Retribution

By Chuck Kimball

Lyle Mercer is a deep cover, black ops agent with the CIA. He is assigned to find and assassinate a high-ranking drug lord in the highland jungle of Columbia. No one- absolutely no one-has knowledge of this dangerous mission except the President of the United States and a few notable CIA officials. The assassination goes off wit

• Language: English
• Publisher: GoldTouch Press, LLC
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953791924

Chuck Kimball

Chuck Kimball is the author of _ e CCC. His latest book, CCC REDUX, is a thriller featuring the same deep black ops private operators who have dedicated their lives to helping the President of the United States, POTUS, often by working outside the law by avoiding bureaucratic handicaps. Chuck Kimball was born in a small town in Northern California. In the early years of his career, he worked for the California Department of Forestry, which later became Cal Fire. During his eleven years with the Department, Chuck worked his way up to Fire Captain and spent seven years directing air operations on wild_ res. During the winter months, his interest in teaching Fire Training enticed him to leave employment with California to take a job as a college instructor in San Diego, where he trained fire service personnel and others seeking a firefighting career. While furthering his education, seeking a second Master's degree, he met a wonderful woman from France who became his wife of over forty-two years. Chuck left San Diego and helped put together a Fire Technology program for Solano College in California's Fairfield/Suisun City area. This program featured live-fire training utilizing gasoline and propane for fire props. Recognizing this unique learning site's value, the petrol chemical companies, and the Military Sea Lift Command, and others sent their private fire brigades for training. With the generous time off provided to teachers, Chuck and his wife traveled to many parts of the world, places he depicts in his writing, Russia, India, Egypt, South America, France, Italy, Greece, and the Yucatan, to name a few. Chuck retired the first day of January, nineteen-nighty eight, and moved to Spokane, Washington.

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RETRIBUTION

Chuck Kimball

Copyright © 2021 by Chuck Kimball.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2020925870

HARDBACK:     978-1-953791-91-7

Paperback:    978-1-953791-90-0

eBook:             978-1-953791-92-4

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Prologue

ECUADORIAN HIGHLANDS COLOMBIAN BORDER

2 YEARS EARLIER

Lyle was well hidden within the rainforest canopy, where palm like trees gave him great cover. Comfortably sitting in the crotch of a tree, about twenty feet up from the ground, he had tied himself to the trunk. This extra preventive measure would prevent him from falling, in case Lyle should fall asleep. He had been in the same position for almost eighteen hours. Lyle had chosen this site with care, well in advance. This diligently selected location allowed an unrestricted view of those who would be attending a meeting here in the fo rest.

In the middle of the clearing, a large pile of dry limbs and other local brush had been gathered and placed in a round pit in preparation for the campfires. Lyle figured the distance from his perch to the camp to be just over three hundred yards. He wanted to take as few shots as needed for the kills. If he was to survive, he had to take the shots within forty-five seconds to a maximum of a minute, make his descent, and escape fast.

Lyle had considered the wind and the elevation factor of his targets. Lyle felt confident that all three tangos he was going to execute could be taken without a problem. If the other two criminals should show, Lyleshould ace them also with his Russian made rifle. He had practiced with the Russian VSS Vintorez sniper rifle in the past, but it was not his weapon of choice.

From his precarious mirador, Lyle had adjusted the PSO-1 telescopic sight to be dead on at five hundred yards. At four hundred yards, the bullet would be hitting three inches high. He would have preferred his own Remington with special three o eight loads. The American multi magnification scope was second to none in the world. The CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) operations officer was adamant about this operation being black and covert. No trail of evidence that could connect the operation back to the US Government or CIA would be tolerated. The weapon given had its advantages, lots of kill power, easy to carry in the canopy, and back to the extract point. Lyle would do the job they requested and get out.

Thinking about his extraction point, Lyle realized that after the kill or kills, he would have less than thirty-six hours to make his escape and get to the extract site, which was forty clicks from Puerto Arturo in Ecuador. There he would be met by a French SA 316 / SA 319 Alouette III chopper that would be making two passes over the sand bar at eighteen hundred hours each day, over two days. If not there, he would be left on his own. He thought it strange that a French Chopper was being used when US military choppers in service in Ecuador were being used as part of the DEA operation. He reminded himself not to question orders.

