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Zone 12
Guatemala City, Guatemala

To industrial magnets and businessmen, Zone 12 was known to be a hub of production and logistics, but to the people who lived and worked there, it was a place of low wages, frequent exploitation, and high crime.
For David Cole, his once thriving textile empire had begun to feel like a noose around his neck, as exploited and intimidated by corrupt government officials and a ruthless cartel as the people he employed. He only had himself to blame. Cole had been greedy and moved too quickly, cutting under-the-table deals with FuEzras Armadas Rebeldes, or FAR Cartel for protection, secure transport routes, and minimal labor disruptions as his company Pacífico Apparel Group (PAG) quickly expanded.
The FAR had sunk their claws deeper at every turn. Cole had tried to speak with local police and government officials about getting the cartel off his back, but they all had their hands out, expecting payment before they did any work, and most were either affiliated with FAR or terrified of them.
He’d once believed capitalism could change any culture. Guatemala taught him otherwise. The Northern Triangle—El Salvador, Guatamala, and Honduras—the region that PAG operated in—was too full of corruption and instability.
Stepping from his armored GMC Yukon, Cole walked across the street with two armed bodyguards trailing behind him. He stepped into the tiny café and passed through the seating area and the kitchen. He knocked twice on a storage room door. It cracked open just enough for Cole to see a sliver of brown face and black eye.
The man stepped away from the door and opened it for Cole to step inside. Cole motioned for his bodyguards to stay in the hallway as he entered the room crowded with boxes, dish towels, food trays, bags of whole coffee beans, and other items needed to run the café’s day-to-day operations. At a small desk shoved into the corner sat Maria Montenegro, Guatemala’s Minister of Labor and Social Welfare.
“You may go, Alehandro,” Montenegro said to her bodyguard.
Alehandro stepped out, leaving the two men alone.
Cole glanced around the room, trying to spot any video recorders or listening devices, but nowadays, they are so small that most would go unnoticed without a detection device. He hadn’t brought one with him and knew it was a mistake on his part. He had dealt with Montenegro for several years. She’d taken bribes and payments to facilitate labor disputes and acted as a go-between for Cole and the cartel. He’d always suspected that FAR had rigged the election to put her into the labor office after serving in several other high-ranking capacities.
“Why all the secrecy, David?” the labor minister asked.
“I need to get out from under the FAR,” Cole replied. “They’ve taken it too far by putting drugs in with my shipments. If U.S. Customs finds those drugs, they’ll shut me down. We have to stop the contraband.”
Montenegro stood. She was only one hundred fifty-seven centimeters tall with her head coming chest high on Cole’s lanky frame. Part of her popularity stemmed from her Mayan heritage and the resurgence of indigenous peoples taking active roles in the government after centuries of being maligned and discriminated against.
“Are you threatening the cartel, David?” she asked casually.
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m trying to protect us. Like I said, if we’re caught smuggling, the U.S. government will shut us down.”
“It sounds like you’re backing out of the deal,” Montenegro replied.
“I’m only asking them to cut back. We can’t afford to become targets of investigation.”
“What is the outcome you would like to have from this conversation?”
“That FAR backs off my business. We go back to our original deal of protection, and they stop demanding more money, extorting my workers, and sending contraband with my shipments to the U.S.”
“You’re asking a lot of your business partner,” Montenegro said.
“They’re not my partners!” Cole exclaimed. “They didn’t help me start PAG. They only use PAG to further their own goals. We are no longer in alignment for what is best for my company.”
“I can promise you one thing, David. If you keep pushing for the cartel to back off, it will not end well for you,” Montenegro said.
Cole felt heat rising on the back of his neck. The tiny storeroom felt claustrophobic. He wanted out of the storeroom, out of the cartel—hell, he’d even get out of business if that’s what it took. Cole had plenty of money stashed in various offshore bank accounts and could live like a king without ever working another day in his life.
“You tell them to back off,” Cole warned.
“Or what, David?” Montenegro asked calmly.
“I’ll blow the whole damn thing wide open!” David Cole threatened.
Cole stormed out of the café storage room, the air outside thick and suffocating. He didn’t look back. He’d said what needed to be said.
