Hired to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  A sobering question, no pun intended.

  He thought about Grant and Sherman, just then, about how giving and accepting they were. He loved interacting with his dogs, admired their uncomplicated lives. No envy. No greed. No wrath. They were never tempted by the seven deadly sins. Well . . . maybe gluttony.

  A funny comic came to mind; he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it. The comic showed a bunch of dogs in a lifeboat with a sinking ship in the background. The caption of the comic read, WHY DOGS DON’T SURVIVE DISASTERS AT SEA. The lead dog was asking the question, “How many vote we eat all the food now?” Every dog in the lifeboat had its paw in the air.

  Nathan smiled at the memory. Whoever had written the comic knew dogs well.

  A soft knock announced Harv’s arrival, and he gave his friend a tight embrace. They had, after all, been through life and death together.

  “I don’t know how you do it, Harv. Seeing you feels like descending out of the clouds.” A sentiment all pilots understood.

  “Let’s go have that coffee,” Harv said. “I want you to tell me all about your dad. Things you’ve never shared, things you’ve been afraid to tell. I want it all. Don’t hold anything back.”

  “I’m sure there’s a method to your madness, Harv.”

  “There is, and it will be clear to you soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Carlos Alisio’s private jet flight from Mexico City to A.G. International Airport in Ciudad Juárez had taken forever. He couldn’t stop thinking about the payback for the death of his father.

  He wanted news.

  Immediately after entering the jet center’s lounge, he asked the staff to turn on one of the American cable news networks. He didn’t care which. Since English was a second language, he had no problem following the lead stories.

  Stone McBride was killed, but the Beaumont bitch was still alive, and one of her offspring too. His attempt to emotionally destroy the great Vincent Beaumont by killing the murderer’s entire family had failed. He wanted all of them dead, not some of them.

  El Lobo had some explaining to do.

  He didn’t plan to fire or kill the crafty coyote; El Lobo remained too valuable to his smuggling empire. More importantly, the man could be trusted—his most valuable asset. Relatively speaking, Alisio wasn’t all that disappointed by the result, but he’d never signal that to El Lobo. Better to keep him guessing a little.

  He wanted to head straight for the Rancho Del Seco, but later this morning, he had an important breakfast meeting with the mayor that couldn’t be canceled or postponed. Not all his sources of income came from illegal activity; he’d developed quite the portfolio of hotels, restaurants, and retail shopping centers, many of them here, in beleaguered Ciudad Juárez.

  He could’ve used the helicopter to fly out to the ranch, but his breakfast location was well east of the city. It made sense to use the limos, then continue on to the ranch rather than return to the airport. Besides, one of his three helicopters was already at the ranch. El Lobo and Quattro had used it to transport the goods from Cabo. He’d use the helicopter on the return trip and have his people drive the limos back to Ciudad Juárez.

  He felt like he owned this town. He could have anyone in local government fired with nothing more than a phone call. The same was true about hiring. For now, he was happy with the status quo. Well, almost. A city planner had been waffling about the environmental impact of his two-hundred-acre luxury resort project. Yes, it encroached into the Chihuahuan Desert, but that’s what people wanted. They wanted a desert experience coupled with every imaginable amenity. The planner didn’t need to go away yet. There was still a chance he could retain his job—as long as he didn’t interfere with the permit process.

  After a successful powwow with the mayor and city manager, his motorcade of three limousines worked its way east, leaving the vast metropolitan area behind in favor of a dry and inhospitable landscape. Why anyone wanted to live out here defied understanding. There was nothing. No restaurants. No spas. No nightclubs. No hotels. And no women—except for imports.

  His surprise visit to Rancho Del Seco was designed to keep his right-hand man on his toes. There were limits, though. Alisio wouldn’t drive through the entry gate completely unannounced. That would’ve been disrespectful and in bad form. But he hadn’t given El Lobo more than two hours of advance notice.

