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  “Do you like them?”

  “No.”

  “Copy that. We’re coming up.”

  “Shit, Nate. You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Harv mocked his question. “‘What’s great about Sports Illustrated?’—what kinda question is that?”

  Nathan shrugged.

  Harv shook his head. “Cantrell said we’d be supported, but I sure as hell didn’t expect this.”

  “Let’s beat feet up there.”

  Since their USMC friend had been vocal, it could only mean the immediate area was secure. They made their way up to the summit without haste.

  Slightly winded, they arrived at the highest point of the bowling-pin formation but didn’t see anyone. The tree cover up here was modest, but it obscured most of the moonlight. Waist-high ferns and shrubs dominated the area. Like something out of a video game, six ghillie-suited figures materialized from crouched positions. Within seconds they were surrounded. Nathan had his Sig in his hand but kept it lowered.

  One of them approached, presumably the marine who’d made contact. In the dim light, he looked identical to Nathan and Harv, just not as tall. When the man pulled his hood back, Nathan saw his face was also painted. The other marines formed a defensive perimeter. Nathan and Harv released the elastic straps and pulled their hoods back.

  Nathan extended his hand. “You guys are a damned welcome sight.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Lyle, one-one. We don’t know your identity, and we won’t ask.”

  “Understood. Sorry about the interrogation, but we weren’t expecting you. I had to be sure you were the real deal.”

  “That’s not a problem, sir.”

  “Did you get a good look at the helo? Was it a Hind?”

  “Yes, sir. A twenty-four. Nicaraguan air force.”

  “Is there any chance it inserted troops?”

  “No sir, at least not within our visual range. We monitored its thermal signature. It never hovered, and it wasn’t high enough for jumpers. It was probably just a routine patrol. They’re used mostly for drug interdiction.”

  “A long time ago, we were with one-eight,” Nathan said.

  “Recon?” Lyle asked.

  Nathan nodded.

  “Outstanding.”

  “Sorry you guys got dragged out here.”

  “Are you kidding? We love deploying.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Corporal Ramirez and Sergeant Birdsall have been with you since the LZ. The rest of us have been up here for the last twelve hours.”

  “Are you serious? We were followed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We never saw or heard anyone.”

  Lyle smiled. “No sir, you wouldn’t have.”

  “How’d they beat our TI sweeps?” Harv asked.

  “When you stopped for thermals, they ducked behind trees to hide their signatures.”

  Harv shook his head. “We were too predictable.”

  “No, sir. Rammy and Bird lost you several times and had to reacquire. You weren’t easy to track.”

  As if on cue, two more men rounded the summit from the north, making Lyle’s group a squad-sized unit.

  Very tight, Nathan thought. “You guys find anyone up here?”

  “Yes, sir, he arrived five hours ago. He made a good approach, but we bagged him. He’s been tight-lipped. Says he won’t talk to anyone but one of you. We haven’t interrogated him. Our orders were to secure him and maintain a perimeter until you arrived.”

  Lyle looked to his left and issued a hand signal. Two of Lyle’s men appeared, and sandwiched between them was a third man who appeared to have his hands secured behind his back. The man didn’t seem nervous, just the opposite. Dressed in a woodland combat uniform with a light coating of face paint on his exposed skin, he walked with confidence.

  The moment of truth had arrived.

  They were about to meet the mysterious messenger from the embassy.

  A ray of moonlight hit the man’s face, and Harv took a step forward. “Viper? Is that you?” he asked in Spanish.

  “Mayo!”

  Harv embraced him. No words were spoken.

  Nathan smiled at hearing Harv’s old nickname. During their Echo operations, Harv had procured an entire case of the little squeeze packs. He used to put mayonnaise on everything, even his hot dogs. The kilo teams settled on Rojo for Nathan. Red. Back then, his hair had lacked any traces of gray.

  Lyle pulled a knife, cut the disposable binds around Viper’s wrists, and gave him his handgun back.

