by Lou Dobbs
Cash said, “I didn’t mean to chase away your customers.”
The kid shrugged, saying, “I just work here, I don’t own the place. I don’t care who comes and goes.”
“Good attitude. You’ll go far with that.” He stood there in silence for a moment, then said, “What about the guy who ran out the back when I came in?”
“What about him?”
“What’s his name?”
“Listen, man, I don’t talk to cops.” The kid looked satisfied with his determination.
“I’m not a cop.”
“There’s no way you can prove that.”
Without any hesitation at all, Cash jerked out his Colt .45 from the holster underneath his loose shirt and whacked the kid right across the face, knocking him onto the floor behind the counter. Cash calmly stepped around the counter to stand over the kid and said, “Would a cop do something like that?”
The kid put his hand to his bloody face. The barrel had caught him on the cheek and the forehead. Blood pooled on his grimy white T-shirt. It took him a full ten seconds to finally say, “What do you want to know, dude?”
“Who ran out the back door when I came in?”
The terrified kid said, “I swear to God I don’t know him. He’s been in a few times. Usually orders coffee, sometimes a sandwich, and works on his MacBook in the same booth.” Tears leaked out of his eyes as they rose to meet Cash’s stare.
Cash nodded and said, “Good enough. And if I ever have to come in here again, I hope I don’t have to explain I’m not a cop.”
The kid shook his head. “I know you’re not a cop now.”
* * *
Tired and annoyed, Cash drove to Carol’s house in the quiet suburb of Canutillo without calling. He figured they had to be at that point in their relationship by now. He parked a few houses away on the street, the way he always did, then walked up to her front door. Before he could try the handle she opened the door. Standing there dressed in just a T-shirt and shorts, she looked like a beautiful soccer mom.
The first words out of her mouth were, “Why’d you send Vinnie to scout for you the night he was shot?”
“What?”
“Did you shoot him when he crossed back into Mexico?”
“Where are you getting this?” He could see he wasn’t going to get any relaxation tonight. Walking away from her would be like going cold turkey.
* * *
Eric was still hiding in the cheap hotel he’d found. This was an area he usually wouldn’t frequent. For the time being he had to make an exception. The small room gave off its own set of odors like an old man after Thanksgiving dinner. It was almost like it was alive. Add to that the various creaks and squeaks of other tenants moving and the occasional rodent making itself known, and Eric felt like he was in hell. He was badly in need of sleep, and now on top of that he was panicked. He’d come way too close to running into Cash. He knew a lot about the corporation and knew that Cash’s real name was Joe Azeri. Whatever name he went by, the guy was relentless.
Eric knew he had to wrap things up fast. He needed to make his demand to the corporation, collect the money, and hit the road. He didn’t care where he went for a few months, just so long it wasn’t hot and dry and he didn’t hear Spanish. The way his life had been going the last month, just the sound of the language put him on edge.
He couldn’t believe how good it felt to sink into the urine-stained mattress in the tiny hotel. His job of convincing the corporation to pay up would be easier if he was in possession of the thumb drive he had lost at the market. At least now he was sure Cash hadn’t picked it up. If he had, Eric would’ve heard about it by now.
THIRTY-ONE
Tom Eriksen looked up from his salad and said, “I can’t believe you have time to eat with me before your show.” He was sitting with Ted Dempsey near a craft services table behind the set of the TV show in the front courtyard of the Bank of America building.
Dempsey, finishing the last bite of a small turkey sandwich on whole wheat, waved him off and when he finished chewing said, “Are you kidding me? I’ve got time. Elizabeth Ramos is booked for the show. I’m already prepared for whatever she’s gonna say. She only talks about two subjects. But she looks good doing it and is passionate about her beliefs, and that makes for great TV.”
“I wish she took the threats to her life a little more seriously.”
“I pity the assassin who comes up against her. She’ll chew him up and spit him out. But to be on the safe side, the show hired an extra four El Paso police officers for the set tonight. Does that make you feel any better?”
Eriksen nodded but realized he wasn’t being entirely truthful. Dempsey said, “Is something bothering you, Tom?”
“I just have a lot of stuff coming across my desk at work. Some of it isn’t really official, just a case I’m interested in. I hate misleading anyone, even the supervisor I don’t particularly like, so working on the case is causing me a little stress.”
“Can an old-timer like me offer you a little advice?”
“Please do.”
“Guys like you and I are always going to be under stress because that’s the cost of getting things done. When you hear people talk about how relaxed they are all the time, that’s because they’re not paying attention and don’t realize there’s a lot of work to do all the time. It’s not the whiners and complainers who make this country great, it’s the people who shut up and do the hard work.”
“No ethical advice to help me ease my conscience about lying?”
“I could give you the standard none-of-us-is-perfect speech, but you and I both know there’s a reason you’re not telling your supervisor the truth. Sometimes supervisors just don’t understand what’s important, whether it’s in an investigation or on a TV show. You’re bright and you know right from wrong. I know you’ll make the right decisions when the hard ones come your way.”
