by Gary Ponzo
“Place looks like a bomb hit it,” Tommy said.
They sat silent for a minute until Stevie said, “What was Nairobi like?”
“Sad,” Tommy said. “Very sad.”
“You were at some orphanage?”
“Yeah, a buddy of mine has a daughter who runs the place, Susan Walker. She’s a real gem. Most of them are AIDS babies. She treats them like they’re her own children.”
“So what did you do exactly?” Stevie asked.
“Mostly scrounged for food or boiled water. I’d go to the local churches and ask for supplies. But the most important thing I did was hug these little creatures. They need human contact so badly. Did you know if you took a child at birth and kept them in complete darkness for the first four months of childhood, they’d be blind for the rest of their lives?”
“Get out,” Nick said. “Is that true?”
“I’m not shitting you,” Tommy said. “Something about the optic nerve needing to connect with the brain and it only happens in the first four months. After that, it won’t connect anymore. That’s why baby toys are all primary colors. They need to calibrate their eyesight.”
“Geez,” Stevie said. “Where’d you learn all this, in Africa?”
“Yeah, apparently some of these orphanages over there are basically babysitting kids whose parents already died of AIDS, so they just sit there in some kind of a pen, like a baby corral, and they get fed three times a day and that’s it. No one touches them and they don’t receive human affection, so just like the optic nerve, their ability to give and receive love never quite attaches. They grow up like zombies. They don’t smile, they don’t cry, it’s useless, because they’ve been conditioned to be ignored. So we go around and hug these babies all day long.”
“Wow,” Matt said. “Tommy Bracco, baby hugger. Who knew?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said with a smile. “I just wish the pay was better.”
They waited another minute before a slow-moving gray panel truck came up and parked behind them. Nick hopped out of the car and met with an HRT soldier, who seemed to be wrapped in Kevlar. The guy’s entire body was covered with black material all the way up to his black gloves. He pulled off his full-faced helmet to talk with Nick.
Tommy’s phone chirped and when he looked at the caller’s name he immediately became suspicious. Hector Gomez. Someone Tommy had known a long time, but wouldn’t exactly call a friend. The guy was unreliable, shifty, drug-addicted and had wild mood swings. The part which concerned Tommy was the fact that Hector resided in Mexico. Tommy tried to digest the coincidence.
“I’ve got to get this,” Tommy said, jumping out of the SUV and walking briskly away from Nick and the commander of the Hostage Rescue Team.
Tommy pushed the talk button and put the phone to his ear. “Hector, how the heck are you?” he said casually, not raising any red flags.
“Good, my friend. How are you?” Hector said in his thick Mexican accent.
“Great,” Tommy said, walking down the desolate street away from the action behind him. “How are things below the border?”
“Loco,” Hector said. “Too much violence down here. Makes your skin crawl.”
“Hector, you sound sober. What happened, too early to get your buzz on?”
Hector offered a fake laugh. He was trying too hard to seem normal and Tommy had never had a normal conversation with the guy. He was a paranoid, coke-sniffing, wild-eyed maniac with little tolerance for subtlety. Hector didn’t know how to have a normal conversation, so this was obviously difficult to pull off.
Tommy glanced over his shoulder to see the HRT work their way out of the back of their truck and stealthily spread out. They moved like athletes, on their toes, knees bent with their helmets on and laser-guided assault rifles at the ready. Nick and Matt were right there with them, pistols at their side.
“So, Hector, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Huh?”
“Why’d you call?”
“Oh, well, just seeing how things are going. We haven’t spoken for a while.”
Tommy stopped. Something was very wrong and he couldn’t finger it just yet.
“I just got back from Nairobi,” Tommy said.
“Where’s that? Africa?”
“Yeah, in Kenya.”
“I see,” Hector said. Then, casually, with way too much effort trying to be nonchalant, he said, “So where are you now?”
Hostage Rescue had circled the house. Tommy could see them blend into the landscape. Instinctively, he began to walk toward the place, across the street, but parallel.
“I think we both know where I am, Hector,” Tommy said.
There was a pause. Too long.
Tommy began to jog, not knowing yet why, but getting closer to his cousin.
“Uh, why do you say this?” Hector managed.
“Listen, I don’t hold this against you at all, Hector. I’ve got mad love for you, man. But it’s your system down there which causes the problem.”
Tommy’s heart raced too hard, so he slowed his pace searching for Nick, but not seeing him.
“Which system are you speaking about?” Hector said.
It was the strangest conversation he’d ever had with the guy. Hector never spoke for more than thirty seconds before he asked if they were being recorded or the line was tapped.
“It’s not your fault,” Tommy said, finding Nick and Matt along the side of the house taking cover behind a couple of wide palm trees. “You can’t help it. It’s just you surround yourself with idiots who say ‘yes’ to you all day long and your brain goes soft. It doesn’t mean you’re stupid, it means you’re conditioned to make mistakes. It’s more environmental, than genetic.”
Tommy snapped his fingers to get Nick’s attention, but he was focused on the front of the house. A couple of Hostage Rescue guys were at the front door, swinging a battering ram, ready to attack.
