Dawson checked his watch and drummed his fingers on the counter as the security guard examined his press pass photo. The guard raised heavy-lidded eyes from the pass to Dawson’s fingers, shook his head in disgust, then slid the pass across the counter. The guard should recognize me by now, he thought. Security in the nation’s capital was important, but at the moment it was nothing but a pain.
He tossed his frayed canvas briefcase on the conveyor belt for screening and emptied his pockets into the grimy plastic bowl. He stepped through the metal detector, refilled his pockets, and picked up his bag. Slipping the strap over his shoulder, he hurried to the elevator.
Moments later, he opened the door to Madsen’s office and informed the receptionist of his scheduled appointment. The male receptionist handed him the sign-in sheet on a clipboard, then motioned for him to sit on the large leather couch. His stomach gurgled. Relax. He smoothed his khaki pants and brushed a piece of lint from his sport coat. He felt for the notebook in his outside coat pocket and patted his briefcase.
The receptionist drummed his fingers when not occupied by any of the cell phones and desk phones that lay before him. A placard on the desk revealed that his name was Ricardo. He had gelled and partially bleached hair. Between calls, he sipped from a large paper cup of coffee and adjusted his stylish glasses on his nose. One of the office phones rang again. He picked it up, listened intently, then turned to Dawson. “Jodie will be with you shortly.” Dawson drew in a halting breath. His hands felt cold and clammy. Nerves, he thought. Get them under control.
Seconds later, Jodie Serna opened a door and wiggled a finger for Dawson to follow. He swallowed. Showtime. She extended a hand, which he shook casually. “Glad we could finally make this interview happen. When was it we first talked about it?”
“Uhhh, a couple of months ago.”
“Really? That long? Sorry. I’ve blocked out some time, not as much as you’d like, I’m sure. So, if you can keep it brief, hit the key questions, we’d appreciate it.”
Dawson grunted.
“Did you see the debate last night?” Jodie asked.
“Of course.”
“It went well, don’t you think?”
“Yes. It looks like Madsen has Harris on the ropes.”
Jodie smiled. “That’s what our polling numbers say.” She opened the door to a large office. Madsen came from around his large polished wood desk to shake Dawson’s hand and motioned to a square of small leather couches arranged around a thick glass coffee table. Madsen looked fresh and confident, wearing a crisp white shirt, red tie, and dark gray trousers. Trini Serna stood beside Madsen, resting a hand on the back of the couch.
Dawson settled into his seat and put his bag beside him. He took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. Jodie sat to Dawson’s left as he faced Madsen, who smiled.
“Kyle Dawson,” Madsen said, as if he was an old friend. “It’s a pleasure to be able to sit down and talk with you finally. I really mean that. I’ve been a great fan of your work for many years.”
Dawson cleared his throat, hoping to relieve the tightness that he feared would make his voice squeak. “Thanks for taking time away from your campaign. I know how busy you are at this stage.” He put his small digital tape recorder on the glass table.
Madsen leaned forward. “Kyle, I want to let you know that if things turn out in this election as I hope they will, you will have unfettered access. I mean it.”
Dawson exhaled, stifling a smile at this blatant attempt to insure that he’d get a pumped-up, glossy interview. He clenched his jaw tight. He disliked the man more than ever.
“I’ve asked Trini to join us,” Madsen said. “As you know, my job is to set policy. Trini handles the details.”
“Good. He may be able to help answer some questions.”
“So, what would you like to discuss?”
Dawson stiffened his back. “Operation la Peña.”
Madsen’s face dropped. Awkward silence filled the room. “I...ah…I’m...not really that familiar with all of the details.” Madsen looked up at Trini Serna, who shook his head no.
Dawson smiled to himself. Yes! It was exactly where he wanted Madsen, on the defensive. “To refresh your memory, the operation was set up quite a number of years ago to infiltrate the Borrego cartel. You sponsored bills that created the operation and kept it going.”
