by Andrew Watts
Max said, “So Syed dropped off a message to one of his agents, Dahlman. And then the agent gets shot? Who fired the shot? Syed?”
“I doubt it. He wouldn’t pull the trigger. Syed’s a pro. He wouldn’t take that risk. He would hire out for that.”
“That makes sense.”
“That reminds me—from our phone conversation last night, I understand that you didn’t find anything at the scene other than the phone? I can take that now.”
Max slid over the phone he’d picked up.
Wilkes pocketed the phone. “I’ll bring this to the lab.”
Max knew that Wilkes would take it to Langley, and that he might or might not bring this piece of evidence to the attention of the FBI, depending on what he found.
Renee said, “So the question is, why would Syed want his own agent killed? And I’m sorry—what does this have to do with Mexico?”
Wilkes said, “I have an asset in Mexico. She’s close to one of the Sinaloa cartel’s higher-ups—a man by the name of Hector Rojas. Rojas handles all financial matters for the cartel. He travels to Mexico City sporadically, for business. My agent spends time with him when he’s there. A few days ago, Rojas made one of these trips, and my agent was able to alert us to a meeting between Rojas and a known Pakistani intelligence operative who works in Mexico City. We were able to eavesdrop on parts of that conversation.”
Wilkes paused, shaking ice from his cup into his mouth and cracking it in his teeth.
“Rojas implied that our mystery man would be taking part in a meeting later this month. This meeting would include a high-level ISI representative. I assume Syed. The meeting will also include other, unnamed VIPs. They emphasized security measures and some pre-meeting requirements that had to be fulfilled. Hector Rojas indicated that our mystery man approved of an imminent operation that would meet one of these requirements. Then, the next day, an unrelated intelligence source told me that Syed is meeting with one of his American agents. A man we’ve been trying to identify for months.”
“Dahlman.”
“Correct.”
“So, you think the hit on Dahlman last night was one of these ‘pre-meeting’ requirements?”
“I do.”
“Requirements, plural. So, are we talking about a hit list here?”
Wilkes nodded. “That’s my take. But it’s something I’d like to confirm.”
“So, the Sinaloa cartel is working with Pakistani intelligence.” Max shook his head. “Strange bedfellows.”
“Agreed. We can trace this new collaboration to the cartel’s acquisition of Blanco as its head of security. And now they’re orchestrating the assassination of Americans together. And not just any Americans. Pakistani spies.”
“I don’t understand why this mystery man would care.”
Wilkes shook his head. “There’s a lot we are yet to understand. But I know this: ordering a hit on American soil is a major risk for both parties. The ISI doesn’t normally conduct active measures in the US. And the cartels usually limit their violence to rival gangs or trial witnesses about to snitch. Both organizations know better than to stir the hornet’s nest. Yet that’s exactly what they are doing.”
Max saw now why Wilkes was concerned. “If they’re willing to take a risk like this, there must be an important reason.”
Wilkes pointed at Max. “Exactly. And I want you to help me find out what it is.”
Wilkes went over his plan for the next hour. Personnel, operational responsibilities, communication methods, timing, equipment, locations, backup options.
When he was done, Max said, “Let me get this straight. You want us to run an operation on the coast of Sinaloa, Mexico, using your pretty female agent to lure in Hector Rojas, kidnap him while he’s drunk or sleeping, and get him back to the US for interrogation. Is that it?”
“You’ll need to sort out some of the finer details.”
“I’ll need help.”
“I trust that you can put together a team. But keep it very small. One or two people tops. And you’ll need to make your visit look legit. Like a vacation. Otherwise their people down there will sniff you out.”
“You want me to self-fund?”
Wilkes looked around at the sailing yacht. “Money doesn’t look tight.”
“Having our bodies dismembered and discarded in the Sierra Madre Mountains is a higher price.”
Renee shifted in her seat.