Throughout the day and into the early evening hours, the local Indians continued bringing in the coca leaves in large baskets. Like most Indians of the area, they ignored the purpose of the activities taking place. For a small fee, they were expected to perform different duties as required of their cruel masters, the Machete and El Jefe. Two of the men who were scheduled to arrive for the meeting—— El Machete, a brutal and rigid man, had killed members of the tribe for just taking a short break without permission. Many years ago, Lyle had witnessed El Machete chop Indians to death. At that time, Lyle had sworn that someday he would kill this evil man. Lyle had placed El Machete on his kill list.

As specified by the CIA, Sanchez, the regional leader for The Zetas, the feared drug cartel of Mexico, was the main target of this mission.

Lyle scoped the area again, looking for Sanchez, who was about six feet tall, and according to the CIA, would probably be wearing a white Stetson hat with a silver band about two inches wide. Another dominant feature would be his cowboy boots made of cayman skin with tips coated with silver. These were the primary distinctive means of identification, according to the CIA ops officer.

Lyle’s second target, whose name he did not know, would be a short man, about five feet eight inches tall. He would be wearing a black beret on his head and have a beard showing some gray. He would most likely have a cigarette in his left hand or hanging from his lower lip. Another essential detail would be his gait, for he walked with a slight limp in his left leg.

Lyle leaned back against the tree trunk, thinking about this one-time operation. If he could take the targets out, it would put the Zetas and The Fox, a major drug lord, back at least a year behind their cocaine supply delivery to the States. Fatigued to the extreme, Lyle started dozing off again.

It was dark when he suddenly awoke and realized he had slept longer than planned. He could hear music, and he noticed a lot of activity going on around the large glowing campfires. Lyle began to assess the area reminding himself he had to be alert and exceptionally concentrated. As he continued to scope the camp with intensity, he mumbled, Oh my, it looks like Sergei, the Russian arms dealer, is here. His sources had told him with certainty that Sergei was still in France. Something was not right. As he scoped across the area, keeping the scope view just above the fire, he spotted a man over six feet tall, with a dark complexion, a beard, and a bushy mustache. It was the Egyptian. He quickly entered a hut. The Egyptian was the arms dealer he was hired to kill four years ago in Paris, but this assassination had failed. During a fight, the Egyptian had stabbed Lyle in the back, severely injuring his left shoulder, almost killing him. Surprised, he muttered, No, it can’t be him.

As he continued to scope around the campsite, he noticed a man with a limp. He had to take out these targets, El Machete, Sanchez, and also Sergei. The CIA had been after Sergei for selling arms and promoting terrorism. Lyle had attempted to kill him, once in Paris and once in Turkey. He had the scar of a bullet on his right leg to remind him of this confrontation. As a humane gesture, he had to take out El Machete, who had chopped up dozens of poor Indians. His first shot would be Sanchez, even though the Zetas would replace him within weeks. His old enemy Sergei, the Russian arms dealer, would be his third kill if possible. If not, he would find him later in Paris or Buenos Aires.

He continued studying the area closely. Those attending the gathering seemed to be overly cautious, and they even gave the impression that they had been forewarned of an impending attack. He began to slow his breathing. As he kept on watching the position of each of his targets, he thought, I hope that on my grave will be inscribed the following words: Lyle Mercer, sucker, but dedicated to his country. Besides the continuous hustle and bustle of the Indians, the guests remained invisible. His intuitiveness kept signaling him something was wrong.

Then suddenly the situation changed. Lyle’s first sub-sonic shot took out the man wearing the Stenson hat and the cayman boots. Within seconds he had relined the scope on his second target and whack, his next shot took out El Machete. As he was positioning for a kill shot, he saw a man remove his wig and fake beard——what is this? I’ve been set up, he thought. I am out of here. Then guns began to fire from all directions, whack-whack-whack, the familiar sound of 7.46 slugs from the AK-47’s assault rifles. These were guns built by the Russians and sold by Sergei. He could hear his attackers yelling in Spanish, He is a monkey, he is like a little monkey, he is everywhere, everywhere, look he is here, no, there. It sounded like thunder, and the non-stop shooting was causing Lyle to panic. Then there was an eerie quietness, only profound silence, complete nothingness.

Lyle had become semi-conscious several times over the next three days. He could vaguely perceive what looked like a large man, a strong and large man who kept telling him he would be ok. This unknown person kept saying that his name was Brett Thompson and that he was there to help him. Finally, a week later, Lyle awakened in a Quito Hospital in Ecuador. Slowly Lyle became more alert and noted several US Marines outside his hospital door. At that point, he said to himself, I am done with the CIA, he realized he had been set up.

