The Powers That Be. Cliff Ryder
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replied. “Jonas, let’s conference about setting up your identity after this.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Kate said. “Denny, please contact Marcus and offer my apologies, but I’m afraid we’ll need him to be ready to go in the next twelve hours. After this, however, he’ll receive the mandatory month off—he has my word. Jonas, looks like we’ll be seeing you stateside soon.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Any other questions?” Kate asked.
“Just one more, if I may?” Jonas leaned forward. “The double agent on site—I assume it is the same one that we turned in Spain?”
“Correct. Is there anything else?” Kate rose from the table. “That’s all, people. Let’s get to work.”
Jonas cut the connection and slipped off the glasses, wincing at the slight headache they always gave him. He stared at the frozen Marine on the computer screen in front of him and, with a sigh, saved his progress on the program and turned it off.
He envied that young agent who would be heading to Cuba, for a moment even wishing he could take his place. And what do you think you would do then, old man? Charge over there and invade Cuba yourself? Maybe you should just let the past remain as the past and not go chasing old ghosts.
Jonas walked to the steel-and-glass bar on the other side of his living room and poured himself a drink—Maker’s Mark bourbon, his first and last of the day. As he swallowed the fiery liquid, he considered the real reasons for going over there.
I do have the knowledge and it’s extremely unlikely that any of the players would make me for anything other than who I’ll pretend to be. And even Denny said it was a good idea to keep an eye on this young agent, he told himself.
But as he drained the glass, he ignored the voice in the back of his mind that was quietly telling him it was all bullshit—that the reason he was putting himself in harm’s way again was entirely personal.
His cell phone chimed again, and Jonas looked at it for a moment, then shook off his doubts and got down to business. “Hello, Denny…Yes, it will be good to get back into the field again.”
5
With a huge yawn, Marcus Ruiz opened his eyes and reveled in the sensations all around him—a real bed and clean sheets, the aroma of frying ham and toasting bread from the kitchen below, the feel of his hair without weeks of sweat, oil and grease in it. Marcus rolled over and basked in the bright sunshine streaming in through the windows, one thought on his mind.
It’s good to be home.
After delivering Terry to his superiors for interrogation, Marcus hadn’t wasted a moment getting out of Montana on the first available flight to Florida. Along the way, he had been debriefed by Denny Talbot, and had taken some heat over the destruction of the warehouse and the meth lab evidence. Marcus had defended his work, saying, “Hey, it was six on one, and I still managed to get the guy out in one piece. Now, if you had told me you wanted the place intact, well, I would have done what I could, but you guys said get the link to Asia, which I did—alive—which I also did. Sorry if the locals are stuck sifting ashes. If they wanted to build a case against the Death Angels, someone should have told me. And by the way, the best news I can deliver is that gang won’t be pushing crystal meth on anyone for a long, long time.”
Denny had said that he would have to take up the mission’s parameters with his superiors, and Marcus had replied that he had to do what he had to do, but, “If there’s nothing else you need from me right now, I’m heading home.” Denny had assured him that he’d certainly earned some downtime and told him to enjoy it.
And now, twenty-two hours and three flight changes later, he was relaxing in his parents’ house in Little Havana, his rumbling stomach telling him it was time for some real food for a change. Not like the junk or fast food eaten on the run—when the gang had eaten at all. Marcus suspected he had lost about twelve pounds running with the meth-snorting Angels over the past eight weeks. Time to put some of that back on, he thought with a grin, rolling out of bed and heading for the shower. He had taken one when he had gotten in late last night, but wanted another, just to enjoy it.
Seven minutes later—his Army training still in full effect—dressed in loose cotton pants and a two-pocket guayabera shirt, Marcus ambled downstairs just in time to see his two younger brothers, wrestling in the living room, about to crash into the coffee table.
“¡Párese!” Without waiting to see if they would heed his command to stop, Marcus leaped forward to intercept the twins before they damaged themselves or the furniture. “¡Venga en! Mother has breakfast waiting.”
The trio trooped into the kitchen. The cheerful room was painted bright yellow with a pattern of blue-and-green curls decorating the walls. Marcus gazed around at the kitchen he had grown up in and where his parents were now raising another generation. They had planned on only having Marcus, but had been surprised with the twins a dozen years ago. Marcus suspected his father, Reynaldo, had secretly been pleased at his virility, as he doted on the boys, often mentioning his plans for them to join the family business.
Their mother, Maria, scolded them, her tone teasing as she delivered the piping-hot, traditional breakfast she always served when Marcus was home—tostadas, coquetas, rolls of ground pork and ham dipped in egg batter and fried until golden-brown and strong, sweet café con leche.
Marcus had two helpings of everything, then tipped his chair back and stifled a belch. “Gracias, Mama.” Even though he had his own apartment in the neighborhood, Marcus loved his family and always tried to spend as much time with them as possible, especially after a mission.
“Marcus, will you take us to the movies this afternoon?” Esteban pleaded. He was fascinated with the cinema, and was already making films in the backyard, intending to be the next Steven Spielberg or James Cameron.
His twin brother, Ismael, glared at him. “No, he doesn’t want to stay cooped up all day. We should go to the marina, see the speedboat exhibition.” A budding speedboat racer, he was as addicted to ESPN and other boating channels as his brother was to film. He could recite statistics on famous powerboat pilots, either current or past champions, with ease.
“All right, that’s enough from both of you.” Maria silenced the chattering boys with a raised finger. “Marcus has just gotten here. It’s not right for you to demand such things from him like this.”
“It’s all right, Mama, but I wanted to talk to Papa first.” Seeing her turn back to the sink, he waved at the boys to head outside and play. Clearing the table, he brought the stack of dishes to her. “How is the store doing?” His father ran the same neighborhood grocery store that he had founded when they had first arrived in America. Marcus had been born three months afterward, making him the first Ruiz to be a natural-born citizen.
“It seems all right, although he says that the big box stores keep cutting into his business and taking his workers, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to stay open if this continues.” She turned to face him. “I’ve told him that he needs to talk to the chamber of commerce about organizing some kind of referendum, but so far he hasn’t listened.” She turned away again, rattling dishes as she worked. “Oh, Marcus, you aren’t here to listen to me prattle on so.”
Marcus took his mother’s hand, warm and rough from years of housework, and brought it to his lips for a kiss that left the smell of lemon detergent in its wake. “Mama, that’s exactly why I come here, to talk to you. I’ll head over to see Papa a bit later, but first I’ll take the boys off your hands for the rest of the after—”
The shrill chime of his cell phone interrupted Marcus, and he glanced down in surprise. He shouldn’t have heard that tone for another twenty-nine days. He looked up to his mother’s face, who also recognized the sound, and now she took his hand, clasping it between hers. “Go on, answer it.”
He flipped the phone open. “Hello…Yes, sir…No, I’m available. It’s where?…All