Mission Mayhem

by Michael Cross

  “Spill it,” I say.

  “I don’t know,” she responds. “But, is it possible this guy really is that clean?”

  “I don’t believe that anybody who’s in a position of power can ever be that clean,” I reply. “They’ve got to have some dirt on their hands. I mean, you should see this guy’s house. No way he’s clean.”

  “That’s pretty cynical,” she raises an eyebrow.

  “All I can say is I hope he’s not this squeaky clean. If he is, I’m going to have a hard time doing the job they tasked me with,” I admit. “It’d be a lot easier if this guy was running around out there kicking puppies and eating babies.”

  She laughs. “Yeah, it’d be easier,” she replies. “It’s a pity the bad guys don’t run around with signs around their necks saying they’re bad guys.”

  I chuckle. “It would be. A lot easier,” I sigh. “But this is the real world. Nothing is ever that easy.”

  There’s a pause in the conversation for a moment. I can’t think of anything else to say right now. I’m still troubled by how perfect McGregor appears to be. I want to believe there’s something out there that will justify the order and allow me to do my job. I have to believe it.

  “Don’t worry, Echo,” Justice encourages me. “If there’s something out there, I’m going to find it.”

  “I know you will,” I tell her. “Let me know when you do.”

  Chapter Five

  I’m up before the sun the following morning, sitting on a bluff overlooking McGregor’s estate. The lights are on, and through my long-range binoculars, I can see him moving around inside. Dawn is just beginning to stretch across the land, casting the sky in pastel hues. There’s a slight chill in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls plaintively.

  McGregor and his wife are standing in the kitchen, sharing a cup of coffee. It makes me wish I had his house wired. I’d love to know what they’re talking about. I don’t expect him to come right out and admit his crimes. That’s just not realistic. But listening to him in casual conversation with his wife might give me a better idea of who this man is. And also whether his wife knows what he’s into or not.

  Getting into his house to wire it up might not be possible though. From what I can tell, he’s got around the clock monitoring, armed guards patrolling the grounds, and I’d have to guess, top of the line security systems. Having Justice hack into it is not an option I want to consider until I have to. For now, I’ll see what sort of information I can collect on my own using the resources at my disposal.

  I keep watching as McGregor finishes getting ready and steps out of his house, ready to head for work. He’s immediately surrounded by a pair of armed men who escort him to a waiting SUV. Another pair of armed men pile into a second SUV. I recognize the play; a follow car used to provide back up and also play a shell game. With both SUVs in play, nobody outside the walls of his compound will know which one he’s in.

  “This guy’s guarded like a cartel boss,” I mutter.

  Seeing the small procession pulling out for the day, I back down off the bluff I’m positioned on. I make my way back down to the access road where I parked and climb back into my car. I drive a little quicker than I should but get back out onto the street in time to see the two black SUV’s up ahead of me.

  They’ve got a sizeable lead, and I’m content to just hang back, keeping several cars between us. I have a feeling the guys guarding him are pros and will know how to spot a tail. It means I’m going to need to be a bit more discreet. Temperance wasn’t kidding when she said this was going to be a tough nut to crack.

  As I follow along, my mind shifts back to Temperance. Ordinarily, I get the dossiers and ID packages from low-level agents. Gophers, I call them. Sort of like Justice. Gophers are people who usually serve as analysts and researchers who are also usually tasked with picking up and dropping off packages.

  But it seems odd to me that a higher level agent, a Case Officer who isn’t my own, would make the drop herself. Was she sizing me up? What am I to her? But the better question is, why would High Priestess Delta put me in the same room with her? Case Officers are usually territorial about their operatives, and from a security standpoint, giving up my true identity is a dangerous move.

  Especially with the Hellfire Club running amok. I would imagine people recruited to join the Tower are thoroughly vetted. But still, people can sometimes be fickle. They’re not all trustworthy. And of course, people can always be bought. Maybe Justice is right. Maybe I’m cynical, but for the right price, today’s Tower operative can be tomorrow’s source of information for the Hellfire Club.

  While I didn’t get any strange vibes from Temperance, I don’t profess to be infallible. I didn’t get the idea that deception is part of her skill set, but she could just be that good. I don’t want to believe I could be so wrong and off the mark about a person, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’d say yeah, it’s possible.

  Even still, whether I like and trust Temperance or not, I don’t like the idea that Delta gave up my identity. To anybody. That breach of my trust is disturbing. Something I’m definitely going to need to take up with her.

  I see the two SUVs up ahead turn into a driveway. I pass it by and see them just passing through the gates of the DEA’s headquarters here in Tucson. There’s a guard booth, concrete barriers, a couple of men in black with what I assume are bomb sniffing dogs, and cameras everywhere. Getting into HQ is definitely impossible, so if it pans out and I take the shot at McGregor, it’s definitely not going to be here. I’ll have to do it while he’s en route to HQ, while he’s out and about—which runs the risk of civilian casualties—or while he’s at home.

  But that’s assuming he is good to go. That I find something on him that makes me comfortable taking this man’s life. Because right now, I’m not comfortable with the idea of taking him out. And unless I can find something to get me there, I’ll have to tell Delta and Temperance they need to find somebody else to pull the trigger.

