by Joe Nobody
The White House? No, too much fine art and wonderful historical pieces were there. The same could be said of the Smithsonian and its endless halls of artifacts.
The capital building? A possibility.
The Pentagon? “Ah hah!” he declared, finally making a decision as he selected a revolver from the cabinet. “I’ll call it in like a bomb scare and give them all 10 minutes to get out,” he said to the empty barn. He’d give anything to see the faces of senators, members of Congress, and other politicians, as they gazed upon the smoldering ruins of the nation’s premier icon of American military might.
“That would get their attention,” he decided. “That would force them to listen.”
A malfunctioning trigger interrupted his mental conquest of the world’s only superpower, the complex device requiring his full attention. After ten minutes, he had the old Smith and Wesson revolver fixed and returned to his campaign to right the wrongs of his country.
“What would you say to them?” he wondered aloud. “What would you demand they change?”
He paused after a few moments, surprised that he couldn’t think up any quick fixes or immediate cures. Every concept that entered his mind seemed questionable or easily circumvented by political spin.
Glancing again at the rail gun, he mumbled, “If power corrupts, you’re not doing a very good job. I’m supposed to believe my slightest whim should be the law of the land. About now I should be thinking my ideas are irreproachable and damn near god-like.”
The rail gun didn’t respond to the criticism.
After returning the weapons to their safe-closet, Dusty picked up his invention and grunted, “Still, it might not do any harm to rattle Washington’s cage.”
The spell was broken by Penny’s voice announcing that supper was ready. Dusty folded his invention’s stock and stuffed it back inside the duffle before heading into the house.
Mr. Vega found the manager at the pawnshop very helpful. The broker remembered the guy who had cost him one sweet deal because of his big mouth and encyclopedic-like knowledge of the Colt pistols. That would make sense for a gunsmith, Vega thought.
The store’s security cameras verified the target’s identity beyond any doubt, with the parking lot footage providing the next clue. Weathers had gotten a ride with the woman trying to pawn the pistol.
“She lives on a poultry farm outside of town,” explained the shop’s manager. “That’s about all I know.”
Less than 30 minutes later, Vega had an address via the truck’s license plate.
He drove past the Boyce homestead twice, taking his time while plotting the next move. He needed to find out where the woman had dropped off her passenger from a few days ago. Follow the breadcrumbs, he mused.
On the second pass, he decided a direct approach was best.
He pulled one the many business cards from the console, his role of managing investments for the cartel providing the benefit of numerous professional associations. Next, he pulled a picture of Weathers from the file and turned into the farm’s drive.
Dusty and Penny reacted differently to the knock at the front door.
Wiping her face with a napkin from her lap, Penny glanced up and said, “Who could that be at this hour,” and scooted her chair back to answer the call.
Dusty immediately reached for the ever-present duffle bag.
Penny glanced through the glass and saw a nicely dressed stranger holding a business card. The car in the driveway was a newer model import. “Who is it?” she called.
“My name is Carmine Vega,” came the response. “I’m an insurance adjuster for Rio Grande Holdings Limited and would like to speak to you for just a moment, please.”
Penny opened the door, the latched chain-lock providing just enough space to peek out. “Yes?”
Vega smiled broadly, holding up a picture of Durham Weathers. “Ma’am, my company is trying to locate this man. It has come to my attention that he was seen with you in Laredo just a few days ago, and it is very important that I speak with him.”
For once, Dusty’s cover story paid off. Penny’s immediate thought was that Vega was one of the ex-wife’s attorneys looking for the wayward husband. “Yes… yes I gave that man a ride a few days ago. I don’t know anything about him though,” she lied.
But Penny wasn’t good at deception. Vega sensed her dishonesty, barely managing to keep his expression neutral. “Ma’am, could you tell me where you dropped him off? He is the beneficiary of a policy that could potentially pay a significant amount of money, and it’s my job to find him.”
That’s the oldest scam in the book, Penny thought, almost disappointed that the man on the other side of the threshold considered her so stupid. “I dropped him off in downtown Laredo… at the bus station.”
He’s here, Vega knew instantly. She’s protecting him for some reason.
“Very well. Thank you for your time,” he replied.
Penny watched the visitor walk off the porch and then shut the door. She double-checked the lock.
Dusty watched the stranger walk back to his car, returning the pistol to the unzipped duffle bag lying beside him on the ground. As soon as the visitor’s taillights had disappeared in the distance, he stepped out of the bushes beside the front porch and returned to the dinner table.
“Did you hear all of that?” Penny asked calmly.
“Yes… and thank you,” he responded. “I’m sorry my past is catching up with me.”
“He wasn’t a very good liar,” she said. “I could see through that cockamamie story right away.”
Dusty nodded with a grimace. “Clearly one of my ex-wife’s lawyers, or at least one of their henchmen,” he played along while his mind was screaming over the danger presented by the visitor. Who was that guy? How did he find me? Was he FBI? A Tri-Materials goon?
No longer possessing an appetite, Dusty toyed with his plate for a few minutes and then rose to excuse himself. “Thank you for the fine meal, Penny,” he announced calmly. “I’m going to turn in early. Nite.”
