Patriots Betrayed

by John Grit

  “He was a friend.”

  Raylan could see where this was going but wasn’t about to give in yet. “Yes, and he’s dead, past help. What the hell can we do for him now?”

  She raised her left hand and waved him off. “You’re right. I’m too caught up in this idea that people matter.”

  Raylan lost his cool. “What the hell, Carla! You’re the one always calling me a Boy Scout. Up on the mountain you were whining about being hunted and wondering if we had a future together. Now you –”

  She interrupted. “Whining? I was whining?”

  “Sorry. Wrong word. But you know I’m right. There’s nothing we can do for a dead man.”

  “I’m thinking of the word justice.”

  Raylan said something he wished he hadn’t. “So, you two were closer than I thought.”

  “Uh, no, Raylan, it wasn’t like that at all. As far as I know he was a devoted husband and father. We worked the same part of the world, Mexico and points south, while you worked Europe a lot, so I knew him better than you did.” She flung the paper over the back of the seat and into the cargo area of the van. “Damn it!”

  “There must be something I’m missing here. What’s going on with you?”

  “Mitch told me about a doctor in Santa Fe who had done work for the cartels. I know who he is and where he lives. We were moving in on the doctor when I quit. I always thought Mitch had finished the job after I left, but maybe he didn’t. Anyway, the doctor kept torture victims awake and alive with drugs. He also used drugs to torture before the cutting, drilling, and burning started.”

  “So the number they did on Mitch is the kind of thing this doctor would be involved with.” He put the van in gear. “I guess we’re going to Santa Fe to kill a doctor.”

  She cupped her ear. “I don’t hear anything.”

  He laughed. “You just did. We’re going to New Mexico, and that’s certainly better than an apology. This thing is likely to turn bad, and don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ve been at this as long as you have.”

  Chapter 14

  Jayden Becker swiveled his office chair around and leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck with both hands before grunting softly and rising. The office floor was scarred by his chair because the wheels were worn out and there was no pad for protection underneath. He made his one thousandth mental note to have the chair replaced, then scooped up a folder on his desk and headed out into the hallway. Jayden loved his work with the CIA, and derived satisfaction from the thought that he had his entire career already set out before him, and could count on fulltime employment for the rest of his life. No shortage of work here, and it was almost impossible to get yourself fired. He would never become obsolete, and the company would never run short of funds or business.

  Kelly Fosilliow was waiting for him when he strode through the door of the conference room and sat at the rectangular oak wood table. Fosilliow was dressed in his usual tan suit and pale blue shirt with red tie, his kinky black hair thinning at the top, giving him a vaguely Herman Cain look, absent any of the good humor or Southern charm, and certainly absent the conservative talk show and former presidential candidate’s politics.

  An analyst sat on each side of Fosilliow, their faces blank, like robots waiting to be switched on.

  Becker waited patiently for Fosilliow to begin his questions, happy to know the day was ticking away and he was being paid to sit there and wait. Of course, he was also happy to actually do something that furthered the CIA’s efforts to protect the United States of America when it was unavoidable, but he didn’t mind sitting and waiting either. He was being paid either way.

  Surprisingly, this time Fosilliow got straight to the point. “Jayden. The Mitch Swanson torture and killing. What do you make of it?”

  Becker was momentarily surprised Fosilliow didn’t waste another fifteen minutes talking about the weather or a football game, as he usually did before asking a real question, but quickly recovered. “We’re still trying to figure out what happened. It looks like the cartels got him, but that’s so obvious, we had better look deeper than that. We also had better assume he talked and they now know just about everything he knew. We’ve already pulled some of our deep cover agents out of Mexico and South America. Only those agents and operations we’re sure Mitch had no knowledge of are still in place.”

  Fosilliow skipped the usual lament about what a setback they had suffered and what a shame it was Mitch was lost to the company. “Other than it was most likely the cartels, have we been able to make any progress narrowing it down?”

