Sean turned and entered the kitchen.
“That’s far enough, take a seat at the table over there,” instructed Luis, stopping Sean short of the kitchen cabinets and drawers.
Sean pulled out a chair and sat down. The table, he noted, was one massive chunk of oak. Very nice, he thought, running his fingers across the perfectly smooth surface and definitely not cheap.
Luis took a seat on the other side, well out of Sean’s reach. The gun although resting on the table, was still aimed at Sean and Luis’ finger was firmly fixed to the trigger.
“Well?” asked Luis.
Sean continued to rub the table’s surface; it really was remarkable how smooth it was. One piece, that could, he calculated, easily seat twelve and it was at least 5 inches thick.
“Seriously,” asked Sean. “How much would one of these run you, do you think?”
Luis looked at him with some confusion. “What?”
“This table, how much?”
“I don’t know, it’s your table, you tell me!” replied Luis, a little off-guard.
“You see, that’s just it, it’s not mine!”
“I thought you were Sean Fox?”
“Oh, I am, just not the one you think I am.”
Luis lifted the desert eagle and aimed it more precisely. “You said you had the leads.”
“I said I would give you them!”
“So do you have them?”
“I can get them.”
Luis stood up. “What the fuck do you mean you can get them?”
“Just that. I can get them.”
“So you don’t have them?” Luis cocked the pistol and pointed it at Sean’s head.
“Not at this moment but I will have them very soon,” replied Sean quickly. He could see Luis was beginning to lose it.
“How soon?” Luis’ arm began to shake under the weight of the pistol. He was going to have to use it or bring it down very soon.
“Please sit and I’ll explain everything!” pleaded Sean holding his hands in surrender. He had noticed Luis’ shaking arm and figured he had to give him a reason to put the gun down before he used it.
“No more bullshit!” exclaimed Luis, forcefully retaking his seat and laying the gun on the tabletop.
Sean winced as the gun clattered into the solid oak surface and left a noticeable dent. Jesus you’d think it was mine, he thought.
“Where to start,” thought Sean aloud. He had wondered what he would tell Luis and then decided, what the hell, tell him the truth which is exactly what he did up to and including awaiting a phone call from the head of the CIA’s special operations division to tell him who the leads were.
Luis fidgeted more and more as the story was laid out before him and when Sean finished talking, Luis sat speechless. His mind was working overtime trying to compute how best to use the information he had just received and more importantly how his uncle would react.
“So where do we go now?” asked Sean, prompting Luis for a response.
Luis shook his head, he needed more time. His uncle would not react well. The man he thought he had killed was the man in front of Luis now but he had never worked for a drug dealer. The man who worked for the drug dealer was just pretending to be the man sitting in front of him now. Whatever the case, the first thing his uncle would want to do would be to kill the man, with or without the leads. However, they needed the leads more than his uncle would ever know. Without the East coast distribution, they’d be out of cash in a matter of months and out of power about two seconds after that. There was only one solution.
“You want your son…” started Luis.
“He’s not my son!” interrupted Sean with some frustration.
“You know what I mean, you want her son and I want my leads.”
“OK?” Sean began to see some light. The boy was smart, he had to give him that.
“That leaves us two problems, my uncle and the Gulf Cartel. My uncle I can deal with, the Gulf Cartel is a bigger problem.”
Sean looked quizzical enough for Luis to explain further. “ The little war playing out in Nuevo Laredo is to stop a meeting scheduled between the East coast distributors and the Gulf Cartel. If that meeting goes ahead, they’ll steal our business and your…” He corrected himself. “Her son, will be of no use to my uncle and he will be killed.”
“So we need to stop that meeting and get one for you guys!” offered Sean.
“Exactly. Can you do that?”
Sean was now in a place where he was offering to assist a drug cartel to make a deal to gain the distribution rights for the American East coast, all to save a boy’s life who up until a few hours ago, he never knew existed and had in fact never met.
“Yes,” he responded with some conviction, surprising even himself.
“Excellent. Although there is one other problem,” Luis continued awkwardly.
Sean nodded for him to go on.
“My uncle. He cannot know you’re alive. If he did, he would have to kill you, leads or not!”
“I understand,” replied Sean, not understanding at all. His uncle was obviously a fucking psycho and seriously unstable.
Luis nodded towards the living room. Sean looked at him and wondered what was wrong.
“Are you OK?” he asked, as Luis continued to nod towards the living room.
“The men!” he whispered.
Sean looked at him with some confusion. “The men?” he shrugged.
Luis leant forward conspiratorially. “They are my uncle’s men,” he said, smiling and pushing the Desert Eagle towards him.
Sean suddenly realized what Luis was asking of him. “Shit, I can’t just walk in and kill them!”
“You already killed two of my men!”
“Your uncle’s men,” corrected Sean “And they were trying to kill me! I don’t do cold blooded murder!”
Luis smiled. “It won’t be cold blooded!”
Sean grabbed the gun and ran.
“Shoot her!” shouted Luis.