“Why do you speak to me like this, my friend?” Hector acted hurt.
Tommy recalled a signal from his youth. A whistle he would use whenever he and Nick were in trouble and needed to run. He held the phone down against his leg and blew a short warning whistle.
Nick turned and saw him.
“I’m not talking to you, Hector,” Tommy said, returning the phone to his ear. “I’m talking to that piece of shit, Garza. The guy who’s forcing you to make this call. The asshole standing right next to you.”
Tommy waved his arms furiously at his cousin.
Nick swiveled his attention between the front door and Tommy.
Tommy pointed down.
Nick hesitated. The battering ram was in its third swing, the last one before it busted the door. He grabbed Matt by the shoulder and pulled him down to the ground.
The battering ram hit the door.
The explosion lit up the sky.
Garza heard the explosion from Hector’s phone, leaning in and feeling the sense of satisfaction as screams turned into cries, then orders barked out by male voices. Garza nodded, then backed away and told Hector he could turn off his phone. They were in Garza’s office with Victor standing by silently awaiting Garza’s instructions.
Garza pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Hector.”
Hector Gomez tried to act brave as he followed instructions.
Garza paced with his hands behind his back. “Hector, you did the right thing by coming to me with this information. This was smart.”
Hector seemed pleased to be hearing the tone of Garza’s voice.
“Tell me, how did you know I was troubled by this Bracco family?”
“Word gets around, El Carnicero.”
“Of course,” Garza said. “However, I’ve known you a long time, Hector. How come this is the first time you come to visit me with information?” Garza withdrew a folding clip knife from his pocket and extended it to its full length of eight inches.
Hector remained still, his eyes darting back and forth between the knife and Garza. �
��I was at a party last night out in the desert. There was a lot of tequila flowing. A lot of liquid bravery. People trying to be macho. There was a man who said you had killed some FBI agents. He said you were going to kill some more. The man mentioned the name Bracco.”
“And who was this man?” Garza asked, wiping his knife on his pant leg.
“His name was Philippe.”
“Philippe? Philippe who?”
“I didn’t get his last name. We exchanged first names only.”
On a small table next to Hector sat a bowl of fruit. Garza took an apple from the bowl, tossed it in the air and caught it like a baseball. He took his serrated knife and carved a slice of the apple and placed it in his mouth. Hector’s forehead glistened with moisture.
“So only first names?”
“Yes.”
Garza glanced at Victor who stood between Hector and the door. Victor shrugged, seemingly unsure what to think.
Garza sliced a piece of apple, jabbed it with the point of the knife, then extended his arm to offer Hector the slice. The apple was just inches from Hector’s face and he reached for the slice as if reaching for a rattlesnake’s fangs.
Garza snapped back the knife with a quick pull as Hector grabbed the slice.
“Thank you,” Hector said, cautiously taking a bite of the apple slice.
Garza looked out the window overlooking his wilting flowers. A soldier absently stepped on one of his geraniums. Garza opened the window and screamed, “Puta! Watch where you are walking.”
The soldier searched his path and found the damaged flower. He cowered, mumbling apologies.
Garza returned his attention to his visitor who was taking everything in with anxious eyes.
“Hector, is there something else?”
Hector looked at his hands on his lap. “The Zutons are honing in on my piracy business,” Hector explained. “I used to make five hundred dollars a week, but now I’m forced to pay fifty percent of my profit to them. Some weeks they don’t believe my sales figures and I actually lose money.”
Garza stared.
“It’s getting crazy out there,” Hector said. “I say the wrong thing and I could turn up dead. I was wondering if you were needing some. . uh. . help?”
“You want to be on my payroll?”
“Mr. Garza, you are a very powerful man. It would be a comfort to know I was under your umbrella.”
Garza considered the request. Hector was fairly unreliable and mostly paranoid. For him to be sitting here was either an act of desperation or sheer stupidity.
Garza wiped a hand over his face. “Okay, Hector, let me consider your situation.”
Hector sat there for a moment seemingly uncertain what to do. From behind him, Victor slipped a steel wire around his neck and pulled it taut. Hector grabbed franticly at the wire, his eyes shocked open, his legs pushing upward, getting to his feet to alleviate the pressure. But Victor was too strong. The wire dug into Hector’s skin with such force, a red line appeared where the wire was imbedded into his neck. Hector only fought and kicked for a few seconds before the lack of oxygen had him unconscious.
Hector’s head dropped forward, then his entire body slipped to the floor. Victor kept up the pressure until Garza said, “Enough, he is dead.”
Victor let go of the wire, then checked for a pulse. He looked up at Garza and shook his head.
“Good.” Garza pointed to a couple of towels sitting on the counter. “Now, clean it up quick. I don’t want a big mess in here.”
Chapter 15
Nick took the elevator to the basement of the Homeland Security Office and made his way to the detention cells. He tapped the bandage on his ear to make sure it was still in place while passing the three cells to his right, full of Mexican nationals who would be deported sometime soon. The very last cell on the left was reserved for individuals who required special attention, or the necessity to remain separated from the current detainees.
