Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  PROLOGUE

  “I tell you the time to act is now.”

  “It isn’t the timing I question, Georgiana,” Charles Wells replied calmly. “It is the proposed action that I find questionable. It has only been a few years since the setback we suffered on Bill Arthur’s first Inauguration Day. We are still recovering much of what was lost financially, not to mention how much of our network was compromised in the aftermath of that failure.”

  “I understand that, Charles,” Georgiana Soors snapped haughtily. “And you are certainly to be commended for salvaging as much of our enterprise as you did back then. But the fact remains, we have more than enough resources, financially and in manpower, to proceed.”

  “With you as the candidate this time?” Wells sneered at her. “Do you really think the voters will vote for anyone over Arthur or the person he tabs as his successor? The man’s approval numbers soared in the months after he was sworn in and the news broke about what we attempted. We are just lucky they thought they’d gotten the leadership when Bradley Cavanaugh and Baker Collins were killed by Jack Del Rio. And, they never became aware of our existence.”

  Georgina must have had something impressive on Nan Liposey, Wells mused, to buy the woman’s silence despite the pressure of a full federal investigation that she’d been under.

  Liposey had exposed just enough to save her own skin while keeping both Soors’ and Wells’ names out of it. Although her cooperation, as it turned out, had only bought her another year of life. She’d succumbed to a heart attack in her prison cell, although rumors quickly spread that her heart had been assisted in failing through outside means. But given how many deaths that had been laid at her feet, no one really investigated those claims overmuch.

  It wouldn’t surprise me in the least, Wells allowed, to discover that Georgina had arranged for the woman’s demise.

  “That damned Del Rio family,” Soors hissed. “I knew we should have killed that entire family off years ago instead of just the parents. Those brothers were even more of a threat than we thought possible.”

  “Indeed. They did a very good job of ruining your plans.”

  “Our plans, Charles,” Soors corrected. “Don’t ever forget that you were a part of those plans.”

  “I have always supported the ‘original’ plan, Georgina. It was only yours and Bradley’s insistence on bastardizing the original goal that lead to our near demise. I urged you both back then, and I do so again today, to abandon this hopeless attempt to turn back the clock and proceed with old man Karpov’s original intent.”

  “Rejected,” Soors dismissed, having not heard a word of Wells’ pleas, “as is any further objection. We are in position to make a second attempt, one that I guarantee will succeed, and this time we are going to make sure any obstacle in our path is removed before we even get started.

  “Beginning with Del Rio. We always knew that cover story of him having died was phony. We just didn’t know where he’d disappeared to afterwards. Now we do.”

  “True. But do you really think we are going to be able to stroll up to him unmolested? Whether you want to credit them or not, he has some serious protection surrounding him where he is. And even should you get through to him, do you think he is just going to lay down and die like a good little boy? He’s proven to be a very hard man for us to kill in the past.”

  “Fortunately for us we won’t have to,” Soors replied with a little too much glee to suit Wells. “Because we have others who will happily do it for us, once we tell them where to go first of course.”

  “And who might this be?”

  “Some old friends from Del Rio’s past that owe him dearly.” The evilness of her smile sent a chill over Wells’ body. “Then the last remaining members of that cursed family will be dead and we will fulfill our destiny.”

  “I was under the impression that Del Rio was the last remaining member of his family still alive,” Wells commented, puzzled by Soors’ use of the plural.

  “Oh no,” Soors answered with a smile that turned Wells’ blood cold. “There’s another Del Rio on this Earth, one Del Rio himself is unaware exists. But when he finds out he will come out from hiding just long enough to get them both killed.”

  Soors slipped a photograph from a folder and handed it to Wells. The picture was of a woman about Del Rio’s age and a young girl of perhaps six.

  “The child is Del Rio’s,” Soors said when Wells looked up in confusion. “We managed to get a DNA sample to confirm it. Not only is he unaware she exists but, even better, both the child’s mother and the child are in jeopardy. Once we arrange to make Del Rio aware she exists, and they are in danger, we can draw him out and make killing him much easier to accomplish. We will do whatever it takes to see to it that the last two Del Rios time on this Earth comes to an end and sooner rather than later. If I have learned anything it is not to leave any member of that family alive to get in our way.”

  Wells looked back down at the child in the photograph. He had known that innocents would be impacted by what they were planning from the very beginning years ago. But what troubled him was that Soors sounded like she very much wanted to be in on the kill and would not pause for even a second before slaying a six-year-old girl who’d done nothing wrong but having had the wrong parentage.

  What troubled him most was that he was going to go along with it with little more protest than he had all of the other failed plots.

  “Its delicious irony isn’t it?” Soors crooned when Wells looked back up. “The shades of Jack Del Rio’s own past are going to come back to haunt him right to his own grave.”

  ONE

  FBI Special Agent Dave Archer stifled a yawn as best as he could, the jetlag of his flight across the Atlantic Ocean and a body clock that was set for England telling him it was ten o’clock at night and not one o’clock in the afternoon. Residents of Washington D.C. might just be getting back to work from lunch but his body was more than ready to go to bed.

