In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1)

by L. D. Beyer

  Peggy turned to Richter. “Matt,” she playfully scolded him. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

  He smiled. “Sorry, ma’am. If I drink any more, I’ll fall asleep. The lasagna was incredible, though. I haven’t eaten a home-cooked meal like that since…well, I can’t remember the last time.”

  “Do you work for the government too, Matt?”

  Richter gave a weak smile. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”

  After chatting for several minutes, Richter excused himself and left with Bill to tour the property and to assess the security. Jack and Derek took the opportunity to help themselves to more lasagna. Peggy smiled as she watched the boys eat. The sound of a door opening interrupted her thoughts, and she turned and watched as Richter and her husband stepped outside. She turned back to Kendall and frowned.

  “Matt’s with the Secret Service, isn’t he?”

  Kendall nodded. “He saved my life more than once over the last few days.”

  “He’s a strong man, but it’s obvious he’s under incredible pressure. You too, Dave.” She took a sip of wine. “So, what happened?”

  “Peggy, there’s a lot I can’t tell you for obvious reasons. Okay?” He patted her hand. “And frankly, my coming here puts you and Bill in danger. I’m truly sorry about that.”

  She brushed away the concern. “You know we would do anything for you and Maria.” She gasped. “My God! Maria! Oh, the poor thing. I saw her on TV the other night. They had a prayer vigil for you and for everyone on the plane. The camera kept coming back to Maria and the girls. Oh, Dave! I feel so bad for them!”

  Kendall wiped a tear from his cheek. “I do too.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Tuesday, May 4

  It was 7:45 a.m. when they turned onto Route 160. Called Main Street in Cortez, Route 160 continued straight east through town about a mile and a half, and then on for another forty-five miles to Durango.

  Jackson woke up when they stopped at the traffic light. He stretched and yawned then checked the time. Only five hours of sleep. He was stiff and sore from the car.

  “Where are we?”

  “Cortez, Colorado. Durango is another hour further.”

  “Let’s stop here. I need to take a piss.”

  They spotted a gas station on the next block and Malouf pulled in. Next door was a donut shop. Jackson climbed out, stretched again, then walked toward the donut store. He called over his shoulder, “You get gas. I’ll get us some breakfast.”

  Five minutes later, he walked out of the shop and stopped on the sidewalk for a moment, basking in the sunshine. The skies were a deep blue and, although chilly, the sun felt good. The TV in the donut shop said the temperature would climb to sixty-five degrees today. After the last ten days in the cold and snow, this was a welcome change. He noted that the town was an eclectic mix of architectural styles, from the dark-brown, rough-wooden structure that sold western wear to the Mexican adobe facade of the local cantina to the Greek style of the turn-of-the-century bank building. There was a single-screen cinema with a marquee that jutted out over the sidewalk, a microbrewery, two antique shops, and several restaurants.

  He began walking back to the gas station as the light at the intersection changed. Glancing at the traffic driving by, he noted three pickup trucks and one minivan passing by and, coming toward him from the other direction, a battered and rusty SUV, another pickup truck, and at the end of the line, a dark green Ford Explorer.

  Jackson stopped short, staring at the driver. He had the beard, like the man in the video, and the distinctive jaw line was clear. What grabbed his attention were the eyes. They were continually shifting; studying the surroundings. Jackson had seen those eyes before. Usually on soldiers. Sometimes on the police. Always on Secret Service agents. As the car passed, the man turned and their eyes met for just a second. His eyes were dark and hard. Suddenly the Explorer sped up and turned off Main Street.

  He tried not to spill the coffee as he ran back to the car.

  ___

  Sitting at the stop light, Richter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He glanced out the passenger window, scanning the people on the sidewalk. Then his eyes shifted to the mirrors and the cars turning at the intersection. What had spooked him? His eyes continued across the intersection to the pedestrians on the other side road. The light changed and he edged forward at the same time his eyes locked on the tall black man holding the cup of coffee. As he passed, the man turned and hurried down the sidewalk and Richter felt a wave of panic. At the next intersection, he made a split-second decision and turned right onto a side road and sped up as he drove north. As he raced up the street, he remembered where he had seen the man before.

