0330 hours
"?Y ahora que, George?" Andreas demanded, wanting to know what would be next in the continuous plague of disasters following Bill Collins's betrayal. Flying at the top speed of four Rolls-Royce Trent 977/B engines in an Airbus A380 customized by Design Q in Worcestershire, he sat in the fully outfitted Turkish bath with George at his side, agitated that he couldn't relax and enjoy his newest acquisition. He'd recently bought the flying palace off the hands of an oil-rich prince whose well had run dry when his father disapproved of his repeated dalliance with a junked-out pop star.
The thought of having eighteen hours to twiddle his thumbs before reaching El Santuario had him stretched over a torturous rack of painful frustration-pain that the incompetence of Fidel's hired operatives in Atlanta only sharpened. The therapeutic benefits of the mint showers and eucalyptus steam room did little to help ease him. Not even Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" being broadcasted live from the musicians in the concert hall above helped. Minute by minute the reports feeding in from Atlanta went from bad to worse. Bill's wife and children had escaped and they had help now. Someone who could handle a gun, a man by the name of Jack Hunter that Andreas's resources were having difficulty in getting information on. Hunter's abandoned rental car had been found on Angie Freemont's street about fifty yards away from where Lauren Collins had parked hers.
Sure at any moment he'd be driven past his soft-spoken vow to screaming like a maniac, he shut his eyes and upped the volume of the music. He tried to focus on easing his anger as he turned his mind to his home above all others, El Santuario. Almost as big as an entire Peruvian region, El Santuario housed Andreas's perfect home, his research and development facility, and George's personal primate reserve, where a number of George's wild brethren roamed. The area also provided an ample and secretive operational base for his special ops teams as well as anything else he wanted to keep from prying eyes. He imagined exactly what he would do the minute he arrived. Bill Collins's body would already be there and so would the traitor's wife and children. Andreas would personally extract what in the hell Collins's had planned to do with the formula for GXP from his wife, using the children, of course. Then he'd make an example of Collins's family.
Putting the fear of Diablo himself into the people working for him was the only way to close ranks on Collins's betrayal. The video of the event would make the current executions on YouTube look like Walt Disney films. Andreas prided himself on speaking softly and carrying a big stick-the binding, torturing and killing of a betrayer's family made for a really big stick-one that he anticipated George would have a hand in this time.
The kids would never even see it coming. Cute, funny chimp suddenly going murderously wild. The video would likely go viral.
Andreas must have had the music unusually loud because he never heard Fidel knock. He felt George move and opened his eyes to see Fidel standing fearfully before him. George had moved to stand between Andreas and Fidel, clearly agitated and wanting to protect Andreas. Andreas's heart swelled.
Fidel had better have good news. "?Que?"
"We're f-f-finally learning that J-J-Jack Hunter is part of the US Military, and Guru has decrypted one of Collins's email acc-counts." Fidel's skin color went from green to white and back to green.
"And?" Andreas stood, barely choking back the accompanying yell that went with his question. Why should he have to pull information out of his own assistant?
"C-C-Collins's l-l-l-left you a m-m-message on it."
Andreas blinked. "?QUE?" He almost shouted when Fidel didn't say a more. Instead he bit his tongue until it bled.
George immediately went ape shit, jumping up and down, holding his ears and crying.
"The n-n-note s-s-says that proof of your involvement in the terrorist acts h-h-has been sent to a n-n-number of sources along with the f-fuel formula."
"?Madre de Dios!" Andreas screamed.
George went for Fidel's face first, ripping skin, biting off ears and then Fidel's fleshy lips. Fidel screamed and flailed in horror and shock, thrusting his hands out to stop George. George only ate them and ripped them off the man. The Turkish bath ran red with the spewing blood. Andreas breathed in the acrid scent, remembering times when the smell meant his power and rule were supreme. He didn't intervene. It was time for a new Fidel anyway.
When Fidel was nothing but pieces, Andreas calmed George down. He cleaned them both up in the mint showers. Then he sent George off with his nanny to rest. After shoving Fidel's remains into a garbage chute that would be jettisoned over the Atlantic, Andreas went to find Guru with his usually soft spoken calm restored and the tones of "Eine kleine Nachtmusik" bolstering his resolve. He supposed he shouldn't feel too bad about losing his control and yelling. After all, the Godfather had had his moments as well.
Dios, whatever diabolical double cross Collins had set in motion had to be stopped dead in its tracks immediately. And so did everyone else the bastard had involved. Nothing and no one was going to interfere with the legacy of safety that economic and environmental justice would bring to his son. No matter what the cost.
When Guru heard that Fidel was out of a job, the man worked like a genius on steroids and soon produced emailed confirmations from Collins's account of packages delivered just two days ago. The names and addresses of the recipients were conveniently included. One to Lauren Collins. One to Matt and one to Mitch Collins. One to Conrad Gardner. One to Thomas Ettinger. One to Edward Weiss. One to Bob Cantrell. And one to Ray Branson. Assassins were immediately dispatched.