His bodyguards scrambled to keep up as Cole cut across the street and climbed into the armored Yukon.
Let them come, he thought. I’m a U.S. citizen. They wouldn’t dare bite the hand that feeds them.
Cole slammed the door shut and stared through the windshield.
He told himself what he needed to hear, believing he was untouchable because of his status.
Because deep down, Cole knew the truth. The FAR didn’t care about borders, passports, or the illusion of protection.
And if they did come for him, no embassy letterhead or offshore account was going to save his life.

2
As David Cole’s driver negotiated heavy traffic through Zone 12 toward Pacífico Apparel Group headquarters, Cole couldn’t help but think about his past.
Cole’s first venture to Central America had been in the early 1990s on a break from Harvard Business School. During a backpacking trip, he’d fallen in love with the beaches, the mountains, and the generous people, and he saw opportunity.
Upon completing his trip, Cole had returned to university and developed business prospectuses for future corporations operating in Central America, but it wasn’t until he began a career in private equity, following in his wealthy father’s footsteps, that Cole had been able to put his ideas into practice.
During his year in pirate equity, he invested in low-cost manufacturing ventures, expanding them into larger companies. Then, Cole saw a shift in trade policy when Canada, Mexico, and United States signed the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) into law. NAFTA had a rising-tide-lifts-all-boats effect through Central America, with economic growth, job creation, and investment opportunities.
Cole gathered as much capital as he could get his hands on and jumped into Guatemala with both feet. He began importing cotton and synthetic fibers from Asia and assembling garments in Guatemala City. Soon, he was one of the top-producing manufactures of T-shirts, blue jeans, and military and industrial uniforms.
While he had a thriving business, the winds of fortune billowed his sails when countries around the region signed the Caribbean Basin Initiative and the Central America-Dominican Republic Free Trade Agreement, allowing duty-free exports to the U.S. Suddenly, PAG was even more competitive than it had been, and orders poured in.
But those economic fortunes had also come with a price. FAR demanded more bribe money for his increased shipments. And with Pacífico Apparel Group headquartered in Houston, Texas, PAG could unload shipments in the Port of Houston’s Foreign Free Trade Zone and not be subject to rigorous inspections, allowing FAR to tuck their own contraband exports into PAG’s shipments.
Cole knew fighting back against FAR would make him a target. That was why he had increased the presence of his bodyguards and hired more private security to monitor his homes in Houston and Guatemala City. Cole had even insisted that a security guard accompany his daughter, Catalina.
She had worked for PAG since she’d graduated from college and had recently taken the role as PAG’s new vice president of operations. Cole had been reluctant to promote her for fear that she would soon learn of the tangled web of corruption and deception that he’d become involved in.
And he’d been right. Catalina had come to him, seeking reasons for multiple payments to government officials and to the FAR. It shamed Cole that his daughter now knew how tainted his legacy really was. So, he’d vowed to end his association with the cartel before she found out just how deep his corruption ran.
Arriving at his office, Cole sat at his desk and opened his computer. He found the phone number for a reporter he’d met several years ago when she was working on a story about FAR and their elusive leader, El Fantasma—The Ghost.
Cole dialed the number and waited anxiously for Bridgette Quintero to answer.
At the time of their first meeting, Quintero had pressed Cole for answers about his dealings with the cartel. Cole had denied any association with FuEzras Armadas Rebeldes. Now, Cole was going to tell her the entire story.
“This is Bridgette,” the reporter said.
“Hi Bridgette, my name is David Cole. We spoke a few years ago about …” he hesitated to speak the cartel’s name over the phone for fear that they had tapped his line.
“I remember,” Quintero replied. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to meet. Can you come to my office?” He immediately chastised himself. If he thought his phone was bugged, his office probably was too.
“I’ll be there in an hour, David. If this is what I think it’s about, then you had better stay put. I’ve heard rumors that an assassination team in the city with your name on their bullets.”
“What?” Cole demanded.
He hadn’t expected El Fantasma to react so quickly to his meeting with Maria Montenegro.
“Just stay put, David. I’m on my way,” Quintero said.
Cole heard the dial tone beep in his ear and set the landline receiver back in its cradle. He realized just how far out of his league he was in dealing with the cartel. In less than a half hour, David Cole had become a liability, and FAR wanted to eliminate him.
