A Touch of Greed

by Gary Ponzo

  Fisk could see by Rodriguez’s actions that Salcido was right. The man never once removed his eyes from the cameras and knew exactly how to appear affable even during the interruption.

  Salcido and his men had to steer around Rodriguez’s men and were almost out the door when Rodriguez called to the president and hurried over to offer an open hand. Salcido looked at the man’s hand, then shook it quickly before leaving the room.

  Fisk made eye contact with Ambassador Blake. The man came to life, remembering his responsibility. He approached Rodriguez and gestured toward Fisk, who pointed to the empty seat next to him.

  Rodriguez immediately jumped on the opportunity. He strode over to Fisk with a great big politician smile and held out his arm ten feet before he got there, ready to press flesh.

  “Mr. Secretary, it is a great honor to meet you,” Rodriguez said, shaking Fisk’s hand with a hearty pump.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Fisk said, gesturing for Rodriguez to take his seat.

  Rodriguez sat next to Fisk as the two men posed for the reporters and smiled like old friends.

  “President Merrick appreciates your position on the cartels,” Fisk said, over the noise of the reporters. “He believes your proximity to their leaders allows you to control the violence. A very smart tact.”

  “Thank you,” Rodriguez said, waving to the journalists. “Will he be endorsing anyone for the election?”

  “No” Fisk said. “We don’t believe in meddling with your country’s election process. We think the people should decide their leaders, not us.”

  Rodriguez seemed to like the answer. “That is a very noble position.”

  “How is your wife?” Fisk asked over the noise of reporters jockeying for their position. “Miranda, right?”

  Rodriguez smiled, almost giddy with the attention he was receiving. “Yes, Mr. Secretary, she is fine. Thank you.”

  “Good,” Fisk said, his voice low so Rodriguez needed to lean toward him to hear. “You keep her happy and the rest comes easy, eh?”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary.” Rodriguez laughed with approval, clapping his hands to show the press they were sharing a real moment.

  Fisk gently placed his hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “I appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule to meet with me.”

  “Mr. Secretary.” Rodriguez turned to Fisk, his face serious. “It was very considerate of you to invite me here.”

  “Of course,” Fisk said. “It’s only appropriate to begin our relationship prior to you taking office. The United States is committed to working with Mexico to keep both of our nations strong and prosperous.”

  Rodriguez seemed to like the way the conversation was going. He almost forgot about the reporters shouting questions just a few feet away.

  Fisk leaned toward Rodriguez and spoke into his ear. “Also, should you win the election, President Merrick would like to invite you and Miranda up to the White House.”

  Rodriguez was eating it up. His eyes rose unexpectedly and seemed genuinely unprepared for such a kind gesture.

  “That is very generous of you, Mr. Secretary,” Rodriguez said, patting Fisk on the back. “Tell the president we would be honored to join him.”

  They spoke casually for a few more minutes, before Fisk looked at his watch. “I apologize, Mr. Rodriguez, but I must be heading back now.”

  Fisk rose and Rodriguez stood as well. The two men faced each other, smiling and shaking hands, knowing every nuance was being recorded for the evening news.

  Fisk leaned over and said, “I look forward to seeing you in Washington.”

  Rodriguez beamed. “Yes. Thank you again for your invitation, Mr. Secretary.”

  Fisk made sure they faced the cameras for one last time with his arm on Rodriguez’s back. He wanted to throw up in his mouth as he smiled and nodded to the media. He’d done what he came for, now he just needed the tough part of the plan to come through. If it didn’t, Fisk would come off as the laughing stock of Washington. The images of him joking around with a narcissistic cartel supporter would live on for eternity.

  He could almost feel himself falling on the sword as he waved to the press.

  Chapter 25

  Walt Jackson was pacing in his office, waiting to hear an update from someone, anyone. It was the hardest part of the administrative side of the job. The wait. When you were in the field, time flew. You were marking assets or following leads, but now the walls surrounded him like a cage.

  “Ken is on one-nineteen,” his secretary said, over the speaker on his desk.

  Walt quickly pushed a button on his phone and put the receiver to his ear. “And?”

  There was a sigh on the other end and it forced Walt down into his chair.

  “The plant is in Garza’s compound with the bomb,” the CIA Director said.

  “That’s encouraging,” Walt said, glad to hear anything remotely positive.

  “Maybe,” Ken said. “I can’t confirm a name or even a gender, but the person is working alone and can’t stop the transfer. He or she can only stay with the device until it reaches our border.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we have Nick take over from there,” Ken said. “He is in position, right?”

  Now it was Walt’s turn to sigh. “Yes, he’s in position.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  Walt looked at his cell phone sitting on his desk as a reminder of what had set him off on a ten minute pace. “I just received a text from him telling me to keep the troops out of Denton. He’s about to do something and needs room to operate.”

  “What’s he up to?”

  “I don’t know. He said to have ambulances waiting at the end of the exit road from Denton. He expects casualties to be leaving town within the hour and told me to make sure we were there to take their cell phones away immediately.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he’s . . .” Walt considered who he was speaking with and thought carefully about revealing his own translation to Nick’s words. “It means, I don’t know. I don’t even want to guess. He told me if we don’t hear from him by midnight to bring the entire force into town.”

