by David Spell
He and Maxwell Sterling had been roommates at Yale, forging a friendship that had lasted for thirty years. Even as college students, they had both planned on careers in public service. While Sterling had been elected to the Congress for multiple terms from his home state of Massachusetts, Bashir had gone the route of the Senate, with its longer terms.
Saleem had been elated when his friend had been selected to serve on the House Intelligence Committee. A few years later, Sterling had been asked to head up the prestigious committee. This background in intelligence made him the perfect candidate to run the Central Intelligence Agency after the previous director retired a few years later.
This was a very powerful and sensitive position that Bashir had taken full advantage of. The Presidential candidate now had some great dirt on the front-runner, courtesy of the CIA, which would be released at the most strategic time. This assassination attempt, however, was not the kind of publicity that Bashir or Sterling needed. If this story didn’t blow over quickly, Saleem might have to rethink choosing Maxwell as his running mate.
The Muslim had a side to his personality that only a few people in his circle knew of. Even his former college roommate had no idea at how deep Bashir’s faith really went. He guarded what he said, but in the deepest part of his heart, he knew that Allah had raised him up for this hour.
From the very beginning of his political career, the senator had bided his time, gaining experience, earning trust, and building a reputation. Saleem had carefully cultivated his public persona, speaking often about how fortunate he was to grow up in such a great country, and expressing gratitude for all the blessings he had experienced as an American citizen. In reality, however, Bashir believed that Allah was guiding him and would allow him to get elected to the Presidency of the United States. The US was the Great Satan and Allah would use him to attack this arrogant and wicked nation from the inside. If elected, the Muslim would do as much damage as he possibly could to America and Israel before he was removed from office, or lost the next election.
Georgetown, Washington, D.C., Monday 2030 hours
Maxwell Sterling stared at the large television mounted on the wall in his living room, a sense of panic causing him to feel sick at his stomach. He rubbed his eyes, willing them to see something different in the coverage of the attack on Sandra. What had those Mexicans been thinking? Sterling had asked for a quiet murder, not a public attack during rush hour with military vehicles and machine guns.
Saleem had called him earlier, yelling at him. Of course, they couldn’t really talk about it on the phone, not knowing who might be listening in. Maxwell had told Lara to let the cartel know that they needed to be discreet. It wasn’t my fault, the CIA director told himself. Bashir should be yelling at Lara and trying to figure out why he had allowed this catastrophe to unfold.
And to make matters worse, the Mexican gangsters had not even completed their mission. Sandra Dunning was still alive. There was no guarantee that she was going to live, but what if she did? He thought about contacting Lara to see if he could arrange to have someone finish the job at the hospital. Maybe this time the mystery man could make sure it was handled correctly.
Before he could do that, however, Sterling would need to make some changes in Dunning’s security. Clark had acted quickly, assigning several of the agents and contractors from operations to guard Sandra around the clock. The local police were assisting with protecting the Ops director, as well. Maxwell willed himself to relax. Reacting out of emotion would only lead to him doing something rash.
Dunning would be in ICU for a while. She wasn’t going anywhere and would be an easy target at the right time. The CIA Director stood and walked into his office, seating himself behind his desk. He opened his laptop and logged onto the Islamic dating site. Within minutes he had sent a message to Lara, finally feeling a little better after a very stressful day.
Musa Khan stared at the message that Sterling had just sent him, rubbing his short, black beard. Now, the CIA Director wants me to arrange to have Sandra Dunning killed inside the hospital. The assassin had no idea why Sterling and Bashir wanted this woman dead. The Pakistani considered his options. He could hire some more Mexicans to complete the job, but they were difficult to deal with.
Another possibility was to use an American contractor. Khan knew paid killers with mafia ties and others who were strictly independent. Or, Musa could handle the job himself. He needed to pay a visit to the Sibley Memorial Hospital and see how well Sandra Dunning was being guarded.
The Pakistani pulled his phone out and scrolled through his contacts. No names were used, just a numerical code for which only he had the key. After a few minutes, a plan began to formulate and Khan knew exactly who could handle the job. He pulled up a contact and sent a text asking for a face-to-face meeting to discuss a job. If things went according to plan, this next assassination attempt on Dunning would be much more economical for the CIA Director and would finish what the cartel had started.
Matamoros, Mexico, Tuesday, 1245 hours
Vincente Villarreal watched CNN’s ongoing coverage of the attack on Sandra Dunning. He and several of his lieutenants sat in his large office near the center of Matamoros, Mexico. The gangsters were eating lunch together, laughing and cheering at the destruction left behind by one of their teams. Fernando ‘The Bull’ Ramos, Vincente’s ever-present bodyguard, stood behind the cartel leader, a perpetual scowl affixed to his scar-covered face.
The Nueva Generación Cartel occupied a large warehouse in the industrial area near the middle of the city. The massive gray building was surrounded by a high fence, topped with razor-sharp concertina wire. The hundred-yard-long facility served as the storage and distribution center for all of their products that were sold in Mexico, as well what was smuggled across the border into Brownsville, Texas, and throughout America. Marijuana, cocaine, meth, heroin, and firearms were stored at the location. There were also dorm facilities set up inside the warehouse for the women who would be shipped to the United States to work in one of the many brothels Villarreal ran north of the border.
