by David Spell
Chuck and Thomas had both been injured in the attack and had actually saved each other’s lives that day. Burns, however, had sustained the more serious wound, taking an AK round to the chest. McCain had applied a chest seal, performing first aid until Scotty’s paramedic girlfriend, Emily, had taken over. Soon after this, Chuck had given the order to fall back, and they had rushed Thomas to the hospital.
The FBI Agent observed the big man approaching and nodded at him, his face grim. It was clear that he and the CIA Director were having a serious discussion. Sterling glanced at McCain as he walked up but did not acknowledge him, turning his gaze back on Burns.
Chuck did not know the CIA chief very well. Sandra’s predecessor, Admiral Williams, had once told McCain that Sterling was more of a politician than a spy. Williams had said that Maxwell was a man who loved power, but had been smart enough to know that he was in over his head when the zombie virus had been unleashed. He had let his director of operations coordinate the government’s response to defeating the threat, along with the subsequent cleanup.
“Well, Agent Burns, the reality is that you don’t have any evidence of that,” Sterling was saying as McCain joined them.
“Mr. Director,” Burns replied, an exasperated tone in his voice, “the Attorney General and the Director of the FBI have assigned me to oversee this investigation. Even at this preliminary stage, we have several indicators that this was the work of a Mexican Cartel. Now, of course, we’re not going public with any of that yet, but we’ll continue to do our job and put all the pieces together.
“We’ll investigate this assassination attempt on your director and find out the truth about what really happened and track down the ones who got away. And let’s not forget, we also have the murder of at least one private citizen, the murders of two of your security personnel, with several other citizens wounded in the crossfire. I’ll make sure to keep you in the loop with our findings.”
The CIA Director was not used to having what he said challenged, but before he could respond, Burns asked him another question.
“Is there any reason why a cartel would have targeted Director Dunning? Were you guys running any operations south of the border that might have prompted this? I mean, I’m just a simple cop, but it seems to me that if you really want to strike a blow against the CIA, you don’t go after the lowly Ops director, you’d go after the head of the agency. What I’m saying, Mr. Director, is that I’m surprised they didn’t target you.”
“Agent Burns, you know that I can’t talk about ongoing operations within our agency,” Sterling replied, agitation in his voice. “And as to your question of why they targeted Director Dunning, who knows? These people are criminals. Who knows how they think? That’s more your field than mine. I just don’t want us jumping to conclusions. These people could have been a local gang for all we know.”
Thomas made eye contact with Chuck, giving a slight wink. “McCain, you’re one of Ms. Dunning’s assistant directors, right? You and Colonel Clark?”
Chuck nodded. “We are. Kevin’s actually the Acting Ops Director for the moment, but yes, we both report to Ms. Dunning.”
The FBI agent nodded, looking back at Sterling. “One of the things that I was going to ask for, Mr. Director, is that you would assign one of your people to us as we work on this. We need someone who can help us if we uncover any sensitive intelligence during the investigation.”
“Sensitive intelligence?” Maxwell asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
“I doubt we’ll uncover anything earth-shattering,” Burns said, holding his palms out, “but like you said, you can’t talk about all the secret, clandestine operations that you guys are running in Mexico against the cartels.”
“That is not what I said,” Sterling replied, angrily.
McCain suppressed a smile as the FBI agent toyed with the CIA Director.
“No? Well, maybe I misunderstood you,” Thomas replied. “That’s why I was going to ask you to assign Mr. McCain to the investigation. He could keep me straight.”
Maxwell glared at Burns for a few seconds before his expression softened.
“That’s an excellent idea, Agent Burns. I’m not sure Mr. McCain is the right one for that job, though. Let me think about it and I’ll make sure you have someone by tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t been by the hospital yet. I need to go and check on Director Dunning.”
With that, the CIA Director turned and quickly walked away, two of his security men leading, with the other two falling in behind him. He had not acknowledged nor spoken to Chuck.