Staring at the clock would drive Cole insane. He watched the black secondhand sweep around on the white industrial clock above his office door. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear the click each time the hand moved.
Cole forced himself to look away from the clock and gaze out the plate-glass window at the factory floor below. Most of his workers were young indigenous women from rural areas, lured to the city with the promise of better wages and the ability to support their relatives. In reality, Cole paid most of them pennies on the dollar. When one of the women disappeared, he suspected the cartel had snatched her off the street to traffic her. Cole’s business was an integral part of the cartel’s operation and goods flowed in both directions. Drugs and humans north, illegal weapons and laundered cash back to the Northern Triangle.
Pondering his options, Cole saw he had only two: continue with the status quo or close his business. Walking away sounded like an excellent plan. A major asset management firm in the States had made several offers to buy PAG, but Cole had rejected their low offers. Now, they seemed tempting. He wondered if the cartel would allow him to sell.
Cole stiffened his spine and resolved to not only sell his company but to spill his gut to Quintero about his involvement in the cartel.
As if the universe had heard his intentions, a siren began to wail on the factory floor.
Cole’s bodyguard, Ezra, opened the office door. “Fire alarm, sir. We need to go.”
Glancing at the clock, Cole saw it was nearly time for Quintero to arrive. She had advised him to stay in the building.
“Is there really a fire?” Cole asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Check it out. Come get me if there is a fire. If not, leave me alone. I’m expecting a visitor.”
“Yes, sir,” Ezra replied.
Cole closed the door and waited anxiously staring down at the machines and people who manufactured his products. The workers had heeded the alarm and hastily walked toward the nearest exit.
The alarm continued to blare.
Cole’s pulse had quickened, and he could barely catch his breath. He wondered if this was a diversion to drive him into the open. If there were assassins gunning for him, they could be lying in wait right outside the door.
Ezra ran up the stairs to Cole’s office, his suit coat flapping and his tie askew.
“There’s a fire in the cotton storeroom,” Ezra reported. “Emergency workers are on the way, and we have employees battling the blaze. We need to get you out of here, sir, in case the fire spreads.”
“How did it start?” Cole asked.
“We’re not sure, sir. We’ll check it out, but right now, we need to get you downstairs. Jimmy has the SUV waiting out front.”
“Fine. Okay. Give me a sec,” Cole said. He grabbed his laptop off the desk and stuffed it into a briefcase. Kneeling before his safe, Cole spun the combination lock and began pulling the contents into the briefcase including bundles of currency and important contracts.
“There’s smoke on the manufacturing floor, sir. We need to go now!” the bodyguard urged.
Cole reached into the safe and scooped the contents into the briefcase. He shoved the door closed but didn’t bother to lock it.
He followed his bodyguard down the stairs and through the array of sewing machines, clothing presses, and other machinery. At the front door, Ezra clicked his radio and spoke to Jimmy. “We’re at the door.” Ezra opened the door and scanned the sidewalk and street for threats as Cole stood inside the building.
“We’re clear,” Ezra said to Cole, then into his radio, he said, “Moving to the vehicle now.”
Cole stepped out onto the sidewalk with Ezra on his right side, guiding him toward the open passenger door of the silver Yukon. Jimmy sat behind the wheel with the engine running.
“Let’s go!” Jimmy shouted.
Cole turned to glance back at the factory. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several masked men charging down the street with automatic rifles in their hands.
“Ezra!” Cole shouted, rushing for the SUV.
Two of the masked men paused and opened fire on Cole and his bodyguards. Before Ezra could pull his weapon, a hail of bullets cut him down. Cole tripped, his briefcase skittering from his hand and sliding under a car parked behind the SUV.
Two men tackled Cole. As the men shouldered him to the pavement, Cole heard the explosive pops of gunfire and tasted blood on his lips. Struggling under the weight of the men on top of him, Cole twisted enough to see Ezra lying beside him, his face shattered by multiple rounds. Cole tried to scream, but it came out as a whimper.
He glanced toward the SUV, hoping Jimmy would come to his aid. Cole caught a glimpse of the driver’s seat empty through the SUV’s open door. He had no idea if Jimmy had fled or fallen.
