by Gary Ponzo
Parker placed a hand on Julie’s back. It was dark and hard to see, but there seemed to be some subtle movement.
“Are you okay?” Parker said.
Then Nick saw the most glorious sight he’d ever seen. Parker leaned back and held his thumb up to the satellite image.
“They’re fine,” Parker said into the headset.
Nick gripped Stevie’s shoulders, while Stevie clapped his hands in celebration. Nick had to wipe his eyes while he caught his breath.
The door to the office opened and Matt walked in carrying a cardboard container with three coffees as Nick and Stevie finished off a high five.
“What’d I miss?” Matt asked, with an innocent grin on his face.
Chapter 9
Garza rubbed Julio’s back while the boy lay in bed next to him taking deep, meaningful breaths. He lowered his head and gave his son a gentle kiss on the back of the boy’s neck.
“Sleep tight, Niño,” Garza said, lifting off the bed and softly backing out of the room.
Once in the kitchen, Garza found Victor sitting at the wooden table looking over his laptop computer.
“Any word?” Garza said, grabbing a bowl from the cabinet and opening the freezer.
“Not yet,” Victor said. He nodded to a brown paper bag sitting on the counter next to the refrigerator. “Emelio has paid us for the month.”
“Good,” Garza said, scooping some vanilla ice cream from a container into his bowl. “What about Hector?”
“He paid last week. He is frightened of being late.”
Garza grinned. He appreciated the power of his reputation. He sat down across from Victor and enjoyed his ice cream. A nightly ritual.
Victor’s phone quietly chirped. He picked it up from the table and read from the screen. On his face was a mixture of displeasure and approval.
“Our American contact,” Victor said. “The female FBI agent is dead.”
Garza liked the way it started.
“But Bracco’s wife and child survived.”
Garza dropped his spoon. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “And Juan?”
Victor finished reading the text message, then looked up. “Juan is in custody. The others are dead.”
Garza rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. From all the books he’d read on warfare, he knew how important it was to keep on the offensive. Even though he was virtually untouchable in his lair below the border, he wanted to conduct his business with the least amount of interference from the US government.
Garza stood and placed his bowl in the sink. He grabbed the brown package from the counter and looked inside. It seemed to be the correct amount of money. He gestured for Victor to follow him and the two men walked down a hallway to the front door. When he reached his office door, he held up a finger for Victor to wait as he went in and opened the safe behind his desk, grabbed a satchel, then returned to the hallway.
As they exited the building, a black Cadillac Escalade idled in the driveway. Garza motioned Victor to get in the back seat with him as they had done a hundred times before. Victor would play with his phone and find information for Garza while they drove to town or to pick up a payment. This time, however, as they reached the bottom of the driveway, instead of turning right toward the airstrip where ultra lights would make drops from above, or left toward town, they drove straight. Victor looked up from his phone when the SUV didn’t turn.
“Where are we headed, Jefe?” Victor asked.
“You will see,” was all Garza said, staring out into the night sky, the satchel between his legs.
Victor appeared apprehensive, suddenly studying their surroundings rather than his cell phone. The two men in the front seat remained suspiciously quiet. The dirt road was straight and bumpy and lined with oversized cacti. Their arms jutted out into the headlights like strangely deformed beasts reaching for their prey.
Victor had to know something was wrong because the road they’d taken led nowhere and eventually dissipated into a sea of open desert. His cell phone was now on his lap and his head moved side to side searching for answers.
After a couple of minutes, Garza made eye contact with his driver and nodded. The vehicle jerked to a stop and the two soldiers in the front seat jumped out and pulled open Victor’s door.
The driver pulled Victor from the car while the other soldier pointed an assault rifle. Victor looked back at Garza with shock on his face.
“Jefe?” he cried, as they dragged him from the SUV and threw him down in the middle of the dirt road, the intense headlights forcing Victor to blink back his confusion.
Garza rolled down his window so he could hear the confrontation.
“You are a spy!” shouted a soldier.
“No,” Victor pleaded from his knees. “You are wrong. I am completely faithful.”
“Don’t lie. We have your cell phone records. We know you’ve been calling the United States.”
“Yes, to speak with our people.”
“No, you lie again. Tell us who you’re speaking with and we’ll spare your life.”
“Are you loco? I speak with no one but our contacts.” Victor desperately pointed to the SUV. “Check my phone. You will see.”
“Just tell us a name. That is all. Then you shall live. We will drive away and leave you here.”
Victor seemed to accept his fate. He held out his arms like a martyr and said, “Go ahead and shoot me now. There are no names. I would never be unfaithful.”
“You lie. We know.” One of the soldiers spat on Victor’s pants.
Victor remained with his arms out. His eyes closed. “Please, shoot me. There will never be anyone more loyal to El Jefe.”
The two soldiers hesitated. The one on the passenger side leaned to his left to gain a better view of Garza’s open window. Garza held out his arm with a thumb up. The soldiers lowered their rifles and nodded. Garza opened his door and went around to the front of the car. He gestured with his head to his men and they wandered off into the desert.
