scuffle and then two shots, followed by a shriek of pain. “I just blew the balls off one of your guards, bendejo! Maybe I should do that with one of your pretty boys next!”
“No, no, wait!” Holtz temporized. These sub-humans had him cold. The guards were one thing—losing them was the cost of doing business. The same went for Carlos Rojas’s crew. But Gronkowsky? If he let anything happen to him.... “OK, I don’t have that much with me. It will take time.”
“How much time?”
“Two weeks.”
“One week.”
“I can’t get that much in seven days!”
“Then call someone who can! Comprende? In one week, I cut pieces off your pretty boys here.” The line went dead. Holtz stared at the phone for about half a minute before putting it aside.
It was not supposed to be this way. He had landed this contract and arranged all the logistics. The possibilities for future purchases of cocaine were unlimited, and Holtz’s star would rise high in the organization. Even with the misfortune of their original cocaine source in Venezuela drying up, he found a satisfactory solution at a lower cost. Or so he thought.
The first meeting carried a warning. Holtz flew into Barbello, an island about ninety miles off Honduras’s coast, in his chartered seaplane. Barbello was nominally part of Honduras but was effectively ruled by the Salinas Cartel, an ultraviolent death cult financing themselves through drug trafficking. Holtz was not concerned—the reputation of his organization was such that he expected to roll over the negotiations quickly and easily. And so it seemed, with the head man, a rather frightening figure with his tattoos, piercings, and twin forty-four-caliber Auto Mag pistols, nodding in sullen acceptance to Holtz’s terms.
Holtz activated one of his burner phones and dialed his control number in Bucharest. After several rings, Holtz was greeted with the deep baritone of his superior’s voice. “Yes?”
“Boss, this is Holtz.”
“Yes, Holtz, what is it?”
“We have a problem with the cocaine delivery.”
There was an audible sigh. “What sort of problem?”
“The suppliers have seized the vessel and everyone on board. They’ve shot several of our men and are threatening our researcher if they aren’t paid twenty million euros within one week.”
“I don’t believe it. La Cantaña wouldn’t dare fuck with us like that.”
“It’s not La Cantaña, boss. They got rolled up by the BRCNA a couple of weeks ago. I went with a new supplier in Honduras, the Salinas Cartel.”
“You what?” came the incredulous reply.
“I set up with the Salinas Cartel. They had the product, the transshipment point, and the cost was right.” Holtz said defensively.
“You did a deal with those animals? Idiot! Did it occur to you that there might be a reason we haven’t dealt with them? Alright, where is the ship?”
“It’s in the harbor at Barbello. I thought moving to the source was prudent....”
“Stop! Let me get this straight. You took it on yourself to set up a new supply chain without clearing it through us. Then you set up a deal with the worst, most insane gang in the Western Hemisphere, bringing their shitstorm into our business. Finally, you sail our ship, with our scientist and his equipment, into the middle of their stronghold. Am I missing anything?”
“Um....”
“Never mind, that question was rhetorical. Where are you now?”
“L-La Ceiba. The La Paloma del Mar.”
“Good. At least you weren’t stupid enough to put yourself in their hands.”
“What should I tell them? When can we get them the money?”
“Are you insane? We aren’t paying them to screw with us! We’re going to cure this cancer before it gets out of hand. One week, you said?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Fine, if we bring everything else to a halt, we should be able to concentrate there in time.” The voice softened. “I need you to stay where you are and brief the team when they arrive. We’ll need your insights if we are going to unscrew this thing. Clear?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Fine. Out.” The phone call disconnected.
Anton, you are a dead man. His brain reeled briefly over the realization, and then his survival instinct awakened. Holtz was a despicable human working for one of the world’s most evil organizations, but he was a survivor. He quickly stuffed his cash, passports, and gun into the shoulder bag he carried for just such an occasion, leaving the satellite phone and his still turned-on cell phone behind under his underwear in the drawer. His only hope at this point was to convince his former associates that he was still lounging in the room while making his escape. Holtz didn’t know of any other 252 men in La Ceiba. Regardless, they had connections and would use them to close his case quickly.
He glanced at the closed bedroom door and paused for a second. Rosita was still asleep in the bed they had shared. She would suffer a very unpleasant death if they caught her. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have wasted a single thought on another human being, but Rosey was something special. He slammed open the door, shouting, “Get up!” The woman groaned and rolled over. “Get up if you want to live!”
Rosita’s eyes opened wide. “What?”
“Here are your wages,” He dropped a hundred euro note on the nightstand. “Grab your stuff and get out. Don’t follow me or try to contact me. Get out of this place and run!” He turned and ran out the door, tuning out her cries of “Anton!” Well, he had given her a chance. Hopefully, she had enough brains to use it. He eschewed the elevator and flew down the stairs to the exit.
Leaving the hotel, he merged into the sizeable crowds heading for the beach. Traffic was far heavier than usual in the Semana Santa, as the Holy Week was known here. Holtz worked his way through and picked up a cab. Once well clear of the hotel, he pulled out one of his burner phones and dialed his pilot.