  Chapter Six

  For the next week or so, I watch McGregor at home and follow him to work, trying to pick up on all of his habits and patterns. He switches his routes to the office, always has his lunch delivered to the campus and usually goes straight home from work. He rarely deviates from his routines. When he does go out, he’s surrounded by four heavily armed and impeccably dressed men and only goes to places where he can tightly control the environment.

  Most people might not notice the way his bodyguards are dressed. Might not think anything of it. But I got close enough to them on one of McGregor’s rare outings that I take note of the well-tailored designer suits of his bodyguards. Their suits are lightweight and cut to give them maximum flexibility. They can also fit a Kevlar vest beneath their shirts comfortably and without looking especially bulky.

  To me, that means he’s hiring the best private security money can buy. He does not skimp. McGregor is as paranoid as a mob boss and protected just as well.

  I’m sitting in my room staring at the computer screen. Justice still hasn’t been able to dig anything up on the guy, which is disturbing. But the more I watch how he operates, the more I’ve grown suspicious of him. He doesn’t operate the way I’d expect a DEA boss to operate. Not even necessarily in a border town where cartel violence is rampant, and he lives in a major city. His security seems a little over the top to me.

  But still, my suspicions aren’t enough for me to justify greenlighting him. I need more. And since Justice can’t find anything yet, I only have one real card left to play. I pull up the Clarion Call website and move my cursor to the search box. I type in McGregor’s name and hit enter, then sit back and wait for the results. A couple of moments later, several articles appear.

  By ‘mainstream media’ standards, the Call is little better than a tabloid or a website that pushes conspiracy theories. It’s not quite ‘Bigfoot is my father’ kind of articles, but some of the pieces that appear on the site seem fairly outlandish. The trouble
is, as I’ve found, more often than not, the pieces are right. Or at least, they have a healthy dose of the truth in them.

  I met Publius, the writer and maintainer of the Call, in Chicago. Sort of. It was in a dark room where I saw no more of her than I have of Delta, which is to say nothing more than a shadowy silhouette. But she and I have a common cause, which is exposing the truth and taking down the Hellfire Club.

  In fact, if not for Publius’ articles, I might never have stumbled onto the Hellfire Club on my own. I want to believe that Delta would have eventually told me about our opposition in this invisible war, but honestly, that’s something she should have told me upfront. If I’m going to play the game well, I need to know what the rules are going in, and I need to know who the players are.

  But I’d had the same sort of misgivings about assassinating Judge Blankenship back in Maine, and it was reading the Call that pointed me in the right direction. I was able to confirm some of the information in Publius’ articles, and it firmly tied the judge to the Hellfire Club. There was no doubt about it whatsoever. Which gave me the justification to go ahead with the op.

  Now, I find myself in a similar circumstance. I need something, anything. Some confirmation that McGregor is the bad guy I think he is. So I scroll through the first couple of articles I find on the site. Publius is making the case that McGregor is in bed with the Vargas cartel, or VC for short. The VC is one of the most notoriously vicious cartels in all of Mexico and runs guns, drugs, and women across the border from Sonora and into Arizona.

  It’s been a problem for years, and though statistically, it seems to have slowed under McGregor’s watch, it’s still a rampant problem for the state and the country as a whole.

  Publius’ evidence is thin, and her story’s more speculation and anecdote than anything. She lacks the hard evidence she provided that eased my mind about Blankenship, which is a bit of a problem for me. I need evidence before I pull the trigger on this op, both figuratively and literally.

  I come across some photos of McGregor with Javier Vargas, the head of the cartel. In the picture, they certainly seem to be chummy, which raises some red flags in my mind. To me, hanging around with a guy like Vargas, a notorious drug and gun runner who acts like he’s Pablo Escobar, is a sign that you might not be as committed to bringing him down as you might appear to be. McGregor’s job is to take this guy out, not be his best friend. And in the photos Publius has posted, they certainly look like good friends.

  It’s not much. The file proving McGregor’s guilt is still razor-thin. But at least she’s given me a direction to run in. She’s given me a path to finding out exactly what McGregor is up to. Curious to see if she’s got anything she’s holding back, I fire off a quick email to her, asking her to get back to me when she has a minute.

  I send it off and quickly compose an email to Justice, asking her to look into Vargas for me. It might take both of them a little time to get back to me, and I don’t feel like sitting there waiting around. I don’t do idle time well. I don’t like having to rely on others to do my legwork for me, but in some cases, I’m learning that it’s necessary to do the job.

  Besides, there are some things I want to check out on my own to prove, even if to nobody but myself, that I can still do some things on my own.

  Chapter Seven

  I walk into the darkened factory, my nose crinkling from the musty smell of decay and disuse. Once upon a time, this place was used to manufacture something I don’t recall. The odor of oil still permeates the air. There are holes in the walls, and the glass windows were broken out long ago.

  “We’re back here,” a voice echoes through the darkness.

  A light appears from a room at the far end of the former factory. I head toward it. I know to trust the voice—it’s Jack, a man I’ve worked with before. But you can never be too sure.

