Page 4 of Thaddeus

Max and Brooks had gone through BUD/s together. I’d been in the class before them and due to injury, Kyle rolled out into the class after them. Needless to say, all four of them knew all about the suck. We’d spent a lot of time in the surf on the beach to the left of the Del.

“Hope you assholes are ready, you’re headed to Venezuela,” Zane came into the room and announced.

“Did you get a lock on Leon Brown?” Kyle asked, and flicked off the news channel he’d been watching, giving Z his full attention.

“Not a good one. But word is Brown’s meeting with a man called Jefferson Garcia,” Zane answered.

“Who’s Jefferson Garcia?”

“Another piece of the puzzle. Jefferson Garcia—he uses the alias Jefferson Baldwin now. Him and his mother fled Brazil to Suriname, after a short stay they settled in Guyana. With no formal education he did what any street rat does to support his family, joined a gang. Garrett sent you all his dossier.”

Favoring my laptop over a tablet, I rummaged through my pack and pulled it out. By the time I had my computer booted up, the others were already scanning the files on their phones or iPads.

I sat at the kitchen table; Z took a seat across from me while the others remained scattered around the sitting area.

“He doesn’t look like a street rat,” Max noted.

Jefferson Garcia’s image loaded and I had to agree. The man was wearing an expensive suit, fresh haircut that was perfectly styled, a gold watch on his left wrist peeked out from under the cuff of his jacket, and his loafers were polished to a brilliant shine. Garcia wouldn’t win People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, that was for sure, but he wasn’t the ugliest man I’d ever seen.

“His estimated worth is 2.1 billion?” The disbelief in Kyle’s tone couldn’t be missed. “Is he Omni?”

“Didn’t say he wasn’t a wealthy gang banger,” Z returned. “And the answer is—maybe. Tex and Garrett found ties but if he is part of Omni, he’d be the only one we’ve found so far without legitimate business holdings.” I scanned the document and Zane continued. “In the 1990s, Guyanese street gangs lacked organization. Most still do. Garcia saw an opportunity and he seized it. He did his time with different criminal bands, learned what he needed to, then he formed his army. He organized. Low-level shit at first, mostly armed robberies, but the thefts netted him the working capital he needed. He bought the loyalty of the men he’d recruited and quickly started taking over neighborhoods and claiming territories. Again, something the other gangs didn’t have the forethought to do.”

Jefferson Baldwin may’ve lacked a formal education, but the man was savvy. According to the intel Garrett had sent over, most of the territories Garcia had locked down were along the waterfront, which meant he had control of the ports. His other stronghold was along the Venezuelan border.

“It says here,” Brooks started, “he only exports his cocaine to Europe.”

“Tex found that interesting, too. He dug around and what he came up with was, profitability. Less security in European ports of entry means more product makes it to its destination with little to no hassle,” Z explained.

“You don’t sound convinced,” I noted.

“I agree with Tex’s assessment but I also think Garcia’s a pompous asshole. I think trafficking only to Europe feeds his ego. Makes him feel sophisticated. His product serves the people he considers to be classy Europeans, not low-life American junkies.”

I finished reading the report and noted, “No arrests.”

“Told you, he bought loyalty. Not only with his men—he has arrangements with both the Guyana Police Force and with the Community Policing Groups. When he was organizing, part of that was him gathering information on members of the Ministry of Home Affairs who run the GPF and government officials belonging to the People’s Progressive Party—the majority party.”

“Is this a capture or kill mission?” Max asked, still looking down at his tablet.

“Kill order on Garcia. Capture Brown if possible.”

“Roger that,” Max volleyed.

“What’s Garcia doing in Venezuela?” I inquired, not reading anything in his workup that told us what business dealing he had in that country.

“He flew in this morning to secure a stable of women. He always personally inspects his women before export.”

I couldn’t stop the snarl as it tore from my throat. “What the fuck?”

Max, Kyle, and Brooks all had matching looks of disgust.

“He’s a real sonofabitch,” Zane confirmed. “After his inspection he’ll put them on his private yacht he keeps in Morrocoy. They’ll head southeast a hundred miles to Caracas. From there they’ll be placed in a cargo container, put on a freight liner, and sent across the Atlantic, most likely ending up in Spain.”

“Christ. We’re talking about women not cattle,” I bit out.

“Livestock would be treated better. And we’re not talking about only women. We’re talking about girls. Most will be under fifteen.” Zane’s expression was blank.

I didn’t know how he did it. I’d seen a lot of fucked-up shit in my life. I’d watched as fathers strapped suicide vests on their young daughters. Mothers used their sons as shields when bullets were flying. So much despicable shit it was a wonder I could sleep, but I’d never get used to it. Not like Zane Lewis had. He’d perfected the art of pushing aside his personal feelings and burying them so deep you’d never get a lock on what he was really thinking.