Nemeses: For the Innocent, #6

Cover Design

by 

Joshua D. Lambert

Other Titles

FOR THE INNOCENT

VINDICTA

REGINA MARIS

PRAESIDIUM

HAVOC

ONE

Khalid ibn Mahmoud Aziz eased himself into the pilot’s seat of the massive Boeing 747-400 jetliner. His brown eyes were wide with wonderment, and a broad, toothy smile spread on his smooth, dark skin. It had taken him twenty-five years, but now, at the age of fifty, he was in command of the world’s largest commercial airliner. He ran his hands, shaking slightly, over the controls. He was giddy with excitement, like a boy with his first car. It had been his dream since he had been a boy to fly, and as a man to fly such a plane as this. His father, Mahmoud Aziz, would be proud were he still alive. Closing his eyes, he said a little prayer, and thanked his father for first arousing his interest in aviation so many years before.

The immense jetliner was parked at the terminal building of Dhahran International Airport on the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia. It was almost two hundred and thirty-two feet in length and boasted a wingspan of nearly two hundred and twelve feet. It stood almost sixty-four feet from where the wheels met the ground to its highest point. Its maximum take-off weight was an unbelievable eight hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, and each of the four PW4000 turbofan engines provided upwards of sixty-four thousand pounds-per-foot thrust to make it move. He would fly the behemoth, with more than five hundred souls aboard, at a cruising speed of five hundred and eighty miles per hour, and at an altitude of forty-five thousand feet.

Khalid ibn Mahmoud Aziz was a happy man.

He was the first of the crew to board. He had wanted to be alone for a bit with his plane. My plane, he thought with pleasure. The others would be along soon enough, and the preflight routine would commence, but for now it was just him and his plane. He rose from his seat and wandered about the vast interior. His hands touched the seats with near-reverence as he walked up and down the aisles. All on board would be his responsibility, and his alone. The mere thought caused his heart to race; it was an awesome responsibility.

He was near the rear of the aircraft when he heard the cheerful voices and noises of the food services personnel coming aboard to stock the galleys. He watched from where he was; he knew most of them, but there were one or two new faces. He called out a greeting as he made his way forward. There was playful banter as he weaved his way amongst them to the staircase that would return him to the flight deck in the hump. He found his number-two flipping through the preflight checklist.

Good morning, Khalid, said the younger man as he glanced up.

And a glorious morning to you, Omar! responded ibn Mahmoud Aziz exuberantly. I thought Ali Mouhammed al-Wasem was my co-pilot on this flight.

He called in sick quite suddenly, responded al-Amili, adding with a laugh, Something about flying with you!

Very funny! He is just afraid of heights! Are you ready for today?

With a curious smile on his lips which his friend did not notice, Omar al-Amili said, "I am always ready for today!"

A long day, this one, pointed out ibn Mahmoud Aziz as he went through the preflight checks with his co-pilot. From here to Kuala Lumpur, non-stop, is nine hours.

Al-Amili shrugged. We’ve flown longer.

Ah! But not non-stop! grinned ibn Mahmoud Aziz.

I will be here with you, so you needn’t worry, said al-Amili in a failed serious tone.

Thank Allah for that!

Two hours later the preflight was complete by all crew members, and the galleys were fully stocked. Ibn Mahmoud Aziz stood near the aircraft’s forward entry with the purser. They greeted each and every passenger as embarkation proceeded on schedule. More than five hundred people filed into the immense Boeing 747-400 and made their way to their assigned seats. It was going to be a full flight, with most of the passengers being Malaysians returning home. He recognized several different languages and greeted the speakers in their own tongue; it was something that always caught the traveler’s off-guard but pleased them nonetheless. It was something his father had encouraged to improve the rapport between the passengers and man in charge.

When, at last, the final passenger was welcomed aboard and had seated, ibn Mahmoud Aziz climbed the stairs to the lounge area in the hump, and then went forward to the flight deck. He was greeted at the door by the senior flight attendant, twenty-eight-year-old Rana Sabbagh. All is ready? he asked with a note of affection in his voice.

Yes, she replied, but there was something in her voice that caught his attention.

Is there a problem?

She glanced nervously into the flight deck, and then gestured for him to follow. She went several paces to a quiet area of the lounge. From her skirt pocket, she produced an envelope and handed it to him. I was given this by a member of the ground crew, she explained. I was directed to hand it over to you just before departure.