In reality, he was expecting law enforcement SWAT teams to descend on the ranch at any moment. Heading back to the barn, he couldn’t help but scan left and right, looking for men in uniform or worse, yet, the muzzle flash of a sniper rifle.
The rough plank walls of the apartment provided some relief, especially after he verified the structure unoccupied. His mind raced with possibilities and paranoia.
He had hurt the authorities badly during their last two attempts to arrest him. Were they finally wising up and being cautious? As his mind replayed the recent visit by their “guest,” he didn’t sense that the man on the front porch was law enforcement.
He had to be someone from Tri-Materials scouting for information, Dusty decided. “The FBI would know better than to give me warning,” he whispered to the rail gun, now unfolded, powered up, and resting on his lap.
Vega managed the outskirts of Laredo and found a hotel.
After checking in, he absentmindedly washed his face and hands, trying to plot the chess moves that would dictate the path of his future. If he didn’t play a masterful game, Tio would insure that his life came to a premature, excruciating checkmate.
He had to inform the boss of his discovery, at least the confirmation that Weathers had been in Laredo. Vega didn’t normally work on such projects and had no idea how in-depth Tio’s contacts penetrated the organization. For all Vega knew, the pawnshop manager was Tio’s cousin and on the phone with the cartel leader even now.
Setting up his laptop, Vega entered the appropriate codes and passwords. A few minutes later, an innocent-looking message was on its way across the internet. Encrypted in the text was a phone number.
It was 20 minutes later that his clean cell phone rang. He didn’t need to guess who it was.
“Good evening, sir,” Vega answered, trying to keep his tone calm and neutral.
There was music playing in the background, the sound of a crowd making it difficult to hear Tio
clearly. “What have you got for me?”
Clearing his throat, Vega answered, “The target was indeed in Laredo. I have managed to account for his whereabouts as of two days ago. I’m still following up on some possibilities.”
“Good. Do you need help?”
Vega had anticipated the question. If he weren’t planning to abscond with the device, he would have normally welcomed the help. He had to play the role of the dutiful employee for a while longer.
“Yes, sir. I would like two or three good heads who will follow instructions. I don’t need any vaqueros… but men who will do only as I ask. I feel like we should continue to pursue this man while maintaining a low profile.”
For the few moments it took Tio to respond, Vega thought he’d made some mistake. “I’m not so sure I like this approach,” the cartel boss began. “It seems like you are being very shy about finding that man.”
I’m not planning any subterfuge, Vega repeated in his mind. I’m not doing anything underhanded. How would I react to Tio’s statement? Finally, he offered, “I’m open to suggestions, sir. Would you prefer I take a different course?”
That seemed to cause the boss additional pause. His eventual answer was a relief. “No… no I suppose not. I will have three men drive down from Houston and join you. Their faces shouldn’t be known to anyone in Laredo.”
Vega thanked his boss after providing the hotel’s name and address. Disconnecting the call, he noticed that his hands were shaking. “If I’m that scared of Tio before he controls the rail gun, what will it be like after the man wields that sort of power?”
The whole world will be shaking, he realized.
Tio handed the phone to the closest security man, a scowl painted on his face. “Is everything okay, boss?” the burly guard asked.
“I’m not sure,” came the response. “My intuition warns that something is wrong in Texas.”
His gaze moved across the orchestra of lights and sounds emitting from the swank nightclub. Despite the early hour, the place was already half full of well-dressed people out for a good time. Scantily clad waitresses moved briskly here and there, trays of libations poised above their shoulders while the high-tech sound system thumped the latest dance music.
But Tio really wasn’t looking at the crowd or the club. His mind was currently in Laredo, the place that was now to blame for his sudden change of mood.
“I’m not up for partying tonight,” the cartel boss informed his security man. “Let’s head back to the condo. I’ve got some work to do.”
With only a nod, the big man raised his wrist and spoke into a microphone. “We’re leaving,” he informed the rest of his team.
The broadcast initiated several immediate responses. At four other locations scattered around the club, Tio’s significant security force began heading toward the door. A block down the street, two up-armored SUVs revved their engines. A third vehicle would follow soon after gathering the outer ring of protection scattered about the neighborhood. When Tio moved, he was shielded by a team that rivaled any head of state in numbers, quality, and technology.
But the world wasn’t the drug lord’s oyster, and it troubled him deeply.
He would have loved to use the luxury transport’s cell phone during the drive back to the condo, but he couldn’t. He knew American satellites and drones were always overhead. These robotic foes were equipped with digitalized voice recordings that would match his voiceprint just as assuredly as a computer could match a fingerprint.
Every communication, transmission, and spoken sentence required extreme diligence and caution. Today, he was riding in the comfort of his personal vehicles, but that was only possible when traveling in his hometown. Rentals, borrowed cars, and sometimes even stolen units were required when he was on the road.
“I can’t enjoy the fruits of my labor,” Tio complained to his bodyguard. “The Americans are crafty and have unlimited budgets. They hide under every rock and behind every bush, and it sickens me. If this next endeavor pays off, I’m going to turn the tables on them. They’ll pay… and pay dearly.”
