by Jack Slater
The question was: why?
The gunfire started to trail away and soon after fell silent, and still Engel did not move. He was caught like a rabbit in the headlights, not knowing whether to go left or right to forward or back and in the end doing nothing very much at all. He failed even to run when a man dressed all in black, from his boots to his balaclava, strode onto the stage, a similarly-hued pistol in his right hand.
The man grabbed Engel roughly and dragged him to the front of the stage, just beside the podium. Reyes was transfixed. He barely dared to breathe. It was plain that what was happening here was, in its own way, as momentous as the events of 9/11. If not for the whole of America, then at least for El Toro and his Crusaders.
The Americans would not forget this. They would want vengeance. And when they came looking, no matter how long it took, they were rarely denied.
“Please…” the DEA administrator said in a hoarse, whistling whisper. “I’ll –”
Whatever exactly it was that Engel proposed to do or say in order to save his skin was, sadly for him, lost to posterity as a result of the impact of a 9 mm round entering the back of his head and exiting somewhere around his left temple, painting one of the last few sections of the stage that wasn’t already covered in blood a dark red.
And finally, the television feed from the Hilton ballroom in downtown Houston went dead.
For a long few seconds, nobody spoke. Not the television presenters in their Atlanta studio, not the cartel barons in that conference room, not even Ramon Reyes himself. He let out a deep breath, one that he had been holding on to for far too long, then steepled his fingers on the table in front of him and slowly lowered himself back into his seat.
For the second time that day, he eyed each of his men in turn. Even Emiliano Mendoza, a man he trusted implicitly. His gaze bored into their souls, burning with such fierce intensity, but it was plain to each of them that only the truth would suffice.
“Did we have anything to do with this?”
16
Trapp rose not very long after dawn, when the sun was still hanging somewhere low beneath the horizon. A thin layer of condensation glistened on the interior of the tent, and there was a surprising chill in the air.
He rolled out of his sleeping bag, careful not to disturb Eliza, who was still snoring to his side, her face obscured beneath a shock of black hair. A smile toyed with the corner of his lips as he considered recording the sound to play back to her later, but he made the executive decision that it was probably best not to get on the wrong side of a woman who could kill him half a dozen different ways before she brushed her teeth in the morning. She wouldn’t believe him anyway. She would just claim he’d recorded a fighter jet’s exhaust – and it wasn’t as if he could prove her wrong. That was a problem with snorers.
They only did it when they were asleep.
The tent’s zipper was loud as he pulled it down, but gentle in comparison, so he didn’t worry too much about waking her. He closed it after he was done.
The lake was bordered by a rocky beach about twenty yards away from their campsite. They’d borrowed stones from it the night before to ring their campfire, the embers of which had smoldered through the early hours and were now nothing more than a thin covering of gray ash. It was the same color as a light mist that hung a couple of feet over the water’s surface.
Trapp walked toward it, not bothering to pull on his boots, and peeled off his T-shirt instead. He folded it and placed it on a rounded boulder at the very edge of the lake. He glanced around, checking no one was watching. There was another campsite a couple of hundred yards down the lake – they’d met the couple staying there the night before – but a small copse of trees that had somehow colonized the stony earth blocked their view.
Besides, they would probably not be awake. Normal people weren’t, not at this time.
His hiking pants joined the T-shirt, and shortly after, his boxers. Even they were folded neatly. Old habits didn’t change.
Trapp stood entirely naked at the water’s edge for a few seconds before he waded in. The lake was crystal clear and cold enough to steal his breath after he dunked his head beneath the surface. The world was silent and calm beneath the waterline, and he held himself beneath it for a few long seconds, luxuriating in the total absence of worry and stress, wondering if maybe he should simply move to the woods for good.
You’d probably live longer, he thought wryly.
The top of his head broke the water’s surface, and he returned to the world of the living, though it wasn’t much more frenetic than the space below. A bird of prey swooped out of the sky and skimmed the surface of the lake, perhaps mistaking Trapp’s emergence for that of its normal sustenance before it just as suddenly resumed normal service and disappeared into the sky above.
A gentle breeze stirred the air, causing the mist to swirl gently above the water, though it was thicker observed from afar rather than right up close.
Trapp twisted, picked a spot about halfway across the lake, and swam toward it with long, easy strokes, moving just fast enough to keep his body temperature up, but not exerting himself greatly. They had a long hike planned for the remainder of the day, and he was getting old enough to have to start worrying about tiring himself out too early.
When he pulled himself back out of the water fifteen minutes later, Eliza was standing there, wearing a towel as a shawl. She pouted as he ran his fingers through his hair and swept the water from his eyes. “You should’ve said you were going in. I would have joined you.”
“And risk waking you up?” Trapp grinned, widening his eyes for effect. “I wouldn’t dare.”
He reached out for the towel, and Eliza spun around as she grudgingly relinquished it. He dried himself off gratefully and tied it around his waist. The smell of wood smoke was already in the air, and he glanced up at the campsite to see a small fire already blazing – only large enough to heat the coffee pot.
He bent over to retrieve his folded clothes, then offered Eliza his arm. “Breakfast?”
