Rendition Protocol

The Pinch of Truth

4

The Pinch of Truth

As a CIA operations officer, Kyle MacKerron was still green in terms of years of service. But as a former special agent with the FBI, he was allowed more than a little latitude. The typical two-year training window for new ops officers, which teaches clandestine operational tradecraft, had been shortened to eight months in his case, and after multiple successful assignments, Kyle was on his own.

He hadn’t understood the reason for his current assignment at first. To gather intelligence on a drug cartel setting up shop on Antigua didn’t fall under the typical CIA purview. But he accepted the assignment without hesitation. During training, his CIA handlers had practically beaten the charter into his brain. Clandestinely spot, assess, develop, and recruit. It had become like a mantra, but here on an active field assignment, the mantra was almost comical. Nonetheless it reverberated in his head.

But waking up tied to a chair, reciting it was hardly comforting. The shroud over his head was thick and hot and made breathing difficult. Not a sliver of light penetrated and carbon dioxide had trouble filtering out. Kyle knew the excess CO₂ had resulted in a condition called hypercapnia, and he experienced the full brunt of it: flushed skin, muscle twitches, and reduced neural activity—and these were just the early stages.

Kyle struggled against his bindings, and between decreased brain function and sleep deprivation, he had trouble processing rational thought. The fear started as a trickle, but had grown to an immeasurable state.

Muffled sounds were audible and Kyle struggled to decipher them. Where am I? he thought. His only defense was to joke with himself: We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

He tried to stay calm, but when a heavy metal door scraped open across the gritty cement floor and slammed into a wall, he startled. Two sets of footsteps approached. The first sounded like those of hard-soled boots, but the second were different. They sounded more like leather-soled dress shoes. The door slammed closed with a heavy bang that reverberated through the tiny room. Someone pulled at the base of the shroud and yanked it off.

Kyle gulped at the air but a hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his neck. He squinted in the low light at the man in front of him. He looked to be of Latin descent and was dressed in a double-breasted business suit. Kyle’s head began to clear, but he still felt an overwhelming sense of heaviness, as if someone was standing on his chest.

“Welcome to my humble estate,” the man said in an accent heavy of Central America.

“Who the f**k are you?” Kyle said, though his voice was hoarse. He coughed.

“My name is Diego Rojas, and yours is Agent Kyle MacKerron.”

Kyle’s heart rate soared as the terrifying realization struck home. They know who I am.

Rojas clasped his hands and walked a slow circle around Kyle.

“You have been very busy,” Rojas said. “Very busy indeed. And that is what brings you here.”

Kyle craned his neck to follow the man but feared a blow might come at any second.

“You’ve gotten yourself in deep, haven’t you?” Rojas continued.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kyle said through a cough.

Rojas laughed. “How very in keeping with the United States government. Always sticking its nose where it doesn’t belong.” Rojas squared off in front of Kyle. “You have been very busy penetrating the Oficina de Envigado cartel. Yes, very busy indeed.”

Oficina de Envigado was the largest and most aggressive cartel in Colombia, and had been the subject of Kyle’s investigation. His brain raced to catch up. s**t, I’ve been caught by Oficina de Envigado. But who is this?

Rojas said, “And you are going to tell us everything you know about them.”

Kyle thought, Wait a minute. Tell you about them? If these guys aren’t Oficina de Envigado, who are they? But then it hit him. This must be Los Rastrojos, the competing cartel.

Two Colombian cartels had recently infiltrated the tropical paradise of Antigua in order to establish new drug routes. The new routes were set up to push product to the Mexican cartels, and from there to the United States. What the cartels didn’t know was how deeply the CIA had penetrated.

Rojas reared a hand to punch Kyle, and Kyle braced, but the blow never came. Rojas laughed loud enough for the sound to reverberate off the cement walls. Kyle opened his eyes to find the man standing over him. “Ah, but in the old days, yes,” Rojas said, his voice becoming deep and distant. “We would torture out anything we wanted to know. Those, my friend, were good times. But as it is, I have other needs for you. And now there are better ways, more accurate ways, to find out what we need to know.” Rojas nodded to the other man.

Kyle felt a sharp pinch in his neck as a syringe went deep and the plunger depressed. By the time the syringe was removed, Kyle felt a warmth unlike anything in his experience, and the feeling of heaviness in his chest evaporated. It was like watching the waters of a fleeing tide recede. His eyelids flickered and what he could only describe as complete euphoria overwhelmed his senses. His head slumped. He had been drugged and there was nothing he could do about it.