Storm Clouds Rising: A Chuck McCain Novel

by David Spell

  “Seriously?” Smith laughed. “We cut off the heads of the three biggest cartels down there, killing two of ‘em. And that third guy will rot in prison here. We did them an el grande favor. The least they could’ve done is given us a lifetime supply of Tequila and tacos.”

  “I don’t want to get an insider’s view of a Mexican prison,” McCain commented, tapping his fingers on the table, “but I do like the idea of hitting these bastards again.”

  A stillness descended over the room as the men continued to pore over the maps and documents.

  Kevin broke the silence, grinning at Chuck. “I guess we need to go talk to the General, huh?”

  “You want to what? Are you crazy?” General Perkins yelled, staring at the two men seated in his office, smiling back at him.

  When they didn’t answer, he slipped on his glasses, picked up the stack of papers, and flipped through them again. After regaining control of his emotions, Perkins turned to McCain, looking at him over the top of his spectacles.

  “Please reiterate exactly what Agent Burns told you, Chuck.”

  “Yes, sir, but I’d like your word that you will not use what I’m telling you to get him in trouble. He’s the Assistant Director of CT and a good man.”

  The general’s eyes grew wide. He wasn’t used to having subordinates dictate what he did or did not do. But you’re not a real general anymore, are you? he thought, forcing himself to pause and not to react. These men are your co-workers—your business partners—and while respectful, are definitely not in awe of you, Wallace.

  “Very well. I give you my word,” Perkins said, his tone softer.

  When Chuck finished with his summary, he concluded, “He wanted me to call him after I had digested everything. After he and I talk, I’m sure that I’ll have a better idea of what he might be suggesting.”

  “Colonel, your thoughts on this?” Perkins asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, sir. Let’s see what else Chuck finds out. Worst case scenario, we just walk away. Best case, maybe we can go back to Mexico and kill some more gangsters.”

  “Spoken like a true Ranger,” the general smiled. “Let’s meet again after Chuck’s next chat with Agent Burns.”

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Friday, 2050 hours

  Imam Shaheed Ali sat at a desk in his tiny study in the small apartment located near the Masjidullah mosque. His wife, Serena, was in the living room watching television, the noise carrying into where he worked. The woman was not serious about her faith, preferring to spend hours watching godless American soap operas, sitcoms and movies.

  He had not seen his friend Musa in almost two weeks. He had disappeared after apparently killing an FBI agent near his safe house. How had they found him? The imam wondered if maybe the authorities had followed him to Musa’s safehouse. No, I was much too careful, he quickly told himself. After hearing of the murdered FBI agent, Ali had also left town for a few days, he and his wife visiting her family in Dearborn, Michigan. The imam knew that the police would want to question him if they had found his fingerprints in Musa’s home, but he was in no hurry to speak with them.

  Ali tried to put the sounds of the infidel entertainment out of his mind as he prepared his message for tomorrow. In front of him lay his Koran, a yellow legal pad, and two other Muslim books, providing a commentary on what the Prophet had meant. Shaheed felt his excitement rising as he studied. He only got to lead the service a few times a year and always worked hard to convey the message of Allah to the mosque members.

  “Hello, brother,” a familiar voice spoke from behind the imam, startling him.

  Ali spun around to see Musa standing in the doorway, a knife in his right hand, blood dripping from the blade onto the carpet.

  “Musa, what…what have you done? Where is Serena?”

  Shaheed jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over, starting towards the smaller man. Khan’s foot lashed out, catching Ali solidly in the groin. The Pakistani moved quickly around behind the imam as the strike to the testicles sent him to his knees, gasping and groaning in pain. The assassin grabbed a handful of Ali’s hair with his left hand, jerking his head back, exposing his throat.

  Pressing the blade against the man’s neck, Khan spoke softly. “You led the FBI to me. You betrayed me, Shaheed.”

  “No, I didn’t! I swear it! I would never betray you, Musa.”