A black hood went over his head and the bagman viciously cinched it tight around Cole’s neck. Cole choked and fought for air as his windpipe closed. The men roughly jerked Cole to his feet and shoved him into a vehicle.
Cole tried to sit up, but the men shoved him down to the floorboards. He tried to rise again, but the men kept him pinned to the floor with their feet.
“What do you want!” he shouted.
His kidnappers’ response came in via a kick to the back of the head.
Cole tried to cover his head. The kidnappers ripped his arms back and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Helpless, Cole knew this was a result of his conversation with Montenegro.
FAR had come for him.

3
Bridgette Quintero leaped from her car as gunfire erupted at the front of the Pacífico Apparel Group manufacturing facility before her driver and cameraman, Paul Derrick, could stop the car.
“Wait, Bridgette!” he shouted.
Quintero ignored Derrick’s pleas and ran toward the gunfire with her DSLR camera in hand. Always on the hunt for a story, Quintero knew that blood and carnage played best on the front page of any newspaper. Over the years, she’d followed U.S. Army soldiers and Marines into battle, embedded with their units in Afghanistan and Iraq. After cutting her teeth in the desert, Quintero switched her focus to Mexican cartels and corruption in the Mexican government. What she immediately learned was that corruption was endemic among all governments, particularly those in Latin America where bribes, extortion, and pay-offs were merely a way of doing business.
In recent years, Quintero had focused on the Northern Triangle, searching for a way to stem the “Iron River,” the flow of weapons from the United States into Mexico and Central America. During her investigations, she’d learned about FAR Cartel and its mysterious and enigmatic leader El Fantasma. The man lived up to his name. No one seemed to know who he was or where he lived.
But Quintero’s circle of influence had put her in contact with David Cole, and she felt honored that Cole had called her in a time of crisis.
As soon as she’d ended his incoming call, Quintero and Derrick had packed their equipment in her ancient Toyota Land Cruiser and drove across the city through the chaotic traffic.
Quintero cut across the street, running between cars jammed in the bottleneck of people fleeing the burning building and the stampede away from the gunfire. She held the camera at chest level, snapping photos as she ran, hoping she would get at least one decent shot.
Arriving just in time to see Cole get tackled and the masked men brutally murder Cole’s bodyguard, Quintero kept snapping photos, this time shifting the camera so she could see the display screen and better center her subjects. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cole’s briefcase skitter under the vehicle behind his waiting GMC Yukon.
Quintero snapped off photos of the kidnappers as they black bagged Cole and stuffed him into the SUV. The driver turned his head to look out the open passenger door and Quintero snapped a photo of him.
She kept shooting as the Yukon peeled away, its tinted windows sealing David Cole inside like a coffin on wheels.
Derrick came running up with his video camera but was too late to get in on the action. He’d seen death up close during his years of freelance work, so the violence didn’t seem to bother him.
Sirens wailed up and down the street.
Another car screeched to a stop and a late-twenties brunette jumped out in slacks and a blouse. She ran toward the dead security guard and shouted his name in a panicked screech. “Ezra! No!”
Quintero noticed Derrick still had his camera rolling. She went over to the woman kneeling beside the slain bodyguard. Putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder, Quintero softly said, “He’s not coming back.”
The woman plopped into a sitting position with her knees crossed and put her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her body as she cried. Seconds later, the woman composed herself and looked up at Quintero. Her voice had the cutting edge of a knife when she spoke. “Were you here when they took my father?”
“Yes,” Quintero replied. “I saw masked men stuff Mr. Cole into his SUV and speed away.”
Rising, the young woman wiped away her tears with her fingertips and headed for Derrick. “Get out of here, you fucking vulture!” she yelled, pushing the camera lens away from the morbid scene on the sidewalk.
Quintero knew the woman was Cole’s daughter from her earlier question and addressed her by name, “Catalina, you have a job to do. You need to secure the factory. The men who took your father might have raided your offices. You need to find out. Go!”
Catalina Cole paused and glanced up at the smoke rising from the building and realized she had bigger problems than a dead bodyguard.
Without answering Quintero, Catalina sprinted down the block toward the arriving fire trucks.
