by Gary Ponzo
He sat alone beside a rickety wooden table thrown together by his men in this makeshift camp, made to be moved in a moment’s notice. His hand was thick with humidity and his brow gathered sweat as he stared at the cell phone which belonged to the US president’s brother. It was turned off to elude tracking.
One of Padilla’s lieutenants, Carlos Garcia, swiped aside the mosquito net and walked over to Padilla. He wore fatigues and a thick black belt with a gun holstered on his hip.
“The men are restless,” Garcia said, acting like he’s reporting something Padilla didn’t already know.
Padilla sat expressionless, making Garcia squirm. He knew what was coming next and simply waited for it.
“El Presidente,” Garcia said, continuing his reporter tone, “he wants the American dead.”
Padilla pursed his lips and tried to maintain his composure. “You see, this is the reason President Santoro is not running this mission. He is a crazy, two-faced maniac who needs pills to keep him from crying.”
Garcia shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Padilla saw the anxiety on his lieutenant’s face. “Let me ask you something, Carlos. The prisoner said he has been filming a movie about some local native Indians. Do you believe him?”
At first Garcia tensed up. He acted like he’d been asked a trick question, but then he appeared to make a decision. “No,” Garcia said. “There are no Indians for over a hundred miles from here. Not that I know of, anyway.”
Padilla worked hard at controlling his emotions. “Good. I just thought I would ask your opinion.”
Garcia gave a childlike smile, as if getting approval from his father.
Now Padilla wanted to offer his lieutenant some solace. A consolation prize.
“We will kill the American. In time,” Padilla said. He didn’t tell him about his orders to keep the man alive until further instructions from Pablo Moreno.
Garcia’s face brightened.
“Go,” Padilla said to Garcia, waving the back of his hand. “Check on the prisoner. Make sure the chiggers haven’t begun to attack his injured leg.”
Garcia left and Padilla returned to staring at the cell phone. He knew the entire assignment was one big test. His temper had gotten him into too much trouble and Pablo Moreno had decided to leave him in this insect-infested region of the Amazon instead of back in Medellin, because Moreno was testing his resolve. They were so deep into the rainforest, the satellite phones wouldn’t even work because of the treetops covering their camp. A booster had to be installed on top of a tall palm tree in order to receive and transmit calls within fifty yards of the center of camp.
Padilla was known to have a short fuse, killing opposing cartel members just for speaking back to him. It had brought some unnecessary heat on his boss and Moreno was punishing him for his impulsive behavior.
Now, Padilla’s foot remained tapping. He thought about the defiant American prisoner who had insulted him. A sense of pride came over him for not killing the man right then. A couple of months ago he would’ve had the prisoner tortured first, then killed. So he had grown as a leader and Moreno must know that.
The phone buzzed. Padilla looked at the incoming call and took a deep breath.
“Yes,” he snapped into the phone.
“Is he dead yet?” Vice President Roberto Sanchez asked.
“No.”
“The president has become quite unstable. I do not think you should test him.”
“You have done your job,” Padilla said, “now go back to babysitting your boss.” He pressed the end button and spit on the dirt floor. He was the only one who seemed to understand the value of a hostage.
That’s when Carlos Garcia came rushing through the mosquito netting with a frantic expression. “The American prisoner. He has escaped!”
Chapter 6
“Please don’t go.” Julie clutched Nick’s shirt sleeve with a sense of panic in her voice.
Nick dropped his duffle bag next to the front door and gathered her in his arms. “It’s okay, baby. Everything will be fine.”
It was one thirty in the morning and Thomas was fast asleep in his crib upstairs, but part of Nick wanted to linger until his son woke. Nick had this urge to hold him one more time; however, he also knew time was short.
“No,” she said, hugging him with more force than he’d ever felt before. “I have a bad feeling about this.” She pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m serious. I’ve never told you this, ever, but I have a feeling about this one. You’ve dodged too many bullets.”
Her eyes glistened in the dim hallway lighting. Nick couldn’t afford to do his job and listen to someone explain how dangerous it actually was. Like a high diver standing on the top of a cliff and having someone force him to look down and see the rocks jutting out into ocean below. He knew the rocks were there, but that couldn’t be his focus. Not now.
Nick gently brushed her hair behind her ear with the back of his hand. He did his best to smile. “Don’t worry. Matt will be with me the entire time.”
Of course Matt would be with him, they’d been partners for the past dozen years and were inseparable. Matt was the FBI’s three time sharpshooting champion and overall the finest partner a man could have. This normally brought a smile to Julie’s face. She’d always considered Matt his guardian angel. Someone who would protect her husband, even take a bullet for him. But now, even Matt’s presence didn’t seem to bring comfort. She made a sour face, as if she were trying to swallow a large pill.
“I miss you so much,” she said, then reached her arms around Nick and pressed every inch of her body against his. Nick felt he might need to have her physically removed from his torso.
They held each other in the silence of the Arizona night. Nick rocked her gently, feeling like this was more than the usual good-bye. He could sense her about to speak but pull back a couple of times before she finally said in a low voice, “It’s not worth it. Whatever has happened, it’s not worth risking your life anymore. Please. Think of Thomas.”
