Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [50]
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