On his knees Victor opened his eyes. “Jefe?”
Garza reached out with an open palm. “Come on,” Garza said, pulling Victor to his feet.
Victor was stiff and suspicious. He glanced into the desert to see the two soldiers lighting a match and smoking a joint.
Garza gripped Victor’s shoulders and locked him into a ferocious stare. “You are my number one warrior. I will never doubt you again.”
Victor just breathed.
Garza nodded to the SUV idling next to them. “Come on,” he said. “Get in. We have much to talk about.”
Victor returned to his seat in the SUV and remained quiet while Garza closed the door.
“Relax, Victor,” Garza said. “There’s a spy within our midst. I needed to be sure it wasn’t you. That’s all.”
“So this was just a test?” Victor said, a little puzzlement in his voice.
“That is all.” Garza shrugged. “I apologize if I frightened you.”
Victor shoved his boss affectionately. “Frightened? You want to see my underpants?”
Garza laughed. “You seemed rather nervous, eh?”
“I was prepared to die,” Victor said.
Garza pointed a finger at him. “Because you are loyal,” he said. “You had nothing to barter with.”
Victor took a deep breath and slumped back in his seat, finally convinced he was going to survive.
Garza reached down into his satchel, grabbed a large brown bag and handed it to Victor. He turned the interior lights on so his warrior could examine its contents. “This is for you.”
Victor looked into the bag and turned to Garza with a look of disbelief. “One hundred thousand dollars?”
Garza had trained his men to recognize packages of money and to formulate an approximate amount according to size, weight and denominations.
“Very good,” Garza said. “That is the precise amount.”
“But . . .”
“Because yo
u are my most valuable asset,” Garza said. “I need you to be my eyes and ears. I need you to protect me and to find out who this spy is.”
“Yes, Jefe,” Victor’s voice had regained a sense of authority.
“There is something else,” Garza said, peeking outside at the two soldiers in the distance. “We have a shipment to bring over in forty-eight hours.”
“Okay.”
“This particular shipment is different. It is not something we normally do.” Garza raised his eyebrows for affect.
“Different?”
“Yes. This is not from one of our people. This is from overseas.”
Victor seemed in deep thought. “That man, last night. Him?”
“Yes. I don’t like dealing with such people, but,” Garza pointed to the bag full of money in Victor’s lap. “Their pockets are simply too full of oil money and we cannot afford to miss the opportunity to take their funds.”
“I do not trust that man, Jefe,” Victor said.
Garza frowned. “Me neither, my friend. But once we make this transport we will never have to hear from him again.”
There was a chirp and Victor leaned over to retrieve his phone from the floor. He looked at the screen and said, “They want to know what to do with the border agent’s daughter.”
Garza shrugged. “Tell them to keep her alive for now. She might still be worth something. But they can do whatever they wish in the meantime.” Then he gave Victor a sinister grin. “And I do mean anything.”
Chapter 10
President John Merrick was getting his hair cut in the White House salon while making small talk with Georgia Faucet. Georgia had been the White House beautician for nearly two decades and understood the dynamic of a multitasking Commander-in-Chief. Merrick nodded and gave monosyllabic answers while retrieving e-mail updates on his tablet computer.
“So when’s he coming?” Georgia said, working her shears along the side of his head.
Merrick looked up from the tablet on his lap. “When’s who coming?”
“You know.”
“No,” Merrick said. “I don’t. Tell me.”
Just then, a large man wearing a gray suit carrying a napkin full of olives came into the small three-chair salon.
“Him,” she said, pointing her scissors.
Secretary of State Samuel Fisk finessed a greasy green olive into his mouth and chewed.
Merrick laughed. “Have we become that predictable, Georgia?”
The beautician grinned. “Yup.”
Fisk sat in the vacant chair next to Merrick and offered him an olive.
“No, thanks,” Merrick said. “You know, Sam, just because the food here is free, doesn’t mean you have to eat all of it.”
Fisk ignored the comment and popped another olive in his mouth.
“How’d the meeting go?” Merrick asked, as he was swiveled away from Fisk so Georgia could trim his right side.
“I’ve had better times,” Fisk said.
“How are Louis and Ken getting along?”
“They’ve hit an all-time low.”
Georgia backed away from the President and said, “Do I need to leave for a minute while you two talk?”
Merrick looked at Fisk with a raised eyebrow.
“Sure,” Fisk said. “Just for a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind.”
Georgia placed her scissors on the counter. “I’ll be outside with the boys,” she said pointing to the hallway where two Secret Service agents stood guard. She shut the door behind her and Merrick swiveled around to face the Secretary of State.
“How come you never call me Mr. President?”
Fisk looked appalled. “I call you that all the time.”
“Yeah, at fundraisers or special ceremonies, but never when we’re alone.”
Fisk seemed to examine the integrity of Merrick’s questioning. He finally came to a conclusion, then shook his head. “Fuck you.”
“That’s better,” Merrick grinned. “I thought for a moment you’d forgotten why I cajoled you into this position in the first place. I don’t need yes men, Sam.”
Fisk shrugged.
