by Lou Dobbs
* * *
Eriksen had to leave Lila at the house in Canutillo with Carol DiMetti and two dead men. Someone was going to have to explain to the local cops what the hell had happened. Lila was on her cell phone trying to reach an El Paso cop she trusted.
Eriksen punched the gas of his Taurus, feeling alone since he couldn’t tell any supervisors what was going on without the risk of his being grounded or the information being leaked. He was truly on his own.
He blew through a red light and took a corner a little too fast, feeling the car fishtail to his right. If ever he had a reason to speed as an FBI agent, this was it. He couldn’t believe he was caught up in this kind of case and was getting information from agencies like the NSA.
He had tried to call Dempsey several times and left a message telling him to wait for him no matter what. That might have been a little cryptic, but he didn’t know how you tell a guy he’d get killed if he left his hotel room.
The downtown district of El Paso seemed way off in the distance as he thanked God for the light traffic and punched the gas again. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
* * *
Ted Dempsey liked El Paso. The network sometimes put too much emphasis on doing remote broadcasts from big cities. They felt it would broaden their demographics and attract more new viewers. But El Paso was the kind of town that was just small enough that he could connect with people and get a good feeling for what concerned them. That was one of the reasons he had started on his crusade against the outsourcing of jobs a decade ago. Then he realized the dangers of illegal immigration and addressed both issues on the show, educating first himself, then his audience, and then Washington, if indeed those in either house of Congress or the White House would ever willingly look beyond the Potomac for understanding or answers. He was sincere about both issues, but they also resonated with the public. He became more popular with the people whose interests he truly represented in his broadcasts and commentary, and he rankled more than a few corporate leaders who didn’t share his enthusiasm for straight talk about the shortcomings of some business practices and public policies that had to be changed if the middle class were to survive.
Another reason he liked coming to El Paso was his new friend, Tom Eriksen, the principled young FBI agent. It was young people like Eriksen and his partner, Lila Tellis, that gave Dempsey hope for the future of the country. If young people like that were still seeking careers in public service, then America could still overcome a lot of challenges and prevail.
As he stepped off the Marriott’s elevator into the cavernous lobby, Dempsey realized he’d missed two calls that had gone right to voicemail. As he looked down at the screen of his BlackBerry, his assistant said, “Need me to call someone for you?”
Dempsey shook his head. “No, thanks. It’s my FBI friend. I’ll call him on the way to the airport.” He turned to say his good-byes to the desk clerks, who had been very helpful to him. One in particular, a tall young man originally from Mexico, had shown great interest in Dempsey’s schedule and tried to help any way he could.
He noticed a lanky uniformed cop flirting with the knockout at the concierge desk. The young blonde worked a shift in the late afternoon, and he could see why a patrolman would want to take a break to chat with her for a few minutes.
Dempsey looked down at the time on his BlackBerry. He was early for a change and told his assistant, “Let’s get a coffee before we head out.” He was looking forward to a smooth, easy flight back to New York.
FIFTY
Hector decided he had to act, cop or no cop. He’d already lost sight of Dempsey and the young man who had trailed him. That was probably the assistant the desk clerk who called in the tip had overheard. Hector wondered how much money Ramón Herrara had spread around the city to have eyes and ears everywhere. It was a valuable resource but also dangerous to have others know parts of your plans.
Once in the lobby, Hector stopped in front of a TV playing ESPN. It was a story on the San Antonio Spurs. Hector had a difficult time understanding basketball. It had no relation to any of the games he had played growing up in Mexico.
The cop didn’t move or acknowledge his presence as Hector scanned the entire lobby, noting the location of possible witnesses before seeing Dempsey and his assistant at the Starbucks counter in the corner.
Now he considered a true tactical problem. Was it better to shoot the cop, who had a pistol handy, and risk scaring his target, or was it better to shoot the target, then have to confront an armed cop?
Hector pondered the question for a few minutes while he stood in the lobby and hoped the cop would just leave.