Chapter 1

CARCASSONNE, FRANCE

Present-day

Lyle did not have a clue as to where he was. The open space was dingy and poorly lit. Nothing around him was familiar. Taking in a deep breath, Lyle found that the air surrounding him was moist, heavy with a musty smell, much like the atmosphere present in a wine cave.

He could now feel his fingers beginning to move slightly, yet he could not open his eyes, but why? Where am I, he said again to himself? Trying to recall what had preceded the situation he was facing at the moment; he somewhat remembered following a man called Aman on a freighter named the Ruse——yes, that was it, the Ruse. He slowly recollected he had been trying to find out who Aman was delivering the drugs too. Lyle began to concentrate like he had trained himself to do at an early age. Slowing his breathing, going deep within himself, he began to recall leaving the Consulate in Karachi, Pakistan, after talking with the Consulate General and the CIA, Central Intelligence Agency staff supervisor. Yes, that was it. He had been assigned to work on a cargo ship, the Ruse; a Liberian registered ship that both the CIA and the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) had suspected of transporting drugs for a long time. Concentrating hard, Lyle remembered it was Aman who had drugged him on the ship.

His eyelids began to quiver but would not open. Lyle tried to move his legs and arms and found that they were firmly bound. Taking in another deep breath, he was able to pick up the smell of tobacco smoke. It was the strong smell of a Gitane, a French cigarette with a harsh odor. Hearing footsteps, he slowed his breathing and began to focus on the sounds.

The man who sat a short distance away from Lyle was Cantrell. He was resting with his feet, propped on an empty barrel of wine. The room was bare and cold and was part of the main tunnel, which led to a river called Aude. The tunnel was known to only two persons, and the secret of its existence had been handed down from generation to generation within Francois’s family for hundreds of years. Francois and Cantrell were both connected to the drug trade. Francois was a significant link who was responsible for the continuous movement of drugs that transited through France. Earlier in the day, Francois had left Cantrell alone in the tunnel to keep an eye on their guest, Lyle Mercer, who was held on a stretcher. Francois was temporarily absent, so he could go and pick up his grandfather.

The previous day Cantrell, a minor link in this chain, had flown from New Orleans to Paris, and the flight alone had left him tired and weary. After a brief stop in the French capital, he had continued his journey with a connecting flight to Carcassonne in the south of France. This last leg of a long trip had left him completely exhausted. After dozing off and on for an hour, he rubbed his hands vigorously to revive himself. Cantrell clearly remembered what the Fox, his boss, had said before his departure, Get the job done. There will be no failure, or you will suffer severe consequences.

Cantrell had sat down an hour earlier to rest, and if one could have looked closely, one would have been convinced that he was dead to the world. Being in a state of limbo, time had passed rapidly, but now his calf muscles were beginning to cramp. He had been sitting on an old wooden box, his back resting against the rugged wall of the cave, with his feet propped up. Taking a drag on his cigarette, he began to research about the town he was in, Carcassonne, on his iPhone. The history of the place intrigued him, even though he did not care for the French much, let alone their history. Tired and cranky, plus having to wait in a cave or tunnel to watch someone did not sit well with him. Francois informed him that later he would have to help carry bowling balls and the guest, Lyle, to a particular location. Taking another puff on his cigarette, Cantrell vocalized out loudly, The money is great so that I will follow the orders. Once again, he closed his eyes and began to doze off.

Sometime later, Francois entered the tunnel, silently walked up behind Cantrell, and quietly bent over to blow air into Cantrell’s ear. Jumping up and then falling sideways, Cantrell shouted, What the hell is going on? Who is it?

Bonjour Monsieur Cantrell, Francois whispered, a yellowish and slimy Gitane cigarette butt hanging from his purplish lower lip. Slung over Francois’s shoulder was an overnight bag. I am sorry I had to leave you so long here, alone with our guest. I needed to take my grandfather to pick up his car that was being repaired. I could have been a gendarme entering the tunnel, Francois continued with a sardonic look, trying to appear tough. You look tired.

Yes, I am exhausted from all the flights and driving time to get here.

After several drags on his cigarette, Francois asked, You had some time to explore the tunnel. One can discreetly reach the river bank from this tunnel. This is the exit we will take when we are ready to leave. By the way, did you see the groove or symbol on the back of the rock door when we came in this morning?