  Becker said. “I’m afraid not. It’s too early in the investigation. The local law enforcement agencies are, of course, clueless.”

  “What would it take to get this done? Do you need more assets?”

  “We have everything we need but the pertinent facts and are working on that at this moment.”

  Fosilliow glanced at the analyst on his right, a hen-like woman right out of college with hair the color of a raven and darting, inquisitive eyes.

  She cleared her throat. “Mitch Swanson and former agent Carla Baylor worked the terrorist/cartel connection together not long before she left the company. Also, Raylan Maddox knew him well enough that others say they were friends. He too once worked with Swanson on a case that involved the cartel/terrorist connection, successfully sanctioning the terrorists before they set a dirty bomb off in New York City. By all accounts, Baylor and Swanson were close. There may be a connection between the former agents and Swanson’s death. We only see a loose connection and have no idea why they would need information from him bad enough to…, well the chances they did it are almost zero. Still, the connection is there and we can’t ignore it.”

  Becker didn’t like the direction the meeting was going. “This looks like a cartel hit to me. It’s too obvious, true, and that makes me want to really check it out and not assume anything, but I really do think it’s exactly what it appears to be. The Baylor and Maddox connection is so tenuous, I give it little weight. Hell, I knew Mitch too. I think most of us here knew him.”

  “Jayden, you know I try to take a hands-off approach,” Fosilliow said in his best reassuring tone, “and I don’t want to be trespassing on your turf, but I’ve been getting orders from the new boss, and he’s been getting orders from the White House.”

  Becker broke in. “We don’t just have a new boss; we have a new president, it seems. He’s changed his tune in many ways lately.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess. He’s rescinded his orders to have Baylor and Maddox killed on sight.”

  Astonishment flashed across the faces of everyone at the table.

  “Not exactly,” Fosilliow said. “He has been sending down a flurry of direction-changing orders since he…uh lately. But the sanction orders stand.”

  “Cut the shit.” Becker leaned over the table. “The president’s clipping our wings, reining us in. Him killing Dulling was the sea change. The page has been turned. I for one am glad to see it. Some of the shit that was going on under Dulling turned my stomach.” He shrugged. “Not that I’m complaining. I like my job. What I want to know is what’s the president’s interest in Mitch’s murder? Don’t tell me the president knew him in college or dated his sister or they had a gay affair back when they both had pimples on both ends in high school.”

  Fosilliow’s face turned to stone. “That’s above your pay grade. What the president is thinking is classified beyond the reach of your eyes and ears, not to mention mine.”

  Becker tapped the table with his left index finger twice. “Understood, but where do we go with the Mitch Swanson case? I hope wherever it leads, and I also hope we get to come down on the assholes that did it with all the might of the U.S. of A.”

  “The answer is yes on both questions. If our two wayward ex-agents did it, well, we can only kill them once. And if the cartels were involved… Let’s say an airstrike is not out of the question. There certainly will not
be any trial. We won’t be wasting time with any chickenshit narco governments or their bought-off judicial system.” Fosilliow almost smiled. “You see, the president may have reined us in, but he hasn’t pulled our teeth or our claws.”

  Becker nodded. “Good. Then let me and my people get to work. It’s early, but I’ll have something for you soon. Believe me; we’re not dragging our feet on this.”

  “Again,” Fosilliow said, “I’m not trying to get into your bailiwick here. What I am doing is following orders from above. Orders you have no clearance to be advised of. There is a chain of command, you know. Compartmentalization is standard procedure.”

  “Fine, but why you are devoting so much of your staff’s time to a parallel and redundant investigation of this killing?” Becker asked, eyeing the others as he did so.