“I’m glad to see that the FBI doesn’t control the market on pricks in high places,” Burns said, watching Sterling climb into the back of his own armored SUV.
“What was that all about?” McCain queried. “You really think this is the work of a cartel?”
“It sure looks like it. You want me to walk you through the crime scene?”
Fifteen minutes later, the two men stood outside the crime scene tape next to Burns’ gray Dodge Durango, watching FBI agents, police investigators, and CSI personnel slowly working through the carnage.
“Where’s Shaun?” McCain asked.
“He’s at our HQ giving his statement. He’s probably about done if you want to go pick him up. The kid is really shook up. He watched one the bodyguards die right outside the Yukon, but Taylor’s probably the only reason Director Dunning is still alive. It looks like he killed at least two of the bad guys and maybe wounded a couple more. We’re still interviewing witnesses.”
“Have we got any evidence that this is an actual cartel hit? I see several dead Hispanic-looking guys with a lot of what I’m guessing is stolen National Guard hardware. When the Tijuana Cartel tried to kill me and several of my guys, we ID’d them by the ’Tijuana’ tattoo they all had on the inside of their arms. Anything like that?”
Burns let his gaze sweep over the shot up vehicles and sheet covered bodies before answering.
“Most of stiffs are covered in tattoos so we’ll have to wait until we get them all to the morgue and can examine their corpses. No one was carrying any ID. We’ll send their fingerprints off and run them through NCIC and the terror database to see what we come up with. But, we do have one important piece of evidence that ties this to a cartel. I didn’t share this little tidbit with Maxwell.
“After the shootout was pretty much over, a blue pickup came roaring onto the scene. Two of the shooters grabbed a wounded guy out of the back hummer and tossed him into the backseat of the pickup and they dove in on top of him and took off. Shaun managed to get the truck’s tag.
“It’s registered to a Juan Guerra. Guerra’s a bigwig in the Nueva Generación Cartel. His real name is Oscar Fernandez. He hasn’t made it onto our Top Ten Most Wanted List yet, but he’s close. He was on the west coast a while back running their operation, but now he’s here. I’ve got some agents sitting on the registered address for that plate. I really don’t expect them to show up but it’s the only lead we have at the moment.”
“The New Generation Cartel?” McCain repeated. “I haven’t even heard of them.”
“They’re the new kids on the block and are a spin off from the Sinaloa Cartel. Their leader is a scumbag named Vincente Villarreal. Anyway, they’ve really upped their game since those other three cartel leaders got taken out a while back. They’re pushing to be the big dogs in Mexico and in the US.”
McCain realized that Burns had stopped talking and was staring at him.
“What?” Chuck asked.
“You know what. I want to know what happened down there in Mexico. And don’t play innocent with me. I know you were up to your eyeballs in that mess. You and Clark both. I saw him and a few other of your guys wearing Mexican Federale Police uniforms when they dropped off that sicko Saudi prince into our custody. I’m shooting straight with you on this investigation, but I’m tired of being kept in the dark about some of the stuff that you guys are doing.”
The CIA age
nt stared at the FBI agent. Finally McCain nodded.
“Fair enough. Not now, but let’s meet up this week. It needs to be somewhere away from your HQ and mine. I’ll lay out the Mexico OP for you. I doubt it’ll have any bearing on this but you might find something that you can use.”
“Sounds good,” Burns agreed. “We’ll both probably need a beer or three by then.”
FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C., Monday, 1135 hours
Shaun Taylor looked thoroughly defeated as he climbed into the passenger seat of McCain’s SUV, not even making eye-contact with the big man. Chuck could see the dried blood on his blazer, shirt, and pants. The Suburban accelerated down Tenth Street towards Pennsylvania Avenue.
“What now?” the young man asked.
“Let’s go to the hospital and see how the boss is doing?”
Taylor nodded, staring straight ahead.