The words were just what Eriksen needed to hear.
* * *
Hector took a full twenty minutes assessing Dempsey’s set and the security that was in place. Tonight’s crowd was similar to the show’s audience the last time Hector visited. This time he had brought a well-balanced Browning 9 mm single-action pistol. He’d have several more chances at his target over the next few weeks but had already decided that if there was a chance in a crowd, the easiest course of action would be to take a close-up shot, then flee as quickly as possible. He hadn’t risked hiring any assistants on this job. It was partially out of pride but also out of his need to keep this quiet.
He had considered using a sniper, but the problem was he didn’t know anyone competent enough to make a long shot, and he didn’t want to deal with anyone he didn’t know well. This was one of the trickiest jobs he had ever accepted in his entire life.
The crowd bumped against him, milling about before the show started. He was comforted by the weight of the pistol under his shirt. His size generally kept him from being shoved too hard, but in this situation it was a hindrance because he would be identified relatively easily. He’d have to stay in Mexico a good long time after this. But the payday was big enough, and he was tired of the work. He could see himself lounging in a cabana somewhere on the West Coast. The lawless Baja area might scare U.S. tourists, but he thought he could carve out a little section for himself. A job like this made him miss his cousin and his friend Manny. He’d trusted the two of them more than just about anyone else in the world.
Some applause and a new light on the set caught his attention. It was still thirty minutes before the show was supposed to begin its live broadcast, but he caught a glimpse of the host and the senator crossing the stage. The young man standing next to them looked familiar. He concentrated on the man’s face and finally remembered where he knew him from.
He was one of the cops that shot his cousin dead.
THIRTY-TWO
Tom Eriksen watched the show from the wings, which in this case was between two sets of high-powered lights and
a throng of production assistants. He had a nagging anxiety anytime he saw Senator Elizabeth Ramos in public. He’d feel so much more comfortable if she had allowed the Texas Rangers to stay with her as extra security. He wished they could nail down the threat on the senator more clearly, then force the issue with security. But Lila kept insisting her source was unreliable, and as if to reinforce that, she had not been able to reach him on the phone for the past week.
Eriksen was getting used to working with Lila and respected her intelligence and professionalism, but she never divulged anything voluntarily. She had been forced to admit she was a CIA field officer using the cover of a DEA agent. Eriksen realized how subtle and brilliant this cover was. But aside from that, Lila had let him in on very little of her world.
Now he was distracted from the show. He could barely follow the commentary and debate going on as he scanned the crowd for anyone suspicious. The senator, dressed in a sharp, professional skirt suit, sat straight as if she were in an etiquette class at Princeton. She kept her tone even with just a hint of condescension as she debated a weaselly-looking comedian from Los Angeles. Eriksen had a hard time taking the man too seriously because he’d seen the fifty-year-old hitting on two different twenty-year-old production assistants before the show. At five foot five with a long nose and slicked-back, awkwardly long hair, the comedian hardly cut a dashing figure. Nevertheless, Eriksen noticed he lost no determination after being shut down by both the girls.
Eriksen turned his attention to the debate as Dempsey started to hammer home one of his points.
The comedian asked whether we’d need a fence on the northern U.S. border if we found it necessary to build one on the southern border. His smirk after his question made it clear he thought he had just scored a lot of points.
Dempsey looked directly at the comedian and smiled as he said, “You just asked if we needed a fence on the Canadian border. Only if Canadians start flooding over the border into Michigan, Minnesota, or New York. Is it necessary to do everything exactly the same in every circumstance? It’s insidious political correctness that is forcing our government to waste billions on expensive and unnecessary measures. U.S. citizens are smart enough to see through smoke screens like that. Having TSA inspectors at the airports searching every third person, just to provide a cover for searching individuals that could be a threat, is a waste of resources.”
The comedian cut in and said, “So you’re saying we should just search every person of Middle Eastern descent.”
The senator let out a slightly exasperated groan and took Dempsey’s side. “Ted never once said anything like that. And I know you’re trying to confuse the issue and create a sound bite you might use on your show Friday night.”
Now the comedian raised his voice. “So you’re both suggesting racial profiling.”
“No. I’m suggesting common sense.” Dempsey even paused to give the comedian a chance to jump in, but he showed restraint and remained silent. “You don’t have to search every person of Middle Eastern descent. Just like you don’t have to search every third person. By having an experienced police officer at each gate to assess people, to build probable cause, if you will, you can focus resources on those individuals that potentially could cause a threat. Will we miss threats? Absolutely, just like we have in the past. Will it be a better use of our resources? You tell me.”
Dempsey glared directly at the comedian, who fumbled with some words before he put together a reply that had nothing to do with the question.
Then the senator responded to Dempsey’s question. “We no longer have the resources for window-dressing. We have to take solid, realistic action to prevent terror attacks.”
