by Mike Maden
The Situation Room, Los Pinos
President Barraza sat in stunned silence, staring at the monitors. He finally managed to speak, his voice cracking with emotion. “This is a disaster, Hernán. Those poor kids.”
Hernán Barraza turned toward his brother. “We sent the best we have. The Americans will realize that, won’t they?” His voice was etched with pained sincerity. He even managed to wet his eyes a little. Hernán had practiced both for hours last night in front of a mirror. Antonio wasn’t the only actor in the family.
The president bolted to his feet. “If that Myers bitch thinks we’re going to do this again, she’s crazy. If that isn’t good enough for her, then fuck her. Do you understand me?”
Hernán Barraza nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I understand perfectly.”
14
Camp David, Maryland
President Myers admired the tall pines through the large picture window. She loved the presidential retreat nestled in the low wooded hills of Catoctin Mountain Park. It reminded her of her mountain home in Colorado. The main building where she stood was, in fact, a lodge, just one of many reasons she felt more comfortable here than in the White House.
She needed another meeting with her inner circle. The problem now was secrecy. There had already been too many scheduled meetings with the same people not to draw outside attention, and the Washington rumor mill was in full grind. Myers wasn’t ignorant of the political forces on both sides of the aisle arrayed against her. Just being kept out of these meetings was causing something of a scandal among senior congressional leadership, especially in her own party, Senator Diele the most vocal among them. Myers had discovered early on that Washington, D.C., was just like high school, only with money—other people’s money, technically. Jealousy, cliques, and rivalries were the stock-in-trade for the preening, precious egos that populated the Hill.
“Sorry to drag you out in the woods away from your families on a Saturday, but we needed to talk about yesterday’s fiasco,” Myers began.
“It’s our job, Madame President. No need to apologize,” Jeffers said.
Lancet flashed a sympathetic smile. “I used to have a pastor who said, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked, and the righteous don’t need any.’ So we’re good to go.”
“Thank you. Let’s get to it so we can get you all back home at a reasonable hour. Mike, what exactly happened down there?”
“Near as we can tell, somebody must have dropped a dime on the operation and the Castillos set a trap.”
“What about operational security?”
“There are many honest cops and some truly terrific people fighting the good fight down there, including Colonel Cruzalta and his Marines,” Lancet said.
“You’re sure about Cruzalta?” Myers asked. “We all know there is a tremendous amount of corruption in the police and even military ranks.”
“The people I really trust say that Cruzalta is the best there is,” Lancet said. “Loyal, smart, and incorruptible. He understands what the drug trade is doing to his nation. But you’re right. There is a lot of corruption in Mexico. ‘Plata o plomo,’ they call it. Silver or lead. It’s the cartel’s way of saying either you accept the bribe or the bullet, but either way, you’re going to cooperate with us. And of course, once someone does cooperate, they’re compromised forever. So no matter how secure they think an operation is, there’s always a good chance someone—a clerk, a secretary, a disgruntled traffic cop—is going to call it in when they see the trucks roll out of the gate.”
“The explosion was horrific,” Myers said, her face clouding with emotion.
Lancet nodded. “Castillo employs some of the world’s finest chemists in his labs. Some of them are concocting pesticides and herbicides for his legit businesses, but others are cooking meth. Any of his labs can put together a batch of napalm. Near as we can tell, the poor bastard driving the truck didn’t know he was hauling more than cattle.”
“So, Mike, give me some options,” Myers said.
“President Barraza has shown that there’s a limit to what he’s able to do, at least tactically. And given the political reality today, he’s probably hit the limit on what he’s willing to do.”
“Faye?”
“As we discussed the other day, legally we’ve hit a wall. We still can’t technically prove that the Castillos are guilty of the El Paso massacre, at least not by American legal standards—”
“Setting those boys on fire looked like a confession of guilt to me,” Myers interrupted. “If nothing else, they’re guilty of murdering those Marines.”
“Again, not provable, but I don’t disagree with you. That makes it a Mexican problem, not ours. The El Paso massacre is a criminal matter, with both domestic and international dimensions. American and international criminal law is quite specific about what we may and may not do. We also have extensive treaty obligations with Mexico, as well as Memoranda of Cooperation and Memoranda of Understanding with them in regard to criminal matters. In short, we have no legal standing to pursue this case any further as a legal matter without Mexican cooperation, and we’ve seen what their cooperation has gotten us.”
“Can we set up some sort of a sting? A trap? Lure the Castillos out of Mexico and back up here?” Myers asked.
Lancet shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, we’d have to spend a great deal of money and time to set up a scheme that would be convincing enough and tempting enough to lure them out of Mexico. That means getting a lot more people involved, and that has its dangers, too. The syndicate isn’t without resources on our side of the border, either, except over here, they use more sexo than plomo to get cooperation. Corruption isn’t as bad here as it is down there, but the problem is getting bigger up here, for sure.”
“So I’m asking you both again. What are our options? How do we get justice for the families who lost loved ones in El Paso?”