  “Where are we going? What’s wrong?”

  Ignoring Bill’s questions, he scanned the mirrors and eased off the accelerator as he approached the speed limit. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the man, but he didn’t want to attract the attention of the local cops. Moments later a black Chevy Suburban turned sharply off Main Street behind them. Richter cursed and began looking for options. On their left was a residential neighborhood and on the right a park or a school with a large expanse of green lawn. The approaching traffic light was red. He waited until the last second to brake and, with no cross traffic, he ignored the light and made a sharp right-hand turn. In his mirror he watched as, seconds later, the Suburban ignored the light as well. Shit. Not a good sign.

  “Bill.” Richter kept his voice calm. “I recognized someone back there. He’s following us.”

  Daniels glanced in the side view mirror. “The black truck behind us?”

  Richter nodded. “Do you recognize them?”

  Daniels shook his head. Richter’s eyes darted back and forth from the mirrors to the road ahead. There was a parking lot ahead on the right.

  He pointed. “Is there another exit to that lot?”

  “Yeah. “ Daniels pointed past the building. “On the side street running perpendicular to us.”

  Richter pulled in and, seeing the other entrance at his two o’clock, turned and sped across the spaces, ignoring a horn and angry stares from two women in a minivan. In his side view mirror, he saw the Suburban pull into the lot behind them, then the blaring of horns as the Suburban raced across the lot.

  “Hang on!” he yelled.

  He stomped on the accelerator and the Explorer leapt forward, its engine growling. When he reached the exit, he slammed the brakes, turned left onto the side street then punched the gas again. They were racing back toward the road they’d just been on. The light was green, and Richter made a sharp left-hand turn, tires squealing on the pavement as he accelerated. A moment later, the sound of horns and tires squealing told him the Suburban had reached the intersection.

  He sped up the block, then hit the brakes hard, taking the first right turn, then another right on the first side street and then a left. He began racing north, passing another residential area on the right and a hospital on the left. Half a mile later, they roared through another intersection and the town faded behind them. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Suburban a quarter of a mile back.

  The engine growled as the speedometer hit seventy. Richter glanced from his mirrors to the road ahead, considering the narrowing options. He could continue to lead his pursuers away from the president, acting as a decoy, but he wasn’t sure if the men behind him were working alone. He felt a growing unease as he drove farther away from the man he had sworn to protect. There was only one option.

  As the Suburban narrowed the distance, Richter spotted a road on the right that seemed to disappear into the hills.

  “Where does that go?”

  “There was on old airfield out here years ago,” Daniels answered. “It’s been shut down for some time now. I think that’s the access road.”

  Richter broke hard, turning onto the narrow lane. The back end of the Explorer began to slip on the sand and
dirt that had blown across the seldom-used road. He eased off the gas until he found traction then accelerated again. In their wake, a large dust cloud billowed up behind them.

  Two miles down the road, Richter let off the gas and scanned his mirrors searching for the Suburban. For a moment, he was afraid he lost them, then the Suburban emerged from the dust. He began to alternatively tap the gas pedal and shift from drive to neutral causing the car to buck.

  “Get down! Now!” Richter yelled as he continued to buck the Explorer, hoping that it would appear that they were having engine trouble. The Suburban came up behind them, filling the rearview mirror. Richter watched and waited. Come on! Come on! He coaxed. Suddenly, the Suburban swung out to the other lane, as if to pass. Richter slammed on the brakes and turned the wheel sharply to the left, catching the Suburban’s rear bumper. The larger vehicle spun across the roadway in front of them, tilting precariously up on two wheels before straightening and spinning the other way.