He looked down at the plain envelope. His name was scrawled across it in Arabic. What is it? he asked hesitantly.

I do not know, she told him. Oh, Khalid, I am afraid!

He smiled bravely at her. Afraid of what? Give me the envelope, and then you get back to your duties. His hand touched hers as he received it. There is nothing to be afraid of, Rana. I am sure this is just a message from the corporate office; perhaps I am getting a raise! He laughed lightly as she smiled nervously. Now, off you go!

He watched her go, his brave smile still on his face. As soon as she was out of sight, the brave smile evaporated. He held up the envelope and looked at it. He wanted to tear it open but there were instructions, in small print, to wait until they were airborne. He pursed his lips as he contemplated his options. A voice from the flight deck pulled him from his reverie and he hurried to his seat, tucking the envelope into a shirt pocket.

Omar al-Amili glanced over at the aircraft’s captain. All is well?

Of course, said ibn Mahmoud Aziz dismissively. Let us get aloft, my friend!

They worked together getting the jumbo jet to the runway, powered up the engines while both stood on the brakes, and then released the plane. Slowly it began to roll forward, and then it began to quicken its pace. Within a minute, the giant aircraft was barreling down the runway at one hundred and eighty miles per hour. The nose lifted, and the rest of the wide-body jetliner gracefully followed. The plane banked away from the airport and toward the east, all while still accelerating and climbing. Fifteen minutes later, the plane had reached level flight over the Persian Gulf.

Khalid ibn Mahmoud Aziz released control to his number-two and slid his seat backward. From his pocket he produced the envelope and stared at it. Finally, with a quiet sigh, he opened it with a finger. He pulled a single folded sheet of paper from it. His heartbeat quickened noticeably as he unfolded the paper. His brown eyes scanned the typewritten Arabic; his throat got very dry.

What have you there? asked al-Amili gently.

What? gasped ibn Mahmoud Aziz, startled.

A message? pressed al-Amili.

Folding the letter, ibn Mahmoud Aziz nodded erratically. Yes, it is a . . . message. He rose from his seat. Excuse me, he said rapidly. I must . . . I need to . . . He hurried from the flight deck.

Passengers were coming into the lounge that occupied most of the jumbo jet’s signature hump. He tried to greet them civilly, but he was distracted, and he was certain they saw his distraction. He entered the lounge lavatory and bolted the door. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, he brought out the letter and stared at it. Surely this is someone’s idea of a joke! he told himself soundlessly, repeatedly. It had to be! He saw his reflection in the mirror and was startled by who looked back at him; the man in the mirror was terrified. He blinked. But if it’s not a joke, he thought, then there is no option. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. He had no way of confirming whether his family was in danger, or not. The instructions were clear: he was to contact no one, merely comply. His once-proud stature deflated on the toilet seat; if he did not comply his entire family would be butchered. He closed his eyes. From his aging mother to his baby niece, they would all be sacrificed for his non-compliance.

His beautiful world was gone.

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Ra’s Tannūrah was a vast industrial complex on the peninsula of Saudi Arabia’s east coast that projected into the Persian Gulf. It served as a major oil port and operations center for Saudi Aramco, the world’s largest oil company. It was located south of the industrial port city of Jubail, and across Tarut Bay from the old port city of al-Dammam. It was a sprawling complex, and the man in charge was Malik Hassam bin Nasser.

It was his first day on the job as the head man. From his spacious office overlooking the expansive complex, he reveled in his new position. It had taken him decades, literally, to get to where he was. He started as a boy in the oil fields doing manual labor for very little money. He had been ridiculed by his friends and family, told to find work elsewhere, but he had had a vision. It had come to him in the night, when he was a teenager, as he slept on a ratty pallet under the stars. He had worked hard, studied hard, and fought hard to get to where he was. 

A mentor had appeared several years before who had advised him, encouraged him, and directed him. The nameless man had been of indeterminate age, with black hair that was neatly combed back from a high, intelligent forehead; there had been some grey at the temples. His was a Mediterranean complexion, bin Nasser had thought at the time, or perhaps Southern or Southeast Europe, or even Western Asia, or Central Asia. The Arab considered, even today, that perhaps his mentor was from certain parts of South Asia, or North Africa. He remembered the piercing black eyes, cold and terrifying. There had been the black eyebrows, thick but not bushy, and the clean-shaven face with a straight aquiline nose. When combined with a high forehead, he had found the face to have a certain characteristic of deadly intelligence. They had met only once, but he remembered admiring the polished mahogany walking stick with a solid gold wolf’s head handle, and the large emerald ring on the right ring finger.