Max saw her discomfort and turned to her. “You still want to be part of this?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. But if I let you come with me to Mexico, I don’t want you near the actual op when it happens. We’ll need to keep you out of harm’s way. No offense, but you have no street experience, and just placing you in the same city is about all the risk I’m willing to take.”
She started to say something but bit her tongue. “Okay.”
Wilkes stood. “I’ll contact you again once you’re in Mexico. I’m assuming that you’ll be able to find a suitable shooter? Someone with experience down there?”
Max nodded. “I have someone in mind.”
“Who?”
“A guy named Trent Carpenter.”
Max felt Renee’s eyes on him at the mention of Trent’s name. Wilkes caught the look.
“Who is he?” asked Wilkes.
“A friend. He’s former Army Delta. Used to be an advisor to the DEA counternarcotics teams working down in Mexico but got out of the Army over a year ago.”
“Sounds like a good pick. Just make sure he keeps this quiet.”
“Of course.”
“When did you see him last?”
Renee held Max’s hand as he replied, “About a week ago. At his brother’s funeral.”
Chapter 5
The day after speaking with Wilkes, Max flew his Cirrus from Leesburg, Virginia to northeast Pennsylvania. Renee accompanied him, as she had the week earlier for Josh’s funeral.
During the flight, he thought about Josh. Until he’d died from a heroin overdose, Josh Carpenter had been one of Max’s few life-long friends. They had been roommates all four years of prep school. Entry into the elite New Jersey boarding school had been assured for Max, son of Charles Fend, the aerospace CEO and American business icon.
It had been a different path for the Carpenter boys. Both Josh and his older brother, Trent, had attended on a special scholarship set up for the children and grandchildren of Medal of Honor winners. Trent and Josh’s grandfather had been a decorated hero of World War Two.
The school wasn’t a perfect fit for the Carpenters. The prestigious high school charged over thirty-five thousand dollars per year for its boarding students. BMWs and Mercedes filled the parking lot, birthday presents for pampered sixteen-year-olds. The Carpenter boys were a different breed. They were proud of their blue-collar roots and traveled back to the family home in rural Pennsylvania on most weekends.
Trent Carpenter had been a senior when Josh and Max had arrived for their freshman year. With his father traveling for business so much, Max had become close with the Carpenter family, often spending weekends at Josh’s parents’ home. Together the two boys would hike, fish, play football and get into trouble. To Josh, Max wasn’t the famous son of a billionaire, he was a loyal friend.
Josh’s family treated Max like he was one of their own. The Carpenters had a strong family bond and three rules: work hard, be humble, and don’t complain. The ethos rubbed off on Max.
Their senior year, Max was accepted to Princeton, and Josh was denied admission to West Point, his dream school. It had hit Josh hard. But he hadn’t complained. Josh had decided that he would still enter the Army immediately upon graduation, just not as an officer. While he had been accepted to several excellent colleges, none of them had offered a scholarship, and money was tight in the Carpenter family. Josh had enlisted in the Army, against the recommendation of his teachers. His parents had been both proud and worried.
Josh’s older brother Trent had followed a
similar path. To them, heroism and self-sacrifice were a calling. Just because they had gone to one of the top private high schools in the nation didn’t mean that they were above being soldiers.
Josh had excelled in the Army, rising up to Sergeant First Class and deploying around the world. After graduating from Princeton, unbeknownst to any of his friends, Max had gone to work as a covert operative for the Defense Intelligence Agency. The two friends had kept in touch over the years, but their contact had naturally grown less frequent over time.
Since he’d left the DIA last year, Max kept telling himself that he needed to reach out and go visit Josh. He had been like a brother during Max’s formative years.
And now, flying towards Josh’s hometown, Max again felt the pain of knowing his old friend was gone forever.
At one hundred and eighty knots, their flight time was just over an hour. Max had made sure that they departed early enough in the morning to dodge the afternoon thunderstorms of July. They landed on a short two-thousand-foot runway at Skyhaven Airport on the outskirts of Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania. The town and airport were tucked between forest-covered mountains and the Susquehanna River.