* * *
Now Eriksen could see the Marriott just a few blocks away. But he knew there were a number of turns, and traffic had picked up considerably once he was in the downtown area. He pulled an extra magazine of .40 caliber bullets from the glove compartment and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled the tail of the shirt away from the handle of his Glock on his right hip. He wasn’t trying to hide who he was this time.
He was leaning over the dash and looking out the top of his windshield when a Lay’s Potato Chips step van pulled through the intersection. By the time he looked up, the tall van blocked the light, and Eriksen had no idea if he was running a red light or not.
He slammed on the brakes and felt the Taurus drift sideways as it slammed into the van and came to an abrupt, violent stop. It wasn’t much of a collision, but the car was wedged under the van, and the heavyset driver of the truck hopped onto the asphalt, already screaming obscenities.
Eriksen didn’t have time for this sort of foolishness.
* * *
The waiting was killing Hector as he slipped his hand under his shirt and pulled out his well-balanced Browning 9 mm, sliding it into the leather notebook he had bought in Ciudad Juárez. The notebook was now a keepsake, which would remind him of the time and place he slit Pablo Piña’s throat. It also hid the gun from the view of anyone walking past and provided quick access. Then Dempsey was paying at the counter, getting ready to leave. Hector intended to wait until he was right next to the cop and shoot them both at the same time. He didn’t like the plan, but that was his only option.
In the distance, he could see Dempsey say good-bye to the young woman at the Starbucks counter and slowly turn to make his way through the empty café and into the main part of the lobby.
Then Hector saw something that, to him, constituted a miracle. The young concierge handed the police officer a business card with her number scrawled on the back. At the same time, over his radio there was a report of a car accident apparently close by.
The handsome young police officer gave the concierge a parting smile, then jogged out of the hotel lobby to show how urgent his radio call had been and leave her with an idea of just how important his job was.
As soon as the cop banged through the doors, Hector looked up to see Dempsey talking with his assistant at the far end of the lobby.
Finally everything was lining up for Hector.
* * *
Tom Eriksen abandoned his car, flashing his badge briefly and telling the furious van driver to save his complaints for the cops. He turned and sprinted toward the Marriott a few blocks away. As in most cities not on the East Coast, the sidewalks were nearly empty, and he only had to dodge the occasional pedestrian. He got a few strange looks for running so hard in street clothes.
It felt like the farther he ran, the farther away the hotel got. It was similar to running toward a mountain. But finally he was on the same street as the Marriott. An El Paso police cruiser pulled away from the curb just as Eriksen arrived. He tried to get the patrolman’s attention, but the car turned the corner headed toward where Eriksen had left his own government vehicle.
Eriksen approached the door to the hotel ready for action. Now that he was used to gunfire he didn’t hesitate. Experience really was everything. Now, as his father would say, it was time to answer the bell. This was the sort of thin
g he had dreamed about since he was a little kid.
* * *
Hector was patient after the cop rushed out of the hotel. He allowed Dempsey to complete his slow stroll down the middle of the lobby, stopping to chat with anyone who wanted to say hello. Hector figured if he took the shot when Dempsey and his assistant were closer, almost in the small area where the TV played, he could shoot, turn, and walk out the door. He’d be on his way without any eyewitnesses. It made his month of trying to complete this assignment seem worthwhile. He’d learned a lot each time he had tried to catch Dempsey in his crosshairs. To be able to complete this assignment when the police were at least partially aware of it was a testament to his ability and made him swell with pride.
He knew that when he was older, relaxing on one of the western beaches of Mexico, he wouldn’t be able to resist bragging about how he had gone up against the famed American FBI and still completed his assignment. He never liked to say he killed people. He preferred to think of them as business transactions. Aside from the first few times he pulled the trigger, he really felt no rush of adrenaline or excitement. There was no actual enjoyment in it, other than the satisfaction he got from a job well done. And the money.