It was the only thing he had been thinking of ever since the White House called. Julie needed to know the gravity of the situation. Without it, she couldn’t grasp the importance of his mission.
“The president’s brother has been kidnapped,” he said.
Julie jerked back and examined his face. “Seriously?”
Nick nodded.
“Where?”
“Colombia.”
“South America?”
Nick nodded.
“A terrorist group?”
He shook his head.
“But that’s the CIA’s jurisdiction. Why you?”
“Because the CIA’s assets have been sending bad data. Either they’ve been taking payouts from the cartels, or they’ve been given misinformation from their Colombian contacts. Either way, they’ve been compromised. We need someone they’re not familiar with.”
Julie glared at him, taking it in with no delight. “And what about Tommy?”
There she was, two steps ahead every time. Nick’s family was Sicilian and his cousin Tommy was involved with other Sicilian families as well. Families which worked underground, away from law enforcement’s watchful eye. Nick was raised in Tommy’s house once his parents died in a car accident. He’d just become a teenager when it happened and he and Tommy grew up as brothers.
In recent years, however, Tommy spent a good portion of his time volunteering for the underprivileged. HIV orphans in Kenya. Injured soldiers returning from overseas. But the reason Julie had been asking about Tommy now was because he’d been a great asset to the FBI helping uncover terrorist cells and extracting information in extremely unconventional ways. Tommy still had strong connections in places they didn’t.
“Yes, he’ll be helping us,” Nick said.
Julie’s face grew even more somber. “Why can’t you leave Tommy out of it? He’s not a government employee.”
Tommy was more than just family to Julie. He’d even sav
ed her life a time or two when Nick’s past enemies came looking for him and decided she was the next best thing to killing the bureau’s top counterterrorist agent.
“He’s . . . we’re all going to be fine. No one’s taking any more risk than is necessary.”
That did nothing to settle the expression on her face. They stood in the hallway of their secluded cabin in the heavily wooded suburb of Payson, Arizona. A mountainside community handpicked by the two of them when Nick’s position as the head of the FBI’s counterterrorism division in Baltimore became too stressful. While Nick and Matt were on an assignment, they both took a liking to the place for different reasons. While Nick’s battle with PTSD and Julie’s yearning to start a family drew them to the peaceful spot, the war on terror continued unabated and Nick’s responsibilities ultimately returned with just as much fervor as they did in the big city.
Matt was drawn there, however, by the local FBI agent who turned out to be an old flame and transferred to be with her at the same time Nick decided to leave the bureau to become the sheriff and raise children. That’s when the terrorists came calling. Matt’s girlfriend was killed in a firefight and soon afterward Nick returned to the bureau. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. The only consolation for Julie was she got to raise her son in a sheltered neighborhood, while Nick took on the bad guys away from their home.
A pair of headlights lit up the opaque window above the front door and car tires crunched on the gravel driveway. Julie simply looked up at him with an empty stare. When Nick pulled her back into an embrace, she seemed to have lost the fight and her body hung limp in his arms. It was even more disturbing than when she was clinging to him like a drowning swimmer. As if she’d been dulled into accepting whatever card she was about to be dealt.
A pair of approaching footsteps chomped at the loose gravel outside followed by a soft tap on the thick wooden door. A moment later the door opened and agent Matt McColm poked his head in. He saw the couple disengage and didn’t hesitate to come inside and grab Julie around the waist to give her a big hug.
“Hey, sweetie,” Matt said, looking down at her. At his height, he looked down at most anyone, even Nick.
Julie tried to be brave, but when they separated it was obvious she’d been crying. Matt looked at Nick whose heart sank in his chest.
“She has a bad feeling about this assignment,” Nick said.
Julie put her hands on her hips. “All these years, have you ever heard me say that to you two before?”
Matt shrugged. “Yeah, Jule, I get it. Maybe you’ve never said those words, but are you telling me there’s been an assignment where you were thinking, “I have a really good feeling about this?”
Julie smiled a crooked smile, while wiping away some moisture from her cheek.
Matt bent down and grabbed Nick’s duffle bag. He opened the door and gestured for Nick to go ahead of him. Nick, looking a little startled, gave Julie a quick kiss on the forehead and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be home in a day or two.” He glanced upstairs. Julie followed his gaze.
“He’ll miss you,” Julie said, using up her last wild card.
Nick wanted to run up and give his son one last hug.
“C’mon,” Matt said, tugging on Nick’s sleeve.
Nick hesitated. Matt grabbed his arm.
“Sorry, Jule,” Matt said, kissing Julie a brief kiss on the cheek. “We need to go.”
Once Matt was pulling out of the driveway, Nick looked over at him from the passenger seat and said, “What was that all about?’
Matt frowned. “You should be thanking me.” He looked at his partner. “That was only going to get messier and messier. You needed to rip it off like an old Band-Aid. One quick pull.”
Matt drove though the narrow roads of Nick’s neighborhood, lined with treetops which hung over them like an organic tunnel. They passed the house where Matt’s deceased girlfriend, Jennifer Steele, used to live. The outside porch light was on and it seemed to have new residents. Matt appeared to force his attention away from the cabin, his eyes darting back and forth between the side and rearview mirrors. Nick let it go, not wanting to bring up a sensitive subject when they were on their way to another tough assignment.
