by Jack Slater
She might have allowed herself a small smile at the thought of the image the viewers would see. A small child thrusting his fingers into a dam, not understanding that a swollen river lay behind it. But of course, she did not. Fury came off her in crackling waves—whether she truly felt it or not.
The Mexican senator didn’t stop. She was wearing a matching skirt and jacket combo, both in a dark blue. The heels on her feet were wholly unsuitable for the uneven terrain beneath her but gave her several inches of additional height, which never hurt.
“How many got out?” she demanded, not turning her head to face the NCO, who was now frozen in her wake. With no answer forthcoming, she finally turned, her arms spreading wide in a gesture of both Latin passion and in deliberate resemblance of a figure that could be found in every house in a country as religious as this.
A photographer’s shutter clicked, and Josefina Salazar knew precisely what image would grace the front pages in the morning.
“Please, madam senator, I cannot allow you to –”
“I am a duly elected representative of the citizens of this country, young man,” she said passionately, punctuating every word with a dancing fingertip. “And I shall go wherever I please. This government has failed us long enough. It is time that someone exposed the corruption of this so-called president and his cabinet. Are we really supposed to believe that all of this chaos was allowed to happen without his knowing about it?”
Salazar paused just long enough to allow the idea to sink in, but not so long that a reporter might take the opportunity to shout out a question and puncture her moment in the spotlight.
“Our president,” she said with mocking derision dripping off her tongue like syrup, “truly expects us to swallow the idea that he could be somehow unaware that even our Air Force is riddled with corruption. How does he propose that we defend ourselves when the brave men and women who sign up to do that are led by cowards and crooks?
“And let us for just one moment humor the idea that he had nothing to do with it. No sense that something like this was barreling toward him. Well, if that is really true, then he has no business leading this great country. I’m sure that every single one of you sitting at home agrees with me.”
By now, the hapless sergeant had given up attempting to cajole the senator and was instead attempting to make himself as small as possible. Salazar pointed at him, careful not to show her amusement. “This young man here,” she said, “would do far better than our exalted president. Perhaps we should ask him to do the job?”
She looked expectantly at him, watching as the cameras swung into focus on his face. As shutters clacked and camera film rolled – or at least, saved to disk – she waited. Waited until slowly, hesitantly, the sergeant shook his head.
“I agree,” she said pleasantly as a dozen lenses turned the focus back on her. “It’s best that we leave brave men and women like you where you can do the most good.
“And that is why I, Senadora Josefina Maria Salazar, will be running for the presidency this year. I will take no money from the cartels. I will not allow my administration to be corrupted by crooks and criminals like the present regime. And I will not rest until the hard-working, honorable people of this country are led by someone who respects those values. And until the cancer of the cartels is burned from our body politic once and for all. Thank you.”
15
Ramon “El Toro” Reyes didn’t take the seat at the head of the long, polished hardwood conference table, though nobody else did either. He slumped halfway down his chair, not because he was beaten but because he was smoldering with rage. The events of the past few days had not unfolded to his satisfaction.
It was bad enough that a dozen of his best men had been slaughtered in the attack on Altiplano, the original reason for gathering his key lieutenants here today. But now this. The norteamericanos had spent the past day systematically dismantling his distribution operation north of the border. He didn’t care about the lost product. Cocaine was cheap.
Good people, however, were not.
He had lost a decade’s worth of experience in the blink of an eye. Already, reliable lawyers were meeting their clients and advising them that their best course of action was to keep their mouths shut. That they would be well rewarded on the other side for doing so. But faced with the prospect of a decade or more behind bars, some of his men would flip. Reyes knew that. It was part of the calculation. And for every one that did, his organization would suffer still more.
“The Federation,” he muttered, flexing his right hand against the cool wood in front of him. “Are they behind this?”
From opposite his seat, his cousin Carlos Guerra thumped his palm against the table like a petulant gorilla. “It’s time we wiped Carreon out. We should have done it years ago. It is no coincidence that Altiplano happens the same day as this disaster.”
The announcement drew a few murmurs of agreement, but for the most part the more discerning of his lieutenants kept their mouths shut and their eyes on their principal.
Reyes opened and closed his fist several times more, stretching out the motion as he considered the events that had led them to this point. When he finally spoke, he did so quietly, so the others were forced to lean in to listen.
“I don’t want war. War is bad for business. War puts all of our livelihoods at risk. If it comes to that, then so be it. But I will not provoke this fight.”
Carlos didn’t take the hint. “Provoke?” he said sardonically. “We are already in the foxhole, cousin. They came for us while we were taking a shit, while we had our pants around their ankles. And I’m glad they did.”
El Toro was not the caricature that his nickname suggested, nor the character painted by more sensationalist news outlets. Though he was indeed a squat bull of a man, and a killer many times over, a keen mind resided within that less than delicate skull. That did not mean he was any stranger to the infliction of violence, nor timid in his skin, just that he was not a prisoner of the more sordid urges that afflict so many men of his ilk.