  When his three limos arrived at the entry gate to Rancho Del Seco, two heavily armed men in tactical clothes stepped out of the shack and approached. Today, Alisio sat in the second limo. Yesterday in Mexico City, he’d been in the third. It made sense to be random and unpredictable. Surprise visits ensured everyone did their jobs properly. Most importantly, El Lobo wasn’t allowed to warn the guards the boss was coming. Such information could be leaked to his enemies, enabling an assassination or a kidnapping. Alisio relaxed when he recognized the two guards.

  The lead driver exchanged a few words, and they were waved through.

  A few miles farther in, a narrow dirt road forked to the right. Manned by a Middle Easterner who didn’t smile or wave, a smaller guard shack sat next to the road. The man stared with the emotionless eyes of a viper as they drove past.

  Stupid punk, Alisio thought. He was willing to overlook the smug superiority because the ISIS leadership paid a small fortune to lease his land. Because of Rancho Del Seco’s location—directly on the US border—they forked over a premium to be here.

  Yesterday, El Lobo had said their jihadists had been a little friendlier lately, and their Spanish was coming along to the point where they could have two- or three-sentence conversations. Their Syrian-born interpreter kept trying to convince El Lobo they had a common enemy: the evil empire of America and its countless millions of infidels. Yeah, sure. Whatever.

  Alisio didn’t give a rat’s ass about their caliphate, their radical jihadist views, or their misguided desire to impose Sharia law on the world. None of that mattered. As long as the cash kept flowing, they could believe anything they wanted.

  And flow it did.

  The most recent windfall? Twenty-eight million dollars.

  That’s what these fanatics had agreed to pay for the North Korean WMD grenades—in Bitcoins, the preferred currency of the underworld.

  As part of the deal, his militant guests were required to carry out the attacks on Stone McBride in Washington, DC, and the Beaumont family in San Diego. For their services, Alisio agreed to a $4 million discount on the purchase price of the grenades, dropping it down to $24 million—an astounding $2 million apiece. The discount was an equitable trade, in Alisio’s opinion.

  Of course he hadn’t relied on the jihadists to plan the attacks—El Lobo and Quattro handled that. Tragically, the attacks had been only partially successful. Two of the four targets were still alive.

  Alisio kicked himself for not stipulating total success in his deal with the ISIS hierarchy. As far as they were concerned, their end of the agreement had been met—the attacks took place. He couldn’t welsh, or he’d lose credibility with both ISIS and his fellow cartel bosses. How would it look if he reneged? It wasn’t an option. He’d make another attempt on Beaumont’s family at a future date and insist that El Lobo and Quattro personally handle it. Revenge was only delayed, not derailed.

  Cash-wise, he’d already collected $12 million as a good-faith deposit from his ISIS connection. Once he received the second half of his payment later tonight, he’d turn the grenades over—and make sure he had plenty of muscle surrounding him for the handoff.

  Concerning the use of the grenades? Alisio didn’t care where the terrorists deployed them as long as they excluded Mexican soil. The line had to be drawn there. The ISIS leadership agreed and seemed more than eager to move forward under those terms. He had no illusions about what the jihadists intended to do—not his business. Alisio got what he wanted: millions in cash and revenge for his slain father. They got what they wanted: dead American infidels. If the chemical agent killed a few hundred, or even
a few thousand, innocent people, so be it. Innocent people were killed every day. He remembered reading somewhere that drunk drivers killed twenty-eight people every day in America. So why didn’t that little statistic ever make it into the news? He supposed it was dull and uninteresting. But a deadly gas attack? Now that will get some coverage.

  He wasn’t worried about blowback. All the grenade attacks would be suicide missions. What could be more perfect? No link to him, and even if the authorities found out, he had safeguards in place to lay the blame squarely on El Lobo and Quattro. He’d miss the income they produced, but little else. When it came right down to it, the two coyotes were expendable assets.

  Fifteen minutes later, his motorcade pulled up to the ranch house and El Lobo came out to greet him. A few pleasantries were exchanged, but Alisio wasn’t in the mood for small talk. El Lobo took the hint and gave him plenty of space. Three of his six bodyguards removed all the suitcases from the trunks of the limos and entered the huge Spanish-style house ahead of him.