  “Need another cup of coffee, Dave?” the Deputy Director of the FBI asked with a knowing smile.

  “To be honest, sir,” Archer replied as he shifted in his seat. “I don’t think there’s enough caffeine in the District to do me much good right now. Besides, you think the President would be happy if I suddenly ran out of the briefing to go take a leak?”

  “Likely not,” the older man allowed with a chuckle. “But he’d certainly understand under the circumstances. We did recall you from London on pretty short notice after all.”

  “No problem, sir,” Archer said, even though he had been a little bent out of shape initially when he’d received the order to get on the first available flight home from London. “I just wish I knew what the rush was. I was due to be back in four days. What happened to move up my return?”

  “You know as much as I do. We’ll both get an answer to that question as soon as the old man calls us into his office.”

  Archer sat back in his chair, stationed directly across from the door to the Oval Office, and awaited the pleasure of President Bill Arthur. Who was in there with the President and what they were talking about neither FBI man knew, any more than they knew when they would be invited inside to join the discussion.

  “Ours not to wonder why…” Archer quoted Tennyson to himself as he tried to set aside his curiosity and catch a brief catnap.

  * * * * *

  Bill Arthur was three months into his second term as President of the United States and these ninety days were going much smoother than the first ninety days of his first term had.

  They were quieter at least, Arthur thought to himself. No more assassination attempts and I finally have a completely friendly Congress with my party holding majorities in both the Senate and the House.

  But there was still one shadow hoovering over his presidency, one that had been there from the moment he’d taken the oath of office. Jack Del Rio had literally cut the head off of the snake of a conspiracy that would have murdered the new President and installed
a puppet in his place. But Del Rio hadn’t killed the entire body of that poisonous snake and the FBI and Secret Service had spent the last four years hunting down everyone else involved. Many had been arrested, many more had availed themselves of the age-old “death before dishonor” method of avoiding prosecution. But there were still a few of them left to run to ground.

  And Bill Arthur wanted every single one of them run to ground, for killing his friend and first Vice-President, and for trying to kill him too. But, most of all, he wanted them caught for what they had tried to do to his country. It was a sentiment shared with the same amount of intensity by Jeremy Doyle, the head of the Secret Service, who was briefing the President and his Chief of Staff while the two men from the FBI waited outside.

  “I think it is safe to say that we have accounted for over ninety percent of those involved in the conspiracy,” Doyle said, concluding his report. ”There is a high probability that we have accounted for all of the upper-leadership and merely have a few lieutenants and minor players remaining to identify and arrest.

  “Del Rio did most of the heavy-lifting for us,” Doyle continued. “He exposed much of the conspiracy before he departed. All we needed to do was run down the players and seize the financial assets that fueled the plot. I wish it hadn’t taken nearly four years, but this thing had been around for decades and they were very good at hiding what they wanted hidden.”

  Good enough, Arthur thought to himself, to almost get away with it.

  “I want this wrapped up, Director Doyle,” Arthur said aloud. “And soon. I want to enjoy the majority of my second term without this damned thing still hanging over my head.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Doyle replied. “We should have a nice bow tied up on this before the football season kicks off.”

  “Good,” Arthur said as he reached for his phone to call his secretary. “Sally? Send in the Director and Agent Archer please. Thank you.”

  The two Bureau men quickly entered the office and took the other two open seats in the room, nodding briefly at Doyle and the Chief of Staff.

  “Director,” Arthur said as he shook each man’s hand. “Agent Archer. My apologies for bringing you home a few days early and on such short notice.”

  “No problem at all, Mr. President,” Archer lied. “I already had everything packed up so the moving company can just load it up and ship it home. I doubt I need to even fly back so it’s nice to be home early.”

  “Excellent,” Arthur replied. “Well, let’s get right to it. Archer, the reason why you were recalled ahead of schedule was your recent report.”

  “Sir?”

  “You mentioned some intercepted chatter between people associated with terror groups that normally don’t talk to each other. Is this correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Archer confirmed. “We’re seeing communication between an offshoot of the Provos from the old Irish Republican Army and a group with well-publicized sympathies with Islamic terrorists in the U.K. There are also some contact with elements of the Antifa movement here in the States that may be connected, and I stress may be connected, as we haven’t pinned this down for certain, to the conspirators we haven’t tracked down yet. We’ve never seen this before. These groups might share the same inclination toward using violence to achieve their goals, but they’ve never shown an inclination to work together before.”

  “I can’t say I care for the thought of these groups coordinating their efforts to spread their terror.”

  “I’d say all of us share in that sentiment, Mr. President,” Archer said. “The odd thing is they don’t seem to be coordinating attacks.”

  “Then what are they talking about?”

  “Oddly enough,” Archer replied, his tone one of confusion. “They seem to be interested in someone currently living somewhere in Northern Arizona, possibly on one of the Indian Reservations in the area.”

  “Do we know the name of this person they are so interested in?” Arthur asked, exchanging a look with Doyle.