  I keep my wits about me as I step over the threshold. He’s already got his equipment set up and stands to greet me as I come in the room.

  On the ground in a corner is another man, Bahiri Marwat. Both of his eyes are black and swollen, bruises cover almost every inch of his face, and blood seeps from his nose and mouth. There is a hole in the middle of his forehead that seeps dark, viscous fluid, and the wall behind his head is sprayed with more of the same. Chunky bits of matter cling to the chipped and pitted cinder block wall, adding a gruesome flourish to the tableau.

  Bahiri looks like he went ten rounds with Mike Tyson bare-knuckled before taking a bullet to the head. He barely looks human anymore. It’s perfect.

  “Let’s get this done and get out of here,” Jack says. “I’ve got other pressing plans tonight.”

  “Marcy?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “That was three or four flings ago. No, this time it’s Mona,” he says. “Try to keep up.”

  “Hard to keep up with your love life,” I respond. “It changes faster than the stock market.”

  “Who said anything about love?” he cracks.

  I laugh as I step over to Bahiri’s prone form. I stand over him as I slip the balaclava out of my pocket and pull it down over my head, covering my entire face, except for my eyes. After that, I pull the weapon out of my holster and point it down at him and look back at Jack.

  “A couple of inches to the right,” he says.

  I move over. Jack walks around, eyeballing the scene critically. He steps forward and moves my arms, positioning my body to where he wants it.

  “Jesus, can you guys hurry up? I really don’t wanna hear about who he’s bangin’, man.”

  I look down at Bahiri, who’s looking back up at me with an irritated expression on his face. I give him a small shrug as Jack repositions my arm again.

  “He’s a perfectionist,” I offer.

  “Hey, if you want this done right, don’t rush me and do what I say,” Jack fires back.

  Jack looks at us and nods. “Perfect. Just like that. Don’t move,” he says. “And keep your eyes half open like that, Bahiri. Perfect.”

  The scene set, Jack walks back and picks up his camera. He focuses on the scene for a long moment. I have to admit; my arm is starting to burn. I imagine that Bahiri, with his arm and leg bent at a strange angle, has to be feeling it too. A moment later, there’s a series of bright flashes and clicks of a shutter.

  “Okay, hold on,” Jack says. “I just want to shoot a couple more.”

  Flashes like lightning fill the room, nearly blinding me. It seems like it takes forever, but Jack finally steps back.

  “Okay, we’re good,” he says.

  I holster my weapon then reach down, helping Bahiri to his feet. He shakes out his arms and legs, shaking his head.

  “Thank God. I was starting to cramp,” he complains.

  “Hey, if you want a convincing death shot, you need to pay the price,” Jack says. “These pictures are going to convince anybody who’s looking for you that you’re dead and gone.”

  I turn and walk over to Jack, shaking his hand firmly. “I appreciate you doing this,” I tell him. “You’re really helping us out of a jam.”

  “It’s okay, man. I owe you,” he replies as he packs up his make-up and camera equipment.

  I clap him on the back, then turn to Bahiri. I slip a thick envelope out of my back pocket and slap it against the palm of his hand. He looks at it for a long moment, the envelope starting to tremble in his hand. Delicately, he opens it and looks inside, his eyes shimmering with tears in the dim light of the room. He pulls out the new driver’s license, and a shaky smile touches his lips.

  “That’s it. Bahiri Marwat is dead,” I announce. “Welcome to the world, Jafi Zaidi.”

  He turns to me, and I can practically smell the relief wafting off of him. His smile is wide and warm.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” he says.

  “Least I can do,” I reply. “Your intel proved invaluable. So thank you.”

  I extend my hand, but he pulls me into a tight embrace.

  I sit up in bed, swea
t slicking my skin. My breath is ragged, and my heart is hammering in my chest so hard I fear it’s going to leave a bruise. I blink rapidly, trying to force myself to calm down as my eyes sweep the darkened room around me.

  I slip out of bed and pad over to the sink, filling the water glass and then draining it. I refill it and drink it all down twice more before my throat doesn’t feel parched and raw. I fill the glass one more time and pace around my room, holding onto it like a talisman as I calm myself down.

  I know that dream was not a dream. It was a memory. Even now, the images flashing through my head feel solid. Substantial. It feels real. Bahiri Marwat is very real, and for some reason, I helped him fake his death and start anew as Jafi Zaidi. Apparently here in Tucson.

  I strain my memory, trying to reach back into the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind. But no matter how far back I stretch, I can’t come up with anything on my own. Lucky for me, I know who can fill in those gaps.

  A flare of excitement, hot as the sun, courses through my body. This is the first real, substantial memory I’ve had that I can confirm. Not just confirm but have some of the details filled in for me.

  It gives me a sense of hope that maybe I’m on the cusp of having more of my memories come back to me. If I can have this one jogged, something that seems inconsequential in the grand scheme of my life, maybe there are more behind that dam, just waiting to break it down.

  I check my watch and see that it’s only three in the morning. I have to wait. I have to be patient and not rush into this headlong. I lay back down in the bed, telling myself to get a little rest. But I know sleep will not be coming.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hey, it’s Publius. I got your email.”