“Yeah?”
“I need you at the plane now.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? There’s nothing scheduled today.”
“We need to leave now. I’ll tell you where we are going once we’re in the air.”
“Man, I can’t fly! I’m too hungover. Call me in six hours.”
“Look, asshole, if I don’t get out of here, they’ll kill me. While they’re at it, they will wring out of me the names of everyone I’ve associated with here, so they can run them down and clean up any loose ends. Get down here now if you want to live!”
“Shit! Alright, alright, I’ll be there in half an hour. Stay out of sight until I get there.”
“I’ll be watching.” Holtz hung up the phone and tossed it out the cab window. While he believed it would be almost impossible for his associates to trace him this soon, he took no chances. Holtz had the cab driver drop him at the bus station, where he picked up a second cab to the marina. While considering his situation, he strode to the seaplane slip and hid behind a storage building.
Fleeing La Ceiba provided temporary safety at best. Holtz knew his former employers would relentlessly track him down to eliminate any potential threat he posed. He had to find someone who could help fix this mess or give him the means to fade out of sight. If he could reach the Americans.... Holtz knew they were becoming troublesome—his boss had complained enough about them. Maybe he could work a deal with them, trading knowledge of the organization and the threat posed by Grankowsky’s gas for immunity, or at least a new identity and safety. The Americans were well known for that.
He tensed when a local police officer arrived and stood about fifty yards from his hiding place behind the building. Holtz flattened himself against the wall and drew the 9-mm pistol out of his shoulder bag before placing it aside. The officer was standing still and talking into his hand—Holtz couldn’t tell if it was into a radio or a mobile phone. Move along, son. Nothing to see here! He didn’t want to shoot a police officer. Not because he had any affection for the police or any other person. He just knew shooting a cop would only bring all hell down upon him and likely prevent his escape. He almost cried out with relief when the man pocketed his phone and walked off in the other direction. There were no other encounters before the pilot arrived.
“You better be right about this,” the bleary-eyed pilot grumbled. “If we run into any trouble, I’ll probably get us both killed.”
“If we don’t leave now, we’re both dead for sure. So, let’s go.”
“Okay, take in the aft mooring line and get in.” Holtz complied and climbed into the cockpit of the seaplane, a trim Lake Buccaneer. The pilot unhitched and stowed the forward line, then staved off the dock with an oar. The engine fired at once, and within three minutes, they were airborne, heading east.
“OK, now where the hell are we going?” the pilot asked.
“Can you make it to Grand Cayman and back without refueling?”
“Barely, but I won’t be flying into any airport without a flight plan.”
“Not a problem. You’ll be dropping me off at a secluded beach I know and return to La Ceiba with no one the wiser.”
“Fine. You realize there will be a significant surcharge for this premium service.”
Holtz smiled. “If we live through this flight, you’ll go back with double the usual rate.”
The pilot nodded. “That works for me.”
The three-hour flight was uneventful, almost boring, and the pilot made a reasonably smooth landing, given his condition, in the cove Holtz had directed. They pulled within fifty feet of the waterline, and Holtz grabbed his bags and hopped out to wade ashore. He did not look back as the plane turned around and made a hasty departure.
Holtz made his way to a nearby road, then over to one of the less-frequented public beaches, where he turned on another burner phone and called a cab. While waiting, he called American Airlines and booked a round-trip flight from George Town to Miami under an alias he had kept secret from the syndicate for just this sort of emergency. Not that Holtz intended ever to return here, but he knew a one-way booking would arouse suspicion. He had fabricated an entry stamp on the passport bearing his alias, which would hopefully escape scrutiny at George Town. Once the plane had taken off, Holtz would carefully remove the adhesive patch bearing the exit stamp and paste it into his genuine passport. He could not take a chance on using an alias coming through American customs, and even if the syndicate learned of his arrival through some leak, he would be long gone before they arrived at the airport.
After the cab dropped him off at the Owen Roberts International Airport terminal, Holtz went in and picked up the ticket, paying in cash. Then he hurried to a nearby pub to nurse a drink until he saw a crowd building up at the customs exit. Taking advantage of the hurried state of the agent, he breezed through with only a cursory glance at the entry stamp on his passport. So far, so good. An hour later, he was in the air, heading to Miami.
Holtz had no illusions that the entry into the United States would be as easy as his exit from Grand Cayman. He bought several of the mini bottles of gin during the drink service. They weren’t for fortification during the flight—he intended to rinse his mouth with it and sprinkle a bit on his clothing to complete the effect of the boozy tourist when he arrived. Holtz did not draw any added attention to his arrival; they just captured an entry photo while stamping his passport and moved him along.
Leaving the terminal, Holtz grabbed a cab for the cut-rate hotel he had booked using the flight’s Internet access, arriving just after nine p.m. local time. Only when he reached his room did Holtz relax. He had escaped to the temporary safety of the United States. He would present himself at the local FBI field office and work out a deal the following day.