His mentor had occasionally sent word by messenger at critical times in his life, guiding him further up the ladder. He had been taught to be ruthless and crafty, and it was those skills that had gotten the results which those, senior to him, had demanded. He smiled. He had made a name for himself, albeit with help from the unnamed counselor, and, finally, he had been justly rewarded him with this position, and the wealth that came with it. His family and friends had long since become silent; he made a point of having no dealings with any of them. His mentor had suggested severing contact, warning him that his success would attract freeloaders. And now here he was, ultimately responsible for billions of dollars in crude oil, and the infrastructure required to ship it around the world, not to mention to manufacture fuels for local use. There was nothing he could not do now.

There came a light knock at the mahogany door that separated his capacious office from his staff. Come! he barked.

An older man, clad in a pristine white thawb, entered with some trepidation. The ankle-length garment swished about his legs as he walked quickly across the plush carpet. On his head was a white keffiyeh, held in place by a black agal. In the man’s hands was a long, narrow box, which he presented to bin Nasser with a slight bow. He murmured something in Arabic, and then backed out of the room.

Bin Nasser watched the man go, a smirk on his face. He himself preferred Western attire but knew better than to wear such clothes as word would get back to those who elevated him to this position. He opened the box, removed the polished mahogany walking stick with its solid gold wolf’s head handle, and tossed the box aside. He stroked the smooth wood before walking about his spacious office with it, using it as a decorative aid. He rather liked the image reflected back at him when he paused in front of a full-length mirror in his private bathroom. Success had finally come to him.

He was sauntering about his office, walking stick in hand, when he was interrupted by another knock. A scowl masked his face as he bellowed, Come!

This time it was a young man in a suit who entered, with a manila envelope in his hand. The young man quickly crossed the expensively carpeted floor to where his superior stood. This just came for you by special messenger, sir, he said in a quick, nervous voice. It is marked for your eyes only, sir.

Bin Nasser did not bother to look at the young man, but he did glance at the large envelope. Put it on my desk and get out, he growled.

The young man bowed, and did as he was told, glad to have escaped. No one liked dealing with the new complex manager; he had lost the coin toss.

Alone again, bin Nasser turned to look at the envelope on his desk. Now, he murmured, what is it about you that is so damned important?

It occurred to him that it might be a communiqué from his mentor, whom he had had no word since the previous year. He tilted his head slightly to one side as he pondered the possibilities. What suggestions, or directions, would he offer this time? he wondered. He walked over to his huge, highly polished teak desk and reached out for the envelope. His hand shook slightly, which annoyed him. His name was written in flowery Arabic script across the front; the handwriting was unfamiliar to him. Lifting it, he found the manila envelope to be very light. In much smaller script, beneath his name, were instructions directing him to open it at the enormous window that allowed him to look out over his dominion. Odd, he thought fleetingly. He briefly debated with himself on whether he should comply, and, in the end, decided to humor the faceless author. He went to the window with envelope in hand and stared out over the sprawling complex. Standing there, bathed in the warm light that poured into his office, he tore open the manila envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper.

He blinked.

The sheet of paper was blank.

With a deepening frown, he looked inside the envelope only to find that it, too, was empty. He allowed the envelope to fall to the floor as he returned his attention to the blank sheet of paper in his hand. Slowly, the rage began to build. Someone is being funny, he thought to himself angrily. He glared at the door to his office. Someone out there! It did not matter who the culprit was, he decided, as he would not waste his valuable time to find out; he would fire them all. He smiled cruelly. That was the only way to deal with such insubordination. They will quickly learn to fear me! he thought gloatingly.

It was then that something outside caught his eye. It had been a transitory flash, a reflection of sunlight off a shiny surface. He looked out over his domain, but whatever had caused it . . . There it was again! He stared, transfixed. This was not possible. Something was not right here. He stepped closer to the window and looked hard. But there it was, coming low from the south, from out over the Gulf.

