by L. D Beyer
Over the years, some of the businesses, especially those in the border cities and in the major ports, had been converted to serve as bases for smuggling. And his drug business continued to grow. He had also purchased numerous beachfront properties, both on the Pacific and the Gulf coasts and large houses—private haciendas really—in the larger cities. Some were for speculation, others were meant to be a second or third home, and then a fourth or a fifth. At the time, he knew the day would come when he might have to run, and he realized that he would need a place to run to, a place where he could forget the drug business, reinvent himself as a legitimate businessman and continue to live in the lifestyle he had grown accustomed to.
But that wasn’t going to happen, he knew, not now. His wife had left him. She was living now in one of his houses in Mexico City; living the life that he had planned for them both and for Carolina. His wife was in mourning too, but it hadn’t taken long for her to flee. Although she had never said anything, he knew that she blamed him for Carolina’s death. And so he had helped her, had his men deliver her safely to the house. She had servants and access to cash and he had made sure that she had a handful of men to provide for her protection. Lost in the masses of Mexico City, she would be able to hide in plain sight.
And so, he had been shrewd, he had been wise years ago when he’d begun to acquire businesses and properties. But no congratulations were deserved. For despite all of his planning, there was one thing that he had never contemplated. And now, he owed it to her, he owed it to Carolina, to make them pay.
He rang the small bell he kept on his desk and, seconds later, one of his maids was standing at the door, nervously wiping her hands on her apron.
“Find Alberto,” he ordered.
Guerrero stood when the servant left. It was time to visit the pigs.
___
Burt Phillips sat down heavily on the couch. “There’s no official word, sir,” he said softly. “Unofficially, the Mexicans believe that they may have been taken hostage. Publically, they’re stating that President Magaña is taking a well-deserved vacation.”
The president let out a breath. “So, we don’t even know if they’re alive?” he asked, his voice rising.
Phillips shook his head. Jessica Williams, sitting next to Phillips, leaned forward. “The only thing we know for certain is that eight of our people—Matthew’s Secret Service detail—were killed,” she said. “We’ve confirmed this through diplomatic channels. State is working to arrange to have the bodies turned over to us as soon as possible, but that may take some time.” She went on to explain the challenges with the Mexican criminal investigation and the desire by Mexican authorities to perform autopsies. The FBI, she said, was anxious to send a team of investigators, but, so far at least, the Mexican government had not granted permission.
“Guerrero?” The president looked at each of them.
Williams nodded. “That’s what the CIA believes, sir. The little we’ve been able to get from Mexican Intelligence—all through informal channels—is that they believe so as well.”
The president sat back as he considered the news. “No word on succession?”
Phillips shook his head. “From what we understand, they’ve scheduled an emergency session of Congress, but nothing yet.”
The president ran his hand through his hair then looked up. “Could this be the beginnings of a coup d’état?”
Phillips and Williams both shook their heads. “We don’t believe so,” Williams said. “The government seems to be functioning as normal. Their military has been put on high alert and, so far at least, the generals are following orders. But strangely enough, their Navy has been running a training exercise in the Pacific and, based upon satellite images and signal traffic, the exercises are continuing as scheduled. And this morning, based upon Night Stalker intelligence we provided, they raided a warehouse on the border with Guatemala.”
The president considered this for a few seconds. “So we don’t think Guerrero is making a play?”
Williams shook her head. “No, sir. Not yet at least.” She paused then added, “We’ve heard nothing from him. No public statements. No internet videos. Nothing.”
The president’s eyes narrowed. “And the motive?” he asked. He was afraid of the answer.
Williams let out a breath. “Revenge, sir,” she said. “We believe that he wants revenge for his daughter. The bombings in Mexico City and in New York apparently haven’t been enough. The CIA believes—I believe—that this is no longer about drugs. I’m not saying that he’s giving up the business. He’s still moving a lot of drugs, and word on the street is that he may be making a play for Los Arquitectos turf in Michoacán.” She paused. “But we believe that this is about revenge, plain and simple.”
The president shuddered as the image of Matthew’s body swinging from a highway overpass flashed through his mind. He was silent for a moment before he abruptly stood.
“The game has changed,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Phillips stood. “Can I ask what you intend to do, sir?”
The president turned back and stared at his Chief of Staff for a second before he answered. “I’m going to pull all Night Stalker assets. As of right now, they have new orders: to search for Guerrero and for Richter and Magaña. That goes for all military, all intelligence, and all law enforcement teams we have down there. I want all hands on deck leveraging every intelligence network, every source we have.” His eyes narrowed. “We have a SEAL team training for Guerrero?” he asked.
Phillips glanced over at Williams.
She nodded. “Yes, sir. They’ve been deployed to Texas. They’ve been training, running scenarios in the desert.”
The president’s eyes narrowed. “I want them ready to go on my command.”