Eriksen must’ve taken her statement to heart because he immediately focused his attention on the crowd, searching for anyone who could be a potential assassin. After a few minutes of scanning the large crowd of almost five hundred people, his eyes fell on a tall man to the extreme left side of the crowd. He had dark features, and the way his head turned side to side made him seem furtive. That was a favorite word of law enforcement officers trying to build probable cause. A furtive action could be anything and be used to justify any response. Maybe subconsciously he was already trying to explain why he was going to go down into the crowd to talk with the man.
* * *
Hector had eased to one side of the crowd, his eyes glued to his target. From where he stood the people on the stage would have to pass within twenty feet of him. There were no cops on this side of the crowd, and he felt his pulse start to increase as he anticipated making his move once the show was completed.
He didn’t even pay attention to the debate going back and forth. The norteamericanos had no idea how Mexicans felt about their northern neighbor. This jackass comedian had probably not talked to a Chicano on the street in the last fifteen years. The most contact he had with Mexicans was watching them trim his trees and cut his grass. Yet somehow he still felt qualified to spill an opinion on TV.
Hector had little respect for the senator either. What right did a woman have to try to make policy for a whole country? Even someone like Ramos who had lived in Texas her entire life. The norteamericanos were silly and obvious when they elected people like Senator Ramos. She was pretty with a nice voice, and that was all U.S. citizens seemed to care about.
He had to admit that although Dempsey took many of the same positions, he at least listened to other points of view. He also responded directly to questions rather than raising new ones or spewing some prewritten rubbish in order to avoid answering.
Hector turned his head one last time to ensure he could make the shot, then turn and hustle out of the crowd quickly. This looked to be a great opportunity.
* * *
Eriksen had his hands folded in front of him with his left palm resting on the butt of his pistol. No one would notice he was armed. He briefly lost sight of the suspicious tall man as he climbed down from the stage and caught the attention of an El Paso cop to let him slip past the barricade into the crowd, then spotted him again. He thought about telling the cop what he was doing, but since it was only a hunch he didn’t want to pull the officer off his post.
Luckily, the suspect he was looking at—and he had to think of him as a suspect at this point as he built probable cause in his head—was taller by several inches than many of the people around him. Everyone was so enthralled in the debate on the stage that they showed no interest in Eriksen as he mumbled, “Excuse me,” every few seconds, trying to slip through the crowd as quietly as possible. He checked his watch and saw that the show had about three minutes left. He could hear Ted Dempsey wrapping things up and thanking his guests. But Eriksen kept his attention focused forward on the suspect, who was now slowly backing up in the crowd.
Eriksen looked behind the man and tried to figure out where he was headed and what he was trying to do. The man commanded his entire attention as Eriksen felt adrenaline surge into his system.
* * *
Cash found Ari in their one-room office, playing a game of Angry Birds on one of the two notebook computers permanently sitting on top of one of the ratty wooden desks. The little Israeli didn’t even acknowledge Cash coming through the door.
Cash plopped down behind the other desk and finally said, “How did the load go?”
Ari didn’t look up from his game. “No problem.” After another thirty seconds of silence Ari said, “Did you find Eric?”
“Close.”
“You always seem close. No one at the corporation wants to hear ‘close.’ That’s why Ari got the call to handle the load that was bigger than usual. They didn’t want it getting close to being unloaded. They needed it all unloaded, and quickly.”
Cash shrugged and said as nonchalantly as possible, “Let’s see if they use you again.”
Now Ari took his eyes off the computer and focused on Cash. “Already got another assignment. They apparently trust Ari enough to do tricky work.”
“What’s the new assignment?
” He tried to sound tired and uninterested, but, in fact, he was concerned about what the assignment could be.
Ari gave him a sly grin and said, “Ari was told not to talk about it with anyone.”
* * *
Hector focused on the stage as the show ended. Dempsey, the senator, and the comedian all gathered for a few minutes to chat among themselves. Despite the heated debate they seemed to enjoy the informal meeting. Hector couldn’t help but let his eyes track down the path he thought they would take. It was almost as if he were willing them to turn to one side and take the clearly marked track between the barricades. Finally, they turned and started walking exactly where he needed them to walk. They turned onto the narrow path leading to him just as he expected, with a tubby, uniformed police sergeant leading the way and a much younger, scrawny officer in the rear. They were single file and slowly headed his direction. Perfect.
Hector used the time to move his hand across his shirt to feel the handle of his Browning. He could picture three quick shots. Pop, pop, pop. All into the head of his target. It would be good insurance, and confusing as witnesses might think he was aiming at each of the three celebrities. Then he would turn in the confusion and slip away through the crowd. After that, things would get trickier. The streets were not nearly as crowded as the show area, so he could move faster, but he would also be much easier to see. He had no help or backup here in the United States. His only hope was to make the border and cross. Any way he could.
Now the three talking heads were completely offstage and stopped to greet fans at the barricade. The cops stayed attentive, with their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
Hector would have to wait his turn.