  Following his men inside, he admired the sculptures and the artwork adorning the walls. This collection of oil paintings and marble statues far exceeded the value of the entire hacienda, by a large margin.

  After reaching his bedroom suite, he picked up the nightstand phone, called his personal butler, and said he was ready for company. Company meant high-end hookers, the best money could buy.

  His thoughts returning to the attacks in DC and San Diego, he plopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. It had been bad luck, nothing more. Eyewitness accounts in the DC attack seemed to be mixed, but a common thread involved a woman in the diner shooting back. Much like Charlene Beaumont had fought off her attackers in California. Remarkable, really . . . and not what the jihadists expected. They didn’t care who they killed, but they hadn’t planned on dying themselves. The attacks weren’t designed as suicide missions. All seven jihadists had fully expected to return to the training compound at Rancho Del Seco. Their demise didn’t break Alisio’s heart. What was the expression? Dead men tell no tales. In hindsight, it was good fortune he’d told El Lobo and Quattro to stay clear of the San Diego mall attack, or his best coyotes might’ve ended up dead as well. More importantly, his men hadn’t been picked up on the mall’s security cameras.

  A soft knock announced the woman’s arrival and he told her to come in. She was stunningly beautiful, no doubt about it. Over the next hour, he indulged himself in every carnal pleasure imaginable, and then some.

  So here he was, laid out on a bed with a hooker, less than a day away from being another $12 million richer. Life was grand.

  He rolled out of bed and strolled over to the humidor atop the dresser. He grabbed an Opus X Double Corona cigar and fired it up with a torch lighter. There were more expensive cigars, but he liked Arturo Fuente’s flagship line the best. He dismissed the woman with a wave. She’d been pretty good, but he’d had better—and younger. He knew a forced smile when he saw one but didn’t care.

  He stepped out to the patio and looked across to the mountains. They looked so barren, so different from the southern part of Mexico, where everything was green and lush. He didn’t love the desert like El Lobo did, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate it. Many of the sunrises and sunsets were spectacular—the most colorful he’d ever seen.

  In hindsight, El Lobo should’ve killed Vincent Beaumont’s secretary. So why hadn’t he? His man hadn’t offered any good reason. Fortunately, the disguise El Lobo had worn worked. The sketch shown on American TV looked nothing like him. El Lobo had always enjoyed using disguises; they’d served him well over the years.

  He took a puff, tilted his head back, and let the smoke pour out of his mouth.

  El Lobo’s efforts had produced a good week of revenue. The last two columns of El Salvadorans had been successfully delivered across the border, along with half a million opioid pills. Chalk up another $4 million in profit.

  Alisio’s life revolved around the pursuit of money. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t spiritually rewarding, but he honestly didn’t care.

  What else really mattered?

  Goodwill? Friendship? Charity?

  Hardly.

  Power’s reins were held by the wealthy. He knew he’d never reach Carlos Slim’s stature, but he was determined to get his eleventh digit of net worth. Unfortunately, the wealthier he became, the more enemies he seemed to make. One thing he never did was swindle the other cartels. He had a good working relationship with his fellow crime bosses. Mutually profitable.

  Alisio stepped back into the suite and turned on the TV. Watching the cable news babes and ugly old men spewing the same old talking points was amusing at best, annoying at worst. The blowhards had been wrong so many times, it was a wonder anyone believed anything they said. Maybe the news was like product advertising: if people heard it enough times, they’d start to believe it.

  He turned the TV off when that annoying pillow ad came on . . . again.

  Sleep well, Americans, you naive fools.

  CHAPTER 23

  Deep within the Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus, just west of Washington, DC, DNI Scott Benson walked into the conference room and made eye contact with everyone present while an assistant worked his way around the room, placing a file in front of each person seated at the massive oval table. Four people had arrived early for a pre-meeting brief: CIA Director Rebecca Cantrell; her deputy director; Commissioner Tim Haley of the US Customs and Border Protection; and the top man in the US Border Patrol, Chief Ryan Switzer.

