MANZANILLO, COLIMA, MEXICO
General Ramón Velásquez rushed through the opulent living room and walked to the large floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the entire length of the rear of his seven-thousand-square-foot oceanfront villa. He opened the doors and stepped onto the massive terrace facing the Pacific Ocean. Built to his specifications, the property was positioned to maximize the spectacular view of the ocean. The sun was bright and strong, with not a cloud in the sky, but the gentle breeze coming off the water made for a perfect temperature. Major General Belousov, wearing a pair of long khaki trousers and a white short-sleeve shirt that accentuated his thickly veined, muscular arms, was leaning against the glass railing. He glanced over his shoulder, gave Velásquez a polite nod, and resumed staring at the open sea.
Velásquez was far from being a choirboy. He’d committed his fair share of atrocities, but he had never willingly hurt women and children. Had there been incidents in which some of them had died? Of course. A few occasions, here and there. But only as collateral damage. Never because they were specifically targeted.
That alone differentiated him from men like Belousov. Belousov was a savage who had never made any distinction between enemy combatants and civilians. A few weeks after the beginning of the invasion of Ukraine, Major General Igor Belousov, then a colonel with the Spetsnaz GRU, had ordered the destruction of a pediatric hospital. More than fifty children had perished that day. Belousov was a war criminal.
Velásquez felt dirty just being in the Russian general’s vicinity, but the cold, sad truth was that he needed him. In order for Proyecto de la Verdad to succeed, he needed access to Belousov’s Unit 74455. Contrary to the other special program Belousov commanded, Unit 29155, which specialized in diversionary operations and occasionally dipped its toes in the assassination business when it fitted its needs, Unit 74455 was an elite cyberwarfare program that employed the Russian military’s best mathematical minds. Without Unit 74455, Proyecto de la Verdad would grind to a halt. The cartels, as rich as they were, simply didn’t have the expertise to launch a complex campaign of disinformation across the United States the way the Russians could. The Russians were simply the best. No one could even come close when it came to destabilizing a country by spreading misleading information.
Velásquez had watched with interest—and quite a bit of admiration—the significant effects of Unit 74455’s multi-pronged operations in the United States over the last decade. It had been a thing of beauty. Velásquez honestly believed that if they had kept at it instead of switching their focus to Ukraine, Russian intelligence could have set the United States back an entire generation. Within only a few years, Unit 74455 had successfully divided American society more than any conventional war could ever have.
The cartels had loved it, too. While the Americans fought among themselves, they weren’t paying much attention to what was going on south of their border with Mexico. When they had finally realized that the cartels had swept into practically all spheres of their society and had started to wield their influence, the Americans had fought back—as if their survival depended on it.
Velásquez knew that it did. And, unfortunately, so had the president of the United States.
In a bold, provocative move meant to appease the citizenry, the American president had publicly declared his intention of designating the cartels as foreign terrorist organizations by year’s end—establishing the base for future US military interventions in Mexico. The cartels had pushed back hard, forcing the politicians they controlled at home and abroad—and there were many of them—to tell their American counterparts that moving ahead with the president’s strategy would put an immediate end to the newly signed US–Mexico security agreements and economic cooperation deals.
But this time, it hadn’t worked. To the cartels’ horror, the American president hadn’t backed down.
During his years as Mexico’s secretary of defense, Velásquez had gained the trust of the cartels by making sure that as long as they remained in their lanes and kept civilian casualties to a minimum, the Mexican government wouldn’t interfere with their activities. He had never broken his word, and, under his six-year tenure, the cartels had continued to flourish. By charging one-fifth of a percent from the net income of each cartel for his pacifying services, Velásquez had become extremely wealthy. And with the cartel’s protection, he had become untouchable.
By wielding the specter of military operations in Mexico, the Americans weren’t only threatening the cartels, they were also coming after Velásquez’s income and security. That was when he had reached out to Igor Belousov, who, after being flown in a private jet to Velásquez’s mansion in Manzanillo and treated to all the best things in life for a couple of days, had been more than receptive to Velásquez’s proposition.
Velásquez, using his influence, had invited the heads of all the important cartels to his house for a two-day convention to propose Proyecto de la Verdad. Present at this meeting was General Belousov.
When asked by the head of the Sinaloa Cartel how Proyecto de la Verdad could force the American president to abandon his idea to designate them foreign terrorist organizations when all other previous efforts had failed, Velásquez had said, “We will destroy their will from within, my dear friend. We will plant the seeds of doubt deep into their mind, and they won’t even know we have done it. Slowly, but surely, we will convince them of the disastrous effect such a designation would have on their society. We will also display for everyone to see the terrible repercussions this would have on poor, regular, hardworking Mexicans. And believe me when I say this, the American public doesn’t have the stomach for it. They will be the ones who will convince their representatives to fight against the president’s proposal.”
