At every opportunity Elsa instructed the occupants to look out of the windows, ensuring their images were captured for posterity and the investigation that would ensure the success of what was planned.
Chapter 30
La Primavera, Culiacán
Mexico
Joaquin Guerra watched the TV news with a growing sense of frustration and anger. The news from America was not only utter and complete bullshit, but was going to cost him billions in revenue and in all likelihood his business over the next few years. He had not risen to the top of the drug trafficking world through luck or by default. He had earned every step up the ladder throughout his life. A master strategist, he was always one step ahead of the authorities, if not five. He’d lost count twenty years earlier of the men he had killed by his own hand, never mind those he’d had killed in his name. A brilliant businessman, he had invested billions into the business, reaping far more in return, and as a charismatic leader of men, he commanded his men’s respect as well as their total devotion to him.
All who knew him would know he would never carry out such a futile and useless attempt on the American president. The full force of their DEA, FBI, and every law enforcement agency in the land would be directed towards his cartel. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill the man, he had cost him billions since his election, after all. President Caldwell had been harder on drugs than any US president in the previous twenty years. It was just that any such action wouldn’t make it any better, and in fact, retribution would make it far worse.
The Sinaloa Cartel was about to become the biggest pariah in the world. They were going to be under fire from every side imaginable. His rivals would see their situation as a weakness to exploit and his allies a reason to desert him. He would never have more power than he had at that moment. He was head of the largest drug trafficking business the world had ever seen, he had an army of heavily armed men ready to fight and die for him, he had more cash at his fingertips than most countries of the world could ever dream of. All of it would be diminished once the Americans began their retribution. He would survive, of that he had no doubt. He believed in his ability to be ahead of his rivals, but the Sinaloa Cartel would be effectively destroyed, only a skeleton of its former glory would remain.
Joaquin Guerra picked up the phone. He had only one play. All or nothing. War.
Chapter 31
As entertaining as Eric’s exploits were, Clay had a country to run. He called for his NSA, Secretary of Defense, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Val approached while he awaited their arrival, and wrapped her arms around him.
She pulled him close. “It’s been a tough day.”
He hugged her back, maintaining an outward strength for the team around them in the PEOC. To the outside world it looked like he was helping his wife, in reality she was the rock. She had come to him just as his will was breaking; it had indeed been a tough day, one of the toughest he had ever experienced. He held on, gaining strength from her resolve, from her faith in him.
“We’ll get through this. Tess will get though this.” They both looked at their daughter curled up on the sofa, asleep, with her young brother by her side.
“What’s your plan?” Val asked.
“Destroy the cartels!”
She nodded her approval. “What about the empty positions?”
“I need to think about who best to replace—”
She shook her head. “The country needs to see you be decisive, they all had able deputies, appoint them. We need to appear strong and resolute. The country needs to see you lead.”
Clay nodded. He knew she was right, the country needed to see him lead. They needed to see him, period. He needed to explain what was happening, show them he was okay, unharmed and fully in charge.
“Tell the networks I want a ten minute slot within the next hour. And get me the VP and Speaker of the House on the phone,” he said, breaking away from Val and barking orders across the room.
Val enjoyed watching her husband command the room. It was her job to give him the faith and belief when he needed it. She turned back to her children. They needed her now, or certainly Tess did. Val could not believe how stupid Tess had been. That, however, was for another time. Tess needed her mother’s love not scorn, not that it was easy. Val had done so much to get them where they were, she had given her life to help Clay become president, and Tess could have thrown it all away in one petulant instant. How the story had been altered she had no idea, she simply thanked God it had.
“It’s 3.30 a.m. Mr. President, no one will be watching TV,” replied his harassed and shattered press secretary.
“I don’t care. Those who are awake will see it and those who aren’t will wake up to a rerun. I’m not asking for your opinion, just make it happen!”
“I have the VP for you on line one,” Ramona interrupted, scowling at the press secretary, “and the speaker on line two.”
“Thanks, Ramona,” Clay said, knowing the press secretary was about to get ear bashed as a result of questioning him. The attempt on his life had hit her hard and Ramona was being even more protective of him than usual. She knew Clay Caldwell was one in a million and had given her a job few men would even have considered her for. He had transformed hers and her family’s life and she would never be able to repay him for what he had done for her.
The calls were over quickly and he received the answer he needed before addressing the nation. It would be one of the least viewed presidential addresses in history and one of the most replayed. At 4.30 a.m., a few hours after the attempt on his life that had taken three of his closest advisors, President Clay Caldwell addressed the nation, assuring them that the government was strong and the retaliation to the attack would be significant. Both houses were being recalled as he spoke, an extraordinary session of both houses, one to confirm new appointees to replace the great men they had lost, and congress to sanction the use of US forces, to once and for all deal with the drug problem that blighted their great nation.