  “And yet, the FBI knew just where to find me. You were the only one I trusted enough to visit me there.”

  “Musa, I’m sorry. If I did, I didn’t mean to. I tried to be careful whenever I came to visit. I only wanted to help you! You must believe me!”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Khan said, slicing the knife across the imam’s throat, from one side to the other.

  The assassin released the hair, retreated a step, and then kicked Ali in the back, sending his gurgling body to the floor, his blood pumping out onto the carpet. When he was sure that Shaheed was dead, Musa cleaned his knife on the religious leader’s white shirt and resheathed it, moving back into the living room.

  Serena lay unmoving on the couch, her own blood covering her chest and lap, the woman’s wound matching her husband’s. The Pakistani looked out the rear window, not seeing or hearing anything. He eased out onto the fire escape, quietly climbing down the three floors of steps to the ground, where he again disappeared into the shadows.

  Leesburg, Virginia, Monday, 0835 hours

  “That’s everything, General,” Chuck concluded as he and Kevin sat sipping coffee in Perkin’s office. “He definitely isn’t as strait-laced as he once was if he’s wanting to get mixed up with an incursion into Mexico.”

  McCain and Burns had talked for an hour Friday evening, the FBI agent laying his cards on the table.

  “I don’t want to see these bastards, Sanchez and Guerra, get away with killing Tim and Tom,” Burns had said, “and putting Sandra in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. They may come back to the US, they may not. Either way, up to this point, we’ve had no luck in catching them. Plus, now we also have a chance to get Sanchez, Guerra, and Villarreal together. The Attorney General has issued warrants on Vincente for murder, drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and conspiracy to commit murder.

  “If anybody on the planet has a chance of getting into Mexico, meting out some justice, and then getting back home, it’s you and your band of misfits. Who knows, maybe you could end up capturing and bringing the assholes back to the US. The only thing better than those SOBs dead from a bullet in the head would be to rot in jail.

  “I understand if you’re not interested. No hard feelings. I’m just kind of wishing out loud. But, if you think this might be something you’d consider, there are ways that I can support you,” Burns had said before they were done.

  “Agent Burns seems to have a lot faith in you, Chuck,” Wallace commented, digesting what he had just heard, taking a drink from his own mug of coffee.

  “When I first met Thomas, I was one of the team leaders at the CDC. He was pretty much a dick, or least that was how he came across. Over time, though, he saw that we got things done and I saw how competent he was.

  “The FBI has a culture of caution. They’ll discuss something, analyze it from eighty-seven different angles, run it by their lawyers, discuss it some more, etc. That’s never been mine or Kevin’s philosophy. We plan, we make contingencies, but when it’s time to act, the time for talking is over.”

  “That’s always been my way of thinking, as well,” the general nodded thoughtfully. “I want to say right up front that I think this is a terrible idea and I’m not sure that we should even be discussing it. On the other hand, for conversation’s sake, let’s throw a few questions out on the table.

  “First of all, what would be the purpose of an operation into Matamoros, Mexico?”

  “To terminate some gangsters,” Kevin answered.

  “I’d rephrase that,” Chuck interjected. “I’d narrow our goal to capture or kill Juan Guerra, Vincente Villarreal, and Damian Sanchez.�
��

  “Capture? Why would we want to capture them?” Clark asked, a puzzled expression on his face. “We’re not cops. Even if we were, we have no jurisdiction in Mexico. Trying to take them alive adds a whole different set of variables to the op.”

  “Right, but those guys are wanted for all kinds of crimes here in the US. If, and I understand that’s a big if, we were able to take them alive and bring them back, I’m sure Burns could make arrangements for them to be picked up. Plus, the less shooting we do, the better our chances of actually getting away. That warehouse is right in the middle of the city and I don’t want to see any innocents getting hurt, either.”