  Everyone present used first names for meetings like this.

  Benson took a seat at the far end of the table. “Thank you for coming in at oh-four-thirty, but I’m afraid the situation warrants it. We have a lot of ground to cover in a short amount of time. You’ll have a chance to review your briefing packets later, so please wait to do that. In a couple of minutes, Kelley Ford’s going to walk us through more detailed information on what we have to date. We now know that the shootings at Mabel’s Diner and the UTC mall are related. Thanks to Stone McBride’s daughter, Jin Marchand, who captured and interrogated a gunman from Mabel’s, we also know who’s behind the attacks: a Mexican coyote called El Lobo. A San Diego Police Department detective provided us a physical description of El Lobo he’d obtained from Vincent Beaumont’s personal secretary, who’d been interrogated just prior to the murders. Clearly the man tried to disguise himself, but based on what Ryan has told us about El Lobo, we’re certain he carried out the interrogation and planned both terrorist attacks. Obviously, El Lobo’s not his real name. We’re scrambling to find out what it is. Ryan believes he moves back and forth across the border at will, using multiple fake IDs and passports. At this point, we don’t yet know the motivation behind the attacks. Once we question our prisoner further, we’re hoping to get that information.

  “Here’s what we do know. El Lobo has set up a terrorist-training compound and staging area on a ninety-thousand-acre property about a hundred miles southeast of Ciudad Juárez. How does a Mexican coyote come to own ninety thousand acres? We have no idea, and we’re not sure he even owns it. Getting the property ownership records at this hour is next to impossible. We think it’s in the municipality of Guadalupe in the state of Chihuahua. What makes this ninety thousand acres especially alarming is its location. Its northern boundary is the Rio Grande—approximately seven miles’ worth. We know this because Jin Marchand’s prisoner disclosed it. We’re officially calling this compound and its occupants ‘the Rio Grande cell.’ Let’s be clear. We’re talking about a terrorist-training site and staging area within a ninety-minute walk of US soil. To put it bluntly, that sucks.”

  Benson received nods from around the table.

  “We’ve all wondered why there hasn’t been a major Islamic terrorist attack in Mexico. Well, we might’ve just discovered a possible answer. The jihadists don’t want to bite the hand that feeds them. By our best estimates, there are over ten active radical Islamic terrorist cells
operating within Mexico’s borders, waiting for marching orders from their ISIS and Al-Qaeda hierarchy. Most of these cells are hosted by narco cartels.”

  The room had gone silent. Everyone in here knew that Mexico had a terrorist problem, but they hadn’t known a cell sat literally on the international border.

  “For a lot of reasons,” Benson continued, “it’s easier for terrorists to blend in down there, and it’s certainly easier for them to get in and out. We have direct evidence from captured intelligence in San Diego, El Paso, and Tecate that terrorists are crossing the border at will in remote areas along the Rio Grande and other regions. They’re constantly scouting for potential terror attack sites in the United States. Between the terrorist cells and their narco cartel hosts, the worst possible crimes against humanity are going unanswered and unchallenged. Making matters worse, the money generated from the jihadists’ illegal activities is huge. Hundreds of millions every year, and a significant percentage of it ends up in the terrorist watch list countries. The ISIS hierarchy is learning the tricks of the narcotics trade from the cartels and implementing them to make money to support their jihad.

  “As everyone at this table knows, these radical fanatics view all non-Muslims as lower life-forms. The vast majority of Muslims don’t believe that crap, but they aren’t the ones trying to kill us. Memories are short. September eleventh has been all but forgotten.”

  Benson made eye contact with everyone present again. “Well, not at this fucking table. Pardon my language, but I wanted my point . . . emphasized. We believe the compounds in Mexico are not only training and recruiting grounds; they’re also staging grounds. The man Ms. Marchand interrogated said the numbers vary, but at any given moment, there are fifteen to twenty radical Islamic fanatics in the Rio Grande cell.