It was a rousing performance that barely touched on the FPS and detention camps that would have otherwise flooded the headlines. The right to enjoy a peaceful and secure life free from the threat of violence and disruption had hit a chord across the nation. The president’s already impressive approval ratings, despite sending riot troops onto the streets, surged to in excess of 70%. Even among African Americans he was hitting above 50%. Over fourteen thousand had been detained in the riots, all detained in camps outside of normal due process and under the powers of the National Defense Authorization Act, which allowed US citizens to be detained indefinitely without charge. Of the nearly 14,000 detainees, nearly 96% were of African American descent. Any other day, it would have caused an uproar heard across the world. With everything else happening, it barely made the bylines.
Chapter 32
Joe woke up to one of the worst headaches he had ever experienced. His hands shook uncontrollably and his body was soaked in sweat. Sandy looked at him, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. She was worried. She had every right to be, since he was no use to anybody in that state. He stood up as the bus pulled to a stop, the last one before D.C., and his legs wobbled under him. For the first time in his life, he felt his age. A young man offered him a hand.
“Get away,” he snapped, and Sandy scowled at him. “And you keep your thoughts to yourself,” he huffed, guiding himself off the bus with the use of the seat backs. The stairs proved more of a challenge, each step down on his wavering legs jolting and jostling his already aching brain, further disorientating him. The last step down was the step too far. Letting go of the hand rails as he exited the bus was too much for his legs to bear, and he stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk. Sandy rushed to his side, licking his face. He pushed her away and pulled himself into a kneeling position. His body continued to sway, so he dropped forward onto all fours, his feet, knees, and hands all anchoring him to the ground yet it still it wasn’t enough. He laid his head on the ground, bringing his
forearms and elbows into play. The world stopped moving.
“Poor man, should we call a paramedic?” asked one of the other passengers who was waiting to collect their luggage.
“I don’t need a paramedic, I need a drink,” Joe mumbled.
A young girl stepped forward and placed her bottle of water next to him.
“Not water for Christ’s sake, I said a drink!”
Even Sandy backed away from him, such was the vitriol in his voice towards the young girl who had simply wanted to help. She ran into her mother’s arms, tears streaming down her face. The rest of the passengers made their feelings clear as they barged by him, ensuring their bags nudged or full on hit him as they passed.
“Asshole...”
“Drunk…”
“Idiot…”
“Scumbag…”
He’d finally done it, hit rock bottom, making a little girl cry for going out of her way to help him. That was low, even for him. As the shame of his behavior sank in, his headache dissipated. His mind had something else to focus on.
With the last of the passengers having collected their luggage, Joe was left on his own by the bus. Sandy had retreated a distance that suggested she may or may not have been with him. He pulled himself onto his feet, unsteadily regaining his composure, and caught his reflection in the window of the depot. As rough as he had ever looked, his hair was matted to his forehead, his clothes clung to his sweaty skin, his face had a gray pallor, and his eyes were dark and deep from his restless sleep. He looked like shit, which was better than how he felt.
“Who am I kidding? Helping a president,” he scoffed to himself. “I can’t even help a little girl feel better about herself for helping me.”
He steadied himself as the full extent of where he was, what lay ahead, and how ludicrous him being able to help had been. He had given his old friend false hope. He was a loser, a complete and utter failure. He couldn’t function without a drink. He was pathetic, that’s all he was.
Joe stumbled into the depot. There was another half hour before the final leg of his epic journey. A TV screen had a somber faced President Caldwell addressing the waiting area. All were listening intently to his words. An attempt had been made on his life, three of his advisors were assassinated in the White House, and the Sinaloa Cartel had been named as the perpetrators. The president laid out his plan of action and asked for calm. Extraordinary sessions had been called in both Houses and the government was going to do everything in its power to bring the perpetrators of every crime to justice over the coming days whilst ensuring the safety of every one the country’s citizens.
The president wished God to bless America and was gone. A somber mood fell across the lounge area. An assassination attempt on a president was no small matter, it was an attack on every American, whether Republican, Democrat, or whatever political stance. It was the country that had been attacked, violated.
Before the somberness had a chance to brew into anything more, footage from Mexico was broadcast, running street battles, the banner headline “Sinaloa Cartel declares war on rivals.” From all reports not only had they had tried to assassinate the US president, the heads of the major rival cartels had been assassinated over the previous few hours as well. The Sinaloa Cartel was expanding across Mexico in a night of violence and death that dwarfed any previous night in the drug wars’ history.
It was apparent that battle had not remained contained within Mexico. The Sinaloa Cartel had spent the night quietly wiping out rival dealers in the US and Canada. Their Sicario killers had swept through city after city, targeting rival dealers. Drug den after drug den was being found that morning from San Diego to Seattle and Miami to New York with dead dealers and smugglers. In one night the Sinaloa Cartel had effectively wiped out all competition.