  By the time the Suburban came to a stop, forty yards away, Richter was out running, his gun pointed at the driver. The Suburban suddenly spun around and, tires sliding on the sandy blacktop, accelerated towards him. Richter dropped into a shooting stance and fired twice, then dove out of the way as the Suburban flew past before veering off the road into the scrub brush where it stopped. Richter jumped up and charged the truck, his gun now pointed at the passenger.

  “Put your hands where I can see them!” He shouted twice more before the black man put his hands on the dashboard. Richter, still yelling, continued around the side of the truck and yanked open the door.

  “Get out! Get out! Move it! Get on the ground now! On the ground now! Hands behind your head!”

  The black man stumbled out, hands in the air, then lay face down in the dirt.

  “Hands behind your head! Lock your fingers! Get your face in the dirt!”

  When the man was slow to respond, Richter stomped on the back of his head. The man screamed in pain as his head struck the ground. Reflexively, he pulled his head up, and Richter struck him again. Then he stepped between the man’s spread legs and kicked him once more. He stepped back, panting, as the man curled into a fetal position. He took a deep breath and glanced back down the road, confirming they were still alone. Holding the man’s head down with his foot, Richter holstered his weapon, then checked the man’s pulse and breathing. Satisfied that he was only dazed, Richter yanked the man’s arms behind his back and, using the man’s own handcuffs, secured his wrists.

  After searching his prisoner, he placed the gun on the hood of the Suburban. He flipped open the two billfolds, shook his head, and then dropped them on the hood as well. He turned to the driver. The man’s face was a mess of blood; one lifeless eye stared vacantly at nothing. He pulled the body out, letting it fall like a rag doll to the ground. Like his partner, the dead man had a gun, a pair of cuffs and two billfolds. Richter placed everything on the hood then searched the Suburban, finding two more guns, extra clips of ammunition, various fake IDs and a newspaper. Everything went on the hood of the truck.

  Richter turned as Daniels walked up. Daniels stared at the body then glanced at Richter. He doubled over suddenly and threw up.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Several hours later, they drove down the dirt road to what Daniels referred to as his ranch. The Daniels lived on a thirty-seven-acre spread, south of town, close to Mesa Verde National Park. They passed the main house and drove up to a large sheet metal building that housed Daniels’ motor home and boat. Daniels opened the large sliding door, and Richter pulled the Explorer inside.

  Climbing out, he heard noises behind him and turned as Derek, Jack, and the president joined them.

  “What happened to you guys? We were getting worried—Jesus Christ! Are you okay?”

  Richter, aware of the blood on his shirt and pants, ignored Jack’s question as he stepped around them and closed the shed’s door.

  The president grabbed his arm. “Are you hurt?”

  Richter shook his head. “No, sir. We had a run in with some guys who were following us. But we’re okay.”

  Kendall nodded soberly. “So, they know we’re alive.”

  Richter nodded, then gave them an abbreviated version of the tense morning, leaving out the part where they hid the driver’s body and the blood splattered Suburban in a dilapidated building at the old airfield.

  “Do you think there are others?”

  “I don’t know yet. But we’re going to find out.” Richter walked to the back of the Explorer and opened the hatch. He dragged the hooded figure out. “Bill, I’m going to need a chair and some duct tape.”

  ___

  As Monahan climbed out of the car, he heard laughter and shouts—the high-pitched, excited voices of girls coupled with the bluster and banter of boys. He glanced down his tree-lined street and saw the group of children rounding the corner. Two or three were on skateboards, most had iPod wires dangling from their ears, and all were laden with backpacks. They seemed happy, carefree as they made their way up the block. He glanced at his watch. It was 3:00 p.m. He shook his head and smiled.

  He nodded to his driver then made his way up the front walk. He had met with Broder and, despite that or maybe because of it, he felt better than he expected. It was the sense of relief, he decided; the feeling that he wasn’t carrying around the weight of the world—or at least the weight of the FBI and it’s overbearing director—on his shoulders. He had postponed the meeting a day, partly because he had spent most of the prior day in bed after arriving home at two-thirty in the morning, but more so because he needed time to sort through the emotions and jumble of thoughts in his head.