“Did the FBI keep your gun?” Chuck asked.
“Just the MP5. I never fired my Glock. Do you need me to surrender it to you?”
McCain glanced over. “No. Why would you need to surrender your weapon to me? I just wanted to make sure you were still armed. I brought an extra pistol in case you needed it.”
Shaun looked relieved. After a few minutes he spoke again.
“Do you think that they’re going to fire me?”
“Why the hell would the CIA fire you?”
“Because I let Director Dunning get shot. She might die and that’s on me. Tim and Tom are both dead.” Taylor lowered his voice. “I…I watched Tom die and I didn’t do anything. I failed them all.”
The young man hung his head, dejection written over his face, tears filling his eyes.
“Shaun, look, I’m not a therapist and I’m not real good with rah-rah speeches. But here’s the deal. You did your job in an impossible situation. I just walked that crime scene and couldn’t believe that anyone survived. But you did and you saved the director’s life or at least you gave her a fighting chance. I also heard that you took out several of the bad guys.
“I’m sorry about Tim and Tom. They were my friends, too, but we’re going to have to grieve for them later. Right now, what I need is for you to get your head back in the game. I don’t think this is over. Because of that license plate you got, the FBI thinks that the New Generation Cartel is behind this. We don’t know if they have anything else planned or not. For the moment, Colonel Clark is in charge and he’s going to need all of us sharp and ready to do whatever needs to be done. Okay?”
Taylor took a deep breath and sat up straight.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
Twenty-five minutes later, the two men walked into the surgical reception area at the Sibley Memorial Hospital. Kevin stood off on one side of the room with Andy, Scotty, Jay, and Chris huddled around him. On the other side of the waiting room, a number of uncomfortable-looking civilians waited to hear word about their own loved ones. In spite of their anxiety, they could not help but see the story of the shootout on the room’s television, and were all stealing glances at the heavily armed men on the opposite side of the reception area.
When Chuck and Shaun walked in, the circle opened, welcoming the two newcomers.
“What’s the word on the boss?” McCain asked.
Clark shrugged. “She’s been in surgery for about three hours. We haven’t heard anything. What’ve you got?”
Chuck lowered his voice, telling the men what he’d seen and heard at the crime scene, including everything that Agent Burns had told him about the New Generation Cartel. He also let them know how well Shaun had performed, especially his role in taking out a couple of the gunmen and in performing first-aid on Director Dunning. The CIA agents all nodded appreciatively, noting the blood stains on Taylor’s clothes.
Andy Fleming did not give out many compliments but nodded at Shaun, “Good work out there. Sorry about Tim and Tom. They were good men.”
“Thanks, Andy,” Taylor answered, the heaviness starting to lift off of his shoulders.
“What’s next?” McCain asked.
“Let’s take a walk,” the acting Ops director suggested. “Fleming, I’ll be in the cafeteria if you need me.”
McCain let the former Ranger officer lead him out of the waiting area and down the hallway to a nearby cafeteria, where they both filled styrofoam cups with coffee. They sat at a table in the back of the room, neither man anxious to speak. After several minutes, Chuck broke the silence.
“Did Sterling come by?”
“Yeah, he left twenty minutes before you got here. Was he at the scene?”
“He was but didn’t even speak to me. Very strange.”
“For sure. He was only here for maybe ten or fifteen minutes. He asked why I had brought in some of our guys. I thought that seemed kind of obvious, but I told him I didn’t know if the bad guys were going to try and finish what they had started.
“Then he wanted to know what I had heard about the director. I told him that I hadn’t heard anything yet, but he got upset and started asking me if she was going to make it or not? I told him that as soon as one of the doctors gave me an update, he’d be the first to know.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a few minutes before Kevin spoke again.
“What do you think? Do you have any info about this cartel?”