Lancet shrugged. “You’ve ruled out American troops on the ground. The Mexicans have ruled out further military action on their end. And the law prevents you from carrying out any law enforcement function without the express permission of Mexico, which they aren’t going to give, at least not right now. Maybe in a few years if and/or when you get the new immigration and trade agreements rammed through Congress. Maybe that will give you some leverage.”
“Mike? You agree with Faye’s assessment?”
Early shrugged. “You’ve pretty much eliminated all of the reasonable options, that’s for sure.”
“Then I want the unreasonable ones. Do you have any?”
Early rubbed the stubble on his unshaven chin. “It just so happens I know a guy.”
New York City, New York
September 13, 2004
“You think Early knows?” Annie asked. She was spooning into Pearce, his arms wrapped around her naked torso. They were lying beneath high-thread-count sheets in a penthouse suite overlooking Manhattan.
“About us? If he hasn’t figured it out, he isn’t much of an intelligence analyst,” Pearce said. “Of course, he isn’t a professional spook like we’uns.”
“What do you think he’d say if he knew?” she asked. She rolled over and kissed Pearce on the nose.
“He’d say, ‘Why not me?’”
“Besides that, goof.” She rolled back over off the bed, padding toward the floor-to-ceiling window.
“He’d say, ‘Pearce, you’re one lucky sumbitch. Don’t screw this up.’”
“Lucky? Why? Don’t you get laid very often?” Annie teased.
“Lately, I’ve been doing okay, I guess.” Pearce stretched and yawned. “But what I think he was referring to was the emotional component. I’m usually not very good at that sort of thing.” Pearce rolled out of bed, too, grabbing the top sheet. He stood behind Annie and wrapped both of them in the sheet, pulling her close to him. They gazed out over the amazing Manhattan skyline beneath their feet.
“Oh. So this is emotional for you, is it?” she whispered.
“Yeah.
”
“You’re such a girl.”
“Some girls,” he said with a playful smile. “But I wasn’t looking for it.”
“Me neither,” she said.
“But I’m glad we found it. Found each other.”
“Me, too.”
Pearce kissed the back of her head, relieved.
“So what should we do about this?” she asked.
“I dunno. Go steady? By the way, you never told me how you can afford this place.”
“My dad owns it.” She slipped out beneath his embrace and headed for the kitchen.
“Why didn’t you tell me your dad was rich?” Pearce followed her into the kitchen. The tile was cold on his bare feet.
“I’m a spy, remember? I’m supposed to keep secrets, not give them away.”
“Since when do trust-fund babies go to war?” Pearce meant it as a joke, but it came off as flippant.
“Rich people love their country too, asshole.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… unusual, that’s all.”
“Coffee?” That was easier for her to say than you’re forgiven.
“Sounds great. And eggs, bacon, and toast while you’re at it. So you’re loaded and you can cook, too?”
“And I bang it like a porn star, in case you hadn’t noticed. But I was thinking more like room service,” she said. “Right now I’m just grabbing some water. Want some?” She yanked open the big Viking refrigerator door.
Pearce admired the view. She was buck naked, bent at the waist, reaching into the refrigerator for a bottled water, her breasts swaying with the effort. She was utterly comfortable in her own marvelous skin, even the patches of it laced with small shrapnel scars.
“Yeah, I want some,” Pearce said. He was getting hard.
“I meant water.”
“That, too. I’m a little dehydrated, if you catch my drift.”
A bottle of water sailed toward his head. He caught it at the last second.
“Drink up. You’re gonna need it later,” she promised as she cracked open her bottle. He did the same. They both took a long pull, just like they were back in the field.
“So, seriously. What do we do about this?” she asked again.
“‘This’? You mean ‘us.’ I like ‘us.’ Don’t you?”
“Is this enough?” she asked.
“For now.”
“And later”? She finished her water and crushed the bottle. Tossed it into the empty sink.
“What do you want me to say, Annie?”
“It’s what I don’t want you to say.”
“What don’t you want me to say?”
“Don’t say you’d give it all up for me.”
“I would.”
“You don’t listen very well, do you?”
“But it’s true.”
“We can’t just stop doing what we’re doing and play house.”
“Why not?” Suddenly he wasn’t hard anymore. Not even close.
Annie padded back toward the bedroom. Pearce right behind her. She reached for her pair of jeans on the floor and pulled them on. No panties. Commando.
Pearce reached for his underwear. “Why not? That’s what grown-up people do, you know.”
She buttoned up her fly and stared at him. Her breasts bunched beneath her crossed arms.
Pearce’s heart melted. Again. Could she be any more beautiful?
“Look, I don’t mean to go all Bogart on you here, but there’s something a helluva lot more important than us going on in the world right now. More important than what you and I want, no matter how badly we want it.” She grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it on. No bra.
Thank you, Jesus.
“So you do want it?” Pearce asked, distracted.
“I’m crazy about you, numbnuts. But I signed up with the Agency, not eHarmony. I’m supposed to be killing guys, not marrying them.”
She approached him, wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re the best man I know, Troy, and that’s saying a lot because I know a lot of really great guys, Early included. But this isn’t our time. At least not right now.”