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

Khalid ibn Mahmoud Aziz was in a daze when he left the lavatory. He could not think straight. His mind whirled as he tried desperately to rationalize what was happening to him. He made his way through the passengers who were enjoying the lounge’s amenities, oblivious of their curious stares. He entered the flight deck, locked the door, and resumed his place at the controls. He gazed out the window at the far horizon. He felt lost.

Omar al-Amili glanced over at his friend. What is it, Khalid? he inquired gently.

After several seconds, the jetliner’s pilot turned his head to look at his number-two. I . . . don’t know . . .  what to do . . .

Al-Amili’s eyebrows rose slightly as he asked, Don’t know what to do about what?

With a shaking hand, he handed over the folded paper. This. His voice was barely audible.

Al-Amili took the paper and unfolded it. He read through it quickly, then again more slowly. Well, he murmured, this is a problem, isn’t it?

If I do not obey, they will kill my family, all of them! cried out ibn Mahmoud Aziz. But if I obey . . .

Yes, nodded al-Amili, "that is a problem."

His brown eyes again staring out at the horizon, the pilot grieved, I don’t know what to do.

Perhaps it is nothing, suggested al-Amili flippantly. Perhaps it is a hoax.

No, said the distraught pilot. No, this is no hoax. Whoever gave the envelope to Rana Sabbagh terrified her, and you know as well as I that she does not frighten easily. He was quiet for a moment, and then added, This is no hoax, but I cannot possibly obey. I . . . cannot . . .

Then you sacrifice your family, said al-Amili casually.

Ibn Mahmoud Aziz turned his head slowly, his brown eyes narrowed. You do not seem at all . . . surprised, Omar.

The younger man smiled broadly. "You must obey, my friend, it is your duty."

There was quiet in the flight deck, other than the steady drone of the four massive engines. The two men looked at one another. "You are one of them?" asked an incredulous ibn Mahmoud Aziz.

Omar al-Amili’s laugh was biting, cruel. "I am part of something bigger, you fool! All of this is planned. This is jihad!"

Against the Saudi royal family? declared ibn Mahmoud Aziz.

The Saudis! spat al-Amili angrily. "They are nothing! We are the Illuminatos Societate Libertas! There is nothing we cannot do, which includes forcing you to do our bidding."

You are insane! gasped ibn Mahmoud Aziz. You cannot possibly expect such a plan to succeed!

A deathly silence filled the flight deck. Al-Amili focused his dark eyes on the man in the captain’s seat. "We will succeed, he whispered with a cold smile, because failure is not an option!"

I cannot allow it, murmured ibn Mahmoud Aziz as he regained his composure.

Cannot allow it? questioned al-Amili with a smirk. "You cannot not allow it! This mission will be successful, and your family will still perish!"

Ibn Mahmoud Aziz came out of his seat before he realized what he was doing. He threw himself onto the younger man, wrapping both hands around his neck. He was unable to focus on anything but the color-changing face as he squeezed. He felt hands groping at his own face, and thumbs pressing violently into his eyes. The pain seared through his head as he struggled to break the other man’s hold. At last, no longer able to deal with the pain to his eyes, the older man released his own grip, broke free, and staggered backward to tumble into his seat. He could see nothing definitive, just an obscure shape moving toward him. He lashed out, flailing his arms until he struck something. There was a grunt, followed by a curse, and then he felt something slam into his midsection.

Al-Amili stepped back from the fatally wounded man. In his right hand he held a bloodied jambiya, with its short-curved blade and medial ridge. His dark eyes were wide and wild, and his breathing was coming quick and shallow. It was the first time he had actually stabbed anyone, his first time in close combat, and he found it thrilling. He looked from the dagger in his bloody hand to his dying friend and smiled.

Khalid ibn Mahmoud Aziz felt the warm liquid on his stomach before he felt the pain. He was puzzled as he brought his hands up before his injured eyes. He could tell, though not clearly, that they were covered in a red, viscous liquid. Gradually, his mind translated what his eyes saw with what he was feeling in his midsection; he had been stabbed. As his eyes became less clouded and his vision returned, somewhat, he looked at the smiling man who stood over him. Why? he gasped.

Al-Amili shrugged. It’s nothing personal, Khalid, he replied indifferently. You were just unlucky enough to be assigned to this flight. I told them that using your family as a threat to get you to do our bidding probably wouldn’t work. He hesitated, and then added, That is why I am here, to ensure that the job gets done.