___
A steady rain fell as President Kendall stared into the Rose Garden. Standing below the portico, he listened to the hiss of the rain splattering off the leaves, the staccato tapping off the drops on the roof, the patter of the raindrops splashing off the stones. Several Secret Service Agents stood watch at a respectful distance.
The dark, grey skies matched his mood.
Harry Truman had a sign on his desk that said, The Buck Stops Here. Kendall had seen the pictures, had heard the story. The president, Truman had said, whoever he is, has to decide. He can't pass the buck to anybody. No one else can do the deciding for him. That's his job. And, Kendall thought, the president had to live with the consequences of those decisions, as difficult as they might be. Truman certainly knew that, having issued the difficult order to drop atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, instantly killing ninety thousand people and forcing a Japanese surrender to end World War II.
President Kendall had made his own decision, a series of them actually and, as a result, people had died as well. Thirteen hundred people in Mexico City, fifty-nine in Manhattan. Scores injured and countless more exposed to radiation. And as difficult as it was to accept—as difficult as the loss of innocent life was—he knew he had had no choice. He could not ignore the threat of a terrorist organization that was capable of overthrowing an ally right next door. The consequences for the U.S., for the world, were too grave. And as long as there was a risk that they would explode another dirty bomb, he had to do everything he could to stop them.
And so he had sent Matthew Richter. He would not be alive today if not for Matthew. Richter, then a Secret Service agent, had risked everything to save him two years ago. He was much more than a friend, Kendall thought as he choked away a sob. He sighed as the weight of his decision hung heavy on his shoulders. Had he sent Matthew to his death?
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The battered pickup came to a stop. Seconds later, after the dust plume settled, two men climbed out. Dressed in the long pants and long-sleeved, button-down plaid shirts of day laborers, they drew no more than passing attention from the old man sitting in the shade. Two young boys, not more than ten, looked up once before they went ba
ck to kicking a soccer ball in the dust on the side of the building. The driver walked over to the building: a small mercado with the ubiquitous Coca-Cola sign in the window. The mangy dog, lying at the old man’s feet, picked its head up briefly and watched the driver as he stepped inside. Then the dog yawned, put his head back on his paws, and closed his eyes again.
The passenger looked around casually then, turning away from the building, took his hat off for a few seconds. He pulled a rag from his pocket and mopped his brow; he spit into the dirt, then wiped his mouth. As he put the rag away, he spotted the small shrine: nothing more than a white cross, decorated with flowers and blue ribbons. On the ground, at the base, stood three votive candles. He took a step, hesitated, then took several more until he could read the handwritten note attached to the cross. Te extraño, mi hijo. Te amo. I miss you, my son. I love you.
A small cry escaped his lips, and he shuddered once before pulling the rag from his pocket again and wiping his eyes. He squinted up at the sun for a moment and shook his head before he put his hat back on. After a moment, he turned away.
He walked to the other side of the building, away from the soccer game, and followed the path to the cistern out back. He stopped by the cistern and nodded to the old woman. Avoiding her eyes, he thrust his hand into his pocket, handed her a few coins, then he disappeared into the outhouse.
A minute later, he stepped out, washed his hands then took his hat off again. He splashed the water on his face, rubbing the week’s worth of stubble on his chin. As he put his hat back on, he turned to see the driver coming down the same path he had followed moments before. Without a word, he took the two bottles of Coke from the driver; the driver then paid the woman and stepped into the outhouse himself.
Three minutes later, in a small cloud of dust, the pickup truck pulled out onto the road again and headed north.
___
“The team is ready, sir,” Williams said.
“How soon can they deploy?” the president asked.
“I’m told four hours. But I think it will depend on how solid our intelligence is. The more intel we give them up front, the better they can prepare.”
The president nodded. They didn’t know where Guerrero was, but his gut told him that if they could find Guerrero, they would find Magaña and Richter. Once they did, assuming Magaña and Richter were still alive, the SEALs would have to deploy immediately. Would he be putting more lives in jeopardy if he sent them in? Did he have any other choice?
He glanced over at the noise and saw Burt Phillips answer his phone. Phillips mumbled something, then walked over to the TV.
“Ernesto Alameda was named interim president,” he said as he turned.
Damn, the president cursed under his breath. Alameda was left-of-center, a member of PRD—the National Democratic Front that was the successor to the corrupt, one party system that had ruled Mexico for almost sixty years before finally falling from grace in the 1990’s. He was a vocal critic of Magaña’s campaign against the drug cartels and publically opposed U.S. drug policy. It was believed that he was preparing to run for president himself when Magaña’s term was done.
The screen showed Alameda standing behind a podium flanked by the Mexican flag. They listened as the announcer described the scene.
“Ernesto Alameda made his first public appearance less than thirty minutes ago when he addressed reporters from the Presidential Palace at Los Pinos. In an emergency session of Congress earlier today, Alameda was selected to serve as interim president following the apparent abduction of President Filipe Magaña. Alameda provided few details about Magaña’s abduction, claiming that it was a national security matter. Meanwhile, other sources tell us that Magaña was vacationing at a private location on the Gulf Coast when his compound was overrun by armed terrorists. In the process, President Magaña was taken hostage and, as of yet, his whereabouts and condition are unknown.