  He was frustrated that he had been pulled off the case, especially after the progress they had made. They had uncovered evidence that pointed to a conspiracy involving the Secret Service, the Air Force, and the Mexican drug cartels. How many others were involved? He felt an obligation to uncover exactly what had happened and to obtain justice. But he wouldn’t get that chance now.

  Surprisingly, Broder hadn’t fired him. Instead, Broder told him he was on administrative leave, whatever the hell that meant. Even more surprising, he had been allowed to keep his credentials, his gun, and his driver. If this was the limbo the nuns had warned about back in grammar school, he thought with a smile, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.

  He had just stepped into his house when his phone rang. He debated for a moment whether he should answer, whether he should even check the display to see who was calling, but thirty years of habit won out. He glanced at the number: Brett Donahue, the SAIC from San Antonio.

  “What can I do for you, Brett?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. “Sir, I know you’re no longer on the case, and I’m sorry to hear that.”

  There was another pause and Monahan sighed. It was the first of a string of pity calls, something he should have expected, but also something he had no desire to hear right now. Before he could say anything, Donahue continued.

  “I thought you would want to know about something else we just came across.” Donahue sounded excited.

  Monahan felt his pulse quicken. “What have you got?”

  “Early this morning, we found a pickup truck about ten miles from where we found that body. It was on a ranch about two miles from the border, hidden in some brush. Mexican tags.” There was a pause. “We found a head inside: male, decomposing….”

  Having witnessed some gruesome scenes in his years as an agent, Monahan had a good idea of what the inside of the truck must have looked like.

  “We’re doing the DNA testing now, but it looks like it belongs to the body. But even more importantly,” Donahue continued, “we found a cell phone. We’ve been reviewing the contact list and call log all day and, so far, two numbers are very concerning.”

  Monahan glanced up. His wife was in the hallway. He held his finger up and shook his head. It was a signal that after thirty-two years of marriage she knew all too well. A bit
put out, she turned away.

  “Go on,” he prodded.

  “One of the numbers is for a cell phone that belongs to Secret Service Agent Cal Mosby.”

  Monahan felt a sudden excitement, the rush he always felt as the pieces of the puzzle began to come together.

  “And the second is for a bank in Luxembourg. In the contact details, there was an account number. We contacted the bank. It took some effort, a lot of twisted arms, and some help from Interpol, but we found out that the account belongs to Cal Mosby.”

  ___

  Bill and Derek spent the afternoon acquiring the items on Richter’s list. They weren’t ready until almost 9:00 p.m.

  The black man sat in a wooden chair, his arms handcuffed behind him, his legs duct-taped to the chair. A bandanna covered his eyes. Richter sat across from him. He placed the man’s cell phone on the table between them and connected it to a digital recorder, then sat back and studied his prisoner. He had confirmed his suspicions earlier in a private, somewhat physical conversation. The man’s real name was Joe Reed.

  Richter leaned over. Reed flinched as he felt Richter’s hot breath on his face. Richter let him stew for a moment.

  “Okay, Reed. One more time.”

  After Reed finished, Richter stood, then without warning thrust his straightened fingers into the man’s solar plexus. Reed doubled over, as if kicked by a mule, his face contorted in pain. After several seconds, Richter pulled his hand away. He watched Reed wheeze and struggle to breathe. It took another fifteen seconds before his breath finally came in a series of shallow pants.

  Reed shook his head, tears running down his cheeks. “Okay! No more! Please!”

  Richter studied him again. Earlier, after seeing Reed’s bloody face and apparent broken nose, the president had pulled Richter aside.

  “I want him alive. I know you had no choice with Mosby and with that other one. But I want him to face justice. I want to know who’s behind this.” The president’s tone was stern. “I will not condone torture, Agent Richter.”