*******************
Holtz was jarred awake by the crash of the chair and wastebasket he placed in front of the door. He could do nothing to stop the three hooded men wearing the night-vision goggles from entering the room, and he was seized immediately and shoved face-down into the bed.
As he felt the needle prick into his neck, his final thought was, Almost, almost! Then his vision and consciousness closed down.
Dragoș Creţu jammed the disconnect button on his desk phone, then swept the phone and most of the items on his large wooden desk off to the floor with a primal growl. His secretary came into the room at once. “Yes, sir?” she asked fearfully.
“Get out!” The secretary quickly fled and shut the door, leaving Creţu to his rage. “Damned paper-pushing imbecile!” He stood, walked over to the bar, poured himself two fingers of Stolichnaya Vodka, and gulped it down. The damned Salinas Cartel! If that fool Holtz had done scientific research, he could not have found a worse business partnering option! The syndicate had an unbelievably profitable opportunity with Gronkowsky’s product, now and in the future, and Holtz had pissed it away in one stroke.
He looked out the large windows of his office across Snagov Lake to the trees on the other side. As he felt the rage subsiding, he poured himself another portion of vodka and took a measured sip this time, pulling out a cell phone and selecting a saved number.
“Yes?”
“This is Creţu. I have a job for you.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Liquidate Holtz. He’s staying at the La Paloma del Mar Hotel in La Ceiba, Honduras.”
“Um, we don’t have anybody there, boss.”
“GET somebody there on the next flight! Or hire a local! I want him dealt with before he gets any bright ideas about cutting a deal with the police.”
“Yes, Boss!” The call hung up, and Creţu pocketed the phone.
“Angelika!” he bellowed.
Within three seconds, his secretary was back in the room, trying not to shake badly enough for it to be seen. “Yes, sir!”
Creţu’s face softened when he saw her fear. “I’m sorry for yelling. It’s been one of those days. Find Stefan and Grigore and get them up here at once.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said with palpable relief.
He liked Angelika. She was an efficient secretary and as pleasing to look at as she was in bed. He tried to keep his temper when she was around—it made things more comfortable after work. Ten minutes after summoning them, Creţu’s business and military operations chiefs were sitting with him at the table in his office.
“Where in the hell is Barbello?” Grigore asked.
“Off of Honduras in the Western Caribbean,” Creţu answered. “We obviously can’t let this go unanswered, and we need to know everything we can before we hit them. Get your people on it.”
“Putting together a rescue will take time.”
“We have seven days. Whatever it takes, we have to get that ship and Gronkowsky back. And when our men are done, I don’t want a single Salinas left alive on that island. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“What’s our personnel status?”
“Still recovering after the Florida deal and that cock-up in Cyprus. If you want to go within a week, we must strip men off other jobs.”
“I feared as much. Do it. As soon as you figure out your personnel needs, see Stefan here to arrange it.” He turned to the other man. “Before you say anything, we must recover that boat before the Salinas animals learn what they have. And they will learn it, believe me, as soon as they start working on those eggheads. We have less than a week. Get moving.”
“Yes, Boss,” they both said as they got up from the table and left the room.
Creţu stood and walked back to the bar for another vodka. He was drinking too much these days, he knew. It was not only bad for business; it was personally dangerous. If word got out that he was a drunk, the other senior council members would green-light his elimination, and then who would sit in this office? Probably Grigore. Stefan was the better manager and more profitable. But Grigore had an edge in terms of cold ruthlessness.
Creţu was a former junior thug in the Internal Security Directorate of the Securitate, as the Romanian secret police were known in the days of the Communist Dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu. Before they were disbanded a few days after Ceaușescu’s death, the Securitate was one of the most brutal secret police forces in the world, and the Internal Security agents were the most vicious of the lot. After the collapse of the Soviet Union and its communist satellites in Eastern Europe, many secret police murderers had to flee for their lives. Some less widely known ones could carve a niche in the underworld that sprang into place as the totalitarian governments collapsed. A select few joined into crime syndicates that soon exerted influence over broad geographic areas and segments of individual economies.
The 252s had a central committee of the founders, of which Creţu was one, each holding an underworld fiefdom controlling the syndicate’s activities in a particular geographic area. In Creţu’s case, this was Romania, Moldova, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, and Albania. With profits shared centrally, each fief holder was free to work outside his territory, even within another’s territory, using an “Eat What You Kill” business model. They were almost invulnerable within their domains, working mostly below the local government radar when possible and readily applying bribery, intimidation, and murder to stay free to operate otherwise.
The deal with La Cantaña was a remarkably profitable enterprise—very high income, at almost no risk. That it was run efficiently by a former low-level Stasi clerk like Holtz was amazing. Holtz was a plodder who thought he was James Bond, almost laughable among the organization people who knew him. Creţu chided himself. You were complacent. He was operating out of his depth, and you should have put one of our more intelligent people with him. Too late now. He shook his head and took another drink.