“Well?” Merrick asked. “What about your War Room meeting?”
Fisk chomped on the last olive, then crumpled up the napkin and tossed it in the trash can under Georgia’s counter. “An offspring of Hamas is trying to get a dirty bomb across the Arizona border.”
“Who?”
“The United Palestinian Force. UPF.”
Merrick pulled his hands out from under his protective cape. “How close are they?”
“Close,” Fisk said. “The committee is still dubious about the potency of the bomb, however.”
“Which means?”
“They feel it’s lacking a main component to achieve full detonation.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Nothing.”
Merrick squinted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means just what it sounds like.”
Merrick jumped up from the chair and tossed the cape onto his vacant seat. “I’ll announce a press conference,” Merrick said, rubbing his hands together and taking random steps around the small room. “I’ll denounce this new terrorist organization and put them on everyone’s radar.”
“No,” Fisk said. “It’s what they want. They understand how Al Qaeda became a household name after 9-11 and they want that kind of global attention. Attention brings in new recruits and draws more funds.”
“So we ignore them?” Merrick said in a huff. “Then what happens when the bomb explodes and we haven’t been ahead of the incident, warning our people?”
Fisk stood and wiped his hands on a small white towel hanging from a hook on the wall. He went over to the President and gripped his shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said. “I know these guys. They’re publicity whores. They’re like a five-year-old screaming in a grocery store. Let them scream. We’ve got the right people in place. Let them do their job.” He let go of Merrick and remained in front of him while the President folded his arms and looked up at the bigger man.
“Who’s down there?” Merrick asked.
“Nick Bracco.”
Merrick winced. “Hasn’t that guy done enough? Does the entire country’s safety fall on the shoulders of one man?”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Fisk looked down for a moment. “Also . . . Matt McColm’s girlfriend, Jennifer Steele . . . she was killed by one of Antonio Garza’s crew.”
Merrick stood still and shook his head. “Shit,” he murmured.
“Walt’s in Arizona this morning for the funeral,” Fisk said.
Merrick put it together in his mind. “So Garza’s the one transporting the bomb?”
“Yes.”
Merrick nodded. “And Nick is going after him for killing three FBI agents.”
“That’s another motivating factor, yes.” Fisk walked around Merrick with his hands behind his back. “There’s one other thing. We have an operative down in Mexico. Someone who has dealt with Garza. He seems to know where the bomb is and will notify his contacts when the time is right.”
“And?”
“And Ken needs two million in black ops money to fund their contractor’s operative.”
Merrick sighed. “What’s going on, Sam? How come I’m being told this at such a late date?”
Fisk pursed his lips. “Because we have issues down in the terrorist War Room. If we continue on this same path of information segregation, we’ll be relying on luck more than data.”
Merrick turned his back to Fisk and contemplated his options. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll approve the black ops fund, but only . . . and I mean only if we schedule a meeting for the end of the week where I’ll put an end to this info divide.”
“Okay.”
“And I want a plan “B” set up immediately. I’m not going to sit at my desk and wait for a bomb to explode before we react. I have a responsibility to the civilian population to protect the
m from these types of attacks. I want a continuous update e-mailed every couple of hours. If I have to evacuate a city or county, I’ll do it. I don’t care about the political ramifications.” He turned back to face Fisk. “Is that clear enough, Sam?”
Fisk nodded. “I’ll pass it on.” As he headed for the door, he added with a grin, “Mr. President.”
* * *
A large crowd of family and friends milled around Jennifer Steele’s gravesite clutching balled-up tissues and wiping their puffy eyes. They held each other close as one sob bled into another. The priest dipped his fingers into a chalice and sprinkled holy water over the casket while reciting a prayer in Latin. Nick felt Julie tremble in his grip, her head dug deep into his shoulder.
The cemetery was on a twelve acre lot of green rolling hills and overgrown pine trees in Payson, Arizona. A dirt lane curled around the grounds for cars to drive into the appropriate grassy parking area. Matt stood next to Jennifer’s mother who flew in from New Mexico; occasionally the widow would collapse into Matt’s arms while grieving over her only child’s premature death.
Finally, the priest turned toward the assemblage of mourners and opened the Bible. “Beloved members of the Steele family, friends, acquaintances, and all who gather to pay their respects to this wonderful woman,” the priest began.
Just the tone of his voice sent the throng of onlookers into a frenzy of anguish. He continued on about Steele’s courageous life and how she was in a better place, but this wasn’t going to stop the agony. Nick couldn’t bear to hear much more. He kept a close eye on his partner who was holding up quite well under the circumstances.
Nick looked over his shoulder to see Walt Jackson standing in the periphery, respectful, but not wanting to mingle too much. He’d already been to two other funerals that week. He looked as if he’d aged five years over the past seven days.
“So it is worthy of note that her soul will be with our Father . . .” the priest continued. This certainly didn’t help. Even the believers were blowing their nose.
To Nick’s right, a small cloud of dust meandered across the hilltops finding its way toward them in a serpentine fashion. The trail was preceded by a blue sedan.
