Silent Running. Don Pendleton

and half a dozen armed guards behind bulletproof glass. It looked formidable, but it was mostly show because the checkpoint was manned by idiots.

      Domingo stopped his SUV in front of the barrier and honked. The security officer who came out of the booth recognized him and walked up to the open driver’s-side window. “You’ve been banned from this place, Domingo. Move on before I have to shoot you.”

      “I have to talk to the company officer in charge tonight,” he replied. “I’ve learned information about a threat to your plant and I have to tell him about it.”

      The guard laughed. “That’s a new one coming from a union bastard like you. You’d be happy to see this place burn down to the ground.”

      “You idiot,” Domingo gritted. “My people need their jobs here so they can feed their families. They’re not crazy enough to destroy their own jobs. This is a foreign threat to the plant, and it’s serious.”

      “Okay.” The guard reluctantly reached for his radio. “But if this is some kind of a trick, Domingo, you’re going to pay for it.” He pointed to the video camera. “This is all on tape, you know.”

      “Just let me talk to the man in charge.”

      A few minutes later a BMW drove up, the barrier was opened and a man in a suit and tie walked through. “I’m Valdez,” he said. “What’s this about a threat here?”

      “It’s no threat,” Domingo said as he pulled out a silenced pistol and shot the guard in the forehead. The company man got two rounds in the back as he turned and fled for his car.

      Four black-clad gunmen stormed out of the darkness and rushed the guardhouse. A few shots later it was over. With the main gate secured, Domingo radioed for the rest of his assault force to move in. Twenty more armed, black-clad men emerged from outside the cone of light, slipped through the perimeter and fanned out, weapons ready.

      The Pemex refinery was about to become the property of the people of Mexico.

      A HALF AN HOUR later the leader of the strike team reported to Domingo. “The entire complex is in Union hands, boss.”

      “Good.”

      As with any successful revolutionary, Domingo never let the right hand know what the left was doing. His militant Union brothers might have been a little apprehensive had they known that he was working more in the name of the Cuban DGI than he was in theirs. It would turn out the same in the end, though, and that’s what really counted.

      “Comrade Engineers,” he said, turning to the dozen or so grim-faced men standing around a van sporting caution markings, “it is time for you to do your part.”

      “Yes, Comrade.” The explosives engineer smiled. When he and his men were done with their work, all it would take would be a single push on a button and the largest oil refinery in Mexico would go up in flames. And, until the rightful demands of the union workers were met, not a single drop of gas would leave the place.

      Domingo reached into his SUV for the radio to make his report.

      DIEGO GARCIA SMILED as he stepped off his boat onto the brightly lit yacht dock at the Cancun marina. The initial phase of the plan had gone like clockwork. The Cancun peninsula was completely secured, the Carib Princess was in his hands, as were as most of the targets in Mexico. He had expected nothing else from his Matador teams, but he knew that the Goddess of Fate could always unexpectedly deal herself into the game. She’d been smiling on him this time, though, which meant that the rest of the operation should continue according to plan.

      When the sun rose over Latin America in a few hours, it would be on a new world in the making, a world of his making.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Cancun

      The mood in the main conference room of the Hotel Maya could only be called grim. It was approaching dawn, and raw nerves had kept most of the conference hostages from sleeping. The heavily armed, black-clad guards had reacted swiftly with rifle butts to any attempts at conversation, so the men had been left to stew in their anger.

      Hal Brognola was an old hand at the crunch game and knew how to keep his emotions firmly in check. He, too, was outraged at being taken hostage. But he knew that wasting his energy on things he had no control over was a useless exercise.

      He’d catnapped throughout the night while still staying alert to exploit any opportunity that might have presented itself. Unfortunately, though, the silent guards hadn’t blinked. With the dawn, additional armed gunmen walked into the room, which only increased the tension.

      To some, the newcomers might have been a guard shift change, but Brognola had no trouble identifying that they were a command group. The head honcho was easy to spot. He was a light-skinned Hispanic who looked as if he had a Spanish grandee somewhere in his bloodline. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties and had a relaxed, military bearing. His eyes swept across the roomful of captives but revealed nothing. The way the other men treated him, told Brognola that the show was about to get on the road. He was glad to see the newcomers settle at one of the conference tables.

      Not having been able to talk to his fellow captives, Hal couldn’t even begin to guess what this was all about and he looked forward to going one-on-one with his captors. Being interrogated always worked both ways, and he should be able to pick up some information. There was no doubt that he and his fellow conferees had some perceived value as hostages. Were that not the case, they’d have simply been gunned down in reprisal for some real or imagined wrong done to someone, somewhere, sometime ago. The usual terrorist excuse for brutality.

      They were considered valuable, so the only question was what they would be held ransom for.

      He was a bit surprised when he wasn’t the first man to be taken over to the head table. The American representatives bore the brunt of the kidnappers’ displeasure so the others could see how tough they were on the biggest threat. His friend Hector de Lorenzo got first honors. Hal wasn’t close enough to overhear what was being said, but Hector didn’t hide the fact that he was royally pissed. The questioning was short, and de Lorenzo was led away.

      When the A.G. of Panama was called out next, Brognola let himself relax. There was no point in getting amped up until his time came, but he automatically patted his empty coat pocket anyway.

      He was catching another catnap on the floor when he was called for his turn in the barrel via a rifle butt in the middle of his back.

      MISTER HAROLD BROGNOLA, the honcho read in almost unaccented English from what looked like a rap sheet. “Let’s see, you’re usually called Hal by your good friend the President, right?”

      “And you are?” Brognola answered the question with one of his own.

      The honcho’s eyes bore into him. “I would answer the question if I were you.”

      Brognola met his eyes and shrugged. “You know who I am. You have my passport.”

      The honcho nodded curtly, and the guard hovering over Brognola reversed his AK and slammed it into the pit of his stomach.

      He’d seen it coming and tried to move with the blow, but it still took his wind. As soon as he could breathe again, he straightened.

      The interrogator leaned forward. “Mr. Brognola, a man of your high position in government can’t be stupid enough not to recognize the realities of what is taking place here today. You are my prisoner and regardless of who you might be in your American Justice Department, or who your friends in Washington are, whatever may be left of your life is solely in my hands now.”

      The honcho smiled. “You can play childish macho cowboy games with me if you want, but I can assure you that you will answer my questions sooner or later.”

      Brognola knew that to be a simple statement of fact. He had no amateurish illusions about the realities of going through an extended interrogation. But he wasn’t about to play ball with this asshole until he absolutely