by Jace Killan
There wasn’t a preacher at this funeral. The family didn’t believe in a deity, though they spoke of karma and Mother Nature and the cosmos as if they were understood forces, unmanaged by God.
Mayhew’s picture rested atop a closed casket, surrounded by elaborate floral arrangements, spilling onto the floor. There weren’t many people, family mostly, from what Joaquin could tell. After a sister spoke for an uncomfortably long time, the mic opened to the floor. For a long time, no one spoke. Then Kristin rose.
Later, Joaquin couldn’t recall what she said, but he fell more in love with her in that moment. And he sensed the almost silent whisper as she spoke. A celestial feeling tugged at his chest and directed his thoughts. God was in charge of everything. God hadn’t chosen to take Mayhew, especially in such a violent manner. All thought it suicide, except Joaquin who’d learned from Junior in minimal detail that Mayhew had become a problem, and so he was murdered.
Like Emma, his life had been cut short. Why would God allow such a thing? Because he committed to his children that they could choose. For that same reason, Brina had died. Joaquin had been in county jail during her funeral, but some wrote him about the service.
His father and Chorch, all of these died because of others’ choices. For years, Joaquin had believed that if God existed He didn’t know what went on in the world He’d created, or worse, He didn’t care. It was easier to believe that He didn’t exist. Why would God take such a beautiful soul as Brina from the world and leave the scum like him to continue to muck it up?
Now, as Kristin spoke, the answer came to his mind. God kept His promises. He promised man the freedom to choose and to take that away because of a terrible choice would make God a liar. If God were a liar he wouldn’t, couldn’t be God. He’d fall just as Lucifer, the father of all lies.
Then in his mind’s eye, he saw Brina’s broken body and the angels around him, surrounding her, administering to her and to him, hurting for her physical pain and his, but more, lamenting for Joaquin’s soul while cheering for hers.
Tears flowed, for in his mind’s eye, Brina sat next to him now, opposite where Kristin had been sitting. Brina whispered in his ear that she forgave him, and loved him, and rooted for his success. That she’d been there in prison, not like some ghost unable to leave his side because of unfinished business, but because she understood the pain in his heart and tried to comfort his grief.
For a moment, the veil between this world and the next lifted in his mind and he understood why there’d been hope at Emma’s funeral and not Mayhew’s. God was in charge there, because Emma’s family allowed it. Those in Emma’s congregation knew that God could take all of the awful choices and make good out of them. Joaquin was a better person today than he had been or would have been had he not killed Brina. God had found a way to change his heart and Joaquin had let it happen. There hadn’t been two candlesticks like with Jean Valjean, but two women, Brina and Kristin. His light. One a memory of his awful choices and the other a reminder of his commitment to God.
Peace followed. God would do the same for Jared and Emma’s family. God could do the same for Mayhew’s if they’d let him in.
There were two opposing forces in the world, good and evil. Evil stirred up pain and despair because of the pride and selfishness of man. Good used that pain and despair to persuade change, resulting in joy and hope. That change was based in love. Love of God. Love of one another. That’s why good would always win, because evil’s choice didn’t matter to the grander plan—God would use every choice for His purposes.
The moment passed. Kristin returned to her seat and placed her hand on a sobbing Joaquin. God was in charge.
Junior had let him live, but Cesar hadn’t a clue for how long. He only had himself to blame for the screw-up. Cesar had killed the wrong person, the wife instead of the target, a horrendous error for someone in his position. He’d been given a final chance to make it right. Though, he had little doubt that as soon as he succeeded in his mission, he’d be terminated as well. He’d become a liability.
He could run, but running from the cartel was like trying to make ice out of the Sonoran desert sand. So instead he’d end the job and at least find some self-honor before he died.
Cesar had waited until 5:30 pm for visiting time before approaching the front counter along with several others hoping to see their loved ones.
“Who are you here for?” asked the Asian nurse.
“Jared Sanderson.” Cesar stretched his neck trying to get a glimpse of the paperwork the nurse held.
She flipped through several pages and settled on one. “What’s your name?”
“Steven. I’m his brother.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse flipped the pages over and looked up. “You’re not on the list.”
After arguing for ten minutes, Cesar left the counter. He hadn’t expected they’d let him in, but he did get something out of the attempt. The nurse confirmed that his target resided at this facility. That was enough for Cesar. Now he just needed to figure out a way inside.
It hadn’t been Joaquin who killed Mayhew—Bruce would’ve recognized his voice. After some sleuthing, Bruce spotted the man again coming out of Joaquin’s apartment building, probably the largest Mexican he’d ever seen. The sun disappeared behind the tall skyline of offices, when this man walked to the street and hailed a cab.
Bruce’s shift hadn’t ended yet, but he didn’t care. He’d waited a couple weeks for an opportunity to find out more about this guy and there was no way he’d let work stop him from discovering who’d killed Emma.
He left the guard station, locking it, but not the deadbolt. He ran down the street, flagged a cab heading the wrong direction, jumped in and barked his commands to the driver.
There wasn’t ever a convenient time to travel through this part of the city, but now would be considered the worst. Bruce breathed deep, spotting the cab six cars up, parked at a flashing crosswalk sign.
“Follow that cab.” The phrase sounded surreal—like something out of a movie.