“Why did you send her away?” Derrick asked. “We could have interviewed her.”
The reporter shook her head as she watched Catalina rush away. “She was in no shape to give us an interview.”
Quintero walked to the car parked behind where the SUV had idled while waiting for Cole. She got down on her hands and knees and spotted the briefcase Cole had dropped. Quintero grabbed the case, pulled it out from under the car and straightened.
“Excuse me, miss!” a police officer called, having just witnessed her fishing out the case.
“What?” Quintero asked, effecting an air of annoyance.
“Is that your briefcase?” the cop asked.
“Yes. I dropped it when the shooting started,” Quintero said, layering just enough fear into her voice to sell the lie. “I was so scared that I tripped, and the case slid under the car. I just left it there while I ran for my life.”
The cop seemed dubious about her answer, but didn’t press the issue further. Like everyone else, he had bigger problems than chasing a reporter with shaky alibis.
Quintero quickly strode down the street, eager to put some distance between herself and the impending investigation. She was sure she would find a trove of intelligence and hoped some of it was related to FAR.
Derrick quickly caught up with the reporter and they jumped into their vehicle.
On the way to their hotel, Quintero tried to open the briefcase but found it locked. Unsure of the combination, she set it aside and began scrolling through the photos she’d captured of the kidnapping and mentally composing a story she could sell to the wire services.
Once they reached the hotel, Derrick and Quintero edited video and photos into a coherent timeline. Quintero got on the phone with an editor at the Washington Post and soon, the kidnapping of David Cole was on the front page of every newspaper and twenty-four-hour news network. She even did a live report from the scene, including interviews with a local police captain and high-ranking Guatemalan officials.
While no one had come forward to claim responsibility for snatching Cole off the street, it wasn’t unusual for the kidnappers to go days or even weeks without communicating with the family to help soften them up. With no word, the family would be desperate to pay whatever the amount that the kidnappers asked for.
Quintero knew the price would be high, but she suspected the kidnapping was more about power than cash.

4
Batey Cacata, Dominican Republic

“Go! Go! Go!” John Phoenix screamed at the men stacked up on the shoot house door.
The team of counterterrorism specialists from the Dominican Republic Army rushed into the shoot house, cleaning rooms, shooting bad guys with paint ball guns, and rescuing a hostage.
Phoenix clicked off his stopwatch and glanced up at Lorena Wolf, the owner of Wolf Mitigation Services (WMS), where she stood on an observation catwalk above the training facility.
“Run it again,” she said.
“You heard the lady,” Phoenix barked. “Reset and run it again.”
Once the team had formed back into a gun train outside the door, Phoenix gave them a few more pointers, critiqued what had gone wrong and what they’d done right. He demonstrated how to handle the rifle as the men entered the room and tossed the gun back to the leader.
“Let’s roll, gentlemen,” Phoenix said. He held up the stopwatch and barked, “Go!”
The team rolled into the shoot house, blazing through the exercise.
When Phoenix glanced around for Wolf, he didn’t see her on the catwalk. He walked over to one of the other WMS crewmen and asked where the boss had gone.
“Don’t know,” the guy said with a shrug. “She got a phone call and left.”
Phoenix rounded up the Dominicans and took them to a classroom for another briefing. He went over several new tactics and diagramed on a whiteboard how the team would use them.
After a few more scenarios in the shoot house, the team broke for the day. The Dominicans went to a bunk house and Phoenix climbed into a Toyota Hilux that Wolf had assigned for his use.
Driving off the massive compound that comprised WMS’ training facility, Phoenix took in the scope of the operation.
The site included a large lodge, bunkhouses, a cafeteria, a schoolhouse, shoot houses for CQB training, rifle ranges for snipers, bomb disposal areas, and two hangars that housed the Cessna 182 jump plane and an MD 500 Defender helicopter.
There were also parachute rigging facilities and vehicle maintenance bays for a range of trucks, vans, and armored personnel carriers used during training.
The place even had an off-road driving track designed to teach contractors and clients how to navigate dusty roads in convoys and perform high-speed maneuvers.
In short, WMS was a first-class training facility set in a tropical paradise and to Phoenix, it was starting to feel like home.
