Colombian Betrayal, page 1
part #1 of Bruce & Smith Series
Colombian Betrayal
Randall Krzak
Colombian Betrayal
A Bruce & Smith Thriller: Book 1
Randall Krzak
Copyright © 2020 Randall Krzak
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-978-0-9789441-0-0
Created with Vellum
To Sylvia, my true flower of Scotland,
And to our son Craig, of whom we’re very proud.
There’s no doubt I have the best family in the world.
Thank you for loving me.
I love you.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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
Also By Randall Krzak
Dangerous Alliance
Carnage in Singapore
About the Author
Continue Reading for an excerpt of
Acknowledgments
Cover Design By: DarnGoodCovers.com
Colombian Betrayal would not be a reality without those who helped me along my journey including: Jenny Benfield, Richard Bishop, Steve Blake, Bobby R. Byrd, Oliver F. Chase, Wayne B. Chorney, Steve Denker, Rikon Gaites, Preston Holtry, Mark Iles, Mike Jackson, Michael Kent, Sylvia Krzak, James McLeod, Anastasia Mosher, M.D. Neu, Craig Palmer, Rachel Parsons, Jonathan Pongratz, Lynn Z. Puhle, Mike Rickerman, Vivienne Sang, B. William Slack, Les Stahl, Arthur Steele, Janis Stein, AJ Wallace, Gillian Watters, Rayner Jamie Ye, as well as other reviewers from The Next Big Writer and Scribophile. Many thanks!
Also a special thanks to Michael Maxwell and Blair Howard for their guidance as this novel came to fruition.
1
Medellín, Colombia
Spring 2004
Three armored Chevrolet Suburbans raced through the hacienda’s open gates. Dust billowed in their wake as guards took up defensive positions on top of the high brick and concrete wall facing strategic areas of the driveway. Two unarmored SUVs escorted the procession. One raced ahead to take the lead while the other brought up the rear.
Seventy-year-old Jesús Pedro Zapata and his forty-five-year-old son, Oscar, relaxed in the middle vehicle. The Medellín Country Club’s weekly buffet luncheon drew father, son, and Zapata’s thirty-five-year-old daughter, Olivia, along with numerous local dignitaries and powerful landowners. On this rare occasion, Olivia missed the gathering due to a prior commitment in Panama City, where she and their lawyers sought to close a deal for the purchase of a sugar cane plantation.
As the convoy approached the road leading to the club, they slowed.
Zapata dropped the inner glass partition. “Why are we stopping? We’ll be late.”
“Sorry, Jefe.” The chauffeur pointed through the windshield. “An accident or construction is blocking the way.”
Ahead, yellow lights and trucks emblazoned with Interconexión Eléctrica S.A. blocked the road. A man dressed in white coveralls waved the convoy onto a side street.
The chauffeur stopped again. Additional vehicles impeded progress through the next intersection.
Before the convoy could reverse, more trucks cut off their escape.
Zapata spotted the movement and became suspicious. “Hijueputa! Get us out of here! Hurry, before it’s too late!”
Men wearing blue coveralls jumped out of the blocking vehicles, aimed anti-tank weapons at the front and rear escort vehicles.
Passersby screamed and ran for any shelter they could find—the nearest trees and vehicles became temporary refuges.
The attackers fired their rocket-propelled grenades, and the escort vehicles soared into the air, plummeting back to earth as burning hulks. One of the SUVs flipped end over end before landing on top of a parked car. Thick, black smoke billowed upward as the stench filled the air. Shrapnel and smoldering pieces of metal from the destroyed vehicles littered the area.
Zapata’s guards returned fire but were overwhelmed by the firepower of the attacking force.
One by one, the defenders succumbed to the withering fire when the remaining escort vehicles and two of the armored SUVs met the same fate. Gunfire waned, while moans from the injured and the crackling of burning vehicles grew in intensity. Random shots echoed throughout the area as the attackers rendered a coup de grâce to the few survivors.
The assailants approached Zapata’s SUV through the thickening smoke. They lined up along the driver’s side and glared at Zapata and his son.
Defiant stares greeted them.
Two men rushed away from the vehicle, shouldered their rocket-propelled grenades, and aimed.
Zapata’s reign died as he and his son were immolated.
Francisco Tomas Kruz, Zapata’s long-time friend and confidant, replaced the receiver without a word. He rubbed his hand through his dyed black hair as he strolled to the windows and gazed across the mountainous expanse. A smile flickered across his face, not reaching his cold, hazel eyes. At last.
He returned to his desk, lifted the phone, and placed a call. “This is Kruz. Give her the phone.” He spoke for a moment.
Olivia screamed.