“How, Ramón?” the head of Los Zetas had growled. “Stop with your political speeches! You haven’t explained to us what you’re planning to do. The majority of Americans aren’t as dumb as we used to think. They have a tendency to gel together when confronted with a common enemy. And right now, that enemy is us. That needs to change!”
“I’m not disputing that, but I will tell you how we can weaken their will to fight us. But first, let me remind you that we are at important crossroads, gentlemen,” Velásquez had said. “What we decide today at this table will drive us into the future. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, and, although I believe you will all agree with me on the path we must take, the last thing I want to do is to force upon you a decision you don’t want to make. With that in mind, here’s how we can come out of this stronger than ever.”
At its core, Proyecto de la Verdad was a group effort. Every cartel signing on to the operation would have to provide Velásquez ten sicarios and pay an initial fee of fifty million in United States dollars, a weighty sum for sure, but not overly expensive considering the billions of dollars each cartel was bringing in every year. Velásquez would keep a hefty fee for his trouble, which he was smart enough to disclose from the get-go. Fifteen million dollars. The rest would be used to pay the salaries of the men he had requested, and the substantial amount General Belousov demanded for his services.
Challenged about the one hundred million Belousov had requested up front, Velásquez had given the floor to the Russian general, who had seemed completely oblivious to the danger he was in. Velásquez had known that if Belousov failed to convince the cartels, chances were he’d never return to Moscow. At least not in one piece. But Belousov had handled himself well. More than well, in fact.
Truth was, Igor Belousov was a force to be reckoned with. The cartels’ leaders had quickly understood that. Belousov, although polite and respectful, was no pushover. He had clearly explained his strategy and had done so in flawless Spanish.
The cyberattack would unfold in multiple stages. It would begin with Unit 74455 infiltrating an audience, then influencing it by using kompromat obtained by Unit 29155 to drive narratives against American politicians supporting the US president. These steps would be controlled by Belousov and administered through a combination of media actors, including Mind-U, which was quickly gaining popularity in the United States. The operation would be backed twenty-four hours a day by troll factories and hackers based in Moscow.
“This kind of attack works because we seek to form an early narrative and we repeat it using a wide range of outlets,” Belousov had explained. “My top software engineers have told me they’ve detected a structural vulnerability they could exploit on the Mind-U platform. We’re presently working on acquiring the necessary codes to begin our exploit.”
“I assume you’ve been working on this vulnerability for a while, haven’t you, General Belousov?” a cartel boss had asked.
“We have. This exploit would allow us to control the algorithms of most of Mind-U’s apps. In order not to tip our hand, the changes would be subtle at first, but, over time, it could be a game changer.”
“And you would be willing to share all of this with us?”
“For the fee mentioned by Ramón, I would.”
“And you’re confident this will work?”
“Based on the results of similar operations we ran in the recent past, I know it will,” the general had replied. “You have to understand that once we’ve decided on a narrative for the target audience, it gets repeated and echoed through different traditional actors and also on social media. That gives it an appearance of truth. Since all they see is multiple news and social media sources with different perspectives reaching the same conclusion, how can they fight back? The average American social media user is simply overwhelmed with the sheer amount of repetition.”
Velásquez had promised the cartels that with this kind of relentless multichannel propaganda machine, Belousov’s team would be able to pump out a tremendous amount of damaging information in a very short period. The meeting had lasted more than eight hours, but, in the end, the cartels had bought into Velásquez’s Proyecto de la Verdad.
But with that newfound power also came responsibilities. And accountability. Until today, Proyecto Verdad had gone according to plan. The loss of Berganza’s team was an important, if not fatal, setback. Velásquez understood he couldn’t afford too many of those. The alliance between the cartels was a fragile thing. To preserve that cooperation, Velásquez would have to show the cartels positive results soon.
Velásquez eyed the two naked girls lounging on the sun bed, sipping champagne. Their warm, inviting smiles morphed into a stoic expression as they deciphered his mood. He put them off with a wave of his hand. They pushed off the sun bed and hurried past him, disappearing into the mansion, but without forgetting to sway their hips while doing so.
At his request, lunch was laid out on the long wooden table, which was surrounded by stone pots planted with cascading flowers. A selection of grilled meats, pastas, and salads was presented family-style. A bottle of premium vodka sat next to a wine decanter filled with an exquisite pinot noir, but the news Velásquez had just received from Francisco Abalos had ruined his appetite and put him in an irritable temper.
He joined Belousov at the railing.
