Inside Out (23 page)

“Time to get in position,” he said. “We might have a long wait.”

Larison flew into Limón airport, on the Carribean coast, and at a shop nearby rented a motorcycle—a Kawasaki KX250F dirt bike. A little smaller than he would have liked for the drive to Los Yoses, but perfect for dodging traffic and jumping curbs and avoiding potholes once he was inside the city. It was an older version of the same bike Nico kept at his condo, which Larison used to get around the city while he was in town and Nico was at work. Obviously, he couldn’t access Nico’s bike now, but this one would more than do. Especially with the flip-up helmet, which nicely concealed his face.

The ride in took less than three hours. In a park at San Pedro, just east of Los Yoses, he stopped, his shirt soaked with sweat, his skin covered with a fine coating of road grit. He removed his helmet and wiped his face with a sleeve. It was getting near dusk and
he had to hurry now. He knew the terrain but the opposition would have better tools, including night vision gear, and he didn’t want to cede a single unnecessary advantage.

There was an outhouse in the park that was serviced less frequently than good hygiene might be thought to require. So it was very unlikely anyone would have been inclined to squeeze underneath the structure, the back of which was raised on wooden stilts about a foot off the dirt, and grope in the dark miasma along the beams supporting the floor. As Larison did now. It took him only a moment to retrieve his stash and squirm back out—a moment short enough, in fact, to enable him to hold his breath during the entire excursion, which was the best way to get in and out of the passage in question without vomiting en route. In Larison’s experience, a good hide always provided disincentives for casual exploration, outhouses therefore often providing prime possibilities.

Outside, he looked around to confirm he was unobserved, then unwrapped the package he had retrieved. Inside was an HK USP Compact Tactical, known in the community as the CT, for counterterrorism, plus spare magazines and VBR-B .45 armor-piercing ammunition. The gun was small, powerful, accurate, and durable as hell. Perfect for storing under outhouses like this one and of course in backup locations, as well, and perfect, too, for causing extreme mayhem after retrieving it.

He loaded up three magazines from the package, popped one into the gun, racked the slide, and placed everything into the fanny pack he was wearing under his shirt, the contents riding just below his belly. He left the top open. He took the other items from the package—currency, false identification, an Emerson Super Commander folding knife—and pocketed all of it. Good to go. Just one more thing.

There was a variety of synthetic opioids used for snatches. The most popular was called sufentanil, and it was about ten times more potent than its analogue, fentanyl, which the Russians had aerosolized and used in the 2002 Moscow theater hostage crisis. Typically, the drug would be delivered via an air-rifle-fired dart,
with a medical team standing by to immediately administer first aid, including breathing assistance and opioid antagonists, as soon as the target dropped. Teams tended to err on the side of too large a dose for fast action, which meant swift application of the antidote was critical.

But the medics wouldn’t have to worry about Larison. Since he’d set this thing in motion, he’d been orally self-administering naltrexone, another opioid antagonist, used for detoxifying heroin addicts. The only side effect was anxiety and some enhanced receptivity to pain, because opioid antagonists blocked the action of endorphins, the brain’s natural opiates. A small price to pay, under the circumstances.

The naltrexone would probably have been sufficient, but if they hit him with a big enough dose of tranquilizer, maybe not. Better not to take a chance. He opened his backpack, unwrapped a syringe from the medical kit inside it, measured off a dose of naloxone—a related antagonist, used for heroin overdoses and, not coincidentally, post-tranquilizer snatch-victim revivals—and injected it intramuscularly into his thigh, grimacing from the naltrexone-enhanced pain. He tossed away the syringe, blew out a long breath, and pulled his helmet back onto his sweat-slicked head.

He’d already gamed the whole thing out, but he went through the plan again one more time anyway. If they had the manpower, they’d cover both Nico’s condominium and his office. The condo was on a residential through street. Lots of parking on both sides of the street, plenty of places to set up. But they wouldn’t know which direction Larison would be moving in from, so they’d need a spotter at each end of the street or, ideally, two spotters on each end to reduce the chances of a sentry getting taken out and exposing the primary team to a surprise attack. The primary team would be three men: one with flex-cuffs, one with a hood, one with a gun. So that was seven possibles at the condo.

