A Touch of Greed

by Gary Ponzo

  “Tommy,” Nick said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t do too much,” was all Nick could say.

  Tommy grinned. He said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then the door shut behind him like a vault, sealing the three FBI agents inside the dungeon of dust.

  Matt pulled apart the curtains and stood by the window, watching Tommy spit up gravel as the BMW sped out of the parking lot. They were less than five miles from Antonio Garza’s compound and Nick could practically smell the revenge oozing from Matt’s ears.

  On Stevie’s computer screen, an aerial image of the desert floor came to life. Nick watched the landscape while dialing Walt on his cell phone.

  “You in?” Walt asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “They know you’re there?”

  “Not yet,” Nick said, watching Matt stare out the window like a caged tiger.

  “Nick,” Walt said. “Are you doing the right thing?”

  “I doubt it. But someone has to find that bomb before it leaves the neighborhood.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line.

  “I could send in a squad of Special Forces,” Walt said, stating the obvious.

  “No,” Nick said, firmly. “They’ll just crawl under rocks like cockroaches. We don’t have time to search every inch of this place.”

  “You do understand I don’t like this plan. Not one bit.” There was a bite to Walt’s words. He’d just lost three FBI agents in the past few days and there was a pain lingering in the tone of his voice.

  “We’re okay,” Nick assured him. “Any word from the agent in Mexico?”

  “The last communication said he was with the bomb. That’s all.”

  “He’s pretty worthless without our help.”

  Walt didn’t need to respond to that.

  “Okay,” Nick said. “We’ll try this tactic until midnight. If we don’t recover the bomb by then, go ahead and bring the cavalry.”

  “Listen, Fisk is on a plane right now to Mexico City for the presidential debate. He’ll be speaking with President Salcido, trying to get help with this.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath,” Nick quipped.

  “I’m trying everything.”

  “I know you are, Walt. Just keep this place quarantined. I don’t want anything to escape.”

  “You’re positive the bomb is going through Denton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because it’s sealed up tight. Only one road in and one road out.”

  “What about the desert?”

  “We have satellites tracking the perimeter,” Walt said. “If you’re right about this, we’ve limited the damage to that border town.”

  “Good,” Nick said, checking on Stevie, who seemed ready for instructions. “Let me get back to this.”

  “Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Please. Don’t. Once you find the bomb, we’ll get Garza. I promise.”

  Nick watched Matt continue his fascination out the window.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” Nick said, seeing Matt tap his foot on the worn carpet. “But I can’t make any guarantees.”

  Chapter 22

  President Merrick sat behind his desk and ran a hand through his hair while reading the latest e-mail update from CIA Director Ken Morris. There was no new information for him to relay so the Director had used hypothetical scenarios as substitutes for solid intelligence. Merrick was a master at detecting long-winded reports without substance, so he deleted the e-mail halfway through reading it.

  He grabbed his cell phone and pushed a contact button. On the third ring, Fisk answered, “Hello, Mr. President,” in a sarcastic tone.

  “Forget I ever said anything. I don’t want you calling me that again. I’ve had people call me asshole with a nicer connotation.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “Ken has nothing for me,” Merrick said. “Nick and Matt are holed up in this border town trying to find the bomb and I thought you might have landed already.”

  “Nope, we’re circling the airport now,” Fisk said. “There’s so much smog down here, I can barely see the city.”

  “Well, despite my warning, everyone’s excited about your visit down there. Salcido thinks you’re coming to bring our endorsement and Rodriguez thinks you’re coming to kiss his ring before he’s sworn in.”

  “Do you know the focus of the debate?”

  “Yes,” Merrick said. “How to deal with the cartels.”

  “Great,” Fisk said. “One wants them all dead, the other wants to offer them half the country as ransom for not gunning down the civilian population.”

  “Be careful down there,” Merrick said. “Don’t go wandering off the trail.”

  “You sent the Eighty-First airborne with me, for crying out loud. I could take over the country if I wanted.”

  “I’m serious, Sam.”

  “I know.”

  “Also,” Merrick added, “your meeting with Rodriguez has been leaked to the press. It’s already hit the New York Times webpage.”

  “Good,” Fisk said. “They’ll be zeroing in on us while I’m here.”

  “It’s a risky move. It makes us look like we’re kowtowing to the cartels.”

  “I realize that.”

  Merrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Sam, do you think this will work?”

  There was a long pause while the sound of plane engines hummed in the background. Finally, Fisk said, “Salcido’s been fighting these drug dealers for too long to give up now. We’re making some real progress and they know it. It’s imperative he remains in office.”

  Merrick nodded. “Okay, buddy. Make this quick and get home. We have all this extra food leftover without you.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  * * *

  Garza saw the Humvees coming from his office window. A line of dust trailed laterally across the desert floor until it reached the narrow road which led up toward the compound. He ran down the steps to the courtyard and waited as the gates creaked open and the vehicles paraded around the semicircle driveway and parked. Victor exited from the back seat of the last Humvee. He greeted Garza with a smile and a handshake.