“Thank you for organizing that fishing expedition this morning, Ramón,” Belousov said. “I’d never caught a sailfish—”
“I don’t care about your fishing expedition, Igor!” Velásquez spat, his hands tightening on the railing. “I’ve lost eight good men in the last twenty-four hours.”
Belousov’s head jerked in his direction. “How?”
“I don’t have the details, but Abalos told me his brother Thiago was killed, too.”
“By the two Americans? Donovan Wade and the female FBI agent?” the Russian general asked. “Eight, well nine, isn’t it now? Nine of your men against two lousy Americans? And you manage to lose them all without inflicting a single enemy casualty?”
Velásquez’s blood was beginning to boil. He didn’t appreciate Belousov’s condescending tone.
“Is there something you haven’t told me about the CIA officer?” Velásquez asked, because he, too, had a hard time believing two American federal agents could have taken out Gustavo Berganza’s entire team.
“Why would I keep anything from you, Ramón?” Belousov asked, making it look like he was deeply offended by Velásquez’s question. “All I know about Donovan Wade, you know, too. I have nothing else to share with you about him. But tell me about the reporter. Lucas Miller, is he dead?”
Unhappy with the way Belousov had brushed off his question about the American spy, Velásquez considered pushing back. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that the Russian general hadn’t being totally truthful. In the end, though, he let it slide. He had a favor to ask Belousov and needed the Russian to be receptive to his request.
“Abalos did his job, and he took care of Miller’s doctor, too,” Velásquez said.
Belousov crossed his arms over his chest. “That means the Americans are on their way to Skopje,” he said.
“I assume they are. We’ll know if they make contact with our man,” Velásquez said. “But I’ll need you to send a team to assist Abalos.”
Belousov nodded. “Major Krupin is recuperating well and should be able to travel very soon,” he said. “She made it clear she would love to have another crack at the Americans.”
Velásquez resisted the urge to remind Belousov that if Krupin and the SVR operatives in Cairo had done what Belousov had promised him they would, Velásquez wouldn’t be short eight men and Abalos’s brother would still be alive.
Though, in the back of his mind, Velásquez wasn’t sure that Thiago’s death was such a bad thing. Abalos wasn’t one to forget and forgive easily. There wasn’t a thing Abalos wouldn’t do to avenge his brother. That was fine with Velásquez. In normal times, Abalos was a terrific operator—Velásquez’s top operative in Europe—but now he would be driven by the most powerful source of motivation known to man.
Revenge.
“Major Krupin proved herself quite useful as a spy,” Velásquez said, using as much diplomacy as he could muster, “but I’d be more comfortable if you were to send . . . real killers to Skopje.”
“I do have a GRU Spetsnaz detachment available,” Belousov replied. “The same that took care of Steven Cooper’s family in Texas. Most of them have already left the United States and are on their way back to Russia.”
“Could they be diverted to North Macedonia?” Velásquez asked.
“I could have the entire eight-man team in Skopje within the next twelve hours, ready to go. If I was to give them the order, that is.”
A small electric shock passed through Velásquez’s body. He cocked his head to one side and slowly turned to face the Russian general, hoping he was wrong and that Belousov hadn’t just passive-aggressively threatened not to send the Spetsnaz team to Skopje.
Unfortunately, the expression of arrogance on Belousov’s face was on full display.
The bastard isn’t even trying to hide it.
“A highly trained Spetsnaz detachment with recent combat experience and a proven track record is a rare commodity nowadays,” Belousov explained, his voice way too patronizing for Velásquez’s taste. “An additional twenty percent on top of the original agreed-upon fee would go a long way toward convincing me to release such a team of . . . real killers, yes?”
Taking a deep breath, Velásquez willed himself to relax. He had ordered men killed for much less. At the moment, though, slicing off the general’s body parts and putting them in a grinder wasn’t an option, so there was no point losing his temper. It would only further empower Belousov.
It was no secret that the economic sanctions imposed by the Western powers against the Russian Federation had pushed Russia to the brink of collapse. The ruble was now worth less than a penny, and the purchasing power of ordinary Russians had eroded sharply. Even high-ranking officials like General Belousov—who were usually immune to such unpleasantness—were feeling the weight of the sanctions. Despite all of this, and the fact that Russia was once again about to default on an interest payment on its foreign debt, Russian intelligence still remained a force to be reckoned with, particularly Unit 29155 and Unit 74455, and with both of them answering to General Belousov, Velásquez had to tread with caution.
He had to remember that his own neck was on the line, too. The cartel leaders expected results.
“I’m curious, Igor. What makes you think you’re in position to make any demands? I thought we were partners. Have I missed something?”