  “Good thinking,” Kevin acknowledged. “You were the cop. In the Rangers, we just went in and killed people and blew things up.”

  Perkins nodded. “Okay. Question number two: How many people would you want on this mission?”

  “I think no more than six,” Clark said. “We still haven’t discussed all the logistics but moving six people is much more doable than eight or ten and still big enough to bring a lot of firepower to bear.”

  “I agree,” McCain nodded. “The only thing that I would add is having a support team working with us. Communications, logistics, and maybe even a quick reaction force.”

  The general held up a third finger. “How would this team be armed? As Colonel Clark pointed out, we’re not in the military or working for the government any more. Would everyone provide their own firearms and equipment? My understanding is that the cartels have military grade weapons and I’d hate to see our people outgunned.”

  “I might be able to help with that, General,” Kevin answered. “I’ve got a storage unit just north of Atlanta that’s full of different types of, let’s just say, equipment that might help us.”

  Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And where did you acquire this ‘equipment’, Colonel?”

  “When the zombie virus was released, my Guard soldiers and I kept fighting after the chain-of-command had broken down. Armed gangs used the crisis to rape, rob, and pillage. We took out a lot of those gangs and always kept their weapons. We had no idea how long zombies would be roaming the streets and we didn’t want to run out of guns or ammo.

  “When things finally started getting back to normal, we gave most of the National Guard’s weapons back to them, the ones that we had recovered after so many of their roadblocks had been overrun. I thought about calling in Atlanta PD and turning everything else over to them, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what a terrible idea that would’ve been.”

  “Good call,” McCain spoke up. “They would’ve just taken the guns, put them in their evidence room, and eventually they’d be chopped up and melted down.”

  Kevin grinned. “So, yeah, General, I’m pretty sure I can arm a mission into Mexico.”

  “Interesting,” Perkins nodded, staring past the two men, clearly thinking hard. “Very interesting.”

  “Here’s another question,” Chuck interjected. “How would we, I mean the hypothetical team that we’re discussing, how would they get into Mexico, armed to the teeth? The last time we did it, we went in with the Navy SEALs and launched from a destroyer.”

  The general did not appear to have heard the question, apparently still lost in thought. After a moment, he nodded and looked at McCain.

  “Getting into Mexico? That’s something that I might be able to help with. I know a guy.”

  Without elaborating, Wallace changed the subject.

  “If this was something that we decided to pursue, and I’m assuming that we’d need to move quickly before our targets relocate, who would be a part of the assault team in Mexico?”

  Chuck and Kevin glanced at each other. Was the general actually considering getting behind this crazy idea?

  Clark spoke up. “Chuck, me, Fleming, Smith, Walker, and Hollywood Estrada, if he’d join us. He worked for Chuck at the CDC and was one of the contractors that I used on a number of missions at the Agency. He’s bilingual and a great operator.”

  The older man sat up, reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a quarter, and holding it up.

  “I’m willing to give the go-ahead to begin planning this operation. Of course, you don’t really need my approval and could go anyway, but I’d like to think that we’ve become a team here. As a team, I believe that we have a high chance for success. Having said that, I will only give my approval to one of the two of you going.”

  Chuck and Kevin both started to protest at the same time. Perkins raised a hand, silencing them.

  “This is not negotiable. If you want my blessing and the support of Sandra’s intelligence unit, I’m not sending both of you into Mexico. And if, by chance, there’s the need, I’ll also put our legal team at your disposal. What I propose is that one of you run the mission on the ground inside Matamoros. The other would lead the support team in Brownsville or wherever you want to set up.

  “I know that either of you could lead this operation. That’s not the issue. I can’t take the chance of losing both of you. Plus, as we discussed, having the right person running the support team is vital.

  Reluctantly, Clark and McCain nodded, knowing the general was right. After seeing that they were agreeing with him, Wallace stood and walked around his desk.