The office was on a cul-de-sac, so they’d only have to cover one end of the street. That meant a probable maximum of five men.

If they had the manpower, they’d field full teams at both locations. If they could only cover one … it was impossible to know for sure, but he guessed the condo. They’d see the construction site on the lot across the street and figure he would use it for an unexpected approach. And in fact, he was tempted to do so. He was reasonably confident that with his superior skills, and knowing the terrain as he did, he would spot the opposition before it spotted him. But he had a better idea. Something a little less predictable, and therefore substantially more lethal.

He was mildly concerned that in the midst of the coming mayhem he could actually run into Nico. But he recognized this was mostly just superstition. He’d have his helmet on for most of the op. The chances of Nico being right there on the street for any of it were slim.

He rode the Kawasaki over to Nico’s street, the late afternoon air blowing inside his shirt and cooling his wet skin, the buzz of the bike’s engine loud in his ears. His heart was beating hard, but his mind was calm, clear, and purposeful. It was the way he always felt in the instant before an op went critical, like a well-oiled killing machine inside had taken the wheel and he was just along for the ride.

He turned onto the street and immediately spotted a white van at the entrance—the sentries. His heart kicked harder. They were here. It was on.

He rode up the street, the 250 cc engine buzzing, knowing the sentries would have already alerted the primary team. They couldn’t have recognized him through the helmet, but a heads-up would be SOP. The primary team would move in for a closer look. Larison would give them one.

He parked the bike between two cars and killed the engine. He swung his leg over the side and engaged the kickstand. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then he removed the helmet, set it on the seat, and started walking toward the entrance of the condo. His face twisted into a smile and he thought,
Come out, come out, wherever you are, motherfuckers
.

Ben and Paula watched the motorcyclist pull up and park not ten yards from the entrance to Nico’s condominium. They were in the van on the other side of the street, about twenty-five yards away, on the crest of a slight slope in the street. Any farther and they would have lost line of sight to the entrance.

“That’s him,” Ben said, watching the guy kill the engine.

“You’re sure?” Paula said.

Ben nodded. He couldn’t have explained how he knew, but he knew. Larison had decided not to come up through the construction site. Smart. He must have realized the route would be too foreseeable, and Ben mentally kicked himself for earlier assuming Larison would do the predictable unpredictable thing. But others, it seemed, had made the same mistake Ben made, and were now committed to it. Three hours earlier, Ben and Paula had watched
through the one-way glass at the back of the van as various hard-looking foreigners cased the street by ones and twos. None of them had set up in front of the condo entrance, which suggested to Ben they’d decided Larison was going to approach through the construction site and were waiting for him there. Larison, it seemed, was one step ahead of them.

But why the street? The sentries would have made him instantly, and even if they weren’t sure it was Larison they were seeing through the visor of the helmet, they would have alerted the primary team to be safe. Larison had lost the element of surprise.

So what surprise was he planning?

The motorcyclist got off the bike and removed the helmet as though he had all the time in the world. He set it down on the bike’s seat, ran his fingers through his wet hair, and dried his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, my God,” Paula said. “You were right.”

Ben moved from one side of the van to the other, looking through the one-way glass. He didn’t see anyone approaching yet, but they would be. Any second.

“What the hell’s he doing?” he said.

Larison stood a few yards down from the entrance to Nico’s condo, facing the building. His eyes were open but he wasn’t focusing on their input. All his concentration was focused through his ears. He tuned out the birds and the insects, the sounds of distant traffic. It was stealth he was listening for. And he would hear it soon enough.

He turned and walked slowly toward the entrance. He knew he wouldn’t reach it.

