Page 62 of Rebel Protector
Ramirez was shifting uneasily again, sweat soaking through his shirt. Markov, outwardly calm, betrayed his tension through his clenched jaw. The two thugs took up defensive positions, legs apart, knees slightly bent, weapons trained on the approaching truck.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” Ghost warned. “They can be a little jumpy.”
He would know. He’d been dealing with the cartels for years and understood how they operated. His pulse didn’t even quicken as the truck came to a stop and twelve heavily armed men jumped out, carrying assault rifles and submachine guns, all aimed at them.
“Put down your weapons,” Ghost told the thugs. It was pointless to fight—they were outgunned.
The man in charge of the cartel delegation nodded. “Do what he says.”
The leader was about forty, with piercing black eyes and a stocky build. Despite the heat, he wore a starched white shirt, open at the neck, and black trousers, giving off a flamenco-style vibe. Ghost had to admit, he looked sharp. It was clear from the way the others deferred to him that he was calling the shots.
Markov gestured to his men, and they reluctantly lowered their guns.
“Kick them over,” barked the cartel leader.
As the thugs kicked their weapons away, Markov stepped forward, holding out his hand with a congenial smile.
“Alek Markov,” he said, his voice impressively calm. Dom knew the man had ice in his veins. Markov had been conducting deals like this for years, always managing to stay cool in dangerous situations. He had the hard-man stare down to an art. With a nod, he added, “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Federico,” said the man in charge.
They shook hands, and some of the tension in the air lifted.
Markov locked eyes with Federico. “I expect you’ll want to inspect the merchandise.”
CHAPTER 25
The Colombian nodded, and they went inside the barn. Two of Federico’s men followed, while two positioned themselves at the barn entrance, two stayed outside, and four remained by the truck.
Ghost stood to the side and let Markov take charge. It was his merchandise, after all. Once the money changed hands, that’s when the real action would begin.
He hugged the rough wooden walls, resisting the urge to glance up at the loft where the Blackthorn Security operators were hiding. It was a good vantage point, allowing them to fire down if necessary. Like a castle, the loft was easy to defend if anyone tried climbing up the ladder to attack.
“You don’t mind if we inspect the merchandise?” Federico’s question was more of a statement than a request.
Markov spread his hands. “By all means.”
The two mercenaries left his side and began inspecting the crates. They opened the top one and pulled out an AK-47 assault rifle, checking it over, disassembling and reassembling it before nodding at their boss. “Seems legit.”
“Check the others,” Federico barked.
They moved through the crates, which contained machine guns, RPGs, and other lethal equipment. All twenty crates were accounted for. Finally, Federico nodded and gestured to one of the men at the barn door. The man disappeared outside to the truck, returning with a sleek tablet. He powered it on and handed it to his boss.
“One hundred and fifty million dollars, as agreed.”
Markov nodded, his eyes gleaming as he watched the cartel buyer orchestrate the payment.
Almost time.
His gaze drifted up to the rafters, but there was no sound, no movement. He knew the Blackthorn operators were up there, invisible to those below. No one had thought to check the loft.
From above, a hidden camera was rolling, capturing the scene below. The men waiting in the jungle were prepared for a signal from inside before advancing. Their job was to take out the armed men by the truck and those guarding the barn perimeter.
The Blackthorn operator in the loft would fire down, eliminating the interior guards, leaving Markov and Federico with no choice but to surrender.
That was Plan A.
But in true Marine fashion, Ghost had planned for every possible scenario. He knew from experience that things rarely went as planned.