Chapter 27
The odds of the incumbent Texan Governor winning the upcoming Presidential election were already stacked in his favor. Just under half of the previous sixty years had been served by a Texan resident at The White House. With the country struggling out of recession, a budget deficit in the stratosphere and the incumbent president with a spending plan in disarray, it was a foregone conclusion that Texas Governor Rick Brown, the republican poster boy, would be the nation’s next president.
That of course was before El Jefe had decided to launch an all out war on his doorstep in Nuevo Laredo. With just over eighteen months to run until the election, the party hierarchy had made it clear – don’t cause a fuss and for God sake, keep your pecker in your trousers or your wife. Having an ex-Miss Texas as a wife, one of the requests was hardly an issue. Having two warring drug cartels on your border meant the other was slightly less within his control. It was with that in mind that the Governor took to the platform and spoke to his fellow Texans.
To date, the only negatives that any of his contenders could throw at him were his age and lack of military experience. As of the date of the next inauguration, Rick Brown would be 42 years and 217 days old. Meaning if and when elected, he would beat the youngest president in modern history, JFK, by over a year and the youngest president in the history of the United States ever, Theodore Roosevelt, by just over 100 days. His age was of course outside of his control, unlike his military experience. But that in itself was a story.
Rick Brown had been destined to be president from the day his father turned his back on big business and entered politics. John Brown had turned his back on big business for the good of his State and country. Fed up with imbeciles running the country into the ground, he decided to put his money where his mouth was and 'stop bitchin and start doin’. His campaign took off like wildfire and the self made billionaire swept into congress, taking the 23rd Congressional district away from the Democrats for the first time in the history of the seat.<
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With seemingly the senate and presidency for the taking, John Brown was the most talked about congressman for the first two years of his candidacy. His speeches lit up the house and had the old guard running for cover as he single handedly vowed to clean up politics. With billions in the bank, he was beholden to nobody and the public loved him - right up until the accident that ended any chance of his presidency.
Whether the modern American public would have elected a wheelchair bound president may have been a question but a wheelchair bound president with a facial disfigurement wasn’t even up for debate. His political career was over; it just seemed nobody had told the constituents of 23rd congressional district. Despite not having run for a second term, more than half of the districts voters added his name to the ballot and with the acceptance of the other candidates, John Brown regained the seat he hadn’t fought for. The following election resulted in a near 100% vote and ensured as long as John Brown stood in the 23rd district, he would stand unopposed.
Rick Brown was a miracle or at least so his mother had told him almost every birthday that he celebrated. Conceived after his father’s accident, Rick Brown was only alive thanks to the wonders of modern science and the brilliance of the doctors based at what was then the leading fertility clinic in the country. Ultra exclusive, it was only after winning his first term as Congressman that John Brown was even made aware of its existence. The Clinic catered only to the Washington elite. Money, as John Brown had discovered, made little difference. It was the only bright spot after the accident. Two months after John’s crash and his ability to father a child gone forever that the miracle happened. Esther Brown became pregnant. It wasn’t to be an easy pregnancy and in fact resulted in her spending the last three months of the pregnancy in the Washington clinic, finally giving birth to Rick by caesarean section.
Esther and John both knew that Rick’s birth had to be as a result of some type of test tube program but it was almost ten years later, in 1978, that the first test tube baby was revealed to the world. Of course only Esther and John were aware of the accident’s effects in the bedroom and therefore to the outside world, the news was met with joy rather than wonder. It seemed with exclusivity came privacy which, as far as they were concerned, was no bad thing. They had, after all, the only thing they cared about, their own child.
The depression that had hit John after his accident immediately lifted. Rick became his purpose in life and through Rick, he would have the chance to make the difference that the accident prevented him from making. By the age of ten, Rick’s life was planned intricately. The course for him to become president was already setting sail. An Ivy League law degree would be followed with a stint in the Navy. The white uniform always looked best in the photo shoots. He would then take over John’s own seat as he retired. At age 35, Rick Brown would spend one term as Congressman before two terms as Governor, the perfect position, according to John, from which to become President.
Unfortunately, a fatal heart attack ended John’s plans and had Rick Brown being sworn in as one of the youngest congressman in US history at the age of 25, his law degree being completed while in office but the much necessary, according to John, military service, never transpired. Although ten years early into congress, Rick Brown wasted no time in following in his father’s footsteps and before long, people were talking of a potential president just as they had his father and just as his father had planned.
Governor Rick Brown tapped the mike and caught the press’ attention. The pressroom at the Governor’s Mansion was overflowing. Although hotly tipped as the next president, he had still to announce his intention to run. Calling a press conference at 12.30am was, to say the least, unorthodox and was for exactly that reason that the pressroom was packed and not just with locals. Network stations were breaking into their normal programming to bring the breaking news from Texas.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Rick addressed the cameras somberly.
“It is never an easy decision to call our young soldiers to action but as Governor and Commander in Chief of Our National Guard, I’m afraid it is my duty to do just that. Our great State is in danger and I will not stand idly by and allow the lawless few to threaten even one of my fellow Texans!”
