Wiping his sweaty brow, Cav grumbled, “This woman, Lia Cassidy? She must be someone important for them to throw that kind of money out.”
“Dunno. He didn’t give details. But he wants you undercover, no guns showing. He’s already in touch with the Costa Rican government to give you permission to come into their country armed.”
Cav knew this particular Central American country had no military force, only a police force. Guns were strictly forbidden by anyone except their own efficient police force. To be caught there with weapons meant an automatic prison sentence, a long one, and Cav knew that for a security clearance, government permission was a must.
“Okay,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “so far that sounds good. What else did he tell you?”
“That the drug lord suspected of doing this was Dante Medina, otherwise known as La Araña.”
“The Spider? Who’s he? Some local asshole?”
“No, Medina runs the northern highlands area of that country, growing cocaine and marijuana all around the Monteverde Cloud Forest area. Apparently he’s pretty powerful,” Butch said. “And he’s not nice.”
“What drug lord is?” Cav demanded, rubbing his aching forehead. He’d already tossed down some serious ibuprofen to dull that drumbeat clanging in his head. He silently cursed the Spec Four dude. He’d barely won the drinking match, watching as the guy passed out at the bar before he did.
Luckily, Butch had picked him up, paid the bar tab and hauled his sorry ass out of the seedy bar and to their beat-up Jeep parked out in front. Cav came to as Butch flopped him onto his bed in their apartment. Then, he promptly passed out again.
“La Araña is lethal,” Butch warned, “and I suspect that’s why General Culver is offering you this nice, big fat check for however many months you have to protect this survivor. Apparently he’s a mean player and runs his soldiers and the whole area with a steel fist.”
“And it’s probably not wrapped in velvet, either,” Cav said, a lopsided grin pulling at his mouth.
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, the overview the General gave me was that he and his wife are gonna fly into San José in five days. I guess that’s when his NATO gig is finished, and he can get freed up to go with his wife to assess the damage to the building and to the charity itself. He wants you to meet him at the San José airport, and he’s already wired the money into your bank account here in Lima. All you have to do is get presentable, buddy, and show up at that airport.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Cav rumbled. It didn’t seem to be much of a PSD in Cav’s estimation. Normally, he took on freelance security assignments for the rich and powerful. The CIA wouldn’t hire him, even though he was an ex-SEAL and offered them a special deal, thanks to a hot mess in his sordid past.
Cav felt old anger stirring in him and didn’t go there. He had enough nightmares about that fucked up op. He didn’t want to think about it or allow it out of his kill box during his waking hours. And when it did escape, he’d hit the bottle to drown all his grief, rage and need to kill the Taliban who had delivered a devastating attack to his team.
“You got five days to clean up your act,” Butch said, gesturing toward his beard. “If you’re going undercover as an American teacher who speaks Spanish, you got to clean up real good, Bro, starting with this shaggy hair of yours and getting rid of that beard.”
Grunting, Cav rose and walked over to the tiny kitchen, pouring another cup of coffee. “I’ll look presentable. I don’t need you mother-henning me.”
Chuckling, Butch leaned back in his chair, grinning as he passed by to sit down at the table. “Oh, buddy, you need a keeper right now. We’ve been doing PSD’s here in Peru for the past year, and when you don’t have a gig, you’re fuckin’ drowning your head in a bottle of pisco.”
Cav drank the coffee, saying nothing. Butch was his best friend on SEAL team Three, Bravo Platoon, and had torn a ligament in his knee. That had saved his life, because he’d had to miss that last op where his team was killed, except for him. He was the lone survivor.
“An American teacher, huh?” he muttered, thinking about the new job.
Grimacing, Butch gave him a dark look. “Yeah, you’re posing as an English teacher. In Costa Rica, all children are taught two languages: Spanish and English. It’s a pretty progressive country compared to the rest of those sorry-assed nations, if you ask me.”
“Si habla Espanol,” Cav said. “I think I handle that, no problemo.”