“There aren’t many people who have what we have.”
“And even fewer people who can do what we do. That means we have a responsibility. Maybe we get to have what we want later.”
“When’s that?”
“When the war’s over, I guess.”
Pearce gazed into her sparkling blue eyes. “And when’s that going to happen?”
She leaned her head against his chest and held on tight, listening to his heartbeat. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all she had.
15
Coeur d’Alene, Idaho
It was one-thirty in the morning but the place was packed with locals. It was a sea of pierced noses, sleeve tattoos, and black T-shirts—and that was just the women. A girl in the corner with unwashed hair in her eyes played Alanis Morissette on a rosewood mandolin. Behind her, moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies were nailed on the rough timbered walls.
Early fell into the booth at the back of the crowded hipster café, away from the picture windows. Pearce was already there. He was wearing a red and white Stanford University T-shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of Ropers. A ranch coat lay on the bench seat next to him, and a small iron pot of herbal tea steeped on the table.
“You do realize I’m on East Coast time, right?” Early wore his fatigue like a five o’clock shadow. His cross-country adventure had started late and it had only gotten much later. He’d flown into Fairchild AFB from Washington, D.C., on a DoD Gulfstream C-37A, then borrowed an unmarked Air Police sedan to make the hour’s drive from the air base to the coffeehouse. “Couldn’t we have done this tomorrow?”
Pearce grinned. “How the heck have you been, Mikey?”
A waitress with a buzz cut who was wearing skinny black jeans and neck tats sauntered over to the table. Her long, thin fingers held a notepad and a badly chewed pencil.
“Whatchyawant, amigo?” she asked Early.
Early’s eyes drifted to her chest and the small, firm breasts underneath her tank top. Pink letters flashed the restaurant name: GLORY BOX.
“What’s good here, sister?”
Her listless black eyes wandered around the room.
“Everything.”
“What do you like?”
“Veggie empanada’s good.”
Early admired her tongue stud. “Got any meat to go with that?”
“Beef. Chicken. It’s all organic and range-fed.”
“I suspected as much. Toss some chicken in the empanada. And some coffee would be great.”
“What kind? We’ve got fifteen different blends in the pots.”
“Black. Hot. You pick the rest, okay?” Early smiled at her. “I’m a real good tipper.”
Her eyes drifted back to his. The corner of her mouth tugged just a little. Almost a smile.
“’Kay.” Her eyes lingered on him for a moment. Early wasn’t hard to look at. She wandered off.
“When did you go hippie?” Early asked, glancing around the room.
Pearce poured his first cup of tea.
“Food’s good here. The tea’s better. Got to eat right, you know. You look like shit, by the way.”
“I missed you, too. It’s been, what, eight years?” Early asked.
Pearce shrugged, a bad memory suddenly on his shoulder. “Something like that. How’s Kate? Still in remission?”
“Yeah, thank God. Thanks for asking.”
“You married up. Everybody knows that except her.” Pearce smiled. “But she did all right, I guess.”
“I’m a lucky bastard, no doubt about it.”
“And you climbed the ladder. Congratulations.” Pearce raised his cup in salute.
“It’s a job.” Early looked around the dark room. “Maybe if it doesn’t work out, you can put a word in for me. I could dig working in a place like this.” The beefy former special forces operator glanced around t
he room. “I wonder if they have a health plan.”
“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” Pearce asked.
“You, amigo.” Early smiled.
“Well, here I am.” Pearce took a sip of tea. “That about do it for you?”
“We need your services.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Pearce asked.
“‘We’ is me and the number one boss lady.”
“Seems to me the boss lady has a lot of employees to carry her water. You don’t need me.”
“For this job, we do. No one else can hack it.” Early turned serious.
“Off the books, I take it.”
“Yup.”
Pearce thought about it for a moment. Took another sip of tea. “No, thanks.”
Early frowned. “It’s damn good money. I thought you were in business.”
“I am. Doesn’t mean I take every job. Don’t have to. That’s why they call it ‘free’ enterprise.”
“It’s for a good cause, Troy. You remember those, don’t you?”
“I used to believe in Santy Claus, too. Good causes get people killed, just like the bad ones.” Pearce leaned in a little closer. “You remember that, don’t you?”
Early’s foul mood turned even darker. He did remember. It’s why he’d left the service a few years after Troy did.
“Yeah. But this time it’s different,” Early said.
“That’s what they always say, until it’s not.”
“No, seriously. Myers is different.” Early meant it. “You know Kate’s loaded. I could be reef diving in Fiji right now if I wanted.”
Pearce smiled. “You were always such a Boy Scout, Mikey. You think this president is different because she’s in the other party? Don’t be naive.”
“No, I’m not talking about that. She’s in there for the right reasons, doing the right things. Or at least trying to.”
“Really? Then why hire me? Sounds like she’s trying to cover her ass on something.”
“No. She’s straight up. Trust me.”
The waitress sauntered back over with Early’s plate and a cup of coffee. She set them down on the table. “Chicken empanada and sides.”