On his way to his house in Boca de Chavón, Phoenix passed the second WMS location, a marina near the mouth of the Chavón River, where WMS trained men in maritime patrol, boarding operations, search and rescue, and augmentation of the Dominican Armed Forces.
Phoenix had signed on to train Dominican forces, but that role quickly broadened. A SEAL team’s raid on the WMS compound—meant to flush out a CIA mole—had gutted Wolf’s contract force, and now Phoenix was on call for anything she needed.
And Wolf had been right, the Dominican’s listened and respected Phoenix, not only did he have twenty-one years of experience in Army Special Forces and as a CIA paramilitary asset and covert operative, but also because he was a brown guy who spoke their language.
Like his Latin American brothers, Phoenix was medium height at one-hundred-seventy-eight centimeters. He even looked the part at five-ten with black hair and brown eyes. His mother had been a Colombian trafficked into the United States, but the coyotes had left her for dead after she became severely dehydrated and couldn’t sustain the forced march through the Texas heat. Phoenix’s father, Hank, had rescued Marisol, nursed her back to health, fallen in love, married her and birthed a healthy baby boy.
Pulling up to his house, Phoenix shut off the truck engine. Weary from a long day of training, he entered the modest property, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and walked out onto the rear patio. He sank into a swing seat and propped his feet on a nearby table. Rocking gently, he sipped his beer and watched the sun set over the Caribbean.
Not long after taking the job at WMS, Phoenix had purchased the rundown property that overlooked the breakwater that separated the Chavón River from the Caribbean. A team of contractors put a new roof on the concrete block walls, installed new plumbing and electrical fixtures, and turned the skeleton into a home. A gardener planted flowers and tended the yard to keep it from becoming overgrown in the lush tropical environment.
Phoenix had never owned a house before and it was still odd for him to refer to it as his home. The only thing missing was a señorita to love. But Phoenix was content. He liked the work he was doing for WMS, enjoyed a relaxed relationship with his boss, and was finally putting down roots. He hoped his mother and father were smiling down at him.
The only problem he’d found with this location was that there were few waves to surf. Over the years, Phoenix had found that being on a surfboard was about clarity and being completely in the moment. If he thought about other things, the wave would grind him up and spit him out.
On days off, he’d borrow one of WMS’ rigid hull inflatables and motor over to Saona Island or out to Mona Island in the Mona Passage. But to get the best surfing, he had to take the overnight ferry to Puerto Rico.
Phoenix was on his second beer when he heard a car stop on the street. He glanced through the hedge of Mexican fence post cactus that formed a living wall between his yard and the street to see Lorena Wolf’s Land Rover Defender. He let out a groan.
Wolf exited her vehicle and came through the fence gate. She went into the house and returned with two open bottles of beer. She handed one to Phoenix and sat down beside him. She kicked off her flat and stretched out her golden legs. Wolf kept in fantastic shape, often training with the contractors and students at her facility. Her long brown hair twisted in the breeze coming off the water.
“What’s up?” Phoenix asked. Wolf didn’t make it a habit of stopping at his home nor of serving him beer. Usually, it was the other way around.
“I got a call from Catalina Cole today,” Wolf replied.
“Should I know who that is?”
“Her father, David Cole, owns one of the largest textile firms in Guatemala. He was kidnapped yesterday.”
“That’s not good,” Phoenix replied.
“No, it’s not good,” Wolf replied. “Catalina told me she fired the PSC who provided her father’s bodyguards and wants to hire us. One of the fired contractors took a payoff and helped facilitate the kidnapping.”
“She wants WMS to provide security for her?”
“Yes, I’ve already sent a team as protective security for her. But I want you to work with the locals to recover her father.”
“Does Catalina have kidnap and ransom insurance on her father?”
“She said she has a policy, but the insurance company wanted to send in a crisis management team who works for the same firm she just fired.”
“Nice,” Phoenix said. “So, I’m crisis management now?”
“Exactly,” Wolf said, patting her contractor’s leg. “I want you to handle negotiations, communicate with the kidnappers, manage logistics, and work with local law enforcement. Do you think you can handle that?”
“It will be like I’m back in CIA,” Phoenix replied cheerily.