“You cooking?” she asked.
“You bet.”
“Then put some damn clothes on,” she laughed as they walked back up to the campsite. “I’ll start a pot of coffee.”
Some sixth sense alerted Trapp to the sound of the incoming helicopter at least a minute before it resolved itself more clearly, though he did not pay much attention to it – at least not while he finished drying himself down and getting dressed.
It was only when the chopper circled twice over the surface of the lake, appearing to check out first the other campsite, then their own, that Trapp realized something else was up. He pulled on his boots, then joined Eliza in watching the chopper come down for a landing.
“Hey, you remember the last time you took me on vacation?” Eliza murmured over the sound of the approaching aircraft.
“Uh huh.”
“So I’m guessing you remember those guys who tried to kill us?”
“Kind of a hard thing to forget…” Trapp quipped.
“Anything I need to be worried about?”
The helicopter rotated in midair, opening up its side for full view as it slowed and began to hover, the rotor wash chasing away the last remnants of the mist from the lake’s surface. Trapp’s chin met his chest, carried there by a brief exhalation of dismay.
“Unless the bad guys have borrowed an FBI chopper, I’m guessing we don’t have to worry about that,” he said, shooting her a glance that said, I’ll make it up to you.
The look he received in response was easy enough to interpret. It said: You better.
The chopper’s pilot set the bird down gently on the lake’s rocky shore, and though his skids kissed the ground gently, he couldn’t do anything about the hurricane his rotors were whipping up, sending a flurry of dust and smaller stones in the direction of the campsite.
The tent’s pins, mostly weighed down by blocks of stones, struggled manfully to resist the storm, but could only hang on
so long. Trapp managed to unzip the doors on either side just in time, letting the air pass through to avoid the whole thing making like a sail and blowing away.
The bird’s engine announced that it was powering down by emanating a low-pitched whine, and shortly after the rotors began to slow. An FBI agent, complete with the stenciled windbreaker they all seemed to wear, jumped out and ran toward where Trapp and Eliza were standing, hunched ostentatiously low to avoid the blades even when he was well out of their range.
“What do you want, agent?” Trapp called out.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir. Are you –?”
Trapp nodded. “I am.”
“You’re needed back in Washington.”
“Why?”
The agent, a kid who looked fresh out of Quantico, shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. They don’t tell me much.”
“Me neither, buddy,” Trapp grunted. He turned to Eliza and said, “I guess we’re getting breakfast back home.”
She laughed. “As long as you’re paying.”
Trapp glanced around the campsite and determined he wouldn’t need any of his hiking gear for a meeting inside the Beltway, so he left it right where it was and started walking toward the chopper with Eliza in tow, only stooping to lift the coffee pot off the flame. He poured a cup for both of them and warmed his hands on it as he walked.
A few seconds later, it was evident the FBI agent was following a few steps behind. Trapp stopped, frowning, and turned back. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The agent squinted. “Uh,” he said uncertainly. “The helicopter?”
“Then who’s going to return my car to the rental shop?” Trapp asked mischievously.
“That’s gotta be, like, a five-hour drive,” the agent protested, his gaze drifting to Eliza, who just shrugged and sipped her coffee.
“Six, long as you don’t hit traffic,” Trapp agreed amiably. “You ever pack up a tent? Properly, I mean.”
“I’m from Glenville, West Virginia,” the agent replied glumly, glancing over his shoulder at the campsite, now entirely askew from the effects of the rotor wash. “All we got to do down there is hills and kills.”
“So that’s a yes?”
Trapp grinned, collected Eliza’s now empty coffee cup, and handed it over along with his own. “Good man. Thanks for the ride.”
17
An FBI car was waiting at the helipad to whisk them through DC’s light weekend traffic without being forced to resort to the lights behind the grille. They entered the Hoover building through the access ramp on the corner of Ninth and East. It led to a subterranean parking garage, where Nick Pope was waiting.
Trapp had suspected he might.
“Sorry about this,” the FBI agent said as Trapp climbed out of the SUV, Ikeda following just behind. He closed the passenger door behind them, then thumped the roof of the vehicle twice, at which it duly departed.
“I’m feeling a little underdressed,” Ikeda commented, glancing at Pope’s freshly pressed suit, then at Trapp’s khaki hiking pants and her own flannel shirt. They were both wearing hiking boots that weren’t just spotted with mud.
“Don’t be,” Pope said. He thrust out his hand. “Sorry for dragging you along. I’m guessing you’re Eliza? Jason has told me a lot about you.”
“Any of it good?” Ikeda laughed, surreptitiously smoothing her outfit as best she could once the greeting was done.
“All of it.” Pope grinned, though Trapp noticed that the smile did not reach his eyes. The agent was carrying a hell of a lot of tension – far more than had been the case a couple days earlier.
Trapp rolled his neck, ostentatiously eyeing the FBI’s parking garage. “We even allowed in here?”
“J Edgar is probably turning in his grave,” Pope remarked, handing each of them a security badge attached to a lanyard.
“I thought they crushed his bones and mixed them into concrete, just to be sure,” Trapp quipped as he ducked his neck to put it on. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t also dodge Ikeda’s unseen elbow.
