[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  “Please, have a seat.”

  While Mrs. Sartori poured drinks, Richter picked up a picture frame. “I didn’t realize Stephanie was a track star. She never told me that.”

  “She ran in high school. Mostly long distance.” Pointing to the picture, Mr. Sartori continued. “That was after she completed her first marathon. She was still in college then. She didn’t win.” Mr. Sartori smiled at the memory, then shook his head. “But I had a trophy made up beforehand, and we gave it to her when we finally met up with her at the finish line.” Mr. Sartori paused, the words stuck in his throat. “She was our only child.”

  Mrs. Sartori touched his arm and then turned to Richter. “Mr. Richter. I didn’t ask, but I hope you like sweet tea. It’s how we serve it in the South.”

  “Please, call me Matthew.” He took the glass. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took a sip. “This is very good.”

  He put the glass on a coaster.

  “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I know this is a very difficult time for you. I worked with Stephanie and…I had come to know her quite well. I realize you’re probably wondering what happened.”

  Mrs. Sartori nodded. “No one has told us much. The president called to offer his condolences and to thank us. He told us Stephanie saved his life.” Mrs. Sartori reached for a tissue. “Did she?”

  Richter’s felt his eyes well up. “Yes, ma’am, she did. Stephanie was a hero.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  June

  Matthew Richter looked around the empty apartment one last time. His footsteps sounded loud as the noise echoed off the bare walls. He paused by the window for a moment and sighed. Two months of endless sessions with investigators, of testifying before Congress, of painstakingly recounting their ordeal had left him drained.

  Rumson was dead. In the scuffle with Richter, he had fallen on the letter opener, and the blade he had intended for Kendall had pierced his own flesh instead. There was little anyone could have done, and by the time the doctor arrived, he was gone. The woman named Jane, investigators had determined, was someone Rumson had befriended as a child. Like Mosby and McKay, she was one of many that Rumson had apparently cultivated over the years. She had vanished. As investigators learned more about her background, they realized that finding her would be a challenge. Joe Reed refused to speak, his lawyer claiming that he had been tortured and that anything he said had been under duress. His demands for a plea bargain fell on deaf ears. The investigation into the Air Force, the Secret Service, and the FBI continued; Emil Broder loudly protested his innocence. Yet the questions remained.

  Richter turned from the window, and stopping by the door, glanced back once more. Even with his FBI detail, the reporters still hounded him, trying to win a few minutes of his time, telling him he was a hero. They shouted their questions over the tops of his agents. One question, above all, had struck a chord.

  “How do you feel?”

  How did he feel? He stared at the apartment. Like this, he thought. Empty. Hollow. Stephanie was gone. She and Brad Lansing and so many others had done their jobs. Yet, the Service had failed them. The Service had failed him.

  With a sigh, he shut the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, a ball cap pulled low over his face and driving his own car for the first time in months, he merged onto Rt. 495. It was seven hours to Columbus. He would spend a week with his family, maybe two. Where he would go after that—what he would do next—he wasn’t sure. But one thing was clear, there was nothing left for him here.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror and watched as Washington, DC, faded in the distance.

  * * * *

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  MATTHEW RICHTER RETURNS IN AN EYE FOR AN EYE!

  Prologue

  As he made his way through the cantina, Pablo Guerrero could hear the cries of the crowd, calling for blood. He tugged at the cap, pulling it low over his face. Dressed as he was in a laborer’s clothes, and not the designer fashions he’d grown accustomed to, he wasn’t recognized.

  Stepping out the back door, he threaded his way through the crowd to the side of the ring. He caught the eye of the boy standing in the middle. The boy, no more than thirteen, nodded briefly then held the black rooster up for the judge to inspect. After checking for injuries, the judge held out his hand and the boy handed him the one-inch curved blade. The judge inspected this, first looking then sniffing for the tell-tale signs of poison. Although he didn’t detect any, he wiped the blade with a lemon—a long-standing practice to guard against cheating. Satisfied, the judge tied the blade onto the rooster’s leg then stepped back.

  The boy moved to the center of the ring, thrusting the bird in front of him, letting him see his opponent. Across from him, an old man holding a white rooster did the same. Guerrero watched as his rooster twisted and writhed in the boy’s hands, clucking and hissing, anxious to fight. A slight grin crossed his face then disappeared. The judge signaled; the boy and the old man retreated to opposite sides of the pit.

  The judge eyed the crowd and called out once more. “Apuestas!” Bets.

  Guerrero signaled and handed the judge one hundred pesos, nodding in the boy’s direction.

  “El negro.” The black one.

  The judge nodded, held the hundred pesos in the air and called out to the crowd again. When all bets were placed, he signaled to the boy and the old man. They stepped forward again, thrusting their roosters at each other several times as the noise grew. The spectators, those wagering and those just watching, began to shout and chant, excited at the imminent battle. The judge called out again and the roosters were placed on the ground. Like prize fighters, they danced around each other for a second or two before the black rooster charged. Wings flapping, the birds pecked at each other, clawing and fighting as they’d been trained.