It was a forceful display of the Governor showing the leadership that was expected from a military chief. Not one of the journalists in the room saw the maneuver as anything more than a pre-cursor to his announcement to run for president.
It was a barnstorming speech. The lectern was banged on several occasions as the Governor made it clear that the cartels would not be threatening even one Texan. If the Mexicans couldn’t control the cartels, he sure as hell would. He stopped short of announcing an invasion into neighboring Nuevo Laredo but it wasn’t far short. Governor Rick Brown was filling in the blank for military service currently lacking in his resume.
***
As El Jefe neared the border crossing, he smiled. The Southbound road was empty, while the Northbound road was at a standstill. But it wasn’t just the fact that the border was closed that made El Jefe happy. It was the vehicles that had closed it.
The sight of the Texan National Guard’s armored personnel carriers lining the bridge that separated the two countries was a major bonus. The Americans had obviously taken the small war he had waged over the last few hours very seriously. The five Lexuses that formed his advance party had wreaked havoc in the Gulf cartels strongholds. Hitting hard and fast, they had left a trail of casualties in their wake. Indiscriminately shooting throughout the streets had added to the casualties and confusion that had hit Nuevo Laredo and its impotent authorities.
El Jefe loaded his 4th 100 round drum onto his FN minimi and handed it to one of his men in the rear and received a sniper rifle, as requested, in return.
“Pull up over there!” he ordered, pointing at a Multidivisas bank that overlooked the river.
“You two go over to the riverside and when I signal empty your magazines towards the bridge.”
As the car drew to a stop, the two gunmen in the rear barked acceptance of El Jefe’s orders and scuttled across the road and positioned themselves amongst the bushes, ensuring they had a clear line of sight to the border bridge.
El Jefe judged the distance at just over five hundred yards, outside of the range of his gunmen but well within the range of his Heckler & Koch MSG90 sniper rifle.
Chapter 28
With nearly half of all US exports to Mexico travelling through it, closing the Laredo – Nuevo Laredo border was no small gesture by the Republican Governor. Its closure was going to hit business hard and by default the Governor. It was with this thought ringing in his ears that Colonel George N. Masters of The Texas National Guard (Reserve) had stationed his four troop carriers on the main bridge crossing the Rio Grande into Mexico. With only the small reserve party at his disposal, he had little more might to project but at least the four M113 Bradley personnel carriers made a fairly impressive statement as they blocked the Border crossing and made it clear America wasn’t going to tolerate any nonsense.
The fact that he had barely managed to crew the four troop carriers with local reservists, never mind fill them with soldiers, was known only unto himself and the eight men that had in fact crewed the four troop carriers which, fully manned, would have housed a further forty four guardsmen. Instead, they had a driver and a gunner each and even then two drivers weren’t even legal, having both been caught DUI, in the last couple of months.
The Governor had shot down Masters protestations and assured him he needed do nothing other than show force. The Colonel just needed to reassure his fellow Texans they were safe. It was, after all, the Governor explained, why they had based the four armored personnel carriers in Laredo in the first place – to project power. Masters had argued that was fine but without anybody to operate them, they were effectively powerless. The Governor had promised the Guards were on their way from Fort Worth and would be with him in a few hours – Masters knew this was code
for some time the next day. In the meantime it was going to be up to him and his eight men to pretend to be a platoon strength detachment of the National Guard.
Of course, it wasn’t as though they were on their own. Between the police and border agents, there were over 500 armed officers guarding the four main crossing points across the Rio Grande that separated the two cities’ nationalities.
Covering over 160 square miles, the twin cities contained over three quarters of a million citizens, the Rio Grande dissecting them more effectively than any man made border ever could. Two thirds Mexican, one third American and almost entirely Hispanic but worlds apart. One side of the river prospered as part of the world’s largest economy while the other cowered as one of the most violent drug wars engulfed its citizens. Its death rate of ten fold that of its smaller twin was steadily rising, as was the level of corruption and escalation of the war between the Zeta and the Gulf Cartel. Headless corpses, assassinated police chiefs and mass murders were becoming daily events. However, the violence that had erupted that night had dwarfed all that had gone before and caused the already concerned authorities in the American city to call on their Governor for help.
Colonel Masters raised his night vision binoculars and looked beyond the Mexican immigration post and into the heart of downtown Nuevo Laredo. The slight elevation at the center point of the bridge allowed him to see over the nearest line of buildings and into the streets beyond. All was quiet. The streets were deserted. It seemed the sudden explosion of violence had quelled. The occasional single gunshot could be heard in the distance but the earlier, rat-a-tat-tat of heavy machine gun fire had stopped. He threw a thumbs-up to his rag tag team of reservists. It seem that their intervention was surplus to requirements. Of course, they’d sit out the rest of the night. The local press corps were filming the event to ensure his fellow Texans knew that when violence arose and their homes were endangered, the National Guard would be there to protect them.
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