“My support of the DEA’s effort to combat the importation of controlled substances is well-documented. I’m not at liberty to discuss details of any operations. Even if I was aware of them, which I am not, I wouldn’t do so.”
Dawson slowly exhaled. More political hooey. It’s not going to work. You should know better than to play dumb. But I’m happy to play it like that, if you want. “That’s interesting, because your name appears quite frequently in these documents.” He pulled the folder out of his canvas briefcase, then slipped a few documents from it and pushed them across the table.
Madsen drew them close and hesitantly ran his eyes over them. He handed them to Serna, who scanned them, and handed them back to Dawson, who replaced them on the table.
Serna glared, poking a finger at him. “Maybe you don’t hear so well. You were warned about this. And so were your bosses. Including that bitch who runs your rag.”
Dawson glared back at Serna. You’re the kind of thug I always suspected you were. You don’t even try to hide it. Dawson shook his head in disgust and looked back at Madsen. “Operation la Peña was a ten-year undercover operation in which the U.S. trained and used a convicted killer and drug dealer to become a major player in a cross-border drug and illicit weapons business.”
“And what, pray tell, does this have to do with me?” Madsen asked.
“A huge number of drugs and weapons crossed the border as part of this operation. It is well-documented that those weapons were used in the deaths of thousands of innocent victims who died as the cartels fought for control of the Juárez drug corridor.”
Madsen glared at Dawson, then lifted his hands in exasperation. “For the memory of your father, God rest his soul, don’t do this.”
Dawson again shook his head in disgust. Using my father to appeal to get me to back off! How pathetic! And I haven’t even gotten to my father’s role in this yet. “Not only did the operation never fulfill its original purpose, you, your staff, operatives, and even the Borrego drug cartel benefited immensely. The list is extensive.”
“You, of all people,” Madsen said, his voice rising. “Don’t forget that I saved your worthless ass from the goddamned Taliban! This is how you thank me?”
Me of all people? How can you even ask that? “I haven’t forgotten. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about.” Dawson extracted more sheets of paper and handed them to him.
Madsen leaned back, his face contorted with anger. He glanced at Jodie and Trini, then back at Dawson before he scanned the additional sheets. His face flushed.
“These are records of off-shore accounts belonging to the people who were involved in Operation la Peña,” Dawson said.
Madsen looked up from pages in horror, then helplessly at Trini.
“That has nothing to do with us,” Trini said, jabbing his finger at Dawson. “We’ve done nothing illegal.”
Dawson looked up at Trini, who was now towering over him. You’re not intimidating me, buddy—you never could. “That’s interesting, since your and Jodie’s names are on several accounts.”
“This is outrageous,” Madsen said. “Where did you get these documents?”
Sorry, Madsen. I’m the one asking the questions. “The fact is that I have them. They have been duplicated and are being kept safely. Soon they’ll be made public. So, the question is, how do you explain these accounts?”
“These were all confidential accounts set up as part of Operation la Peña,” Madsen said, as if explaining a simple fact to a child. “This information needs to be protected. It could be so easily misinterpreted.”
“What do you think you’re
doing?” Jodie growled at Dawson, her lips tight and her eyes hardened. “This is not what we agreed to discuss.”
“This is highly classified information,” Trini said. “Secret communications and reports. Where did you get it all?”
Dawson looked up again and shrugged. It’s none of your damned business.
Beads of sweat formed on Madsen’s upper lip, which he wiped with a monogrammed handkerchief from his back pocket. “Let’s put this all in perspective. I support any and all efforts to combat the scourge of drugs in our country. That’s the point that has to be made here.” Madsen glared at Dawson. “That you possess this information is a breach of national security.”
Nice try. “I suggest you look at this.” Dawson took a couple more pieces of paper from his folder.
Jodie stood, raising her hands. “We’re stopping this now. The senator has a plane to catch.”