Matt drove out of Nick’s neighborhood heading west on the two-lane state road for a mile, then made a quick turn into a sleepy high-end neighborhood without any outlets.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Nick said. “That’s where the helicopter is waiting for us.”
Matt gave his partner a sideways glance. “I know,” he said, refocusing his attention on the rearview mirror. “But I’ve got someone following me.”
Chapter 7
The eastern sky was threatening to brighten, yet morning rush hour traffic in downtown Washington, DC, was still hours away. In nearby Baltimore, the parking lot of the FBI Field Office had a dozen cars all gathered close to the rear employee entrance signifying an emergency situation. Special Agent in Charge Walt Jackson was busy at his desk preparing for his discreet Red Ball meeting.
Inside the beltway there were three different colors signifying the level of urgency for a meeting. Green meant it was a weekly or routinely scheduled meeting. Yellow meant a previously unscheduled meeting, but you’d better be there. However, there was only one Red Ball. That meant if you were alive, you attended.
Walt had arrived in his office shortly after the call from Sam Fisk at two thirty in the morning instructing him to gather the small group of department heads for the Red Ball. Walt was a large man, six foot four inches, with chocolate skin and the smooth athletic moves of a much smaller man. He was an Olympic athlete before he began his career with the bureau, working his way up from a field agent to the SAC inside of fifteen years. A lightning pace even for an Olympic sprinter.
His main responsibility as head of the Baltimore Field Office was to spearhead a group of counterterrorist specialists known simply as The Team. Highly specialized agents who were trained to zone in on the most immediate threat to the United States. The number of agents within The Team fluctuated anywhere from two to eight depending on the level of focus, budget cuts and, unfortunately, deaths.
No matter the size, the two most important members of the group were Nick Bracco and Matt McColm. The partners had been together for over a decade and knew more about terrorist threats than anyone on the planet. It’s why he felt the need to protect them as much as possible. Over the years he’d attempted to bring them into an administrative position, get them out of harm’s way, but their expertise was just too valuable to overlook. He’d even allowed them to reside up in the mountains of Payson, Arizona, hoping they could take on less of the heavy lifting, but terrorists didn’t always comply with timelines and the globe had become a small arena.
Now, Walt sat at his desk rummaging through the notes he’d taken from his conversation with Fisk an hour earlier. On the other side of his desk sat the Secretary of Defense, Martin Riggs. Riggs was an ex-Marine who had no appetite for politics. He’d been in enough conflicts during his time in the service to appreciate the sacrifices a soldier made for every decision he would make. It’s why he avoided combat whenever a diplomatic solution presented itself. But when those solutions broke down, he made sure his soldiers were supplied with ample support for their mission.
“He wants you to take the lead here?” Riggs asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“Yes,” Walt said. “He’ll want us to keep it simple.”
“Which means keep it small.”
“Yes.”
They were alone, still awaiting the arrival of the rest of the department heads. Riggs got up and went over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee into a cardboard cup. The office was large enough to seat twenty if needed and was wired with enough technology to rival most War Rooms.
Riggs returned to his chair and crossed his legs and began to play with the tablet on his lap, touching the screen and reading as he spoke. “So, where are they now?”
“They should be on a helicopter heading to Sky Harbor. Fisk has a plane waiting for them there.”
Riggs took a sip of his coffee while he maintained his attention on the tablet. “And where’s Ken?”
Walt had to smile at that one. It was no secret that the FBI and CIA were constantly at each other’s throats over jurisdiction. Since this assignment was in South America, the CIA would have the authority to control the situation, but that wasn’t happening here. And it took an order from the Commander-in-Chief to make that happen.
“Ken’s in Egypt breaking in a new field director,” Walt said, speaking of Ken Morris, the CIA Director, with more than a little contentment in his voice.
Riggs returned the grin. “I don’t know, Walt. You want all that responsibility?”
Walt looked up at Riggs. “Why? Are you leaving for vacation?”
“I’m just saying. As soon as something goes wrong, you know Ken’s going to be able to point the finger at you.”
Walt clicked his computer mouse and began to focus on his latest e-mails. “Don’t worry, I’ll have a finger ready for him as well.”
Riggs laughed. Both of them multitasking at warp speed, trying to find an answer to a question that wasn’t answerable.
The door opened and Walt’s boss, FBI Director Louis Dutton, came in carrying a brief bag and a cup of coffee from Starbucks.
Dutton patted Riggs on the shoulder and looked around to decide where to situate the meeting. There was a large coffee table sandwiched between two leather couches which served as a gathering spot for most staff meetings.
“Who else is coming?” Dutton asked.
“Just Fisk,” Walt said.
Dutton shrugged and dropped his brief and coffee on Walt’s massive desk and pulled up a chair next to Riggs. He unloaded his tablet from the bag as a couple of flash drives and assorted paper files spilled out. Walt swiveled his twenty-four-inch computer monitor for everyone to see. On the screen was the latest satellite images from a specific region over Colombia.