“I knew you’d understand.” Wolf sat her half-empty beer bottle down and stood. She handed Phoenix a slip of paper. “That’s Catalina’s contact information. She’s already signed a contract with me and is ready for you to arrive in Guatemala City.”
“It might take a few days to get the team together,” Phoenix replied, looking up at his boss’ intense brown eyes. Whenever he saw that look the lyrics from the Duran Duran song, “Hungry Like a Wolf” popped into this head.
Phoenix couldn’t help but think about the angles Lorena Wolf could work to drum up new business. WMS was at its heart a private security company (PSC). Since Carlton Wolf founded the company in the 1970s, both he and his daughter had worked tirelessly to expand the firm, running executive protection details and private investigation, gathering intelligence, and performing risk assessments on other businesses for any paying customer. Wolf had a long list of clients that included a variety of intelligence services and private enterprises, who all did business in hostile territories.
The Northern Triangle certainly qualified as a hostile territory. With the crackdown of Mexican cartels, they narcos had shifted their transshipment points to places in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Honduras as well as other points further south to send drugs, weapons, and migrants to the United States. Petty crime ran rampant on the gritty streets, a weak judiciary did little to enforce the laws or prosecute crime. Frequently the judiciary and public officials took bribes or embezzled funds for their own benefit.
It was hardly a secret that CIA, private military contractors (PMC), and cartels worked together to maintain a delicate balance of corruption in the Northern Triangle. CIA feared that without cartel control over the region that more radical forces might seize control, allowing dictators or foreign influences to take over the triangle. The PMCs funneled illegal arms to cartels and local militia groups with CIA backing, pushing out surplus military stockpiles, or using covert fronts such as the war in Ukraine to divert shipments into the triangle. Even the narcotics pipeline served to keep local factions in check with U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency taking out smaller rival groups to allow larger networks to operate under quiet CIA management. The CIA used funds from drug sales to pad black budgets to keep operations out from under the prying eyes of Congress and other oversight committees.
Phoenix knew all of this because he’d seen it firsthand as a CIA paramilitary, equipping and training the local militaries and law enforcement. He’d buried his head in the sand, content to be a cog in the wheel and do his job. Now that he no longer had to care about pleasing bosses in CIA, Phoenix wanted to wreck the system and if any of those agency assets stepped into the way of him rescuing David Cole, then bullets would definitely fly.
Who’s hungry like a wolf, now?
“I don’t want a team. I want you to handle this personally,” Wolf said and headed for her vehicle.
Phoenix sipped his beer as the sun slipped lower on the horizon. Suddenly, his contentment at setting down roots felt like leg irons, handicapping him. A restlessness stole over Phoenix at the prospect of seeing action, even if it was guiding local cops to David Cole’s location. It was good to be back on the prowl with a new mission.
Even though she had told him to handle the job personally, wished Wolf had given him the green light to put together a team. Still, he could at least get a jump on things by making a few calls. Phoenix reached for his cell phone and dialed Chris Miller, his old paramilitary running buddy from CIA Special Activities Branch.
“I didn’t think you’d answer the phone,” Phoenix said when Miller picked up.
“You’re a fucking mess, Bowie,” Miller said, using Phoenix’s old CIA code name. “But when you call, I know there’s going to be plenty of action.”
“What do you know about David Cole’s kidnapping?” Phoenix asked, figuring Miller had an inside track since he worked as an investigator for President Mercia’s national security advisor, Sandy Delacroix.
“It’s all over the news. What about it?” Miller asked.
“Cole’s daughter fired her old security contractor and hired WMS to act as go-betweens for her and the kidnappers.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I’m not looking forward to it either, but that’s the job. You still got contacts in the area from when we operated there?” Phoenix asked.
“A few.”
“Anyone I can contact to help if I need a hand?”
“I’ll have to dig around. It’s been a while since I was in Guatemala. I’ll text you contact info when I have it.”
“Awesome. That sounds good. Do you know if this has popped onto Delacroix’s radar?”
“I don’t think so. Besides, you know the U.S. government doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“Just create them,” Phoenix muttered.
“No argument there,” Miller replied. “Let me fish around and see if I can get some dope for you along with those contacts.”