  Viper tucked the gun into his holster.

  “I apologize for cuffing you,” Lyle said, “but we had to be sure you weren’t a threat.”

  “It’s okay,” Viper said. “No harm done.”

  “You speak English,” Harv said.

  “A lot has changed over the years.”

  The two marines who’d brought Viper over lowered their handguns and withdrew.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Nathan said. He too gave the man a hug. Being a good ten inches shorter, Viper nearly disappeared inside Nathan’s grasp. They couldn’t reminisce in front of the present company, but Viper had played a critical role in Nathan’s rescue.

  “I need to get on the SATCOM and update our status,” Lyle said.

  “How do you do that?” Harv asked. “I didn’t see a dish.”

  “We use a backpack unit for LEO birds. We can type or dictate messages into a terminal, and the unit sends an ultra-short encrypted burst.”

  Nathan wondered how many low-earth-orbit satellites the US military had . . . probably dozens. Joint Special Operations Command had many resources at its disposal.

  Harv said, “So the burst transmission minimizes your RF signature.”

  “Exactly, sir. It’s not foolproof and can be jammed, but the unit rotates frequencies in that event. We’re currently in a dark period until the next bird clears the horizon. We usually have a twelve- to thirteen-minute window before it drops back down. We can talk to JSOC in real time with an HEO bird if we have to, but that’s not as stealthy, and it depletes the batteries faster. I’ll give you guys some time alone.”

  Nathan said, “Thank you, Sergeant. Do we need to move out?”

  “Not just yet, sir. I’ll let you know what JSOC comes back with.”

  They waited until Lyle rejoined his men.

  “Damn, it’s really good to see you again,” Harv said.

  “Yeah, you guys too,” said Viper.

  “I never had a chance to properly thank you. You helped Harv save my life. I’ve never forgotten it.”

  “I felt terrible about what happened. I’m really sorry you went through it.”

  “It happened. I’ve moved on.”

  “I’m sure you guys are wondering why I asked for your help.”

  Nathan lightened the moment, knowing Viper felt uneasy about all of this. “The thought had crossed our minds.”

  “We kept our real identities secret, even from each other. I haven’t used Viper since I saw you guys last. My real name is Estefan Delgado.”

  “We can only give you our first names. I’m Nathan. That’s Harv.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t need to know more than that.”

  Harv said, “In your second note to the embassy, you said Pastor Tobias was killed by a sniper, presumably Raven.”

  “That’s right. Tobias was his first name. His apellido—” Estefan had trouble finishing his sentence, emotion catching in his throat. “His surname was Delgado.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “He was your father,” Harv said.

  Estefan nodded.

  “Man, I’m really sorry.”

  “He was a servant of God who never questioned his faith. He gave away nearly all his mon
ey. He never asked, but I sent him all I could. He’d dedicated the latter part of his life to helping the people of Santavilla.”

  “You’re his legacy,” said Harv. “You and the other kilos saved countless lives, and you didn’t do it for money. If your dad had known about that, he would’ve been proud.”

  Estefan shrugged. “I never told him I became a sniper. We weren’t very close until recently. I have a hard time letting go of old anger. We sort of patched things up last year. My wife kept pressuring me to make the effort. I wish I’d done it a long time ago.”

  “Tell us what you know,” Nathan said, concerned they didn’t have much time. “Why do you think Raven’s the shooter, and why was your father murdered? We didn’t see the second note you tossed over the fence into the embassy, but we know you mentioned Santavilla. What’s going on?”

  “Gold.”

  “Gold?” Harv asked. “You mean literally?”

  “My father was murdered because of greed. There are several rich veins very close to the surface near Santavilla, but the locations are too rugged for larger commercial operators to access without destroying a significant area of forest.” Estefan’s tone sounded lifeless and flat. Clearly, he was still reeling from his father’s murder.