A Homeland Security agent stood guard outside the cell and opened the door when Nick approached. Sitting alone on a cot was Greg Chapin. The man was hunched over, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. When he spotted Nick, he jumped to his feet with an eager expression.
Nick sat on the cot and motioned Chapin to sit next to him.
Chapin sat. He looked at the burn marks on the side of Nick’s face. “What happened?” he asked.
Nick felt his bandage, knowing he and Matt were fortunate to leave the scene with just scrapes. He looked over at the agent who stared at him anxiously.
“She’s dead,” Nick said.
Chapin’s reaction was delayed, as if the words needed to absorb into his bloodstream before they took effect. He stood and ambled toward the closed cell bars. He grasped a couple of bars and fell into them, his head pressed against the cold steel, his breathing labored.
Nick pulled a legal-sized sheet of paper from his back pocket and smoothed out the creases. He waited as Chapin struggled to gain his composure. The agent let go of the bars and wiped his eyes. He turned to see Nick holding the sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” Chapin asked with a husky voice.
Nick held up the paper. “This is your only chance to keep the rest of your family safe.”
Chapin seemed to understand. “WITSEC?”
Nick nodded.
Chapin seemed surprised. “You would offer it to me?”
“Only if you want to be part of the solution.”
“But, he’ll get to me,” Chapin’s eyes were pleading for hope. “Even in Witness Protection, he’ll get to me.”
“Not if we get to him first.”
“But how? It’s not like he gave me any information. We had a one-way relationship. I gave him info and he kept my daughter alive.”
Nick wanted to ask how that worked out for him, but he had to corral Chapin’s attention and get him to focus.
“You’re still a law enforcement official with investigative skills,” Nick reminded him. “He must have said something, anything which gave you insight to who was on his team here in the States. You have your suspicions.”
Chapin must have known his daughter wouldn’t survive. He seemed to be on the road to acceptance as he paced around the tight quarters in his cell, head down, mulling over something to himself.
“Don’t be selfish,” Nick said. “Think of your wife and son. They deserve to be protected.”
Nick didn’t want to push too hard, but he needed help and this was his best opportunity.
Chapin seemed lost.
“Listen,” Nick said, “every minute you waste beating yourself up over the past, you’re putting Kevin and Linda at risk.”
Chapin wheeled with surprise on his face. Nick held up the paperwork to show how he’d known their names. The Border Patrol agent was tormented and dropped down on the cot next to Nick, the burden appearing too heavy for him. He gazed out the cell bars with a distant stare.
“I did hear something once,” Chapin murmured. “One of Garza’s men uttered a name when I was relaying intel to him. The man said, ‘Just like Sandoval.’ I don’t know who or what Sandoval is, but Garza wasn’t pleased at the slip.”
Nick waited for any other insights from the beaten man, but after a few minutes Chapin placed his hands over his eyes and began to sob. Nick got up and motioned the guard to open the cell door. Once the door was shut behind him, he looked back at Chapin and wondered how many more Chapins were out there. Garza’s tentacles had reached over the border and into the heart of Arizona’s law enforcement. Nick would have to be smart about his moves. He was going to do everything he could to prevent Matt from getting in his SUV and storming Garza’s complex with a gun in each hand.
Nick left the basement with one word on his mind. Sandoval.
* * *
CIA Director Ken Morris still had a half-eaten bagel from breakfast on his desk while he conducted three online conversations with some of his finest Mexican contacts. None of them could help track the name
of the undercover agent currently operating within one of the cartels.
He took a sip of six-hour-old coffee and hit the enter key to send the latest update to President Merrick, stating there has been no progress in the ability to discover who the agent was.
One thing was for sure, the agent had quit sending messages forty-eight hours earlier and frightened many into believing the man had turned. The President was willing to throw more money at the independent contractor and Ken was willing to endorse that philosophy, but he knew deep down it signaled a new sense of desperation.
At the same time he was struggling with a cryptic message left on the CIA website the night before. A series of letters were left anonymously and his tech team could only track the message to somewhere in Mexico. Even as his team worked on the message, Ken still played with them on a yellow legal pad, switching the letters around to make sense of them.
The letters were: nvloaads.
His cell phone buzzed. Walt Jackson. He snapped the phone into the docking station on his desk and pushed the speaker button.
“Hey, Walt,” Ken said.
“You sound dejected.”
“Yeah, well, lately that’s my normal tone. What have you got?”
“I’ve got an olive branch,” Walt said.
Ken dropped his pencil on the legal pad and leaned back in his chair. “You know, Walt, it’s never been personal.”
“I know.”
“It’s just. . well, I feel responsible to keep our department secure. I have a lot of mouths to feed over here. You understand, right?”
“Of course,” Walt said. “We’re no different over here.”
Ken squeezed the back of his neck. “Walt, I am truly sorry about your losses. I’ve been on the phone nonstop pressing my contacts for a name down there and it’s just not coming. Whoever is embedded with the cartels is remarkably stealthy.”
“Or dead.”
“Or that,” Ken said, picking up his pencil and tapping the eraser on the legal pad. “Do you have anything?”
“Just one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Does the name Sandoval mean anything to you?”