  Neither man spoke as Victor pointed to the blindfolded man in the front seat. Everyone followed their instructions precisely. Victor opened the tailgate and exposed the package. A plastic case the size of a small golf bag, wrapped excessively in black tape. Without a word, a couple of soldiers wearing gardening gloves gently lifted the bomb from its resting place. They carefully maneuvered the explosive onto a waiting flatbed cart.

  As the soldiers secured the bomb onto the cart with rope, Sadeem turned his blindfolded head in the front seat and said, “I hope you are being careful with that.”

  The soldiers methodically wheeled the bomb down the path to the back of the building, the wheels squeaking on the brick pavers.

  “Shut up,” Victor said, as Garza motioned him to get their passenger.

  Victor opened the car door and pulled Sadeem from his seat. The man stumbled momentarily, then regained his footing.

  “I hope you are keeping me with the package because it is very dangerous,” Sadeem said, his voice sounding defensive and not at all authoritative.

  The group of soldiers surrounded Sadeem as Victor escorted him down the driveway to the back of the building. Garza had jumped ahead and went underneath the secured overhang of the rear entrance to the complex. The canopy had been added to the structure to prevent satellite images to view the entrance and the oversized elevator which was used to transport numerous paraphernalia to Garza’s personal basement hideaway.

  Garza pushed the button as the soldiers approached. The door opened and the elevator offered plenty of room for everyone, including Sadeem, Victor and three of the soldiers manning the flatbed cart.

  “We are going down,” Sadeem said, as the elevator descended. “I assume that means we’re heading toward a tunnel.”


  Garza didn’t like this sort of narration. He signaled to Victor by padding his chest and his number one nodded, assuring him the man had been checked for a wire.

  “You will now be silent,” Victor said. “Or your next words shall be your last.”

  Garza smiled at Victor, the man taking control of the situation with perfect timing.

  Sadeem frowned, but remained wordless.

  Victor took Sadeem’s hand and placed it on the bomb. “You feel this?”

  Sadeem nodded.

  “It will be with you at all times,” Victor said.

  The elevator jolted to a stop and the doors whined open.

  “Now, I am going to take you to a room where you will remain until it is time to transport the device,” Victor continued. “Nod your head if you understand.”

  Sadeem nodded again.

  “Good.”

  They exited the elevator into the basement. Victor took Sadeem by the arm and walked him up the stairs into the main floor of the building, while Garza stayed behind and pointed to a spot for his crew to leave the bomb.

  Once Victor shut the door behind him, Garza finally spoke to one of his soldiers. “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Very good,” the man said. “We drove around in circles before coming back here.”

  “Nice,” Garza said. “Go ahead and keep watch on this man. I want him in complete isolation until we are ready to move.”

  “Yes, Jefe,” the soldier said.

  Garza watched the men leave. He went behind the bar and placed two shot glasses on the counter. While pouring mescal into the glasses, Victor returned to the basement, the door shutting solid behind him.

  “He is in the observation room,” Victor said, holding up a cell phone. “I took this from him just in case.”

  Garza handed one of the glasses of mescal to Victor and they toasted. Victor threw the shot down his throat then slammed the glass back down on the bar, blowing out a short breath. Garza swirled the clear liquid and took a sip, savoring the flavor in his mouth.

  “We have a new delivery we must make tonight,” Garza said.

  Victor squinted. “Tonight?”

  Garza nodded. He took another sip of mescal while Victor poured another shot and threw it back.

  “We are going to make two different deliveries?” Victor asked.

  “No, we will combine them. Valdez insists on moving the product tonight. He believes we are transporting another cartel’s product and he will not have us give anyone priority over the Zutons.”

  “But it is not another cartel we are working with.”

  “Yes, but I cannot afford to let him know that,” Garza said, gesturing toward the device by the elevator. “The less people with knowledge of this delivery, the less chance for a mishap.”

  They both stared at the bomb. In the stillness of the room, Garza imagined he heard a ticking sound.

  “The American called,” Victor said. “He believes the FBI agents are going to Denton.”

  This caused some concern for Garza. He tipped the remainder of the mescal down his throat, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He considered the amount of people he had on payroll in the border town.

  Garza grinned. “Then we will just have to give them a nice reception, won’t we?”

  * * *

  Tommy drove down Main Street and thought he’d entered a time warp. One long strip of storefronts covered each side of the road with a wooden overhang protecting shoppers from the sun. The hardware store had a statue of a cowboy whipping a rope over his head about to lasso some unsuspecting cow, and the movie theatre actually showed just one movie. What struck him was the pace people moved. Women gradually made their way to their parked cars with the groceries. Men walked on the sidewalk with their heads down. A morose death walk. The one thing he’d noticed missing were kids. There wasn’t one child visible. Not even a stray bicycle.

  He parked in the street amidst the pickups and Jeeps. The mid-afternoon heat hit him as soon as he opened his door. As he walked past the storefronts along the street, he peeked into each business and saw the same bleak expression on the faces of the employees.