Who . . .?

Al-Amili wiped the blood from the curved blade of his dagger on a clean area of the dying man’s shirt. Who? My instructions came from Azad Shirazi, the Iranian; you probably don’t know him. He is of the Inner Circle, but the mind behind this . . ., ah! That would be Alexander Shaitan.

Shaitan . . . gasped ibn Mahmoud Aziz in pain. "Iblis . . . Satan . . . the Deceiver!"

As he put away his dagger, al-Amili said to the dying man, You will never know what his plans are for the world. It is glorious!

You are a fool! declared ibn Mahmoud Aziz with a sudden burst of waning energy. There was blood in his spittle; the curved blade had punctured a lung.

Al-Amili settled himself into his seat and strapped himself in securely. He reached over and disengaged the auto-pilot. Taking control of the aircraft, he put it into a gently starboard turn and began to descend. "It is jihad," he said matter-of-factly.

Ibn Mahmoud Aziz shook his head weakly. It is madness! he wheezed.

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖

He became aware of the ringing telephone on his desk and tore himself away from the image out over the Gulf. He lifted the receiver and snapped into it, What is it? After listening for a moment, he added, Of course I am aware of it! Do you think I am a fool? I am aware of everything that goes on here! He slammed the receiver down in the cradle. The anger he had felt was gone, replaced by uncertainty. And fear.

Malik Hassam bin Nasser hurried back to the window, placed his hands on the warm glass, and stared at the approaching object. He could not fathom what was coming, or why. None of it made any sense to him. There was no logic, no reason. None of what was unfolding was part of his plan.

This is not supposed to be happening, he murmured incredulously.

He watched in shocked disbelief as the Boeing 747-400 jetliner dipped just enough to start shearing through the fifty-thousand-barrel fuel and chemical storage tanks along the waterfront at five hundred miles per hour. One by one, in rapid succession, they erupted in great balls of fire and black smoke. The jumbo jet rocked as shockwaves caught up to it from behind. Suddenly, it banked, and its starboard wing cut through several pipelines. As the giant aircraft began to cartwheel toward him, thousands of gallons of fuel and chemicals spilled out, and the flammable liquid swiftly spread, igniting. He saw hundreds of workers scattering, running for their lives; some were lucky and died quickly.

This cannot be happening! he declared as he watched his world erupt before his very eyes.

The jetliner began to come apart, and then it burst into a somersaulting inferno. Fiery pieces flew at great speed in every direction. The mangled flight deck separated from the destroyed body of the jumbo jet only to hurl toward the large window that allowed the immobile overlord an unobscured view.

What is happening? he screamed at the devastation of his world.

TWO

Jebel Uweinat. The mountain range deep in the Libyan Desert where Egypt, Libya, and Sudan met was the stronghold of the world’s most dangerous terror leader. The highest point was atop a plateau that was known as the Italia plateau, on which there were two cairns which had been erected in the 1930s. The western part of this massif consisted of intrusive granite which was arranged in the shape of a ring. It was approximately twenty-five kilometers in diameter, or about fifteen-and-a-half miles. The mountain range rose more than two thousand feet above the desert floor. Upon its pinnacle was a fortress that was originally built in the tenth century to guard the early trade route. 

Within the thick walls of the antediluvian fortress, black-clad men and women busied themselves with the final repairs to the huge gated entry, which had been breached by the enemy’s gunship. Work on the four towers, also victims of the gunship, neared completion. The courtyard, which had been literally shredded by canon and miniguns fire, was restored, with its flourishing vegetable garden near the ancient well. Heavily armed men walked along the stone ramparts, constantly scanning the horizon with binoculars for any unexpected visitors. Those who had previously failed had been unceremoniously thrown over the massif’s precipice; that is to say, those who had been so unfortunate to survive the attack.

Across the courtyard, with the aid of a mahogany walking stick, his hand tightly grasping the gold wolf’s head handle, walked an angry man of indeterminate age. He limped from an injury sustained just a few years earlier; he had almost been killed then, but he had an uncanny ability to survive personal attacks. Only months before, he had narrowly escaped being killed when a bomb blew up the car in which he had been traveling. Inexplicably, he and his two companions had exited the vehicle just moments before it had been torn apart by a powerful explosion. He could not remember what had made them pull over and abandon the machine. An inner sense, perhaps? he wondered thoughtfully.