  “I’ve been told to keep an eye on your efforts. Nothing more. No one is questioning your thoroughness or competence. You’re asking questions you shouldn’t be, and I’ve given you plenty of clues on that. In other words, stop it, and just do your job.” Fosilliow waved his gold pen at him. “Whatever the president is up to, it’s none of your business. I know you think he’s gone nuts since he shot Dulling, but the taxpayers don’t pay you to assess the president’s mental health or second-guess his decisions. I can happily report he has recovered from his stabbing wound and has been working long hours in the Oval Office, sending out orders to just about everyone on his staff and cabinet right and left.”

  Becker raised his eyebrows and stretched his lips thin in a closed-mouthed smile. “Alright then. As I said, we’re actively working every angle. I’ll make certain you’re kept in the loop as we move forward. If you want to be buried in minutiae, fine. I’ll send you a copy of every report from my people as they come in.”

  “Do that. I’m sure the big picture will start to congeal in time without me having to spell it out for you. After all, you’re a spook and should be able to see the hidden agendas as well as anyone here.” Fosilliow almost smiled again. Twice in one day was probably a new record.

  Becker’s stomach churned as he made his way back to his office. The president was up to something, and it worried him he didn’t know what. The man had turned over a new leaf, that was for damn certain. But why in the world was he so interested in the Mitch Swanson murder? President Riley was once a predictable man, and Dulling ran the show, anyway. The fact Dulling was even more predictable, just wave a dollar bill in front of his face and you would see what motivated him, made life so simple back then. At least the soul-rotting corruption seemed to be over for the time being. Recently, though, the unpredictability of the president and those in the upper echelons of the CIA had turned his future into a dark road with unseen dangerous curves and hidden hazards. He was a long way from retirement and wanted to suck on the taxpayers’ tit the rest of his life. To do that, he had to get the years in and qualify for retirement and all the other benefits of slogging through at least twenty years with the ‘company.’ Exactly how scrupulous was he supposed to be about staying within the law now that the rules were changing so fast and no one was taking the time to explain those new rules? He saw a tightrope under him and no safety net below. Okay, Fosilliow wanted to be kept apprised, great, he would take the heat. The best way to cover his ass was to get an okay from him before making any move that could prove problematic if later investigated. Yep, load all the shit onto Fosilliow’s back.

  Chapter 15

  The little house was unexceptional, no different from many bungalows in the area, close enough to the edge of town to smell the mountains and still close enough to Doctor Ramirez’s office he didn’t have to drive far and cause unnecessary pollution burning gas on longer daily commutes. It was not the kind of place one would expect a doctor to live, but it did jive with what little Carla knew about Dr. Gordon Ramirez.

  Raylan found a parking place on a side street, and she got out of the van to perform a stealthy scrutiny of the area to ensure there were no obvious threats. After walking fifty yards, she checked her communication equipment, which consisted of several throat mikes strapped on around her neck, hidden by her buttoned-up blouse collar. Moving her vocal cords and producing only a whisper not audible more than a few feet away and without moving her jaw or lips, she said, “Com check.”

  Raylan came back with, “Loud and clear.”

  She moved on.

  This kind of area was a nightmare for counter-surveillance, and she was forced to rely on her disguise. She adjusted her big sun hat and strolled slowly down the sidewalk, past the bungalow and to the corner, where she took a sharp turn behind a house. From her hidden position in the shade of a wide oak, she took her time looking the neighborhood over, eyes methodically scoping out the block, searching for danger.

  Not really satisfied that the area was clean, but seeing nothing and understanding she could look all day and still miss the danger that killed her, she approached the front door. Taking note of the security camera mounted under the eave, she reminded herself to destroy the tape later. After several knocks on the door, she listened for any sound, but heard nothing.

  Then a voice came from inside, barely audible, but distinctive. “It’s open.”

  Reaching down to twist the knob, she took a deep breath and decided to take a chance. She stepped into the dimly-lit entry foyer and locked the door behind her. Doctor Ramirez’s voice called to her from the living room. “He’s in here, and I would like for you to get him out as soon as possible. Next time find a place other than my home. It’s too dangerous to do this here.” She turned, moving toward the voice. Obviously, he was expecting someone and thought she was him or her.