Dawson clenched his jaw. No, you’re not, sister. “We’re going to sit right here until I get some answers.” He looked at each of them in turn, then pointed at Madsen. “For the past ten years you have been at the top of what amounts to a secret drug cartel composed of highly trained criminals. And it was funded by the government.”
“You’re talking to a United States senator who’s a candidate for U.S. president,” Madsen said. “You don’t come in here and make such accusations.” He stood suddenly, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.
“I’m not done yet.”
Anger twisted Madsen’s reddened face. “You don’t know how done you are! As I told you, the fact that you possess this information is a breach of national security.”
“Who are you to talk about national security?” Dawson said, anger gripping his chest. He stood, rising to his full six-foot-one and pointed at Madsen. “National security is not the issue. And neither is the fact that you took millions of dollars from the Borrego cartel. The issue is murder.”
Madsen’s face contorted further. “Have you lost your mind?” He turned to Trini. “Get him out of here.”
“You used my father, just like you’ve used others to get what you wanted. Then you killed him.” Dawson realized his fists were clenched and shaking.
The color drained out of Madsen’s face as he stared at Dawson, then Trini.
“Your father was a weak and greedy man,” Trini said, his lips curled in disgust.
“No, you’re wrong about that, Trini. He was an angry man. He signed a plea bargain with the U.S. attorney in New Mexico and told them what he knew because you had screwed him out of everything he’d built,” Dawson said. “He was going to make you pay, so you killed him.”
“He tried to take us down,” Trini said with a thin smile. “Now look at him!”
“You had Fonseca kill my father. Then you had Fonseca kill Don Diego Borrego, the only other man who could reveal everything, hoping to make the murders look like part of the drug wars.”
Madsen stared at Trini, slack-jawed, then swallowed hard. He turned to Dawson. “Please. I knew nothing about this. I swear.”
“You didn’t? You were instrumental in setting up Rancho la Peña in the beginning and earned tens of millions of dollars from it. And when I uncovered your involvement, you had Fonseca kill an innocent Navajo man and a retired geologist, the two men who knew everything about your original scam.”
“All of my holdings are managed by a blind trust. I have nothing to do with it.”
“But your former law partner does.”
“You can’t connect me to any of this!” Madsen shouted.
“You tried to destroy all of the records by having the DEA special ops attack the Borrego mountain hacienda. Anita Alvarez was killed in that attack. You have a lot of blood on your hands, Madsen.”
Looking like a cornered beast, Madsen shook, his face pale as he began waving his hands wildly toward the door. “Get security. Now!”
“You won’t get away with this,” Trini said, throwing himself toward Dawson and trying to pin him to the couch.
Dawson twisted hard and threw Trini to the floor. Stunned, Trini rolled and struggled to gain his feet, giving Dawson a moment to grab his papers and his recorder and jam them into his bag. Trini lunged again at Dawson, who sidestepped and pushed him onto the heavy glass coffee table. Dawson glanced at Madsen, then wheeled and flung open the office door to the outside hall, and ran with security alarms ringing.
Chapter 56
Washington, D.C.
Dawson charged down the hallway and away from the elevators, slammed open the door to the stairwell, and took it two steps at a time. As he reached the ground floor, he could hear the steps of two security guards on the stairs above, then burst into sunshine. He hurried along the sidewalk and around the corner where he pulled a baseball hat from his bag and slipped on his sunglasses. Not much, but better than nothing.
He hustled toward the open expanse of the National Mall, his stomach knotted, his hands quivering. He glanced back at the office building where a couple of uniformed security guards had stopped at the corner, scanning the area and holding walkie-talkies. Dawson ducked and squatted beside a parked car for a moment to catch his breath. It was best to be calm and cool, act like a tourist. He stood and crossed the street, walking down the wide sidewalk toward the Washington Monument.