As he walked, those around him scurried to get out of his way; they knew not to vex him. One young man did not move quickly enough and received the heavy gold handle alongside his head. He dropped to the ground, stunned, a trickle of blood at his left temple. No one dared go to his aid until the terror leader had passed. The man entered his office, crossed the stone floor, and took his place behind his massive mahogany desk. Two men stood in silence before his desk.

Alexander Shaitan stared at the report that lay open on his desk. His black eyes scanned it a second time. This is not possible, he thought to himself. This is not part of my plan! He glared at the two men who stood before his desk. Someone, he said in a frighteningly quiet voice, please explain to me what happened here.

There was the nervous shuffling of feet, but no one spoke.

Shirazi, said Shaitan, the jetliner was not to be used until next week; what happened?

Azad Shirazi, formerly of the Iranian Republican Guard Special Forces, shook his head. He uneasily stroked his dense black mustache. His bushy black unibrow seemed to move of its own accord. There was an ugly scar along length his left cheek that gave him the appearance of a pirate. He reeked of the clover-laced cigarettes he chain-smoked. I do not know. I thought you had moved up the date.

Why would I do that? asked Shaitan as he fought to control his impatience. Why would I alter my plan?

I . . . began Shirazi.

"And why would I destroy a complex that I have spent years infiltrating? Years! And have only now gained control? roared the terror leader. There was an uncomfortable lull, and then he turned to the other man and quietly asked, What are your thoughts on all of this?"

Fernando Espina de la Capilla, formerly of Nicaragua’s Milicias Populares Anti-Sandinistas, cleared his throat. He absentmindedly stroked his own large black mustache; it concealed part of his pock-marked face. His empty black eyes stared back at Shaitan. "We were betrayed, obviously, Jefe," he responded.

Betrayed? Do you think so? Pray tell, by whom? pressed Shaitan dryly.

"By someone who knew of your plans, Señor," pointed out the Nicaraguan in a confident voice.

And who might this someone be?

That I do not know, admitted Espina de la Capilla.

You do not know, murmured Shaitan coldly. He eyed the thirty-year-old Central American with narrowing eyes. "Well, Señor Espina de la Capilla, I want you to find out who is responsible, he finally instructed, and I want you to bring that person to me. Alive. Espina de la Capilla acknowledged with a silent nod. Alive, Shaitan reiterated, or I will kill you, very slowly. Again, the Nicaraguan nodded. As for you, continued Shaitan as he turned his attention back to the Iranian, you will need information on InterOps so that you can formulate a plan to finally eliminate them."

Shirazi stiffened under the glare. I will contact our usual sources.

You had better do more than that, suggested Shaitan in an unfriendly voice.

Of course, Excellency! added the Iranian quickly. "I only meant that I would start with our usual sources."

Their leader is a wheelchair-bound invalid, growled Shaitan, and two attempts have failed. Failed! Why is that? Why is it so difficult to kill him? I want him dead!

He has good people with him . . . started Shirazi, and then he realized he had made a grievous error.

Ah, murmured Shaitan as a hateful smile touched his lips. "So, he has good people. It would only stand to reason, then, my dear Azad, that I do not have good people. That would be the only explanation for the failures, am I correct?"

Excellency, I . . .

You may have a point, Shirazi, you just may have a point.

I will take care of it personally, said the Iranian as he wondered how. I will put together the perfect team.

"What you will do personally, my dear Azad, after you have gathered your intelligence and assembled your perfect team, is lead that perfect team. Shaitan smiled ever so slightly as the Iranian blanched. You will be the one to finally do away with him. Shaitan stared at him with his piercing black eyes. He thwarts me at every turn. He delays me. He prevents me from attaining my goal. Enough is enough. I leave it to you to kill Erik Rächer."

There was only the briefest hesitation. It shall be done, responded Shirazi with a curt, nervous nod. Any other answer would have been suicidal.

And, my friend, failure is not an option.

Of course, Excellency.

Shaitan glanced over at the pondering Espina de la Capilla. What? he demanded.

After a lengthy pause, the Nicaraguan replied, "There is one person, Jefe, who was aware of your plans, and who seems to want you to fail."

Oh? And who might that someone be?

There was a second