  Sunlight filtered in through the translucent curtain, framing Ramirez’s silhouette as he gave a man who was strapped to a chair an injection. Next to him was an IV bag stand that wasn’t being used. The man appeared to be dead or very close to it. Carla swept the room with her eyes, searching for more occupants of the house, but saw no one else. She raised the suppressed Glock and aimed just as Ramirez turned in shock, seeing for the first time she was not who he had expected.

  He flung his hands in the air. “What is this?”

  “On your stomach,” she demanded.

  He dropped to the floor. “Are you with Viktor?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I did everything you told me to, and now this one also. What else do you want from me? Forget the money, if that’s the problem. I’ll give it back.”

  “Is he still alive?” she asked.

  He looked up at her. “Yes. I don’t kill them. It’s not my job.”

  “I know what your job is,” she hissed. She kicked him in the ribs, causing him to grimace in pain, but he kept his hands clamped over the back of his head. “Is this one a cartel job?” She demanded.

  “No.” He looked confused. “It’s one of Viktor’s, like the last one. Aren’t you with Viktor?”

  Carla’s face became vivid hate. “The last one… You mean Mitch Swanson. The man you helped torture to death.”

  “I didn’t know his name, but he was CIA.” Still confused but starting to comprehend what Carla was doing there, he added, “Viktor made me.”

  “You just said you were paid.” She snatched up an oversized tie strap among a pile of them nearby and planted her knees between his shoulders, knocking breath from him and pinning him to the floor. After tying his hands behind his back, while keeping an eye on the hallway in case others were in the house, she stood and looked over a tray full of bottles. “I wonder what this does. I guess the best way to find out is pump some into you.” She picked up a used syringe. “If I don’t like the results of that one, I’ll try another. Then we can get to the dungeon and medieval shit. It’s Inquisition time.”

  “No! Please! What do you want?”

  “Who’s the guy in the chair?”

  “CIA. Information from the man you call Mitch led them to him.”

  Her interest perked up, and she looked at the unconscious man again, but didn’t recogni
ze him as anyone she worked with in the CIA. “Who are ‘them?’”

  “Viktor is the boss of the crew I saw, but he has a bigger boss he takes orders from. I don’t know Viktor’s last name. He calls the guy all the time to keep him up on current events. One of the other men is Karloff. There are about six or seven of them, and they’re all Russians, I think.”

  “The boss… what’s the big boss’s name?”

  “Viktor calls him Janowski.”

  Raylan’s voice came over her communication equipment. “He’s expecting company. We don’t have all night. Hold the good doc, and I’ll back the van up to the front door and load him and the victim in the back. We need to get out of here.”

  “Right,” Carla said. “Give me thirty more seconds while I cut the guy in the chair loose.”

  Raylan’s voice came back. “Too late. A Beamer load of thugs just turned onto the street. Get out through the back and cut across the yard behind you. I’ll be waiting on that street. You better move fast; they’re pulling into the drive.”

  “I hear you.” Carla rushed to Doctor Ramirez to cut his hands loose, so he could carry the man for her. “I’m not leaving the victim.”

  Raylan’s voice came back. “There’s no time!”

  “I’m not leaving a fellow operative to what’s waiting for him.”

  “Shiiiit! Carla!” Raylan grabbed the M4. “I’ll snipe them from here and keep them off the front door and away from the windows, but I won’t be waiting when you get to the back street.”

  “I understand.” Carla pointed with her Glock. “Carry him. Out the back door.”

  Ramirez hesitated.

  “Now!” She jabbed the suppressor into his ribs. “Or I’ll kill you here and now.”

  Ramirez’s high level of physical conditioning came into play, and he had the man slung over his shoulder in two fast motions, wrapping his right arm around the man’s legs to keep him from sliding off. He rushed out the back door with Carla following, as someone knocked on the front door with ever increasing insistence.