Hector pretended to be watching the TV, still not understanding the first thing about American basketball, then glanced into the lobby and noted that Dempsey and his assistant were now walking at a steady pace and on a direct route. Dempsey was sipping his coffee and chatting leisurely with his assistant. Hector knew it was time. He still had the pistol in the notebook. He opened it as if reading a page. The gun was visible to him but still obscured to anyone else by the notebook cover.
A few more steps and he would fire.
* * *
As soon as Eriksen dashed through the front door of the Marriott he recognized the big man between him and Dempsey. This time he didn’t have to search his memory. It was the guy from the Cattleman’s Steakhouse. Kat’s information on the conversation that mentioned the restaurant told him why the man was here. He could articulate it later when he was questioned about pulling his service pistol.
Eriksen ducked toward a pillar in front of the door as he drew his Glock and started to bring it on target, shouting, “FBI, don’t move.” He had a good position and the advantage of surprise, and he was pissed. He was pissed about what he’d gone through the last month. He was pissed that he couldn’t talk with his partner John Houghton, and he was pissed that guys like this thought they were above the law.
All that ran through his head instantly as he developed a good sight picture of the assassin. Eriksen was shocked by how quickly the man dropped a notebook, raised his right hand, and fired two relatively well aimed shots into the concrete-and-marble pillar. It hardly affected Eriksen’s concentration. He was now a veteran of gunfights. He let out a breath and realized a stunned Ted Dempsey and a young man were directly behind the big assassin. Eriksen had to make these rounds go exactly where he intended them to or he would hit Dempsey.
He focused on the front sight of his barrel and fired. Once, twice, three times.
The big man froze where he was. Then the pistol slipped out of his hand. It felt like time had frozen, and the giant lobby seemed silent after the sound of gunfire. The assassin turned his head slightly as two separate splotches of blood blossomed just like an opening flower on his shirt. His whole body seemed to twist as he tumbled to the ground, bouncing off the chair and falling into the wide flat-screen TV.
Someone in the background screamed, and Eriksen snapped out of his tunnel vision. He scanned the lobby quickly to make sure no one else was working with the assassin. Once he was satisfied, he stepped from behind the pillar and quickly retrieved the Browning from the floor next to the dead assassin.
His heart was already resuming a steady pace. He took a deep breath to clear his head.
He’d done it. He had prevented an assassination. His father would be proud. And maybe some of his dead ancestors as well.
* * *
It was dawn by the time Eriksen made his way to the Border Security Task Force office. He had stopped answering his cell phone and knew that a number of the bosses would be at the office waiting for him to be debriefed.
He and Lila were completely exhausted. Pulling an all-nighter was a little different now than it had been in college. The scene at Carol DiMetti’s house was complicated, and the El Paso homicide unit came out to assist the local cops. They wanted to get fingerprints from both the dead men and see if they could link them to the recent rash of murders in the city. Clearing an open homicide was like heroin to the average homicide detective. The more cases they cleared, the more they wanted to clear. They had already connected one of the dead guys at the house to the shootings at the market and the Martinez apartment and, by extension, to the murder of John Houghton. That meant with some effort everything could be tied together and maybe Eriksen would get the answers he’d been looking for.
Eriksen had been cleared by the El Paso police to leave the scene at the Marriott. Dempsey turned out to be a good eyewitness and explained in great detail and with a little flair what he had seen. Eriksen knew it would be a nonstop parade through different news outlets for the popular talk show host today. How often did someone in the media get to witness something like this?
During the police debriefings, Dempsey found time to comfort the tired Eriksen, telling him, “Don’t worry about me. Someone trying to shoot me means I’m doing my job and ruffling feathers.”
Now, at the task force office, all Eriksen could think about was nailing Andre for his role in the conspiracy. Eriksen owed it to John Houghton. Andre had pretended to be his friend just like he had pretended to be a good supervisor. He wondered how long the big man had been putting on an act. Certainly he hadn’t started out his career providing information to smugglers and other criminals. Eriksen wondered what turned a guy like Andre from the path of protecting and serving to the path of corruption. It was a sad situation, and the fact that Andre was able to act like a decent guy didn’t help things at all.