Yes, I was going to ask you about it. Someone, most likely kids, must have cut that cross with the two transverse bars in it. You had told me no one knew about this tunnel.

Reaching into the shoulder bag, Francois had brought with him; he handed Cantrell half of a recently baked baguette that was still warm and smelled heavenly. Again reaching into his bag, he brought out two different kinds of cheese, some sliced salami, and a special precooked sausage in a packet. Holding the items in his hand for a few seconds, he looked Cantrell in the eyes and said, Do you know what day it is? June twenty-first, you should know, you picked me up at the airport. What does that have to do with anything? I am hungry. Are you going to let that food spoil?

Gloating again, Francois continued. Again, like most Americans, you do not read enough. It is the summer solstice today, my friend, and the longest day of the year. This morning while you were sleeping on the plane, the sun slowly rose from the east. While rising, its rays passed through a cut in the stone on the bridge that straddles over the River Aude, projecting a light the shape of a transverse bar on the outside of the wall and stone door. Yes, the same symbol as the one which has been carved on the stone door inside the tunnel. This symbol is called ‘The Cross of Lorraine.

You old goat, I do not understand why it is so important, or why I should even care. Let’s eat, get loaded, and leave here.

Slow down. Francois carefully and somewhat stylishly displayed the food on top of the wine barrel, where Cantrell had been resting his feet earlier. Francois sliced the crunchy and delicious bread with his pocket knife, and then, taking his time, ceremonially poured two glasses of red wine. Francois tipped the large wine glass to his lips and then lowered it’s contents by half. To Cantrell’s surprise, Francois lighted another cigarette and continued his explanations about the Croix of Lorraine.

"The symbol chiseled on the inside door, as well as on the door outside, is vital to the French. When our President General Charles De Gaulle was buried in his home town of Colombey- les-Deux-Eglises, our government had a forty-three-meter copy of the symbol erected there in his honor. During WW2, the Cross of Lorraine was superimposed on the French flag. This vital symbol goes back many centuries and was found on the shields of knights. The sheeple of America is not aware that this symbol is on the Exxon logo. Yes, one of the big oil corporations that the US troops were sent to protect while America drained off some poor foreign countries’ oil fields. Your Government and its corporations have raped the wealth of many nations, my friend.

This symbol is also used by two other big American corporations, Nabisco and Maxxum. My friend, you must read, use your iPhone to learn. Our children in the fourth grade usually know more than your eighth graders."

Here, have some more good wine, another for the road as the sheeple of America would say. Francois was filling his glass for the third time.

Cantrell who could not wait to start eating reached for the bread and cheese. He was staring with suspicion at the blackish type of sausage. Because he thought it looked a little disgusting, he asked Francois, What type of salami is this?

It is called boudin, and it is special, it is very good. You must cut small pieces and place them on the bread. Chew well, savor, and follow each mouthful with a good swig of wine.

Doing what Francois had suggested, Cantrell started eating with gusto ate half the roll of what he thought was soft salami. Ah, I am beginning to see what you mean. Yes, more wine, please.

I need to check our guest, I will be back in a moment. Francois approached the incapacitated guest who was resting on a stretcher that had been lowered against a wall in the cave. From a few yards away, Cantrell looked Francois over with intensity. Francois seemed much older than he did at the airport that morning. Cantrell estimated to be fifty. He observed that he walked with his shoulders leaning forward, somewhat like a person who had carried heavy sacks of grain or potatoes for years. His teeth were yellowish and uneven, matching the color of his beard. His hair was shoulder length, slightly curly, greasy, and terribly disheveled, making him look older yet. There were small wrinkles around his tired eyes. Francois’s clothes looked like the farmers in the country. His shoulder-length faded blue overalls worn over a flannel shirt. Startled by his phone, Cantrell quickly ended his sizing up of Francois and answered the phone.

Francois could hear Cantrell speaking with a mousy sounding voice. The conversion over, Cantrell summarized the orders left by the caller, The Fox, our boss, sends word that he wants our guest, Lyle Mercer, brought to New Orleans within forty-eight hours. He also wants him continually sedated and not able to hear anything, and if he dies, your balls will be cut off and placed in your mouth.