“Be quiet, Carlos.”
His cousin ignored him for a second time, a claret tint of rage in his cheeks indicating that he probably hadn’t heard. “We can’t let it stand. Whoever did this, they need to pay. And the world needs to know what happened to them. Otherwise what are we: whores?”
“Enough!” Reyes grumbled, barely raising his voice but layering it with a crack of irritation that was sufficiently powerful to penetrate his cousin’s thick skull. He slowly raised his head, allowing his gaze to fall first on his glowering, practically vibrating relative before examining the other half-dozen men in the room in turn. He spoke to them, though each knew the true target of his words.
“We will not move until we know what the hell is going on. Something about this doesn’t smell right. Did our people inside the Federation not give us any warning of this?”
Carlos, who shared some responsibility for running the Crusaders’ informants, re-took his seat, the tint on his cheeks doubling. “None.”
“None!” Reyes roared. “I pay millions in bribes every year, and none of them came forward? Not one?”
His cousin shook his head. Red was battling with black rage on his expression now, though he knew better than to test his cousin’s commitment to familial loyalty at this present moment.
“Then before we blow our load like an over-excited virgin, I suggest you bring me something I can use. Understand?”
Carlos glowered back at him, but eventually buckled under the pressure and gave him a single, sharp nod. Reyes held his punishing gaze yet longer and broke away only when the sliding doors opened.
“Boss,” Emiliano said, without apologizing for his tardiness. “There’s something you need to see.”
Reyes watched as Emiliano Mendoza, his right-hand man, entered the conference room, not stopping to close the doors after him. His aide walked around the table, stopping at the center on the opposite side, just next to Carlos. He leaned ove
r and tapped a button on the console, a unit that doubled as both a telephone speaker and an audiovisual controller. Overhead, a digital projector blinked into life.
For a few seconds, only the Japanese manufacturer’s logo was evident on the accompanying screen, moving in smooth arcs from the bottom right to left corners before jumping diagonally to the top and repeating the pattern in reverse.
“What is this, Mendoza?” Carlos scoffed. “This is important, or haven’t you noticed?”
Reyes slammed his palm down on the conference table and shot his cousin a look that would have chilled the blood of any other man, and probably would do the same for Carlos, if he was intelligent enough to grasp the message.
“Shut the fuck up, cousin,” he hissed.
He returned his attention to Mendoza, who was now flicking through television channels. Reyes might have shared Carlos’ frustration if it wasn’t for the fact that he knew that Emiliano would not do something like this without good reason. Even so, he sensed that he was losing control of his message, and in an organization infested by men with little loyalty and lots of ambition, that was a dangerous thing indeed.
He cleared his throat as Mendoza puffed out his cheeks with satisfaction and straightened his frame. “What am I watching, Emiliano?”
The press conference was being carried live on WTN and would probably make the lead item on all that evening’s news packages. Depending on how fast the media’s relentless tornado spun over the next twenty-four hours, the talking heads might even have it on their minds tomorrow.
Administrator Engel accepted the proffered water bottle from Leo, took a swig, then handed it back. “How do I look?”
“A million bucks, boss. Tie’s fine.”
Engel grinned. “Sarah got to you too, huh?”
“Your wife has that effect on people.” His chief of staff grinned.
“Don’t I know it,” he said with a rueful roll of his eyes.
Leo glanced at his watch, then made a beckoning motion toward a gaggle of half a dozen sharply suited men and women a few yards away. All were in their fifties or sixties and wore the focused expressions of top prosecutors. Each was a US Attorney, mostly drawn from districts near the border with Mexico.
The podium bore the crest of the Department of Justice, the DEA’s parent organization, and that for each of the prosecutors now making their way toward Engel. Leo made himself scarce after muttering, “Live in five, boss. Give ‘em hell.”
Engel greeted each of the US Attorneys in turn, but didn’t linger too long, as he wanted to review his notes one last time. Five minutes ticked away into four, and before he knew it, it was none.
The room hushed as if by some unheard signal, and then it was time. He strode out onto the platform and looked out at the cavernous space of a Houston hotel ballroom, decorated around the edges by huge gold-patterned hanging curtains that reminded him of tapestries from a time long in the past. About a dozen reporters were in attendance, seated on a tightly-packed cluster of dining chairs. To the left and right of the podium, out of shot for the cameras, two large television monitors faced him, displaying the live camera feed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, musing to himself that the television viewers had no idea he was speaking only to a scarce handful of people live, and how funny a thing it was to have to pretend that was not the case. “Thank you for joining me today. I will keep my remarks short before handing over to the individuals behind me, who will each brief you on how events unfolded in their districts over the past 48 hours.”
He glanced down at the podium, where he saw Leo had placed a set of flashcards, each of which only bore a few words, written in thick Sharpie ink. He found his train of thought.