“Alameda would not comment on who might be behind the abduction or the possible motives, but our sources tell us that it is widely believed that one or more drug cartels are responsible. In the past, Alameda has publically voiced his disagreement with Magaña’s drug policy and with the heavy influence that the United States exerts in Mexican national matters.”
As the news announcer continued, the president turned. “He’ll likely renege on our agreements,” he stated.
Phillips and Williams both nodded somberly, and the president’s face clouded. As he watched Alameda on the screen, any lingering doubts he had about sending in the SEALs faded.
___
Sitting in her office at Princeton, Patty tried to focus on her work, to push Matthew from her mind. She had to keep busy, otherwise the worry would consume her. She had been unable to reach him but assumed he was consumed with national security issues. Was he on his way to Mexico? she wondered. Was he already there? She felt a chill. Was he safe? She shook her head. No, she told herself, with the situation in Mexico, his trip had been cancelled. He was probably huddled in the Situation Room trying to assess what was happening right now. Felling a little better, she turned back to her work.
But after several failed attempts to focus on the papers she was grading, she gave up and switched on the TV. The channel, as was her custom, was set to a twenty-four hour news program. She watched for several moments, hoping to learn something new. Mexico had named an interim president. The transition of power was an interesting topic, she thought. Mexico’s constitution dictated a transitional process, she knew, but the unfolding of the transition, especially under the circumstances, would make for timely discussions. And especially when she considered all of the things that it signaled. The PRD had seized power. Although through a democratic process, they had seized it nonetheless by coercing enough votes for Alameda. And now it was likely that there would be a significant shift in foreign policy and, likely, she thought, domestic policy as well. She knew Alameda was a critic of the current approach to combating the narco-traffickers. The last time that the PRD was in power—or rather, its predecessor the PRI—the government had turned a blind eye to the narco-traffickers, quietly accepting the cartels as a fact of life in exchange, some said, for a share of the spoils that came with it. One of her colleagues had published a paper last week that suggested the political landscape in both North and South America, and ultimately the world, could change if Mexico succumbed to a violent revolution. The cartels, no longer content with the tacit approval they once had, might try to seize power. And she wondered: with the PRD now in office, was that still a possibility?
Her cell phone rang and she spun away from the TV, hopeful that it was Matthew. But when she saw the number she was confused.
“This is Patty Curtis,” she said.
“Ms. Curtis, this is the White House operator. Please hold for the president.”
The president? Before Patty could respond, the line clicked. A moment later, it clicked again.
“Patty?” she heard.
“Yes…yes sir…this is Patty.”
“Patty, this is David Kendall.” There was a pause and Patty could feel her heart hammering in her chest.
“Hello,” Patty responded as the dread rising up inside her continued to build.
“Patty, I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Four miles over the Mexican landscape, the Reaper banked gracefully while, a thousand miles away, the sensor’s eyes scanned the six screens in front of him. He suddenly leaned forward. Holy shit! He zoomed the camera in and studied the man as he stared up at the sky, his face contorted in pain. The sensor cursed silently when the man put his hat back on. But two minutes later, now by the outhouse, he took it off again as he washed his face. That’s him! the sensor thought. He tracked the man as he walked back to the truck. Then, he kept the camera on the truck as it pulled onto the road, a wake of dust billowing behind.
“Possible visual on Banjo!” the sensor said into his mic, more excitement in his voice then he intended.
“Designate as Target One.”
“Copy, Sea Dog,” he heard the mission controller’s reply. “Wait for confirmation.”
“Copy,” the sensor replied.
The sensor felt a rush of adrenaline. The intelligence pukes would have to verify it, of course. But he felt the excitement that always came before they engaged a target. He glanced over at the pilot. After a moment, the pilot looked up, then nodded once before turning back to the screen. It was show time.
___
When they pulled the blindfold off, it took a moment for Richter’s eyes to adjust to the light. He blinked once or twice as the guard checked his hands, then his feet, making sure they were bound securely to the chair. The guard—terrorist, Richter corrected himself—gave him an evil look, a warning. Richter exchanged a glance with President Magaña. The Mexican president’s face was a mask of stone. Subdued but not intimidated, he showed no fear as the guard checked his bindings. Throughout it all, Richter noted, Magaña had maintained a dignified silence.
The guards left, and he took the opportunity to study their surroundings. As he took in the cavernous room, he felt sick as adrenaline flooded his body. He fought the feeling—pushing it down, hiding it—knowing that panic would do him no good. He glanced over at Magaña. He saw the flash of fear in the president’s eyes then a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Magaña’s face hardened. They exchanged another glance and Richter found strength in the president’s resolve. He nodded at Magaña then turned, taking some time to study the room, cataloguing what he saw, weighing their options.