  “I’m going to flip a coin. The winner of the coin toss will lead the operation into Mexico to capture or kill some very bad men. Colonel, I’ll let you call the toss.”

  The general flipped the quarter into the air.

  “Heads,” Kevin said, hopefully.

  The coin turned over and over, landing on the carpet between the two men. Tails.

  “Damn!” Clark exclaimed, extending his hand to McCain. “You are one lucky guy, Chuck.”

  The big man laughed, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

  “Gentlemen,” Perkins smiled, “why don’t you get to work and let’s talk again on Wednesday?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LEESBURG, VIRGINIA, TUESDAY, 1045 hours

  Gabriella Vargas gasped as she stared at the familiar figure on her computer screen.

  “Oh, my God!”

  The video clip showed Maxwell Sterling enter a bedroom, undress, and then sit down on the edge of the bed. Two minutes later, the door opened again and two young girls joined him. So young. Gabby guessed twelve or thirteen, but it was hard to tell. The taller girl had a fake smile plastered on her face, while the shorter, younger one looked terrified. For the next eight minutes, the video left nothing to the imagination as the CIA Director abused the girls.

  Vargas grabbed her computer and rushed breathlessly into Dunning’s office. When the movie was over, the two women stared at each other in disbelief.

  “That sleazy son-of-a-bitch!” Sandra finally managed to say. “Let’s see what the General has to say. If Sterling’s the one who put me in this wheelchair, he’s going to wish that he’d finished the job!”

  At 1535 hours, Thomas Burns parked his SUV a half a block from the address that Sandra had given him. She’d called him that morning and asked him to come out to their office in Leesburg, letting him know that she might have found a crucial piece of evidence in the attempts on her life. The FBI agent had offered to send one of his subordinates to meet with her to discuss the evidence.

  The former CIA Operations Director had been insistent, though, stating that she would only deal with him. Burns really didn’t want to drive the hour plus to Leesburg on what was probably a wild goose chase. Dunning would not even give him a hint of what she had over the phone. Once a spook, always a spook, he thought.

  He had to admit, though, that he’d enjoyed getting to know the woman during his visits when she was in the hospital. She was tough, smart, and witty. His agents had finally been allowed to interview her three weeks after the shooting. As he had feared, the interview didn’t provide anything of substance and the Agency lawyers made sure she did not divulge information on any of the CIA’s current or past
operations.

  Thomas had also gotten a glimpse of Sandra’s soft side when her daughters had come to see her. Watching her interact with her adult children had tugged on his heart, reminding him of his own failings as a father. Maybe one day I can do something about that, he thought.

  The other plus to this drive to Leesburg was that it would give the G-Man a chance to see McCain’s new operation in action. He had taken a late lunch and then made the picturesque drive down Route 7. When Burns pressed the buzzer at the front of Century Tactical Solutions, the door was opened by a familiar face.

  “Agent Burns, great to see you!” Shaun greeted him with a smile.

  “Hi, Shaun. Good to see you, too. I’m here to meet with Sandra. You enjoying working for these guys?”

  “Well, everything is still so new. We’re all jumping in on the ground floor waiting to see where we end up. Come on, I’ll show you to Ms. Dunning’s office,” the younger man said, leading the FBI agent down a corridor.

  “Hi, Agent Burns, please come in,” Sandra greeted him, rolling herself out from behind her desk to shake his hand.

  “How are you, ma’am?” Thomas asked. “Uh, I mean, how are you adjusting to everything?”

  Dunning pointed him to a chair in front of her desk. She positioned her wheelchair near his and turned a laptop around so that it was facing them.

  “I have good days and I have bad days,” she answered, honestly, looking him in the eye. “I’m grateful to be alive and I’m thankful for this new opportunity that I’ve been given. Before I show you this, I want to thank you for driving all the way out here. You’ll understand why I didn’t want to say anything over the phone. I know you’re going to have a lot of questions so let me play the movie and then we can talk. It’s about ten minutes long.”