  The black rooster jumped, fluttered a foot above the ground for a moment, and then dove at his opponent. The white rooster turned, swung his right claw out. As the chants and calls rose to a din, the black rooster crumpled to the ground.

  For a second, Guerrero didn’t move. Then he glanced at the old man holding the white rooster aloft, smiling, triumphant. He looked at his own bird lying in the dirt, the dark stains of blood appearing almost as black as the feathers. Guerrero stared at the old man again; his eyes dark. As he turned to leave, he caught the boy’s eyes once more and nodded.

  The old man would be found three days later, the dismembered white rooster sitting on top of the man’s brutally beaten body.

  Chapter One

  Matthew Richter adjusted his radio wand and headset then glanced back at his team: eight heavily armed men, all wearing helmets and Kevlar vests and dressed in black tactical gear. He held up a thumb and nodded, receiving eight thumbs-up in reply. Opening the back door of the armored truck, he jumped to the ground and ran across the dark alley and then down the steep steps to the basement. When the last agent’s head disappeared, a tenth agent, dressed in the uniform of an armored delivery guard, closed the cellar hatch in the sidewalk then climbed back in the rear of the truck. Seconds later, the truck pulled out of the alley. The insertion had taken less than twenty seconds.

  Richter switched on his flashlight and made his way through the maze of pipes, past the furnace and up the stairway, his rubber-soled boots silent on the metal steps. At the top, he stopped and glanced back at his men, counting heads. Satisfied, he tapped his knuckles on the door once and it was opened immediately by another agent, dressed in the overalls of a janitor. The janitor led them down the hall t
o a door on the other side of the building where they stopped.

  “We’re just getting the audio feed online,” the janitor whispered.

  Richter nodded then glanced back at his team again, noting the hard eyes behind the tactical goggles, the tight muscles stretched across clenched jaws. They were ready. He switched his radio to the command net and his earbud hissed slightly. He cupped his hand over his ear to catch the conversation.

  “…one million dollars. But we have some conditions.”

  Richter heard a grunt then: “There are always conditions.”

  There was a pause and then some scraping noises. “It has to be on December Twenty-fifth. He’ll be in New York that day.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Richter heard a sigh, then, “Please. We have our sources.”

  There was another pause, more scraping noises. “It has to be public?”

  “Yes.”

  “That increases the risk significantly.”

  More scraping, another sigh. “How much?”

  “Two million.”

  Richter heard some whispering, some words in Spanish that he didn’t understand.

  “Okay. Two million.”

  “What about the family?”

  “They’re unimportant. But if they get in the way, so be it.”

  “Okay. I think we have a deal. But just to be clear…you try to fuck me over, you know I’ll hunt you down.”

  A second later, there was a click, and then Richter heard a much clearer voice in his earbud.

  “Green Light! Green Light! Green Light!”

  As the janitor opened the door to the alley, Richter switched his radio back to the assault net. Then he stuck his head out, glanced once in each direction before dashing across the alley. Crouched in the darkness behind the dumpster, he did another headcount then held up three fingers and pointed to his right. In a half crouch, three men moved down the alley along the brick wall to the back of the building. He held three fingers up again then pointed to his left. Another three agents moved silently toward the front. Two men remained with him.

  When the teams were in position, he turned and nodded to the three men crouched at the back corner of the building. He got a nod in reply. A second later, he got another from the three men in front.

  “Go! Go! Go!” he hissed as he jumped up and ran to the side door, stepping out of the way of the agent on his heels. The man behind stepped up to the door, holding the Stinger ready. A second later there was a bright flash from the rear of the building followed by a loud bang. The agent swung the thirty-five pound steel battering ram at the metal door. It only took two strikes and the door flew open.

  “Police!” Richter shouted as he sprang across the threshold, his gun in both hands. He darted to the left. A second agent followed, darting to the right. The third agent came last, a gun in his hand now, the battering ram discarded outside.

  There were shouts from the front and the rear of the building. After a quick glance around the room—empty except for shelves of ingredients and supplies for the bakery in front—Richter and the two agents ran to the door that led to the hallway. Two shots rang out as they burst into the hall. Seconds later, he and his team converged on the back room where three men were lying on the floor.

  “Clear!” several agents called out simultaneously.

  Richter’s eyes darted around the smoke-filled room then down to the men lying at his feet. Two dark-skinned men were writhing on the floor, hands cupped over their ears. He noticed blood seeping through one of the men’s fingers, the tell-tale signs of a burst eardrum, courtesy of the flash-bang grenade. His eyes moved to the third man, a tall sandy-haired thug with a chiseled jaw—the Russian. The Russian’s shirt was stained with blood, with more seeping onto the floor; his face was contorted in pain. One agent secured the Russian’s gun while another knelt down to check his wounds. The Russian glared at the agent and then up at Richter. A second later, the hint of a smile crossed his face. Richter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and reached for his web belt.

  The Russian was quick. Despite his wounds, he sprang off the floor, knocking one agent over then lunging at another. Richter chopped once with his tactical baton, catching the Russian behind the ear. He crumpled to the ground.