  Tommy found the Denton Bar and Grill and decided it might be the best place to acquire information. When he entered the grill, it seemed every head in the place turned his way. He sat at the end of the bar, closest to the waitress stand. It wasn’t a random choice.

  There were several round tables scattered around the room pretending to be restaurant tables, but nobody came to this place for the food, Tommy was sure of that. From the two speakers behind the bar, some old-time country singer was croaking about a lost love. The steel guitar whined like a hungry puppy.

  A deputy sat around one of the tables gripping a longneck bottle and chatted with a couple of buddies. Of the fifteen or so patrons in the place, only one wouldn’t let go of his gaze. The guy had a thin frame with a bowling ball gut and he leaned back so far in his chair the front two legs were airborne. The guy joining him seemed to take up the sport of eyeballing Tommy as well.

  A lanky, pimple-faced bartender came over to Tommy and raised his eyebrows.

  “Bottle of Bud,” Tommy said, hoping the guy was there to take his order.

  The bartender left. That was a good sign. Maybe he was getting a beer.

  A perky waitress in a T-shirt and blue jeans passed Tommy and gave him a smile as she dropped her tray on the counter next him and waited for the bartender.

  “Hola,” Tommy said.

  “Hi,” she beamed.

  She was only nineteen or twenty so it appeared she was too young to be contaminated by the town’s glum disposition.

  “You seem happy,” Tommy said. “Something happen?”

  The girl seemed to consider this. “I don’t understand.”

  Tommy glanced around the room at the gloomy patrons. The bowling-ball gut was still glaring at him. “I mean, why aren’t you suicidal like everyone else?”

  She seemed to catch on and smiled. “Oh, well, they’re just stuck here. I’m here by choice.”

  “Ah, I get it. They all work at the mine and can’t leave because the pay is too good. That what keeps them here?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what brought you here?”

  The girl shrugged. “My parents are both writers. They like small towns.”

  “Yeah? What kind of stuff they write?”

  The bartender returned with an open bottle of Budweiser and put it in front of Tommy. No glass. No coaster.

  While Tommy fished out a twenty, the bartender looked at the girl, which removed the smile from her face. She told him, “Dirty Martini for Bill.”

  The bartender took the twenty, then lingered a moment.

  “Didn’t I see you at Lonny’s Comedy Club in Baltimore last year?” Tommy deadpanned.

  The bartender kept his eye on Tommy as he turned and left.

  Tommy looked at the girl. “He’s probably a blast at the Christmas party, huh?”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” she said.

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Chizek?”

  “Who’s that?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “No. Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  “Well, he’s, uh, he sort of runs this place.”

  “This bar?”

  “No, silly, he runs the whole town.”

  “Get out,” Tommy said. “He’s like the mayor?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He must live in a nice place, huh?”

  “I don’t know. I think he moves around. Nobody ever knows where to find him except Doug.”

  “Doug?”

  “Yeah, the owner of the bar. He’s one of his . . .”

  The girl grabbed a bar rag and began wiping imaginary spills on the bar. Tommy sensed a shadow cross his shoulder. He turned to see the bowling-ball gut guy standing over him. He had a short stubbly beard and a
lump of chewing tobacco in the side of his cheek.

  “You two know each other?” the man asked.

  The waitress busied herself with the order pad on her tray and flipped through the pages as if checking any outstanding orders.

  “I was just talking to her about her parents,” Tommy said, sensing the fear in the girl’s actions. “They’re both writers. Did you know that?”

  This didn’t seem to impress the guy. He craned his neck and drooled a long stream of tobacco juice onto the floor by Tommy’s feet.

  Tommy cringed. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “You’d better not let Doug see you do that.”

  The man showed Tommy a toothy, brown grin. “I am Doug.”

  Great, Tommy thought. Now he had to reexamine his tactic. He didn’t want to cause a scene.

  The deputy seemed to notice the conversation. He and his drinking buddy stood up and waited cautiously by their table. The waitress grabbed her martini from the bartender and swiftly left the bar.

  “What brings you to Denton?” Doug asked.

  “You kidding?” Tommy said. “This is like Vegas without the casinos, the pretty women, or the stage shows. Who wouldn’t want to visit this tropical paradise?”

  Doug gestured toward Tommy’s beer and said, “Why don’t you take your drink to go?”

  Tommy took a long swallow of his beer, then turned to Doug and said, “If you’re trying to intimidate me, you’ve got to get rid of that lump in your mouth. Makes you look like a relief pitcher from the seventies.”

  Doug’s cheek bones tensed. “You’d better get going now before it gets much worse for you.”

  “Is that really what you want to say?”

  Doug squinted.

  “I mean, you’re trying to chase me away, but you say, ‘You’d better get going before it gets much worse for you.’ Is that really a threat? Am I supposed to run out the door screaming after hearing you throw that doozy at me? What the fuck, you think I’m one of your redneck buddies?”

  The deputy and his friend came up behind Doug, looking to cut down any conflict.

  Tommy nodded to the man. “Afternoon, Officer.”