  “No, sir, we have not been able to determine the name of that person or anything about him, or her, that would help us identify them.”

  Archer had noticed the silent exchange between the President and Doyle, as well as the way the President had asked that last question. He hadn’t been a rookie out of the Academy for many years and knew at least some of the people in this room had access to information he did not. The question was: If he asked, would they tell him?

  “Sir…,” Archer began but was cut off by Archer.

  “Agent Archer, I have a pretty good idea what you are about to ask me and I cannot give you an answer, at least not right now. I can’t even give you an explanation as to why I can’t. At least until we know a little more about what these people are saying to one another.

  “So do whatever it takes,” Arthur continued. “Get me more information on this target of theirs and report back to me ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” Archer replied crisply.

  “Very good,” Arthur said as he stood up. “Agent Archer, Director, thank you both for coming in. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  Hearing the dismissal, both FBI men departed.

  “You think they’re after him?” Arthur asked Doyle.

  “I can’t think of anyone else living in that part of Arizona who’d draw their interest,” Doyle replied. “But I have no clue how in the world they’d be able to find out where Del Rio went after he left D.C. four years ago. Should we warn him?”

  “Not yet,” Arthur answered. “Let’s make sure we aren’t over-reacting first. If this is someone looking for him, Arizona might be a guess based on his past history. If that’s the case, this could be some kind of trick to fool us into giving away that he actually is alive and where he’s at. I’d rather not give away his location, we all owe him that much.”

  “Yes, sir,” Doyle agreed. But he couldn’t help but feel that somehow whoever it was had definitely figured out Del Rio was alive and wanted very much to change that fact.

  TWO

  Freddie Bitsuie flipped the valve back and forth but no matter how many times he tried it there wasn’t any water flowing out of the pipe. And Freddie needed that water. Puzzled, he checked the exposed pipe, even reached his arm inside as far as he could but could find no obstruction.

  The nearest water from here was some forty miles to the east, at least where he could fill up the three hundred gallon tank on the trailer hitched to his truck without having to pay for it. He could head off the Navajo Reservation to a place only 10 miles to the west, but they charged for the privilege and charged quite a lot.

  Which was why the appearance over three years ago of this watering location, available to any in need and free of charge, was considered a blessing to many on the western side of the Res as well as to the nearby Hopi Reservation. John Rivers, the mysterious white man responsible for this setup, flatly refused any payment or accolade for his generosity.

  Rivers kept access to the pipe open at all times and Freddie could not remember a time since it had opened that it wasn’t working. He sat there, trying to decide which watering hole to try next, as he knew of no way to contact Rivers directly, when a voice from behind startled him.

  “What seems to be the problem, shi’kis?”

  Turning around quickly, Freddie was surprised to see a white man sitting astride a tall palomino, about eighteen hands high, on top of the little hill that the water pipe ran out from. He hadn’t heard them ride up. But after a moment he realized who it was and his surprise at being hailed as a “friend”, or a shi’kis, by a non-Navajo evaporated.

  “Having some trouble getting water?” John Rivers asked.

  “Sure am, Mr. Rivers,” Freddie replied. “I’ve turned the switch on and off and the valve open and shut several times. No matter what I do, nothing comes out.”

  “Well, hell,” Rivers replied with a little disgust. “It’s probably my fault. Had to swap out the valve at the main tank this morning. I’ll bet you a dollar I forgot to hit th
e reset switch and turn everything back on. Give me a few minutes to ride back and see. Leave the switch on here and the valve open.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, back in a few.

  Rivers turned his horse and headed off to the south, along the pipeline that ran from the roadside cutout where Freddie had parked. Freddie heard the horse gallop away and about fifteen minutes later, water began flowing out of the overhead pipe and into the opening of the large plastic tank. By the time Rivers rode back up, this time in his old green 1964 International pickup - that looked like it had just come off the factory assembly line - and along the road, Freddie’s tank was nearly full.

  “Now then,” Rivers said as he got out. “That looks a lot better.”

  “It sure does,” Freddie agreed, reaching up to hit the off switch and close the valve just as the water hit the top of his clear tank. “Saved me some time and money.”

  “I bet it did,” Rivers agreed. “Next time I work on the pipeline I’ll leave myself a note to check and make sure I turn everything back on.”

  The two men shared a chuckle, but the smile never quite made it to Rivers’ eyes as he caught sight of something approaching along the road from the east. While Freddie capped off the tank and got ready to drive away, Rivers walked across the road and waited for the approaching vehicle to arrive. It was a Navajo Nation Police patrol car and Rivers knew it was for him. There was no other reason for one of those cars to be on this particular road.

  Freddie gave a last wave and pulled away to return to his home to water his stock as the patrol car pulled up to a stop next to Rivers.

  “Mr. Rivers,” the officer greeted as he rolled down the window. “Trouble with the watering hole?”

  “Nah, Benny,” Rivers replied amiably. “Just the idiot in charge forgetting to turn it back on.”

  “Still don’t see why you don’t charge for it,” the officer remarked. “You could make at least enough to hire someone to monitor it for you.”