The security man nodded, but didn’t comment. While he’d heard Tio express his discontent about the American authorities a hundred times before, there was a new vigor in the man’s bitching. Clearly, the boss was excited about something, but that wasn’t any of his business.
“Look at you, my friend,” the cartel lord continued, gazing out at the passing scenery. “As long as you keep me alive, your family is well taken care of, and you want for little in life. But can you enjoy it? Can you truly relish in your success? No. You’ve never sold an ounce of cocaine. You’ve never smuggled a single person across the border, and yet to the Yankees, you are a criminal. They would throw your ass into a prison to rot just the same as they would me.”
Again, the only response was a nod.
Tio grunted, his anger growing deeper by the minute. “I’m sick of it,” he hissed. “I tire of the constant restrictions, fear, and paranoia. Pull out your cell phone… pull it out right now.”
Confused, but conditioned to following orders, the bodyguard reached inside his jacket and did as he was told.
Tio pointed at what appeared to be a small package wrapped in common aluminum foil. A harsh, barking laugh filled the SUV’s cabin. “Is that your cell phone or leftovers from dinner?” he teased.
“But sir,” the embarrassed man responded, “you know we must keep our phones wrapped in tin foil. It’s the only way of making sure they can’t be tampered with or tracked.”
The boss nodded and then spread his hands wide. “Don’t you see how absurd it all is? You are employed by one of the world’s wealthiest men, my friend. If our organization were a company, we would be listed in the Dow Jones industrial average based simply on our profits. Yet, our key employees must wrap their cell phones in common kitchen tin foil like yesterday’s sandwich. I remember the day we discovered that little trick. We were all so happy! We could defeat the Americans and their multi-billion dollar eavesdropping equipment with a peso’s worth of kitchen wrap. But now I’m sick of it. I want to pull out my phone and make a call without worrying about black helicopters appearing overhead.”
After the bodyguard made sure his boss was finished, he stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Tio had a point. He usually did.
As their driver turned into the high-rise condo, Tio made a decision. He wasn’t going to lose a moment’s sleep over the true motivations of his man in Laredo, or whether Vega ultimately succeeded or failed. He was going to do things his way, and that meant force. A lot of blunt force.
He had a plan. It had begun as a work of pure self-indulgent fantasy, a mental equalizer to offset the extreme pressure of running one of the world’s most powerful illegal organizations. Just the exercise alone provided Tio a level of comfort.
As time passed, he reworked and refined various scenarios, always with the same basic motivation – to give the Americans payback. He wanted to hurt his foes. Make them suffer. Shake their all-confident, highbrow demeanor to its very foundation.
Eventually, he’d exposed his musings to some of the professional military men in the employ of the cartel. They had gladly participated in what they termed “sandbox maneuvers,” helping Tio understand that logistics, organization, and proper intelligence were just as important to military operations as they were to the business conducted by the cartel.
As the head of his security team opened the door, Tio looked up and demanded, “I want my captains here… tonight. I don’t care what it takes, but I want them all here.”
“Yes, sir,” the man responded.
After Tio had been escorted to the private elevator, the team leader turned to one of his men. “Better send someone after coffee. It’s going to be a long, long night.”
Colonel Maximillian Zeta set down the cell phone, his gaze fixed on the electronic device. Hatred resonated from the man’s eyes, a fountain of anger spewing from deep inside his core. “The day has finally arr
ived,” he whispered to the empty office. “And I am ready.”
With extreme effort, the Mexican Army officer held his emotions in check, professionalism grappling with his rage to an eventual point of control. Slowly, his eyes moved to a framed picture that resided on the corner of his desk. Consuela.
He reached across the surface and gently lifted the photograph as if it were a newborn infant. He brought it close, studying the details of his sister’s smiling face. She had been lost less than a month after the print had been made.
A passing tourist had snapped the image. A young Lieutenant Zeta, fresh, shiny, and proud in his newly earned uniform. Consuela had ridden a rickety, old bus to Mexico City to share his first leave after graduation from the academy. They had been sitting in a park eating ice cream, smiling and full of the future. Now, today, almost 18 years later, Zeta could still hear the musical tone of her laughter.
“She was so proud of me,” he said, staring with affection at the young woman’s image. “She kept telling me over and over again.” He would never forget those three days. Not only were they wonderful, they were the last he would share with his sibling.
Zeta had grown up poor. He mused at the phrase “dirt poor,” thinking it was a cruel oxymoron. They had plenty of dirt, but that was about it.
Their mother had died giving birth to the younger child, an event that their hardworking, peasant father never fully recovered from.
Still, he worked the fields, scratching out a meager living and raising the two children with help from the local villagers. Working the family’s small patch of leased land was backbreaking labor. When they were old enough to walk, both of the young ones joined their father in the never-ending toil to put food on the table.
It wasn’t an occupation that enabled long life spans. Señor Zeta died at the age of 38, leaving his two children behind to fend for themselves.
And they did.