Upon arrival, Max signed for their rental car, and they drove towards the Carpenter parents’ home, where Trent had agreed to meet them. The narrow roads carved through forest-covered hills. They passed signs for Shadow Brook Golf Course and Lazy Brook Park, and an ice cream shop on the edge of a cow pasture.
“We’ll need to stop there later.” Renee gave a devilish grin. Max agreed.
At last they arrived at the parents’ home, on the outskirts of town. As Max got out of the car, he saw that the home was still busy a week after the funeral. A screen door on the covered porch snapped every few minutes as family and friends came in and out. A smoker grill was lit in the backyard, and a balding man who Max recognized as a neighbor nodded a greeting. Max had met many of the Carpenters’ friends and family last week, paying their condolences at the funeral. The support network was still in full swing. One of the town’s beloved sons had passed, and they were rallying around the family in mourning.
Max and Renee went inside the home to say hello. The Carpenter parents still looked heartbroken but seemed to be on the mend. They were somewhat confused that Max had returned a week after the funeral. But they accepted that he was here to speak to Trent without asking further questions. Tina, the new widow, was also present. Her five-year-old son, Josh Junior, sat beside her, watching cartoons on her iPhone.
After Max and Renee made the rounds, they walked out to the backyard. The ranch home sat on a hill, with the rear of the property extending into a pine forest. To the south, they had a magnificent view of the Susquehanna River as it flowed through town. The surrounding mountains were dark shadows, hidden by a thick summer haze. The anvil shape of a giant thunderhead loomed in the distance.
Trent Carpenter was sitting on a lawn chair, whittling a small piece of wood with a bowie knife. He had the knotted calves and muscular arms of a football player, with close-cropped hair and manly facial features straight out of a John Wayne western.
Like his now-deceased brother, Trent was a former soldier. But while Josh had been with conventional Army units, Trent had spent two decades in Special Forces. Max didn’t know him as well as he’d known Josh. But he knew enough. Every time Josh or the parents used to speak of Trent, it was with reverence and pride.
Trent stood up when he saw Max and Renee approach, wiping sawdust from his hand and sticking it out in greeting.
Max shook his hand, and Renee went in for the hug.
“Hi, Trent. Good to see you again.” Renee’s voice had that perfect female touch of empathy and sadness.
Trent had the look of hard-earned life experience and the wisdom that came with it. His were the eyes of a man who knew true loss but had hardened himself against it. His brother, Josh, had died from a heroin overdose, leaving a wife and son behind. Max knew how devastated he had been at the news. But Trent also looked strong. Healthy. Resolute. He would be alright, Max knew.
Renee said, “Your family doing okay? Tina?”
“We’re all doing a little better this week, I think.”
Max had been shocked to learn the details of Josh’s death. Josh had been off active duty for a few years, medically discharged after a bad back injury. The rest was a sad but familiar story. Josh started getting treatment at the VA hospital for chronic back pain. The VA had initially given him a bunch of very strong opioid-type pain meds. Then, as the opioid epidemic had started blowing up, the VA had changed their policies. Tina had told Max that the doctors at the VA wanted him to go cold turkey. To go get acupuncture instead. Josh had tried, but apparently, it hadn’t been that easy.
Max looked over at the screen porch. Tina was running her hand through her five-year-old son’s hair. A rumble of thunder reverberated in the distance.
Trent said, “Sounds like rain.”
“Yup.”
“So you said you want to talk. How’s about we get out of here? Talk over lunch?”
“Sure thing,” Max said.
Trent drove them about thirty minutes away, past Lake Winola, to another small town on the outskirts of Scranton. There was a quaint little main street that looked like it hadn’t changed much since the 1960s. Max had seen many streets like this across the heartland of America. Old-fashioned storefronts with big glass windows. Rounded overhangs covering wide sidewalks. A small movie theater at the center of town, with only a few showings per day. A dilapidated family drugstore. And the insurgent hipster restaurant, with its neon chalk menu out front.