“Very good,” Pope replied, beckoning them to follow him.
“You don’t mean that.” Trapp grinned, winking at Ikeda.
“No, not really.”
“So what’s the fire?” Trapp asked as they reached the bank of elevators and waited for one to arrive.
The comment clearly stunned Pope. “You didn’t hear?”
Trapp shrugged as the elevator dinged and its doors slid open. “Not really. I wasn’t exactly glued to Twitter for all, oh, ten minutes my vacation lasted.”
Pope winced. “My bad.”
The elevator pinged, and they followed him inside, waiting in silence as Pope selected a destination. Once the doors slid closed, he sighed. “Cartels hit the administrator of the DEA and a bunch of US Attorneys at a press conference in Houston. Chewed them up real good.”
Trapp winced. “How is he?”
“Dead.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not in a joking mood, Jason. We –” Pope dropped his head, grimacing. “I fucked up. If that brush-past we saw had anything to do with this, then…”
“Any reason you think it did?”
“You’ll see…”
As the elevator doors opened, Trapp reached out and squeezed Pope’s shoulder. It didn’t take a genius to work out how his friend was feeling right now. Trapp had inhabited the same dark pit many times before, and knew it never got any easier.
“You couldn’t have known,” he said.
“I could have worked harder,” Pope replied, white-lipped. “If I did, maybe Mark Engel would be alive right now. Maybe they all would.”
The corridor beyond was empty, and Pope strode into it without looking back, not stopping until they reached an empty breakout area which was equipped with a coffee machine, several comfortable chairs, and a few well-thumbed copies of security journals. Very on brand for the FBI, but not exactly easy reading.
Pope turned to Ikeda. “You can wait here. I don’t know how long this will take. I’m sorry.”
Trapp frowned. “Hold up, Nick. Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”
His friend’s eyes flickered toward Ikeda’s face before landing back on Trapp’s. “I –”
“Give me a break, Nick,” Trapp snorted, sensing the hold-up. “She’s got a higher security clearance than either of us. They’ve got her running around in – well, it doesn’t exactly matter where. I don’t think she’s going to run to the media on this one, if you know what I mean. Besides, it was her trip too.”
Pope chewed his lower lip, his chin contorting into an angular shape as he worked over the problem in his head.
“Okay,” he groaned. “I guess I can tell you. The president asked for you directly, Jason. We’re speaking to him in a moment. But I can’t just –”
“Perfect,” Trapp interrupted, slapping Pope on his upper arm. “President Nash and Eliza are firm friends. Well, they’ve spoken, at any rate. And he owes her one. Besides, it sounds like you could use all the help you can get.”
To his side, Ikeda frowned, but Trapp wasn’t done talking yet. “Listen, Nick. Before we go into that room you need to understand something. We all drop the ball from time to time. They make ‘em too damn round and slippery. It’s not your fault. And if you keep beating yourself up about it, you’ll drop another and another, and that ain’t no good for anybody. You understand?”
Pope stood opposite, anxiously running his fingers through his hair, seeming to linger on the patch of white strands above his temple. “Yeah, okay. I guess.”
“Don’t just guess, buddy. Scrunch it up inside you and bury it deep, I don’t care. Just don’t think about it for a bit. Not until the crisis is over. Because it will be, it always is. And when that happens, you and me we can get a beer, and if you want to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders then, that’s your prerogative. But you’re the expert in counterintelligence, not me. So let me ask you a questio
n.”
Pope waited expectantly for him to continue, and when it was evident that Trapp was doing the same, he grimaced and flicked his fingers irritably. “Well, go on.”
“You ever hear of a CI op getting spooled up in under a month? Did you even identify the guy we saw yet?”
The FBI agent shook his head.
“Didn’t think so. These things take time. And sometimes time’s on the bad guys’ side, not ours. That’s just the way it goes. But we’ve got a lead, and that’s important too. So stop beating yourself over the head, and let’s go fix this thing. Okay?”
“Okay,” Pope said closing his eyes for a second and letting out a breath. “Okay.”
He straightened, seeming to take strength from what Trapp had said, then gestured the pair of them past the breakout area.
“This…isn’t a video call, is it?” Ikeda inquired nervously as they walked behind. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to visit the White House when I packed for a weekend away in the hills…”
“He’s a real stickler for appearances, too…” Trapp commented ominously.
For a second time, Ikeda’s elbow met his side. “Shut up. You’ve met him once.”
“A couple of times.” Trapp grinned. “He told me he hates flannel.”
She rolled her eyes.
Pope stopped in front of a door that was secured by a card reader and had an impenetrably long room number on a panel mounted just to its right. He tapped his access card against it, and the light on the reader blinked from red to green, accompanied by a click from the locking mechanism.
On entry, Trapp noticed Kelly Andrews, the agent he’d been mentoring on the fateful day in question. Or maybe, he reflected, she was mentoring him. After all, she was the one who noticed the brush-past, not him.
You’re getting old.
He gave a slight shake of the head. That couldn’t be it. It was just that the kids were getting younger, that was all. It couldn’t possibly be the other way around.