Moreno Hacienda
Barranquilla, Colombia
Present Day
Dawn broke with birds twittering outside Olivia’s country estate. She opened blue-green eyes and focused on the view through the open window. Tinges of red and orange stretched across the horizon, seeking the deep blue heavens. More songbirds joined in, their melodious voices adding to the morning’s chorus. Nearby, a rare Colombian screech owl hooted. Other birds shrieked, their wings beating the air as they scattered.
Olivia yawned and crawled out of bed. Twinges cascaded through her aching muscles caused by overexertion in yesterday’s intense personal security training. Time for some fresh air while it’s quiet. She slipped a purple velvet robe over her slender athletic body and pulled on matching slippers. Padding toward the balcony, she opened the doors and stepped outside. She gazed at the tranquil countryside and smiled.
Craack! Craack!
Bullets ricocheted off the stonework, missing her head by inches. She dropped to the floor amid a hail of flying rubble and dust. Hunched like a hermit crab, Olivia crawled inside and slammed the doors.
“Madre de Dios!”
Stomach lurching, chest heaving, she rolled across the floor to the bedside table. Her hands shaking, she grabbed the handle, opened the drawer, and removed her FN Five-SeveN handgun. She fumbled for a second magazine and stuffed it into a pocket on her robe. Keeping out of view, she crept back to the side of the balcony and slid down the wall.
She peered through a small opening, looking for signs of intruders.
Nothing. All seems normal.
Pushing through the doors, she dashed around the corner, squatted, and fired three times without aiming. An incoming round smashed into the wall in front of her. She leaned into the stone for cover as rough-edged shards whirled toward her face. Startled by the fast-approaching slivers, Olivia ducked and dropped the pistol. Blood trickled from a cut above her right eye. She sucked in her breath and wiped it away as anger replaced fear.
“Alto.” A man of medium height climbed over the railing from the patio. Piercing dark eyes shone beneath a mop of black hair as he plopped into a chair at the small bistro table, and helped himself to a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.
“Diablo.” Olivia spat the word as the man with the physique of a bodybuilder stood and helped her into the other chair. “Ramon, one day you’ll cause my death. The training becomes more intense every day.” She grabbed his goblet. “Salud.” She drained the glass.
“Doña Olivia, you hired me to provide protection. When I’m not here, you must do this for yourself and your family. Your enemies will give you no warning, which is why the lessons must become more realistic.”
Olivia nodded. “Si, you are correct. I want to live a long time and enjoy my fortune—unlike my father, brother, and first husband, who died before their time.”
Ramon Cristobal Alvarez and Olivia Perfecta Moreno gazed at each other.
Bam! Bam!
Ramon rose. His movements panther-like, he approached the door. He turned the knob in minor increments while the thudding continued.
“Shhh.” Someone outside the room cautioned and received a snigger in response.
Ramon yanked the door open. Caught off guard, two girls tumbled into the room. Laughing and giggling, they fell into a disheveled stack of limbs. He grabbed an arm of each child and helped them to their feet.
“Ramon, be careful! You’ll wrinkle my pretty dress.” Olivia’s ten-year-old daughter, Maria, stomped her foot and straightened the folds of her pink frock.
“Maria, stop it.” Silvina, her nine-year-old sister, dressed in blue, squirmed out of Ramon’s clutches.
Together, the two girls darted across the Spanish tile, color-coordinated ribbons holding their long hair in place as they melted into Olivia’s embrace for a much-needed hug.
Preferring the clothing of a tomboy, Olivia’s darling, Silvina, fidgeted with her dress.
“Mamá, breakfast is ready. Papá says to come now, or you can’t eat.” Maria delivered the message in a serious tone, before bursting into infectious laughter.
Olivia smiled. “Sí. Let’s not keep Papá waiting.”
Ramon led Olivia and her daughters to the dining room, where Pedro Moreno sat reading a local newspaper. Once Olivia and the girls took their seats, Ramon headed to the kitchen. Breakfast remained a private affair, a chance for parents to interact with their children.
“Good morning, Pedro. Where’s Alonzo?”
“Morning, dear. He called and said he’d be here—”
The door flew open, and Alonzo rushed into the room. Without uttering a word, he heaped a plate with beans, rice, and eggs from the buffet and joined the others. “Sorry I’m late. There was a union issue at the plant.” He glanced at his mother, who gave him a knowing glance. “I must return after breakfast to ensure the problem remains resolved.”
“Don’t forget the party tonight,” Olivia reminded him. “There will be ladies lined up to dance with you.”
“How can I forget? You’ve reminded me every day since the staff hand-delivered the invitations.”
“Only because our family’s survival is at stake.”