He didn’t. He heard the soft pop of a CO
₂
cartridge from somewhere behind him. At the same instant there was a slap/sting sensation on the right side of his neck. His hand flew to the spot, found the dart, and ripped it away despite the barbed tip. It was already too late, of course; the dart had a small explosive charge that had instantly pumped the tranquilizer into him upon impact. Ripping
it out was useless. But it’s what Larison had seen countless rendition targets do before, and it was important that he mimic them precisely now.

He wobbled, then dropped to one knee, leaning forward, the way tranquilized targets always did, his right hand already inside the fanny pack. He closed his eyes and
listened
.

Three sets of footsteps, approaching fast: two from the flanks, one directly behind. The ones to the flanks would have flex-cuffs and a hood. The one in the middle would have a gun out to provide cover.

The sounds of the footsteps changed as they went from gravel to sidewalk, then to the street. Twenty-five feet. Twenty. Fifteen.

In a single motion, he stood, spun, and brought up the HK in a two-handed grip. The guy in the middle had just enough time to widen his eyes before Larison blew the top of his head off. He tracked left—
bam!
Tracked right—bam! Three down, all head shots.

He heard a car coming fast from his right. He moved between two parked cars and confirmed it was the white van he’d seen parked at the end of the street when he came in. He waited until it was forty feet away, then stepped out into the road, brought up the HK, and put a round through the windshield into the driver’s face. The van swerved wildly and slammed into a parked car ten feet from Larison’s position on the other side of the street. Larison crossed over, moved past the van, and approached it from behind on the passenger side, the HK up at chin level. A dazed-looking operator covered in his partner’s blood and brain matter was struggling with the door, which must have been jammed. He saw Larison and tried to bring up a gun, but the angle was all wrong and the timing useless. Larison shot him in the head.

He walked quickly across the street, mounted the Kawasaki, fired it up, pulled on the helmet, and raced down the street toward where he knew the other sentries would be. Even if the first set hadn’t contacted them already, they would have heard the gunshots, would have known something had gone badly wrong. They’d be trying to raise their comrades on cellphones right now.
He noted another van, a green one, on his right as he rode, but it was in the wrong position to have been of any use operationally and he judged it just a civilian coincidence.

There it was, at the end of the street, another white van, parked on the right, facing away from him. He scanned the other parked cars and potential hot spots to ensure he wasn’t missing anything. He wasn’t. The van was the target.

He gunned the engine so they would hear him coming, then swerved between two parked cars, jumped the curb, and raced up the sidewalk to the passenger side of the van. He saw the passenger’s reflection in the sideview. The man had heard the whine of the Kawasaki’s engine and naturally assumed Larison was coming up the street, not the sidewalk. So, sadly for him, he was now facing the wrong way.

Larison pulled up to the window. The guy’s ears must have had just enough time to send an urgent corrective message to his brain—
threat on right, not on left
—because his head started to turn in the instant before Larison put an armor-piercing round into the back of it.

The driver was amazingly quick. In the moment during which Larison was focused on his partner, he managed to open the door and jump out onto the street. Larison stepped back, judged the angle, and fired twice through the van. He heard a cry from the other side and circled carefully around the front. The guy was splayed out on his back in a growing pool of blood, a gun on the ground beside him, his legs kicking feebly as though to propel him from the scene of his own destruction. Larison checked his flanks—
clear
—stepped out from behind the cover of the van’s engine block, and approached him, the HK up.

“Please,” the guy whispered. “Please.”

Larison smiled and shot him in the face.

He went back to the bike, reloaded, and roared off.

Seven down
, he thought.
Five to go
.

He wished there were more.

The whole thing happened so fast that Ben didn’t have time to figure out what to do. In the space of a half minute, he watched Larison appear, drop five men, and disappear again. Ben could have gotten out of the van after the first three and engaged Larison from behind, but his orders were strictly to observe, and besides, the point, if anything, was to snatch Larison, not to kill him. Still, it was appalling to have to be a spectator to so much killing, to be helpless to do anything about it.