Trent parked his Ford pickup in an angled spot on the main street, and they walked into a busy bar-restaurant.
“You guys like burgers? They make the best ones here.”
Trent waved to the bartender, who greeted him by name. Max surveyed the place. It wasn’t bad. Hardwood floors and finished oak tables. An empty stage on one end of the diner where a local band was setting up.
Trent scanned the crowd like a pro, his eyes capturing every face, exit, threat, friend, and abnormality in view. Max followed Trent’s gaze to see a few rough-looking men playing pool in a back room. A girl that couldn’t have been more than twenty watched Trent with interest from a stool in the corner, playing with her tongue ring.
“Well, well…,” Trent said.
“What is it?”
“I’ll be right back.” Trent stood and headed towards the back room.
Renee shot a curious look at Max. “Where’s he going?”
Max nodded over to the billiards table. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
He couldn’t hear what Trent was saying, but he could read the body language of the others in the room. Trent held the posture of an alpha male. One of the pool players—a big man with a beard, his cheeks flushed from too many pilsners—stood ominously close to Trent. The bearded man held a pool cue with both hands, his jaw clenched. The guy must have been six feet six, and three bills.
“What are they saying?” Renee asked.
Max shook his head and shrugged. “Not sure.”
Then Trent walked to an exit door at the far end of the billiards room and gestured for the big man to follow. Trent’s face was steady and unafraid.
Renee said, “Is he going to fight that guy?”
The big man yelled something at Trent, spittle flying out of his mouth. Heads in the restaurant part of the establishment shot over in their direction. Trent, the big man, and everyone in the poolroom headed out the door. Max got up, and Renee began to follow.
“You should stay here.”
Renee rolled her eyes and kept walking. “Please stop saying that.”
Max opened the rear door and saw that a small circle had formed around the two men. Trent stood still in the middle, rotating to keep his body facing the large bearded man, who was now circling him like a boxer in the ring. The big guy was cracking his knuckles and stretching his neck. Trent kept turning, looking l
oose and ready, his opponent in view.
“Kick his ass, Danny!” said the girl with the tongue ring. “Wasn’t your fault his brother couldn’t handle—”
The man with the beard took a swing at Trent. Trent sidestepped and brought up his knee into the man’s stomach. Then he came down hard with his fist, knocking the large man to the pavement. His face made contact with the ground hard enough that Max winced.
Max felt a tickle on his forehead as rain began to fall. A long rumble of thunder came from the darkening clouds overhead.
Trent stood over the big man on the ground, his large chest heaving, a trickle of blood leaking out one of his nostrils. He didn’t look very tough anymore. He looked scared. So did his groupies, who each took a few steps back.
“Did you sell to my brother?”
The bearded man nodded, looking away. Max recognized the type. Max had dealt with scum like this while working for the DIA. The big guy on the ground was a bottom-feeder, a low-level drug dealer. Preying on the weak, because he himself was weak of mind and morality. The big man wasn’t averting his gaze because he was ashamed, but because he was afraid to finally face judgment. Life was easier that way, and men like him always took the path of least resistance.
Max glanced at Renee standing next to him. Her hair was now covered by thick droplets of rainwater. The outer rim of the storm. Renee’s arms were crossed, her pretty eyes looking at Max. She was concerned about what Trent might do. Max held out his hand. His instincts told him not to interfere.
The bearded man began to get up, but Trent placed his foot on his chest, pushing him back down. Trent was expressionless, a spartan soldier at work.
“Screw off, man. What do you want me to say? Sorry? I’m fucking sorry, okay? It wasn’t my fault. Leave me alone.”
Trent just stared at the man. “I don’t want an apology.”
The girl with the tongue ring hissed.
One of the others watching said, “Then what the hell do you want, asshole?”