  “How many people do you have ready?”

  “Including FBI, Marines, Special Forces and National Guard—around five hundred.”

  “Geesh, Walt, you expecting a war?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m expecting,” Walt said, tapping his foot. “I have no intention of losing any more agents.”

  “All right,” Ken said. “I’ll keep pounding the phones and see what I can get for you.”

  Walt hung up and leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut. He wasn’t about to tell Ken that Nick had stopped returning his calls forty-five minutes ago. Something his top agent had never done before. In all the years he’d worked with Nick, the longest he’d ever waited for a return call was three minutes.

  His phone chirped with a text message and he swiped it from his desk and read the sender’s name. His wife. It was the third consecutive night he’d missed dinner. She’d been way too patient with him and he couldn’t stand how much he’d failed to be there for her. He tried to imagine the thoughts running through her mind as she sat in their empty nest and waited for him to be with her.

  Walt winced in preparation as he opened her message:

  “I love you,” was all it said.

  He held the phone to his chest and sighed. “I love you too, Sweetie.”

  * * *

  Nick opened the door to the Denton Bar and Grill and felt the examination begin. Twenty patrons were scattered around round tables, while three sat at the bar. He could tell almost immediately which ones would be trouble and which were bystanders. There were five men who Nick thought were the culprits. A manageable number.

  George Straight was singing a love song from the wooden speakers behind the bar, while a large ceiling fan with two missing blades slowly spun overhead. He stepped up to the bar
and ordered a Bud Light. The pock-faced bartender looked just interested enough to make that happen.

  Nick turned and saw the same five men trying to avoid detection; their surveillance technique was the worst he’d ever seen. But then, they probably weren’t used to professional investigators stopping by for a drink. In the back was the deputy and his friend. They seemed to be in high spirits, clinking their beer bottles to some inept toast.

  When the bartender returned, Nick thanked him and gave him a twenty. He saw the waitress at the end of the bar looking sullen, not the cheery girl Tommy had told him about. Her left cheek was blotched with red marks and there was a long scratch down the side of her face. He took a drink of his beer and went up to the girl.

  “Samantha?” Nick asked.

  The girl gave him a suspicious glare. “Yes.”

  “Relax,” Nick said. “These guys can’t hurt you.”

  Samantha’s face scrunched up tight. “What guys?”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said, her movements jittery.

  “My cousin Tommy was here a little while ago.”

  She covered her open mouth with her hand.

  “It’s okay,” Nick said. “He’s in a hospital recovering. He’ll be fine. He wanted me to thank you for trying to stop them. He said you were very brave.”

  Samantha’s eyes became glossy. She saw something over Nick’s shoulder and stepped back to tend to her order book.

  When Nick turned, he saw the thin guy with a big gut coming his way.

  “Get out of here,” Nick whispered to Samantha. When she hesitated, he said more forcefully, “Now,” and watched her exit the bar through the kitchen entrance.

  The man walked up into Nick’s face about to say something when Nick grinned and said, “You must be Doug.”

  The guy cocked his head. “Yeah.”

  Nick pointed at his dirty boots. “Didn’t you notice that?”

  Doug followed Nick’s finger. Big mistake.

  With his knees bent and his hand clenched, Nick swung his fist up into Doug’s chin with a ferocious uppercut. The power came from Nick’s legs and drove Doug’s lower teeth into his uppers with such a force, his head snapped back and a short whimper escaped as he hit the floor.

  Nick unclenched his fist and rubbed his knuckles, while he kicked Doug’s face.

  “I don’t like bullies,” Nick said. “Never did.”

  The bartender pulled up a twelve gauge shotgun from behind the bar. Three men around another table stood with their pistols stretched.

  From the back of the room the deputy held out his pistol and said, “That’ll be enough.”

  Nick didn’t care. The adrenalin was just beginning to peak. He stepped on Doug’s throat and watched blood bubble out the side of his mouth and down his face.

  “I said, that’s enough,” the deputy shouted now, closer along with three or more friends gaining strength from the numbers. Nick was drawing them out, making sure they were all in the open.

  The bartender placed the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder and aimed it at Nick, who ignored every instinct and stepped even harder on the bar owner’s face.

  That’s when the gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Five, six, seven, eight. The burst of shots rang out through the bar with a high-pitched squeal. When the gunfire had stopped, a handful of men were on the floor, clutching their arms or legs. The bartender had dropped behind the bar and gave out a painful wail.

  Nick was the only person in the room left standing. Untouched.

  From one of the side tables, sitting by himself, was a man in a cowboy hat, twirling a government-issued 9mm pistol with professional dexterity.

  Matt McColm.

  He pushed up on his cowboy hat with the tip of his gun and scanned the room as if to say, “Anyone else?”

  “I think I have your attention,” Nick said. There were still three or four tables of customers who looked panic-stricken and held up their hands like they were being robbed.

  Without looking at his partner, Nick said, “He can shoot a dime out of midair from fifty yards, so be grateful he didn’t choose headshots.”