He was angry—angrier than he’d ever been in his life. As he had tossed out one accusation after another, he’d realized the scope of what Madsen had done. On top of it all, two of the people he had deeply cared about, his father and Anita, had died because of Madsen. And what did he and Trini have to say? They wanted to know where he’d gotten the information.
It would not work. He had Madsen’s comments, as nebulous as they were. That was enough. He had talked to the man, given him a chance to respond and explain, but he had said nothing. If that was not an indictment, then nothing was.
Dawson’s heart skipped a beat as a large, black Chevrolet Suburban pulled alongside of him, slowly moving as he walked. The Suburban stopped and several gray-suited men, looking like Secret Service agents with sunglasses and earpieces, jumped out. He froze as four agents surrounded him.
“Are you Kyle Dawson?” one agent asked.
He hesitated, then nodded.
One agent pulled a wallet out of his pocket, flipped it open and revealed a badge. “We’re with the U.S. Secret Service. We’re placing you under arrest for threatening a presidential candidate, specifically Senator Micah Madsen. Come with us, please.”
Shit. It could all be over. He’d be jailed on false charges, his mug would be flashed across the TV screens, and he’d be portrayed as a reporter gone berserk. They’d say he was suffering from post-traumatic stress from too many years in war zones. They’d call it a desperate attempt by an over-the-hill reporter to find fame. In one quick move, Dawson twisted, ducked, and darted away from the men, then broke into a full sprint.
It gave him the space he needed. He quickly crossed the expansive, grassy mall, and ran into the nearest large building. At the doors of the National Air and Space Museum, his heart pounding, his lungs aching for air, he paused to catch his breath and look over his shoulder. The black Suburban was rounding the corner a couple of hundred yards away.
He pushed open the heavy glass doors. The vast, light-filled lobby was milling with families and visitors from all over the world. The museum was one of Washington’s busiest. Perfect.
Inside, he tried to look like a curious tourist, a man with a little time to kill, craning his neck at the displays hanging overhead. He glanced over his shoulder to the door. A couple of security guards looked his way, but took no special note of him.
He stumbled and turned. Damn! He’d bumped into a young boy and girl. He reached out to keep the girl from falling.
“Watch yourself, there!” the father yelled.
Dawson jumped, stepping away clumsily.
“Johnny, get out of the man’s way,” the plump mother drawled.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Dawson blurted, looking ove
r his shoulder again to the museum entrance. Four of the suited, sunglass-wearing agents were at the museum doors talking to the guards. One of guards scanned the crowd and pointed at him. Oh my God! Dawson bolted to a nearby escalator and ran up, taking two steps at a time.
At the second floor, he paused to get his bearings. A red metal fire alarm box was on the wall. Aw, fuck it. Dawson ran to it and pulled the handle. Fire alarm bells reverberated. A siren emitted a deafening whoop-whoop, and spinning red lights flashed from the high wall corners.
The milling crowd paused, wondering what was going on. Some began to panic, shouting, “Fire! Fire!” as they fled to the exits. Dawson glanced toward the escalator being scaled by three agents. With deafening alarms filling the museum, he ran to the far end of the upper hall and leapt onto another escalator going down, weaving his way through the crowd to the first floor. At the bottom, he pushed his way through the open emergency exit and to the outside.
Now on the opposite side of the museum from where he’d entered, he sucked in a deep breath, ran into the street, and frantically waved down a taxi. The driver swerved over and Dawson climbed in. The taxi immediately pulled into traffic and away from the museum.
The driver looked at Dawson in the rearview mirror. “Where to?”
“Just drive.”
The driver shook his head, confused. “Really?”
“No. Sorry. Union Station.” It would be his best chance to put some distance between himself and the agents. To hell it would! That’s the first place they’d look. They’d put a watch on each and every major transportation hub in the area. Union Station would be first. Then the airports. He’d be screwed. Plan B. Dawson tapped numbers on his throwaway cell phone, pausing while it dialed.
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