  Richter and one of his men exchanged a look. The agent nodded then placed his foot on the Russian’s head, holding him down, while another agent cuffed him. Richter glanced around the room, did a quick headcount again. All of his men were accounted for, all uninjured; all except, he noticed, for the pride of the agent who had been knocked over.

  Richter pulled the microphone wand closer to his mouth.

  “Three tangos secure. Two with minor injuries, one wounded and unconscious. Request an ambulance.”

  “Copy Blue Lead. Three tangos secure. Ambulance on its way.”

  ____

  President David Kendall sat on the couch in the Oval Office across from FBI Director Patrick Monahan and National Security Advisor Brett Watson.

  “Early this morning,” Monahan began, “we arrested three men in New Jersey on charges of planning to assassinate the chief of operations for the DEA.

  “Joe Delia?” The president frowned. “Go on.”

  “They were only in the planning stages, sir, but the attack was scheduled to take place in New York on Christmas Day.”

  Monahan handed three photos to the president. Kendall glanced at them briefly before passing them to Watson.

  Monahan continued: “Two are Mexican nationals and one is a Russian immigrant. The Mexicans offered two million dollars to the Russian to arrange the killing.”

  President Kendall scowled; Watson remained tight-lipped as Monahan continued.

  “The Mexicans work for a group known as Los Alacránes. They’re what’s left of the Zacatecas cartel. After we shut down the Zacatecas operation, there was a power play. Their former turf was split between the remaining members of their security force, who go by the name Los Alacránes—The Scorpions—and the Baja cartel.”

  Monahan passed another photo. “The Russian is a former FSB officer who has ties to the Russian Mafia.”

  “How did we find out about this?”

  “The CIA has been picking up chatter and tipped us off. Working with the NSA, we were able to trace several cell phone calls and eventually identified the two Mexicans. We learned that they had set up a meeting with the Russian. He’s someone that we’ve been watching for some time. We obtained a search warrant and, after recording a conversation where the Mexicans offered money in exchange for the murder, our men arrested them.”

  “This was in New Jersey?” the president asked.

  “Yes, sir. Newark.”

  “Matthew Richter?”

  “He led the team, sir.”

  The president and Monahan exchanged a glance.

  “And the motive?”

  “We don’t know definitively, sir,” Monahan responded. “The two Mexicans aren’t talking.”

  Watson studied the photos for a moment. He laid them on the table then looked up.

  “Could this be revenge for Calzada?” he asked.

  The president nodded, a scowl on his face. “I was wondering the same thing.”

  Roberto Calzada, along with the head of the Zacatecas cartel and his key lieutenants, had been arrested two and a half years earlier under a joint operation between Mexican and U.S. forces. Calzada, a former commando with Mexico’s Air Force, had deserted five years earlier along with forty of his fellow commandos to form a private army for the Zacatecas cartel. After his arrest, his younger brother, Ramón, a former federal police officer, had quickly stepped in and, with a ruthlessness that would have made the older Calzada proud, taken over the organization. Now, instead of merely protecting, the enforcers had become the cartel.

  The older brother, Roberto, along with the eighty-nine other high-ranking cartel members captured under the operation, code-named Project Boston, had eventually been extradited to t
he U.S. Most, including Roberto, were still awaiting trial.

  “It’s possible,” Monahan responded. “That was my first thought, too.” He looked at each of them. “But two cartel hit men arranging for the killing of the head of the DEA?” He hesitated.

  “You don’t buy it?” the president asked.

  Monahan shook his head. “Why didn’t they handle the killing themselves? Why outsource it? These guys are assassins. This is what they do.”

  “Could they be looking to focus blame elsewhere,” Watson wondered out loud. “To create some confusion?”

  “A diversion?” the president asked.

  Watson nodded. “It’s possible.” He laid the photo on the table again. “If you think about it, since we shut down Project Boston, the DEA has significantly stepped up their focus on cartel operations in the U.S., infiltrating and shutting down cells, disrupting their distribution networks. At the same time, the ATF has put a crimp in weapons smuggling. This has to have hurt them. Maybe not as much as Boston, but with more and more enforcers taking on leadership roles in the cartels, we’re dealing with a different enemy now.”

  “But why use a middleman?” the president asked.

  Watson shook his head. “I don’t know.” He picked up the photo of the two Mexicans. “For years, the cartels have targeted people who have refused to cooperate with them: local and federal officials, chiefs of police, you name it. If they can’t be bought, they’re killed. The Mayor of Ciudad Juarez has been on their hit list for some time and now lives on our side of the border, in El Paso. But keep in mind, all of their focus has been in Mexico.” He tapped the photo. “This might be a subtle way of telling us that if we continue to disrupt their business, they’re going to bring their terror campaign here.”

  The president sat back, thinking. After a moment, he leaned forward and looked from one man to the other. His face was grim.

  “We need to understand if this was an isolated incident. Was Calzada seeking revenge for his brother or does this represent a greater threat to us?” He looked at Watson. “We have a National Security Council meeting next week?”