Almost all of the local cops and many of the federal ones were on Vincente’s payroll. While some of the larger cartels used crooked cops to transport drugs, money, or weapons, Villarreal preferred not to operate that way. Instead, he and his men paid the police simply not to do anything, just to look the other way. Vincente felt that this was a better way to ensure that the authorities did not interfere with his business. It was much easier for corrupt law enforcement officials to say that they hadn’t seen anything, rather than having to deny their involvement in the cartel’s illicit activities.
Vincente understood that the police were, in many ways, a gang unto themselves. He considered himself a businessman and went out of his way to be on good terms with the local authorities. The New Generation Cartel had only killed two police officers in the last year. One was a captain who refused to look the other way for a large drug delivery to the warehouse. Villarreal had joined his team of sicarios on that assassination, enjoying the cop’s pretty wife twice before the couple was killed. The other murdered police officer was a detective who attempted to arrest a gang member who had stabbed a man in a bar fight.
Today, the cartel head was in good spirits. Even though the news was reporting that Director Dunning was still clinging to life and several of his gunmen had been killed, he considered the hit a success. The Muslim contact thought that he could tell Vincente Villarreal how to assassinate someone. Vincente had no idea why the terrorist wanted the woman dead and he didn’t care. He was tired of the CIA’s attacks on the cartels. Now, the entire world was watching the news, showing how long the New Generation Cartel’s reach was.
Villarreal’s mentor had been Ismael 'Chico' Pérez, the former head of the Sinaloa Cartel. Chico had been the father that he’d never had. Vincente had risen through the ranks to become one of Pérez’s top lieutenants. When the gringos had sent their Special Forces to attack the cartels eighteen mon
ths earlier, Juan Pablo 'Baby Face' Fuentes, of the Juarez Cartel, and Jose ‘Pepe’ Corona, of the Tijuana Cartel had been murdered by the Americans.
The three cartel leaders had been meeting at one of Pepe Corona’s mansions in Rosarito, a resort city on Mexico’s west coast. In a stunning attack, gringo commandos had raided the compound in the middle of the night, killing Corona, Fuentes, and a number of their bodyguards. Pérez had been wounded in the shootout and taken back to America. After a sham of a trial, he was sentenced to life without parole, which he was serving in a maximum security federal prison.
That was when Vincente had launched out on his own. The Sinaloa Cartel had been in disarray without Chico. The Nueva Generación Cartel was quickly becoming one of the prominent criminal organizations in Mexico. If things went according to plan, in another year Villarreal would be the most powerful gangster in the country.
The cartel leader had been happy to take the Muslim’s money, but Vincente was not about to order his team to kill Dunning quietly. Juan Guerra had a large stockpile of weapons and the cartel head had ordered him to make everything available to Damian Sanchez. Villarreal’s primary concern now was that Guerra must somehow get Sanchez back to Mexico before the FBI tracked them down.
Juan had texted him the previous evening with an update. Sanchez had sustained several gunshot wounds, but none of them had struck anything vital. At the same time, the cartel soldier had lost a lot of blood and Guerra only had limited first-aid training. It was a long drive back to Mexico, but the gang had several doctors who could take care of the sicario if they could just get him home.
The cartel head had come to depend on the American-trained Sanchez. He was an excellent soldier and had accomplished every mission that Villarreal had given him. Two of his best doctors were already on-site and had converted one of the dorm quarters into an operating and recovery room. All Vincente could do now was wait and maybe plan a few more attacks against the gringos.
CIA Headquarters, Wednesday, 0955 hours
Chuck McCain and Kevin Clark had each received the same message to report to Director Maxwell Sterling’s office at 1000 hours. They had not been told what the meeting was about. When they arrived at the appointed time, Sterling’s receptionist asked them to have a seat in the waiting area.
“What’s the latest on the boss?” Chuck asked.
“The good news is that she’s going to make it. It was touch and go there for a while, the doc told me. She’s still in ICU, but stable. The bad news is that she’s going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. She took two rounds in the back and they both hit her spinal column, paralyzing her from the waist down. The doctor said that there’s just no way to repair it.”
“Wow, that’s going to be an adjustment. How are her kids?”
Director Dunning’s two adult daughters were both married with families of their own. One lived in Boston, while the other was in Seattle.
“They were devastated but grateful that their mom was going to survive. They said that they’ll do whatever they can to help out. That’s one tough lady, Chuck. I got to speak with her briefly last night and she’s already talking about getting back to work and planning another operation for south of the border.”
“That’s our girl,” McCain chuckled.
Fifteen minutes later, the receptionist ushered the two men into the director’s office where Maxwell sat behind his large, mahogany desk. A middle-age African-American woman whom neither man knew sat to his left and two unknown men in dark suits sat to his right. Two chairs had been placed in front of the desk.
“Mr. Clark, Mr. McCain, thank you for coming,” Sterling greeted them, not bothering to stand. “Please have a seat,” he said, pointing at the two empty chairs.