Chuck shook his head. “I’ve never heard of them. As soon as I heard about the attack on the director, I asked Josh and Eric to come over to my place. Scotty sent Emily over and Andy sent Amy and Tyler, as well. I ordered Jimmy and Hollywood to your place. I hope that was OK. My biggest concern was that they might target our families like last time.”
“I appreciate it and so does the wife. I’m sure she’s probably baked them a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies by now. Here’s a question for you about the last time the cartel came after us: Why did they only go after you, Smith, and Fleming?”
“That girl the FBI arrested,” McCain answered, “one of their own agents, eventually broke during questioning. She was somehow related to Pepe Corona, but had been one of the agents on the scene after we took back that high rise in Atlanta that the Tijuana Cartel had commandeered. She snapped a pic of me, Scotty, and Andy, found out who we were, where we lived, and then sent that intel to Pepe.”
Kevin processed the information before speaking again.
“Sterling said something else before he stormed out. He told me that this is what we get for going into Mexico and attacking the cartels. Being the ever respectful officer, I said, ‘Well, sir, that mission came directly from the President of the United States. Did you tell him that you thought it was a bad idea at the time?’ Evidently that wasn’t the right thing to say. He told me, ‘Mr. Clark, it’s not your job to question me. I expect to hear something from you about Director Dunning as soon as possible.”
“What a prick,” McCain chuckled.
CHAPTER FIVE
PALMER WOODS, DETROIT, Monday, 1650 hours
Saleem Bashir disconnected the phone call as he continued to watch the news coverage of the shooting with growing concern. Maxwell had told him of his plans to have the CIA woman killed. Saleem had even fronted him part of the money to have the problem taken care of, along with sending a close associate from the Brotherhood to act as the go-between for Sterling and the cartel. Bashir had expected a simple hit in Dunning’s home, or even better, that the killers would create an ‘accident.’
Instead, stolen military vehicles and weapons were used, hundreds of rounds of ammunition were fired, civilians were killed and wounded, and now the FBI was on the case. The news networks were loving every second. It wasn’t every day that someone tried to assassinate a government official near Washington, D.C. The coverage was nonstop on every network.
Bashir had not liked the idea of using the cartel to take out the CIA’s Director of Operations. Sterling, however, had felt that it was a good idea that would put all the attention on Mexico and their criminal gangs. The problem was that the cartels were all
run by gangsters and thugs, and would not follow anyone’s script. So, instead of a simple murder, the cartel soldiers had created an incident that was now international news.
Saleem had just spoken with Musa Khan. Khan was the man whom Bashir could always count on to take care of difficult issues. Musa was a shadowy figure, preferring to work in the background. Khan had been an agent of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence (ISI) for a number of years before becoming an independent contractor, deciding to use his skills to support the growth of radical Islam around the world. He was now a member of the Brotherhood, working exclusively for Saleem. Khan was not a big man and was not intimidating physically, but he was deadly with any weapon, especially a blade.
Musa had assured Saleem that he had instructed the Mexican gangster to make the assassination low-profile. The cartel leader had just laughed at him, telling the former Pakistani spy not to tell him how to do the job.
“You want the woman dead? We kill her, but we do it our way,” Villarreal had told him, his smile turning into a snarl.
Saleem took a deep breath as he watched the carnage on television. The two-term Michigan senator needed to compose himself and get dressed. In two hours, he and his wife would be hosting a fund raiser, a black-tie dinner for his Presidential campaign. After almost twelve years in the senate, Bashir had thrown his hat into the ring for the Democratic Party Presidential race. He was currently polling at number two with the primary season well under way.
Michigan had produced a number of controversial senators and congressmen and women over the last ten years. They had made no effort to hide their extreme Islamic beliefs, flaunting their faith, and in many cases, alienating mainstream America. Saleem had watched and learned from their failure.
Bashir was portrayed as a moderate, downplaying his religion to appeal to the masses. He was good-looking, articulate, educated, and had a beautiful family. Saleem’s grandparents had immigrated to the United States from Pakistan.