Belousov straightened himself. He was tall, and a rather physically imposing man. His dark eyes, filled with barely contained anger, were set on Velásquez.
“Don’t take me for a fool. I know what I’m worth. I know what I’m bringing to the table. If you could accomplish your objective without me, you would have.”
“I think you greatly overestimate your value,” Velásquez said.
“Is that so? In that case, the price is now fifty percent more, not twenty.”
Velásquez felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re fucking suicidal, Igor,” he hissed. “If you think—”
Belousov’s right jab to Velásquez stomach came fast and furious and drove the air out of him. Velásquez didn’t have time to fill his lungs before the Russian’s hands wrapped around his neck in a viselike grip. Belousov’s fingers squeezed, digging deeper into his neck.
I can’t breathe!
Velásquez desperately tried to break free of the grip, but he just couldn’t loosen the hold. The edge of his vision began to fade. Then, as if he were being dragged like a puppet, he felt himself being pulled closer to Belousov. The Russian weakened his grip, but only enough to allow a limited quantity of oxygen through.
Belousov was in perfect control. Clearly, he had done this before.
“Listen to me, you little fuck,” the Russian said in Spanish, his lips touching Velásquez earlobe. “You might have the upper hand now while my country’s economy is getting rebuilt, but Russia isn’t as broken as you think it is. Do not underestimate me, and do not underestimate the will of my president. The only reason I’m here, doing business with you, is because he agreed to it, and you’ve been paying on time. You want my Spetsnaz team to perform work outside of our original agreement? Fine. I will provide this team to you, but at a fee.”
In his anger, Belousov had once again tightened his hold on Velásquez’s throat, blocking his oxygen intake. Velásquez’s legs were like two strands of cooked spaghetti.
“If it was up to me, I’d knock you out right now, place my thumbs in your eyes, and squeeze your head until I split your skull like a melon. Then I’d throw your overweight and disgusting body over the railing and watch you crash into the rocks one hundred feet below. But it’s your lucky day. I—”
Then a shot rang out. Then another. For a moment, Velásquez felt himself falling, and he wondered if Belousov had changed his mind and thrown him over the protective glass railing of the terrace, but his head hit the ground almost immediately and he realized that the Russian had simply released his hold.
Velásquez heard someone yelling behind him. It sounded like a woman. He squinted, trying to see, but his vision was blurry. He tried to get up but managed only to get to his knees.
Then his vision cleared, and he looked in horror as General Igor Belousov hurled a naked woman over the railing. There was a scream, similar to the one he had heard seconds ago.
Dios mío! He’s thrown both of them over the railing and into the sea!
Armed men belonging to Velásquez alerted by the women’s screams, rushed to the terrace, rifles up, pointed at Belousov, who was slowly raising his hands. But they didn’t shoot. Belousov was unarmed. A pistol lay at his feet. That was when Velásquez saw that Belousov had been shot in the left arm. A bullet had gone through his bicep, just above the elbow.
“Patrón?” one of his men asked.
Slowly, carefully, Velásquez stood up, not convinced his legs would support him. But they did.
He looked at Belousov, not sure what to say. But Belousov, surrounded by armed men, with blood snaking down his arm from a bullet wound, surprised him again.
“You have two options, Ramón. The first is instant gratification. You can kill me now. Easy, yes, but you’ll die before the week is over. That I can guarantee. Your second option is to order your men to stand down, so that we can continue our business. But hear this, the price is now double the very first amount we had agreed upon, and it needs to be paid immediately. It’s your choice. I don’t care either way.”
“Patrón?” his man asked again.
Velásquez tried to swallow but couldn’t. His throat was raw, and his neck hurt like hell, but he fought back the impulse to touch it. He stared into Belousov’s icy blue eyes. The Russian didn’t flinch, although a cold, calculated smile appeared on his lips.
Velásquez gestured to his men to lower their weapons. “That’s fine. You can go,” he said to them. “Ask the doctor to join us so that he can attend to the general’s wound.”
“And my money, General. Don’t forget my money,” Belousov said, bringing down his hands.
Velásquez pursed his lips, not sure how he was going to justify the expense to the cartels’ bosses. But this was a problem for another day. Today’s objective—apart from staying alive—was to ensure the two Americans wouldn’t gain access to the notes Lucas Miller had left behind. Failure to do that could jeopardize the entire operation. So far, the cartels had given him free rein on how to run Proyecto de la Verdad. But what the cartels gave, they could take back. With interest.
“Get my laptop and bring it to me,” Velásquez barked to the sicario still standing next to him. “Now!”
The man scurried back inside.
Velásquez walked to the dining table and pulled out a chair, signaling Belousov to do the same. “Let’s eat.”