Palmer turned away from the ghastly scene, faced the woman. He seemed to tremble with barely contained anger. When he spoke, Palmer’s voice was a low, threatening rumble.
“Malignant Wave is supposed to be a non-lethal weapon system, Dr. Reed. That’s what the committee was promised.”
“Yes… Well,” she stammered. “As I said, there is no physical trauma induced by the waves… Only—”
“Only you render the victim helpless. Unable to control its most basic bodily functions — forever.”
Megan Reed blinked. “Of course, Senator. Think of the disruption to the enemy’s ranks on the battlefield, as medics try to administer care to hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers so afflicted. The drain on the enemy’s resources would be catastrophic. In the end, they would be forced to resort to euthanasia, if only to be merciful. The enemy would have to kill their own troops! Think of the effect such dire measures would have on their morale. ”
Senator Palmer shook his head.
“No,” he declared. “I refuse to consider your logic. It is too terrible to contemplate. Malignant Wave is not non-lethal technology, despite what you say, Dr. Reed. In truth your team’s invention is one of the most vile and hateful methods of execution I’ve ever witnessed.”
Dr. Bascomb rose, faced the Senator. “But, surely you see the value of such technology?”
“Value! In this, this… abomination?” Palmer cried. “We asked for a new type of non-lethal technology. Instead, you’ve invented nothing more than a diabolical new weapon of mass destruction. Can you imagine this weapon in enemy hands? If we allowed this program to go forward to deployment, we would unleash a new arms race.”
Once again, Senator Palmer shook his head. “If you think I or anyone on my committee will endorse such a weapon, you are sorely mistaken.”
Palmer spied Corporal Stratowski lurking in a corner. “Corporal, I need to get back to Las Vegas at once. Take me to the airfield,” he commanded.
“Right away, Senator. The Hummer is parked outside.” As Palmer crossed the tent, Megan Reed caught his arm. “Senator, please let me accompany you back to the city,” she pleaded. “I’m sure you’ve gotten the wrong impression of our work here. I think I can change your mind… Convince you to see things our way…”
Palmer glanced at the high definition screens a final time. He watched a man injecting one of the monkeys with poison, looked away immediately.
“Don’t bother, Dr. Reed,” Palmer replied. “Nothing you say could ever change my mind. As of this moment, consider the Malignant Wave Project cancelled.”
From behind mirrored sunglasses, Pizarro Rojas placidly observed the Las Vegas strip as it rolled past his windshield. The MGM lion blazed rose gold in the fading light, the sun a radiant ball of fire in the fast purpling sky.
In the seat beside him, his twin brother Balboa snored quietly. But Balboa had been in America for months now. The Las Vegas strip was nothing new to him. In fact, his brother showed very little appreciation of America, or perhaps he merely missed his wife and family back in Colombia.
For Pizarro this place was astonishing, a revelation. Though he’d heard about such luxury, never in his wildest imaginings did he envision the spectacle.
Pizarro Rojas reclined his seat, stretched his short, powerful legs. The middle row of the sports utility vehicle was roomy and comfortable, the air conditioner flooded the compartment with cool filtered air, enough to stir his long, curly hair. In all respects, he decided this was a much better ride than the steel box he and his two bodyguards had ridden in across the U.S./Mexican border.
“What do you think, Carlos?” Pizarro called to the driver. “Does this vulgar display of capitalistic excess offend your socialist sensibilities?”
Carlos Boca, an ex-Cuban special forces commando, glanced at his young boss’s reflection in the rear view mirror.
“What offends me is that Fidel was such an ass,” Boca replied with a sneer. “After the Revolution, in 1960, casinos like this… All this money… It could have belonged to Cuba. If Castro had nationalized the resorts, modernized them, then he could have used the jobs and the influx of foreign capital to benefit the Cuban people.”
“If he catered to foreign economic interests, then our beloved Fidel would have been no different than that pig Batista.” As he spoke, Roland Arrias ran his fingers along the jagged scar that ripped a canal down the right side of his face. Like the driver, Roland had a powerful build, thick neck and a shaved head.
“You are wrong, my brother,” Carlos replied. “Vietnam and China are models for the future. Not the economic cesspool Cuba has become.”
Pizarro Rojas knew the two men were as close as brothers — with their powerful physiques and army haircuts, they even resembled one another. Only Roland’s grotesque scar set the men apart. The pair bickered constantly, usually over Cuban politics. Somewhere along the line, Carlos had lost faith in his Supreme Leader and the Communist Revolution, while his fellow Cuban remained a committed ideologue. The pair looked to be in their forties, but Pizarro didn’t know which was older, which the younger. All he cared about was the fact that both men were ex-Cuban Special Forces and trustworthy allies.
Back at Big Dean’s Truck Farm, the Cubans had traded their dusty denims and work boots for dark suits and black silk shirts. Under the jackets, in shoulder holsters, each man carried a Russian-made Makarov PM. Carlos also had a long Spanish steel stiletto strapped to his leg. Stashed in a secret compartment hidden under the floor mats were their AK–47s, along with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Somewhere along this route, another SUV with six other military trained Cuban expatriates was moving toward the same rendezvous — Bix Automotive.
Roland Arrias snorted. “You are the fool, my friend. Russia lost the courage of their convictions, turned to Western-style democracy — which there is no such thing. Now the Russian people live in a gangster state.”
Listening to these men, Pizarro was reminded of the conversations he and Balboa shared with their youngest brother, Francesco. Little Franco never cared for politics. He loved music and women. Always a hothead, Francesco was beloved by their mother and doted on by their father. As leader of the cartel’s hit team, Francesco was also respected by the men under his command, some much older than he was. And young women could not resist his charms, either. When he was gunned down by an unknown American agent in Nicaragua, Francesco left two bastard children behind, from two separate mothers. At least his children would live on, under the care of their paternal grandparents.
It was those same American agents that stole back the technology his family had paid dearly for — in money and blood. The loss of prestige they suffered at the hands of these Americans shook the foundations of the Rojas’ once-powerful drug empire, made them appear weak and vulnerable to friends and enemies alike.
Behind his sunglasses, Pizarro’s expression darkened. Ahead of them stood the many tiered tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino. A banner fluttered from the building’s mammoth portico, proclaiming the resort as the site of the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. The Cubans also fell silent as they passed the target of their impending operation.
In just a few hours Pizarro Rojas would return, along with his brother Balboa, and his team of Cuban assassins. He would return to this majestic place to exact a measure of vengeance for the crimes committed against his family — not just vengeance against America, but against other Latin American governments and law enforcement agencies who dared to oppose the Rojas cartel.