Kevin and Chuck glanced at each other, wondering what the director had up his sleeve.
“Gentlemen, this is Yolanda Louis. She’s one of the HR managers here at the Agency. To my right is Michael Price, a member of our legal team. To his right is Walter Lawson. Mr. Lawson is representing the Director of National Intelligence.”
None of the three spoke, merely staring at the contents of the manila folder that each held. For the first time, McCain noticed two folders in front of he and Kevin on Sterling’s desk.
“I’ll get right to the point. With her serious injuries, Director Dunning has decided to retire. She’s been eligible to go for a few years now, but I think she has made the wise decision to step away at this time and to focus on her own recovery and rehabilitation.”
“Sir?” Clark interjected.
“Yes, what is it?” the director asked, clearly peeved at being interrupted.
“I spoke with Ms. Dunning last night,” Kevin said, “and she expressed to me an eager desire to return to work as soon as possible.”
Sterling averted his eyes from the two men in front of him as he cleared his throat.
“Well, I suppose Director Dunning had a change of heart. She’s still being sedated and is on a number of different medications. When I spoke with her this morning, she made it very clear that she felt it was time for her to move on.
“So, that brings me to the point of this meeting. With Director Dunning retiring after a long and successful career, we’re going to be making some changes in the Operations Directorate. You two have performed brilliantly, serving under both Admiral Williams and Ms. Dunning, but now we’re going to be moving in a different direction. You’ll each be given a nice severance package and, of course, I’ll be more than happy to provide a stellar recommendation for any position you might take in the private sector.”
Sterling turned to the woman on his left, “Ms. Louis, would you like to take it from here?”
“Yes, sir,” she answered. “Mr. Clark and Mr. McCain, If you’ll open those folders in front of you, the first thing that you’ll see is a letter of resignation. If you will please read through those and then sign them at the bottom…”
“Mr. Director, what about our staffs and team members?” Chuck asked.
“What about them, Mr. McCain?” Maxwell answered, exasperation in his voice. “They work for the CIA, not for you.”
“I understand that, sir. I was just checking to see if you were firing them, as well. They’re good people and I’d like to know that they’re going to be OK.”
“Mr. McCain, as soon as you sign that letter of resignation, you’ll no longer work for the Central Intelligence Agency and the people who worked for you will no longer be your concern.”
The big man felt a surge of anger flow through him. Getting fired didn’t bother him, but he and Kevin both prided themselves on taking care of their teams. Chuck took a deep breath, withdrew a pen from his pocket, and signed the letter. He stood, closed the folder, tossed it onto the director’s desk, and turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Sterling asked, his voice rising. “We’re not done here yet. Ms. Louis has a number of other forms that you need to sign, and Mr. Price needs to go over the non-disclosure documents.”
The big man stopped at the office door. “You just told me that I don’t work here anymore, sir, so yes, we’re done here. If Ms. Louis or Mr. Price would like to chat further, they can do it while I pack up my office.”
“You can’t do that, McCain. You come back here right now!”
Chuck was already gone, however, leaving Maxwell staring with his mouth open. Kevin suppressed a laugh, quickly signing his own resignation letter, and laying the folder on the desk. Clark winked at the CIA director.
“What he said,” the former assistant Ops director commented before exiting the office.
Fairfax, Virginia, Wednesday, 1330 hours
Juan Guerra walked out of the bedroom, wiping perspiration from his brow. He hadn’t been entirely honest with Vincente Villarreal when he had texted him two days earlier. Damian Sanchez was in bad shape and Guerra wasn’t sure that he was going to make it. Two of the girls were hovering over the wounded soldier, trying to keep him comforta
ble, but there was only so much the prostitutes could do.
The cartel lieutenant stood in the hallway trying to decide what his next move would be. He needed to get Sanchez to a doctor, but knew he couldn’t do that without having the authorities alerted. The other option was to get Damian back to Villarreal in Mexico, where he could receive the medical treatment that he needed.
After the shootout, Marcos Salazar had lingered for about twelve hours before succumbing to his wounds. He had been hit by gunfire coming from inside Dunning’s vehicle as he and Reinaldo Rodriguez had sprinted towards Juan’s truck. Marcos had accompanied Damian from Mexico, while Reinaldo was one of Guerra’s men.
Even after being shot, Salazar had kept running, helping Rodriguez to pull the wounded Sanchez out of the hummer and drag him to the getaway vehicle. After a few miles, though, Reinaldo noticed that Marcos had passed out. The gangster located wounds on Salazar’s left hip, side, and arm.
Juan knew he couldn’t return to his rented house, assuming that someone had managed to get his license plate. Instead, they had pulled behind a Safeway grocery Store off of Lee Highway, where Daniel Guzmán had left his own work van. The wounded men were helped into the vehicle. Guerra grabbed all the weapons and a few personal items. In seconds, the brown Econoline was back on Lee Highway, the pickup truck abandoned.
Five minutes later, Guzmán maneuvered his van into the Oak Creek Townhome Community. The name was nicer than the reality. The townhomes were run down, with most having several vehicles parked in front of them. Daniel backed up to the front door and the injured men were carried inside.