  “We don’t have to talk about this now,” Nathan said.

  “It’s okay. One of the mines produces a very high yield. Before he was killed, my father told me the mine was producing nearly three ounces of gold per ton. The spot price of gold has hovered at $1,400 per ounce, and it’s resurrected the industry here. In fact, gold is one of Nicaragua’s new economic engines. It could even become one of our country’s biggest exports within a few years. There’s huge money involved.”

  Harv said, “Three ounces per ton doesn’t seem like a very big number to me.”

  “Three ounces per ton is a lot. Trust me, it’s a big number. Many large commercial mines yield less than a quarter ounce per ton. They make up for the smaller ratio through sheer volume. You’ve seen those huge Komatsu dump trucks, the ones with the giant tires where the driver has to climb a ladder and take a staircase to drive it? An average-sized Komatsu can haul one hundred tons of ore. If you do the math using 0.2 ounces per ton, that’s twenty ounces per load.”

  Nathan ran the calculation in his head. “So every truckload of ore is worth $28,000?” Nathan asked.

  “That’s what I meant when I said there’s huge money involved. Keep in mind, 0.2 ounces per ton is on the low side. Some commercial mines yield four or five times that number.”

  “We’re in the wrong business,” Harv said.

  Nathan glanced over at Staff Sergeant Lyle, who was huddled in a clump of ferns with one of his men. Lyle made eye contact and nodded an okay. Nathan looked toward the eastern horizon but didn’t see any traces of morning twilight reaching through the canopy yet. “How do you know so much about this?”

  “I live in Managua now. I’m a government attaché. I work with foreign mining companies, mostly Canada and the US, that want to do business in Nicaragua. I negotiate the larger contract points before the lawyers hammer out the finer details. I wine and dine them, put them up in the nicest hotels, and give them tours of existing mines and processing plants. It’s a competitive business. We have to contend with South American countries to attract the commercial operators, but we can’t give the leases away. My job is to find a balance between concessions and benefits. My father did the same thing before he became a pastor. I think that’s why he was adamant about helping the miners of Santavilla. He felt guilty.”

  “I’m no expert,” Nathan said, “but I would imagine starting up a large-scale mining operation requires millions of dollars.”

  “It absolutely does. As an example, one used Komatsu dump truck can cost close to $1 million by itself. Just changing a single tire costs tens of thousands, but the payoff can be huge. Several of our larger mines down here are producing over a hundred thousand ounces of gold annually.”

  “Are you serious?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes, and they’re not even monster mines like in South Africa, America, and Canada. Some of those overseas mines yield over a million ounces of gold annually. The US production of gold in 2012 was around two hundred thirty metric tons, that’s over eight million ounces.”

  “It’s hard to wrap my mind around that,” Nathan said. “Eight million ounces?”

  “Remember, it’s far from pure profit. Like you said, mining gold on a large scale is expensive. It all boils down to production cost per ounce versus spot price. Big mining operators can produce gold for around five hundred dollars per ounce, so with today’s spot price, it makes economic sense. Another thing to remember, gold ingots from mining operators aren’t refined. The gold has to go through a refinement process before it can be sold to bullion companies or jewelry manufacturers. I always make it a point to show my clients a video of molten gold from Nicaraguan mines being poured into molds. That usually does the trick. Foreign-based mining is a hotly contested debate in our national assembly. Don’t get me wrong—our country needs the gold industry, but it has to be balanced with preservation. Sadly, the worst offenders are our own people, not foreigners.”

  “You’re a good spokesperson for the industry,” said Nathan. “Your English is completely fluent.”

  “Thanks, it has to be. I spend a lot of time with Americans and Canadians. I’ve worked hard to lessen my accent. It’s a lot better than it used to be.”

  “Didn’t you raid and destroy gold mines and equipment before you were assigned to us?” Harv asked.