Cheri, calm down, you are like all Americans, everything fast——you bed your woman, and then back to the football game on TV, in minutes. Raising his voice as he blew air through his lips, like most of the French do. Francois then continued, Now, let’s have a glass of wine, some of this salami, more bread and Tomme cheese. Francois licked his lips as smoke puffed from his nostrils and mouth and pushed the food aside. Out of the blue, for unknown reason, Francois declared, Without your big guns, ships, and of course your fast planes, you Americans would not be so tough.

Taking his feet off the wine barrel, Cantrell quickly replied, We do everything big, and quit giving me your frog lip. Let me have some of the salami and I would like to try this smelly cheese. Thank God the French can cook, make good wine and have beautiful woman to lay. By the way when did you last give our guest his shot? And stop calling me Cheri, I am not your slut.

Blowing smoke in Cantrell’s direction, Francois walked toward the corner of the ample wine storage room. I am going to look over our little monkey, again, Little Monkey being Lyle’s code name.

Lyle Mercer, barely a; I to hear and unable to speak, had only one thought on his mind, breaking free. He said to himself, Escape can come after I find the location of The Fox. Lyle kept reminding himself that he must try to hear and remember all that he could. Slowing his breathing, he started saying his mantra, and then he began his special meditation taught to him by the Taoist Monks. His ability to meditate and calm himself had allowed him to cope with relentless situations and even saved his life many times over the past decade. Feeling Lyle’s pulse while checking his breathing, Francois blew smoke in Lyle’s face. Getting no response, no frowning, no coughing, Francois declared, He is out like a soldier at a whore house, Monsieur Cantrell. He does not need another dose of heroin, or any injection of our good sedative, Propofol. My Cheri, why does the Fox want us to give him the heroin?

With his mouth full of cheese and bread, Cantrell responded in a slurred voice, "The Fox wants him addicted and begging for more. He has an unusual torture planned for him, and by the time we reach New Orleans, it will be very easy to get him to talk.

Will we be transporting him to Bordeaux tonight?"

At about midnight there will be a plane arriving on an old dirt strip, not far from the small town of Limoux. There, we will be picking up barrels of red wine to transport along with Mr. Lyle. None of the wine we will be loading up is ever sold to the general public or stores. All that is produced has already been purchased by a special clientele, friends of the owners. We are not allowed to reveal the name of the wine, or give any information about the vineyard. The Fox is a privileged client. Each year he reserves several cases of the wine that later he presents as a gift, to a certain senator in the States. In turn, this senator conveniently arranges for very limited inspections at the docks in New Orleans.

The barrels we are taking over are half filled, with heroin, and mixed in with the good wine. When the kgs arrive in New Orleans, they are transported to a northern Louisiana vineyard where the wine is bottled. A few cases are sent to the good senator, and the rest of the wine goes half-filled to Fox’s acquaintances. The heroin, of course, is then distributed throughout the country.

The Fox is well organized and very sly, just like a fox, the translation of his real French name, Renard. The DEA and the CIA have been after him for decades. He is too clever for them.

But why are we in this pit hole of a cave under a bowling alley? asked Cantrell. Like I say, the boss is brilliant. The bowling balls are made in China, where they are placed in a particular cargo container. On the way to Marseille, from Shanghai, the cargo container ship stops in Karachi, picking up heroin. While on the ship from Karachi to Marseille, trustworthy workers drill out the balls and fill them with heroin. An undetectable plug is placed in the hole, making it look like the original balls. After Marseille, they are on their way to New Orleans. It is very smart, boule de bowling. Laughing, he continued, Ingenious, eh? In New Orleans, the balls are shipped to the buyers. Voila! The Fox gets rich, we get paid very well, and we face very little risk. The boss does not ship or handle large amounts, nothing like the Mexicans or the Colombians. Glorious Fox wants to continue enjoying the good life a long time, and not rot in a prison, concluded Francois, gloating and blowing more smoke.

How come we just in transport Lyle up in the Lemon, sorry, I meant the Citroen (French car) on the street rather than cross the river by boat. It’s a lot more work having to load him and then pack him back up to the truck on the other side? Too logical for the French I presume, sarcastically remarked Cantrell.

"Voila! There you go again. You want to work fast. On the other bank, where the truck is, there are no businesses and no important foot traffic, it is quiet. There is a lot of foot traffic on this side of the river, and if we are seen carrying someone up the bank on a stretcher, we may look suspicious. Carrying bowling balls up the bank would make people stare and maybe question our activity. We will take him across the river on the small boat tonight, transfer him to the truck, and drive him to Limoux.