Page 47 of Vaquero
Sure enough, a sleek black phantom appeared at the treetops. Hovering, it took position directly above the pit, sending curlicues of diesel smoke wafting away from its blades. Like smoke signals.
Julio kept his back flat against the trunk of his sturdy tree. In the shadows. Watching. Waiting. This helo might very well belong to someone from the media or possibly, a higher up in the Brazilian government. It looked that expensive. Because it was. He’d only seen a Sikorsky S-76++ once before, that time in England when it transported one of the British Royal Family to and from some elitist’s wedding. The thing banked at more than thirteen million dollars. First-class all the way, its darkened windows gave nothing away. Super light with two turboshaft engines. Maximum payload: eight passengers. Interesting, but not surprising. It seemed everyone wanted what Oz had once ruled.
When its side door slid open, Julio drew the butt stoke of his rifle under his chin and into position. Whoever these guys were, they were not Brazilian army. Not as swiftly as two slender men dressed in uniforms of black, strapped in and fast-roped to a safe ledge near the three missiles. Which put them opposite Julio, but behind the thick curtain of black smoke.
Needing to see better, he secured his rifle into the holster on his back and climbed down from his perch. Greed kept no social graces. It knew no limits. Whoever these guys were, they were definitely here for the warheads.
Keeping out of sight, but watching the helo, he circumnavigated the lip of the gravel pit until he was in a better position to fire. When one of the men below opened a panel near the tailfin of a missile, it became obvious these guys knew precisely what they were doing. The other did the same to the second missile. Russians maybe? Russian mafia possibly? Julio couldn’t be sure.
One tapped his ear, obviously communicating with the helo. Lifting one arm, he offered a thumbs up. Did that mean the missiles were intact?
While the other guy performed the same examination on the third missile, Julio watched. He’d already taken a knee in the shadows and had the fuel tank of that fancy chopper in his crosshairs. One shot would bring it down. Two more would end the men in the pit below. This could be over in seconds. But he needed to be sure. The world abounded with covert agents. These two could very well be working for legitimate countries with the best intentions.
He saw it then, carefully painted and nearly invisible to the naked eye, but not to his high-powered scope. Back behind the chopper’s tail number. The barest black and gray ghost of a cheery, smiling Matryoshka doll. Am evil nesting doll.
He made a quick sign of the cross.Madre de Dios!The Matryoshka Dolls were comprised of a group of double and triple female agents, each more devious than the next. The world had never seen women this evil or cold-blooded before. All Russian mafia in their former lives, each of these women were highly-trained killers. Each also came with layers of deceit and backstories so deep that no one knew precisely who they were or how many double, maybe triple-agents belonged to this all-female, subversive, intelligence group.
The majority of their work dealt with greed in one form or another. Whether their payment came in rubles, pounds, yen, or dollars, they weren’t picky. Diamonds worked, as would the plutonium in those ICBM warheads. Bottom line, they worked for the highest bidder, which was seldom Mother Russia. Next question seemed obvious. Did they own these missiles? Had they sold them to Oz? Worse, how many more ICBMs did the Matryoshka’s have, or were these their first?
Didn’t matter. Julio snugged the buttstock of his rifle into his shoulder, put his eye to his scope, and zeroed in on what facial features he could make out. Yes. Definitely female. He could tell by their eyes as well as the shapes of their bodies. Their balaclavas made more specific identification impossible.
One gave a hand signal upward to the hovering Sikorsky. Within seconds, an aluminum, rectangular box was lowered. Had to be made of lead if they planned to remove the isotope.
Sure looked like it—until the box touched down and one of the Dolls jerked the lid open and pulled out a—
Dulce Madre de Dios!Automatically, Julio crossed himself with a heartfelt Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. He’d worked with enough Marine Corps Forward Air Controllers while active duty to recognize an LLDR, aka the formidable Lightweight Laser Designator Rangefinder.
The woman with the device flipped the legs of the LLDR’s tripod open and leaned into the viewfinder. The Dolls weren’t here to save the warheads. They were here to laser paint them before they retreated to a safe distance. Once painted, precise target information would be relayed to a strike aircraft overhead. Which had to be close enough in order to drop non-guided munitions to blow all three missiles. Problem was that a nuclear detonation this large would annihilate the nearby village where all those poor people had just gone. Pepe and his father would be evaporated. Possibly a good chunk of Minas Gerais, as well.
Julio swallowed past the hard lump lodged firmly in his throat. It no longer mattered who these assassins worked for. His mission was clear. He would not stand by and let the Matryoshkas murder the thousands of innocent people caught within these warheads’ strike zone.
More focused now than ever before, he settled into the work he knew and loved best. Yes, loved. Saving innocent lives was what he’d been made for. It was time to do what he’d been created to do. Save the world.