“Thanks, Chris.”
“Be safe down there, Bowie. Light ’em up.”
“Roger that,” Phoenix replied and ended the call.
Phoenix went into the house and packed a bag, including his Glock 19X pistol and extra magazines. As part of the standard private security contract, all WMS personnel went armed and ready for action, and their status within Guatemala allowed them to carry firearms for protection.
With his kit packed, Phoenix called Wolf’s house, but didn’t get an answer, which was unusual.
Wanting to arrange transportation to Guatemala, Phoenix jumped in his truck and headed for Villa Wolf.
Phoenix did not receive the welcome he thought he deserved.
After waving to Clint, the gate guard, Phoenix had parked his truck in front of Wolf’s impressive four-car garage and knocked on the door to her seaside estate.
Nicolet, the Dominican housekeeper, opened the door for him.
“Is Lorena in? I need to speak to her,” Phoenix said.
“Let me check.” Nicolet closed the door and left Phoenix standing on the front step.
Lorena Wolf kept her employee waiting for ten minutes. Phoenix could practically feel the second hand ticking on his watch. He wanted to move forward now that he’d been tasked with a mission, but Wolf seemed to be dragging her feet. He glanced around the property, checking the security camera angles, scanning the stucco walls and barrel tile roof for anything out of the ordinary. Phoenix wondered why Wolf had pulled the shades on all the windows when she normally left them open.
When his employer finally came to the door, Wolf wore a dark green sheath dress and not her usual white one-piece swimsuit and coverup that Phoenix had come to think of as her unofficial work uniform. She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, crossing her arms as she asked, “What is it, Phoenix?”
Noting her exasperated tone and the use of his last name, Phoenix asked, “Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes. You are. I’m entertaining. I gave you your marching orders already. What do you want now?”
Phoenix stepped back, eyebrows rising. He’d expected Wolf to be cordial. Instead, she was cold, borderline hostile. The shift threw him. His gaze drifted to the closed door behind her, and he wondered who the hell was in there. He dared not ask, sensing it would raise her ire further.
Trying to shake the unease, he cleared his throat. “Uh… I wanted to ask about transport to Guatemala. Am I flying commercial, or can I take the Citation X in the morning?”
“Cascade is on standby. Have him take you right now and stop bothering me. But I need him to be back here by noon tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Phoenix replied.
Wolf turned to enter her home as a signal for Phoenix to leave. He headed for his truck.
As he opened the door, Wolf softened her tone as she said, “Be careful, John.”
Phoenix shook his head. Lorena Wolf kept throwing him curveballs, but his job wasn’t to question her demeanor or attitude, it was to do the job she assigned him. And to protect her. As her contractor, it was his duty to ensure her safety and privacy.
On his way past the guard shack, Phoenix stopped his Toyota and asked the guard for the identity of Wolf’s visitor. Clint shrugged and said Wolf had sworn him to secrecy by making him sign a non-disclosure agreement.
Interesting.
“Next time, Clint, don’t let anyone past the gate when she has a visitor like that,” Phoenix said.
“I thought you knew the guy since you’re here so often,” Clint said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Phoenix replied. “Your job is to protect Wolf. If the NDA visitor is here, don’t let anyone past the gate.”
“Roger that,” Clint said.
Phoenix drove away, still concerned about Wolf’s behavior and her secret guest.
On the way back to his house, Phoenix called Mike Cascade, Wolf’s primary executive pilot, catching him just before he went to bed.
“Wolf said you could fly me to Guatemala City tonight,” Phoenix said.
“I’d love to but I’m on standby for tomorrow at noon,” Cascade replied.
“She told me. We can make it if we hurry. It’s only a two-hour flight from La Romana.”
“If everything goes well,” Cascade replied.
Phoenix heard the pilot let out a sigh of frustration. “I just got a text from Lorena. I’ll meet you at the airport in an hour.”
“Sounds good,” Phoenix replied. “I’ll see you there.”

Publisher: Third Reef Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: July 11, 2025
ISBN: 979-8-9920981-6-7
Print Length: 352
File Size: 1MB
Language: English
Series Information: The John Phoenix Thrillers
Book: 6
Bisac: FIC002000 FICTION / Action & Adventure
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