Race riots, assassination attempts, drug wars, and a daughter being held to force the president to do their bidding… Joe took a long, hard look at himself. His biggest worry was where his next drink would come from. His friend had the weight of the country on his shoulders, the world, and the lives of his children. His friend had asked him, of all the people in the world he could have called on, he asked him, Joe Francis Kelly, for help. The least he could do was try.
“Coffee, please,” he called to the waitress in the café.
“How’d you like it? Espresso, cappuccino, Americano, grande…?”
“Strong. As strong as you can make it.”
Chapter 33
News of the Sinaloa Cartel’s move to eradicate the competition had filtered in throughout the night. Though the move in Mexico was ballsy, a massive risk, it had paid off. When everyone thought they would run for cover they had struck, taking their rivals down when they least suspected it. The news of the killings in America was far more concerning. The Mexican hitmen were leaving a trail of bodies across the country, gruesome killings using silenced weapons, which in most instances unfortunately for the victims did not mean suppressors. Instead, machetes and knives had left a trail of hideous scenes, the message left behind as important as the death itself.
Clay could have stepped in, his military could have launched an attack on the cartel but with the internal war raging he had received a message: ‘Let them kill themselves. Tomorrow we’ll strike, they’re doing your job for you.”
They had left the PEOC at 7.00 a.m., much to his Secret Service Agents’ disapproval. He couldn’t stand it anymore, he wanted his family back in their own beds and not camped out on a sofa. He wanted to run his country from the Oval Office, where the people expected him to be. After all, he knew he wasn’t the target, he just couldn’t tell anyone.
Val fortunately agreed and pushed all complaints to her better sense aside. The country needed a president at his desk protecting them, not hiding in a giant safe buried deep underground. Clay’s first trip after exiting the elevator from the PEOC was to visit the Situation Room and pay his respects to his fallen colleagues and thank the team for their vigilance and bravery throughout the night’s events. All had refused to leave their stations even while the hunt for the killers was still underway and their lives remained in danger.
The morning press conference was scheduled for 11.00 a.m. The press secretary had no illusions it wasn’t going to be one of the most eagerly anticipated of his career, and the hardest. He had had one minute with the president since his early morning address and had quite frankly no idea what he was and wasn’t supposed to say. He was sure it was going to end in disaster.
When President Caldwell swept into the room at 10.59 a.m. unannounced and took to the podium, Paul, the press secretary, could have run over and kissed him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind if Paul sits this one out and lets me take the podium.”
Everybody agreed, none more so than Paul.
“Where to start,” he began. “It’s been a tough twenty-four hours for our country. We’ve lost some exceptional people, talented people that we need at a time like this. Rest assured, there are many talented people ready to fill their shoes. That’s not to say we won’t miss them or grieve for them, of course we will. I’ve lost great friends in the last few days, people I will never be able to replace in my life. However, that’s not to say we aren’t as strong today as we were yesterday, as we were two weeks ago. Graveyards are full of irreplaceable people, yet here we stand today, as strong, if not stronger than ever.”
He was an exceptional orator, something he had worked on tirelessly with the help of Val and her family. Coaching sessions with some of the world’s top trainers prior to his standing for his first election had cost Val’s family tens, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars, but the raw talent that Clay had portrayed, combined with his good looks, war record, and overall stature, had combined to make him a winning ticket that few would ever bet against. It was a miniscule investment, given the return: the country’s most approved of president in generations and its most admired leader in modern history.
“Is this the toughest
twenty-four hours of your life?” came a call from the reporters when he opened the floor to questions. An eager young reporter had jumped the invisible and well regarded queue.
“No,” replied Clay. “Next question,” he pointed to another hand. The reporter who should have asked the first question.
“If not, what was?” interrupted the original questioner.
“A day I never talk about. Next question.”
A murmur went around the room, the young reporter was being told to stop by his colleagues.
“What are the plans for the detainees?” a more mature member of the press corps called out.
“But Mr. President...” The original questioner wasn’t giving up.
“The day he won his medal of honor,” replied a member of the press, answering on behalf of the president. “Now shut up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” replied the young reporter, suddenly realizing his persistence to grab the headlines may have cost him his seat at the White House.
Clay stumbled through the next few questions, he had been put off his stride. The day he won his medal, or to him the day he sold his friend down the river to win the White House. A day that had cost him the only true friendship he had ever known. A day that was nothing more than a lie, and as a result a great man had been destroyed and his life ruined.
“Why call sessions in both Houses?”
Clay needed to get his mind back in the game, his country needed him. “Are any of you live?”
A few nods went around the room.
“Well it’ll come out in the next few minutes anyway. I have asked Congress for approval to use US forces to once and for all tackle the drug cartels. I want to be able to do whatever is necessary in the fight and I want Congress’ approval. As for the Senate, I think I have explained that is to confirm the deputies in the departments that we sadly lost leaders.”
Captive-in-Chief Page 12