Alonzo frowned at his mother. “What if I don’t find a suitable bride this time?”
“You must.”
He sighed. “Sí, Mamá.”
Olivia changed the subject. “Pedro, what are your plans for this morning?”
“I’m going horseback riding when we finish breakfast, and before lunch, Alonzo and I are playing tennis.”
After breakfast, Pedro strolled from the dining room to the covered porch. Olivia allowed him one Cuban cigar per day, as long as he smoked outside. Before he sat, Ramon appeared.
“Tonight’s party should be interesting.” Pedro exhaled a column of smoke and glanced up at him. “The mayor, chief of police, and the local military commander are among those attending.”
“Why were they invited?”
“Olivia wants legitimacy. This will be our first party since we moved here. Their attendance will demonstrate we are part of the community’s elite. The wealthy and important will approach us, wanting their daughters to marry Alonzo.”
Ramon nodded. “I understand, Pedro. My men and I will remain in the shadows, available if a situation arises. Please advise if you require anything else. Anything at all.”
Pedro nodded, snuffed out his cigar, and strolled down the steps into the brilliant sunshine. He gazed around their new estate. A palatial mansion on 500 acres, the property boasted a six-stall stable, Olympic-size swimming pool, two all-weather tennis courts, and a helipad. A ten-foot concrete wall stood guard over five acres surrounding the house—home, at least for now.
He waited outside the stable for a saddled horse to be brought to him. This morning, Shadow, an all-black Arabian stallion, became the ride of choice. Pedro mounted and reined the horse toward the stone arch built into the perimeter wall. He put Shadow into a canter and traveled along one of the paths crisscrossing the estate.
Alonzo and his mother took their coffee to her office. They sat on matching easy chairs in front of her Italian oak desk. The cozy room was once the refuge of the previous owner. Its Brazilian cherrywood floor contrasted with the two walls lined with floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases.
A stack of hardwood in a stone fireplace waited to be ignited when the evening weather turned cool. The outer wall boasted glazed windows, with two sets of French doors opening onto the veranda. A massive portrait of her father seated on a brown quarter horse took center stage on the wall behind the desk.
“What happened at the plant, Alonzo? I thought you could manage without needing my intervention.” Olivia leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.
“Mamá, I thought when I finished university, I would run the legitimate businesses and let you know if I needed your help.”
“You shall, but as my eldest, you must also learn about what provides us with real money.”
“My MBA will help me run the shopping malls in Miami and Madrid, the restaurant chains in North America and Europe, and the hotels in the Caribbean. But, I understand nothing about the drug trade.”
“I didn’t either when I first started. Government troops killed your abuelo in Medellín, but before he died, he taught me both sides of the business. Now you must prepare in the event something happens to me.”
“What about Pedro?”
“I married him for love.” Alonzo can’t know the truth—I didn’t really marry for love. I needed to replace his dead father, and Pedro was willing to raise someone else’s son. It’s unfortunate he ill-treated Alonzo when he was growing up. No wonder he hates Pedro. Still, Alonzo does well to cover up his feelings. “He’s useless in our business and wants no part.”
Alonzo frowned. “Sí, Mamá.”
“Tell me what happened at the plant this morning.”
“Two of the guards grabbed a woman, pulled her into the bushes, and raped her. The woman’s husband was unloading a truck when the attack occurred. When he intervened, the guards killed them.” Alonzo’s forehead puckered. “Although I abhor the use of violence, in this instance, we can’t allow this behavior to go unpunished.”
Olivia rubbed her hands through her long, violet-black hair.
“Tomorrow morning, find out the names of the two guards. Have them stripped and tied to poles outside the plant. Let them suffer overnight. The next day, assemble the workers. Make this a lesson to all. Render the same punishment to them as they bestowed upon the couple. This will send a clear warning.”
Alonzo considered her comments for a moment. “Yes, Mamá.” He grimaced. When will she stop treating me like a child?
Throughout the afternoon, guards searched the arriving trucks as they ferried the necessities for the Morenos’ party. Additional security personnel poked through the flower arrangements, examined tables for hidden objects, and removed fine linens from their protective coverings to ensure nothing had been slipped between the folds.
As the day wore on, cleared caterers appeared, bringing their own special implements for creating sensational regional and local dishes for the buffet. The staggering menu included Valluna cutlets, milanesa, arroz de lisa, mamona, lechona, and tamales. Others brought cases of champagne, whiskey, vodka, and rum. In the corner of the mansion’s ballroom, a twelve-piece orchestra worked through their repertoire, selecting pieces designed to awe their audience.
Everything and everyone was in position by seven thirty in the evening.