Eriksen waited outside the conference room, taking in a glare from Mike Zara as he filed in behind the pudgy Department of Justice inspector general.
Lila leaned in and whispered, “I invited the IG. I thought we might need him at some point.”
Eriksen nodded. “Good call.”
“How’re you holding up?”
It was a question Eriksen couldn’t answer with confidence. “I’m tired, but we need to handle this as quickly as possible.”
Lila turned and headed into the conference room.
Between his exhaustion and the prospect of what he was about to face, Eriksen felt a little dejected. Then he looked up and saw Kat Gleason waving him to the end of the hallway. Just the thought of some interaction with the beautiful NSA analyst lifted his spirits.
FIFTY-ONE
Waiting in a hallway in the Border Security Task Force office, Kat Gleason was in a tricky position. She absolutely had to get Tom Eriksen’s attention before he stepped into the conference room, but she was hesitant to let any of the bosses see her talking to the embattled FBI agent. He had been in a shooting just a few hours ago and still had work to do. As he walked toward her, a weak smile forming on his face, she ducked into the smaller secondary conference room, and he followed.
The first thing she did was hug him hard, trying to feel every part of his upper body and his beating heart. She gave him a kiss on the lips and leaned her head against his muscular chest. “My God, this is scary. Are you all right? This isn’t anything like the movies. Sometimes I forget that. You could’ve been killed.”
“That was one of a number of outcomes I tried not to think about.”
Kat couldn’t help herself as she squeezed him again. Then she said, “I have some information you need before you walk into the conference room.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Basically, a number from a prepaid drop phone purchased here in El Paso has called the same nu
mber I heard talking about the hit on Dempsey. I compared the calls to our intercepts. The phone in Mexico was called right after the meeting here at the task force where you said you were going to see Dempsey at the Cattleman’s Steakhouse.”
Eriksen looked at her and said, “Damn, that proves it was Andre.”
Her engineer mind couldn’t argue with that logic.
He said, “We still need something more before we can make our move. And we’ve gotta do it fast. If he threw the phone away there would be nothing to connect him to it. That’s our only link.”
Kat’s specialty was electronic surveillance, not building cases that would be acceptable to a jury. She considered the problem in her analytical mind.
Eriksen looked at her and said, “He doesn’t suspect anything now. He’ll have the phone with him in the meeting. Can you call in exactly fifteen minutes? I’d like to hear what he has to say first.”
“Are you sure?”
Eriksen nodded and said, “We can’t let him get away with this. The Department of Justice inspector general is in there. He’ll have enough clout to hold him if I can articulate our suspicions. But I need to hear his phone ring in exactly fifteen minutes to know I have enough to act on.”
“Be careful.” She was just now beginning to realize the dangers of actual law enforcement. Anything could happen. Tom had already had someone shoot at him tonight, and he had seen three dead bodies. One of them he had had to shoot himself.
Eriksen said, “I’ll have Lila for backup. She’ll watch out for me.”
Kat couldn’t resist one more kiss after she whispered in his ear, “You’ve got to let Lila in on our plan. Tell her to be careful, too.”
As soon as Eriksen left her to go into the main conference room, Kat rushed to her desk and started counting the minutes.
* * *
The meeting started the way Eriksen had expected it would, with lots of introductions and false statements of support for Eriksen’s actions at the Marriott hotel. Everyone wanted to support a hero unless something turned up to make his actions seem less heroic. No matter how many managers or attorneys said they were glad he was all right and safe, Eriksen wondered how many were like Mike Zara, secretly hoping he would fail. That made the group sitting around the massive conference table that much scarier. Eriksen had faced enemy gunfire this evening, but somehow that seemed trivial compared to what he was about to pull off.