“The Mexican drug cartel known as the Crusaders is responsible for approximately 40 percent of the cocaine imported into the continental United States, along with 30 percent of the methamphetamines and a similar amount of heroin and other opioids. All told, they traffic narcotics whose worth extends into the tens of billions of dollars each year.”
Engel paused for effect, though he knew better than to expect any reaction from the news reporters in front of him, all of them pros who were far too experienced to display anything so amateurish as emotion. He surreptitiously slid the topmost of the flashcards to one side.
“In addition to their operations south of the border, the Crusaders also operate a distribution network that we know to have a presence in at least 35 states, and most likely every single one. I am pleased to report today that agents of the Drug Enforcement Administration, acting alongside our colleagues in state, local and other federal agencies, moved on this network and – we believe –dealt it a crippling blow.”
A loud bang echoed at the far end of the ballroom, though conscious that he was live on television, Engel knew better than to look toward the source of the sound. The camera mics were directional and might not have picked up the commotion. Even if they had, rule number one on camera was that the show must go on. He was sure that if there was a problem, Leo would even now be fixing it.
Where the hell is he?
Besides, it was probably just some slightly confused hotel guest who had stumbled into the wrong room at the wrong time after one too many. And even if he had wanted to find out what was going on the far end of the room, the television lights trained on him were simply too dazzling.
“Overnight, we apprehended several dozen suspects, three of whom are on the Administration’s most wanted list. Each of these men are killers, and –”
Engel saw the blood before he heard the gunshot, his peripheral vision catching the sight of the US Attorney for the Eastern District of Texas dropping to the ground on one of the monitors in front of him. He turned his head, open-mouthed with horror as another of the prosecutors was cut down by a flurry of shots that seemed to bisect the man’s chest.
A scream rent the air as a round passed through the bulb of the brightest of the television lights. There was no flurry of sparks, but the tripod structure toppled to the ground, clattering against a reporter frozen in place on her chair, fingertips still poised over the keypad of her iPad.
Engel too was frozen, his own hands locked against the sides of the podium. Just a few seconds before, it was a position designed to display a sense of strength, one of complete command of his abilities, and now a much greater liability. With the television light gone, he could see again, though he wished he could not. Still twisted in place, torso facing front, head turned toward the dead and dying who stood behind him, the administrator of the Drug Enforcement Agency watched as the rest of the gaggle of prosecutors behind him were cut to the ground one by one by short, measured bursts of gunfire.
Finally, Engel’s grip on the podium released, though the loss of support only succeeded in allowing him to stagger backward, where his ankle caught against something warm and solid and…
Wet…
His gaze snapped up, his subconscious simply not allowing him to look down and register what his conscious mind knew was down there. This could not be happening. How was this happening? He had people with him every hour of every day precisely for this eventuality. Men with guns. Agents trained to use them.
Where are they?
Desperately, Engel searched for the cavalry, only for the answer to his question to come with surprising, horrifying rapidity. All three of the members of his protection detail who had entered the hotel with him were already dead. Only two had managed even to draw their weapons before being gunned down.
As he registered the sight of the bodies of three men who he knew, if not intimately, then at least well, a jolt of adrenaline hit the administrator. No one else was coming to help him. If he was to escape this horror, he was on his own.
Ramon Reyes realized that he was standing. He could not remember when that had happened, but he knew why. Even now, icy tendrils of shock were beginning to grip his gut. The scene unfolding on the projector screen in front of him was a slaughter. He could not understan
d why the WTN newsroom was allowing the feed to be broadcast. The Americans were a strange people, no less religious than his own, yet strangely fearful of allowing such a calamity as a swear word to be broadcast on live television. The cold-blooded, professional execution of some of the most senior officials in their Justice Department was, however, apparently okay.
The cartel chief was no stranger to bloodbaths like the one he was watching unfold, but he was rarely surprised by them, as he was now.
“Emiliano,” he said hoarsely, jabbing at the sky. “Volume.”
Mendoza did as he was instructed, and the gentle raindrop against windowpane rattle of gunfire through the speakers turned into a veritable hailstorm.
“Please, I beg you again,” an unseen presenter said in a strangled yelp over the feed.
“If you have children with you, please turn off your set. Our crew has been taken hostage by whoever”—her voice broke before its strength reasserted itself—"whoever is doing this. We’ve been told that if they stop broadcasting…”
Again, her voice trailed away. The threat, though, was implicit.
Smart, Reyes thought coolly as he appraised the situation. So that answers that.
The television feed shook, went blurry, then refocused, all the time directed at the center of the small stage upon which the Justice Department’s podium stood. Each of the prosecutors who had earlier stood behind it were now dead, or at least doing their best to appear so. Only one man was left alive.
Mark Engel.
He was frozen in place, looking somewhere off to the side of the stage, out of shot. The backs of the heads of several reporters were visible at the bottom of the projector feed, still seated in their original places. It was unclear whether they still lived or not. Reyes sensed that they did. Whoever the assailants were, you did not do something like this without wanting it to be talked about. And who better to do that for you than the reporters who watched it happen?