  There was a movement to Nick’s right, followed by a gunshot. The bartender had reappeared with the shotgun only to have Matt clip him in the opposite shoulder from his first shot. The guy stumbled backward, unable to grasp at his wound because both shoulders were now damaged.

  “You really don’t learn, do you?” Nick said, watching the guy slide down, about to go into shock.

  Matt was standing, taking it all in, anxious to be challenged. The tension seemed to evaporate from his face like steam from a boiling teapot. Nick felt it was cathartic for him to get the rage out of his system.

  “Now listen to me,” Nick said, above the country music. He made a face, then gave his partner a look. Matt fired one shot at the radio behind the bar and the music stopped. The silence allowed for the sobs and heavy breathing to fill in the space.

  Nick held up his shield. “My name is Nick Bracco. I’m an FBI agent. All I want is Sonny Chizek,” he said, making eye contact with everyone in the room. “The rest of you goons are useless to me. However, my partner and I will be back every couple of hours to rip this town apart. The visits will not stop until we get what we want.”

  “You can’t just shoot people for no reason,” the deputy said from the floor, grabbing his wounded shoulder.

  “I’m not sure you’re paying enough attention,” Nick said. “Now, tell Chizek I want to meet with him and the shooting spree will stop.” Nick straddled Doug’s bloody face and looked straight down at him. “I’d buy a larger first aid kit if I were you, Dougie.”

  Matt stepped around the table, his back to the wall, his gun twirling one way, then back. He joined Nick by the entrance and opened the front door.

  Nick said, “Tell Chizek we’re staying at the Denton Motel, room number eight. We’ll be expecting him.”

  They took one step out the door and heard the deputy say, “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

  Nick stopped and looked back. “Maybe not,” he said, then gestured toward Matt. “But I have him on my side . . . and you don’t.”

  Once outside, Matt put his arm around Nick. “Thanks, partner. I needed that.”

  “I know you did, buddy,” Nick said, flexing his right hand. “We both did.”

  Chapter 26

  Garza sat in the basement and squeezed his phone while getting the news about the FBI agents’ actions in Denton. The government employees acting like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And Garza happily remembering how that movie ended.

  “Where is Chizek?” Garza asked the man. The guy was practically the only one who wasn’t shot during the incident because he claimed he’d been too startled by the whole thing.

  “He does what he always does,” the man said. “He barks out orders, then runs and hides.”

  Garza knew the agents were trying to shake him up, maybe force him to delay his transfer, or try to bait him into crossing the border. Garza was too smart for that tactic. The agents were obviously working alone, probably ignoring their superior’s orders and looking for revenge, otherwise the entire town would be flooded with law enforcement. Instead, Garza’s lookouts had assured him no one else had entered Denton and the only ones leaving were on their way to the hospital in Rio Rico.

  “What orders did he give?” Garza asked.

  “He told us to kill them,” the man said.

  “Okay then,” Garza said. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Yes, Jefe.”

  Garza shook his head and dropped the phone on the side table next to him. He sat on the couch and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight o’clock. Almost time to get the shipments going. He stared at the bomb sitting on the cart in front of him. He wondered how dangerous it really was.

  Garza got up and went behind the bar to pour himself another shot of mescal. He threw the warm, sp
icy liquid down his throat, then slammed the glass down on the bar. It settled him for a moment. He picked up the remote and turned on his large-screen TV and switched the channel to CNN. There was a news program showing the two podiums where the presidential debate would take place in Mexico City, while a journalist spoke about the monumental event. They showed footage of an earlier meeting between the two candidates and the United States Secretary of State, Samuel Fisk. The large man shook hands and posed for photos with President Salcido. The two men seemed stiff and formal, but when Fisk met with Francisco Rodriguez they spoke and laughed like old friends. An odd twosome.

  Garza muted the TV, then opened the briefcase sitting on top of the bar and stared at the money for the third time in the past fifteen minutes. He had to put it away before it drove him mad with greed. As he shut the briefcase, he heard the basement door open and a pair of footsteps creak down the staircase.

  Victor appeared and came over while Garza slapped a shot glass on the bar and filled it with mescal. Victor took the glass and downed it with one swig.

  “Thanks,” Victor said.

  Garza pointed to the TV. “You see that?”

  The two candidates had just shaken hands and were heading toward their separate podiums. There was no sound, but Garza didn’t need to hear a word to know who would come out on top. Francisco Rodriguez was a masterful orator with a dynamic public persona.

  “Politics.” Victor made a face. “It does not go well with mescal.”

  “You don’t like it, eh?”

  “No,” Victor said, pouring himself another shot. “It’s a waste of time anyway. Everyone knows Rodriguez will be the next president.”

  Garza nodded, then turned and pressed on a wall-mounted display of knives from the Mexican Revolution. One side of the display opened like a door on hinges and exposed a wall safe. Next to the safe was a keypad, where Garza pressed a sequence of numbers and watched the safe pop open. As he placed the briefcase in the safe, he thought of something.

  “You probably know the code to get in this thing, don’t you?” he asked, without turning.