  Estefan nodded and looked down. “Many of those mining contracts were negotiated by my father. He never even suspected I was destroying his life’s work. He’d aligned himself with the Sandinistas. It’s why we weren’t close. Back then, he hated the Contras and everything we stood for. He had a change of heart later in life, but he never acknowledged my military service. I think he was ashamed of it.”

  Estefan went silent. Out of respect, Nathan and Harv waited for him to continue. The situation felt surreal. They were on the summit of a Nicaraguan mountaintop in the middle of nowhere at 0430, discussing multimillion-dollar gold-mining operations with a former student they hadn’t seen in more than twenty years.

  “Anyway, these local, rogue gold-mining operations are brutal,” Estefan said. “I guess I never fully realized it until Raven took my father. It doesn’t sting as much when it’s someone else’s dad. I can’t believe I’ll never see him again.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Nathan said.

  “We used to take lives. I guess this is what it feels like to be on the other end.”

  “We killed rapists and murderers. Neither Harv nor I feel the least bit guilty about what we did, and you shouldn’t either. The comparison isn’t valid. You’re dad wasn’t hurting anyone. Just the opposite. It sounds like he’d devoted his life to helping people.”

  “He did.” Estefan fell silent again.

  Nathan wanted to ask about the situation in Santavilla, but Estefan needed some time to vent. Losing a family member to murder had to be horrible—it must be sudden and jarring. Nathan knew the conversation would change direction, and it seemed rude to force it. For the moment, they had time. Without the marine recons, Nathan would’ve been much more anxious to get off this mountain, or at least become mobile again. He attributed some of his edginess to the horrid memories Nicaragua held for him. But, he also knew everyone up here would fight to the death for each other, and that went a long way in alleviating his angst. The expression “Once a marine, always a marine” wasn’t just lip service.

  “Are you okay?” Nathan asked after another silent minute.

  Estefan nodded. “So what’s happening is this: In Santavilla and many other remote areas, crime families and gangs are in control of small independent mining operations. They operate unpermitted sites and make kickbacks to the local authori
ties who look the other way. Every so often the police raid an unpermitted mine, confiscate the heavy equipment, and shut down the site, but it’s usually just for show. The situation never really changes. The operation simply relocates to a different mine for a while. Small mills, like the one in Santavilla, can process about a ton of ore a day and yield three ounces of gold.”

  “That’s a nice chunk of change,” Harv said. “How many córdobas is that?”

  “Last I checked, one US dollar equals around twenty-five córdobas. So it’s over a hundred thousand córdobas. And that’s only the income from one mill. The local mills have a production cost per ounce, but it’s nowhere near a commercial operation. The cost is mostly cheap labor. My father was doing his best to educate the miners about the dangers of working with mercury.”

  Nathan exchanged a glance with Harv. “Mercury? What’s that used for?”

  “It’s a crude but cost-effective way to extract the gold. Mercury amalgamates with gold.”

  “It does?”

  “Mercury and gold are right next to each other on the periodic table. As you know, mercury’s a liquid at room temperature, but because it has nearly the same atomic weight as gold, the mercury just kind of swallows the gold particles. I don’t think anyone knows exactly how it works—it just does. It’s still a common method of extraction used by small-scale placer mines, particularly in developing countries like Nicaragua. Using mercury to create amalgam isn’t new; it’s been done for thousands of years. Mercury won’t combine with black sands and other heavier minerals, so it’s ideal for gold panning and sluicing.”

  “Are you talking about gold panning, like the old forty-niners did it?”

  Estefan nodded. “But the local operators do it on a bigger scale. They wash crushed ore down a slanted trough containing riffles that act like a series of dams. Because the gold is significantly heavier than the surrounding material, it gets caught behind the riffles, but it’s still mixed with other heavier minerals that need to be separated out. That’s where the mercury amalgam comes into play. Keep in mind, we’re not talking about industrial operators—they extract gold from ore quite differently, mostly through a chemical-leaching process.”