The driver nodded and turned into the other lane, gaining one car’s distance on the cab. Bruce removed his tie and shoved it in his pocket, feeling his wallet, sighing in relief that he hadn’t left it at work.
They travelled along, stopping every block for a light. After about two miles and nearly twenty minutes, traffic opened up and the cab pulled onto the expressway.
Bruce followed the cab to a pharmacy in Staten Island. He had the driver park across the street, then gave him a twenty. “You mind hanging here while I get more money from the ATM?”
“Sure, just make it worth my while.” The guy had a strong Brooklyn accent, making him sound twenty years older.
“Okay. How about I buy that hoodie from you too?” Bruce tugged at the driver’s shoulder.
“You kiddin’? It’s freezing.”
“Here.” Bruce removed his security guard jacket and handed it over the seat. “And forty extra in it for the hoodie.”
“Sixty.” The driver took the jacket.
“Sixty.”
The driver pulled off the gray hoodie and passed it over his shoulder. “And get me something to drink, yeah? A Dr. Pepper.”
“You got it.” Bruce pulled the hoodie over his head and forced it around his chest and gut—tight but it’d do. He elected to leave the hood off. He wanted to not be recognized, but also go unnoticed. People tended to draw suspicion to those dressed like they were about to rob the place.
Inside the pharmacy, Bruce scratched his trimmed beard, shielding part of his face as he entered. Chances were this guy knew Bruce having had dealings with Mayhew and Jared. Best to play it safe and avoid being spotted. He stood at the ATM, back to the store and used the circular mirror above him to spy on the Mexican while he withdrew a couple hundred dollars.
The tall Mexican walked the store, settling back by the pharmacy. He had a prescription. Perfect.
Bruce purchased a Dr. Pepper then returned to the taxi and pa
id the driver. He swapped back the hoodie for his security jacket. It might come in handy for this next bit. He remained across the street and waited for the Mexican to leave in his idling cab.
A few moments later, Bruce returned to the pharmacy.
“Kid,” he said to the attendant at the front checkout.
The young man smiled and nodded.
“My friend was just in here and somehow lost his receipt.” Bruce held out a twenty dollar bill. “I wondered if you could print me another?”
The kid looked around the nearly vacant store and nodded, taking the cash. “Sure.”
He stuffed the bill in his pocket and tapped the screen a few times. The printer screeched out a receipt which he tore and handed to Bruce.
“Thanks man.” Bruce walked away, staring at the receipt. His Mexican friend had purchased six burner phones, two flash drives, and a tin of Altoids. He’d paid cash.
Stuffing the receipt in his pocket, Bruce made his way back to the pharmacy counter. Behind the bulletproof glass, the pharmacist, an Asian woman dressed in a white coat a couple sizes too big, asked if she could be of assistance.
Bruce tried the same tact as he had with the cashier, but the pharmacist wasn’t buying it. When he persisted, she threatened to call the authorities.
Then he spotted it, a basket, full of receipts, nestled on a shelf between empty pill bottles and a stack of white paper bags. Above it stretched a pole loaded with hangers, clipped to filled prescriptions.
Bruce needed that information. He held up his hands and smiled. “No need. I am the authority.” He pointed to the badge on his Security uniform. “I’ll return with a warrant.” He left.
On isle three of the small store he found a section of toys. One, an airsoft pistol with an orange tip that would otherwise look real. He ripped open the package and tore the tip off the pistol, careful not to damage its appearance.
He returned to the pharmacist counter and kicked open the door. It gave in easier than expected, splintering off the knob.
Bruce held out the gun and yelled for the woman to get down. She did, ducking behind a row of shelves. Bruce snatched the stack of receipts and ran.
The twenty dollars must’ve bought some good will because the front cashier just nodded his head as Bruce plowed out the front door and raced down the street.
A stupid move and he felt terrible about submitting the lady to such a terrifying act. Maybe she’d suffer from it as he had from his military service. Such horrid fear did awful things to the mind. The heist was equally stupid because Bruce already had a rap sheet. He’d go away for a few years if he got caught for this one regardless of how noble his intentions. They’d probably suspect he made off with some oxy. At another stage in his life he might have. Now, however, that thought sickened him. He’d been within reach of oxy for sure. But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until now. That need to escape was gone.
Bruce ran into a section of apartments, slipped into an inside hallway then out the back into an alley. He raced around the corner, his ears searching for sirens, but none came. Response times could be within a few minutes, unless the officers were busy with other, more pressing matters. He hadn’t hurt anyone. Cops would probably treat the event like an armed robbery.
He turned the corner and spotted a pub across the street. He slowed his pace, but still hurried inside then made his way for the bathroom.
He found an empty stall and sat, trying to slow his breathing. His hands shook as he withdrew the stack of receipts. On top were two scripts stapled together to a credit card receipt. The first listed a steroidal ointment to treat eczema for a forty year old patient, Juan Casalaspro, birthday October 29. The second, a script for nicotine patches made to Joaquin Maxwell.
43
Jared leaned back in his wooden seat in a gray walled room somewhere in the Pentagon. He wore a plain suit, not too different from the one he’d purchased in college for the interview circuit. Stiff, not like the suits he’d grown accustomed to wearing over the past year while working with Mayhew.
Mayhew. Even now, a couple weeks after, Jared couldn’t believe that his old friend had died. It offered some consolation that it didn’t appear Mayhew had known of the hit out on Jared, at least not before it happened. According to the audio file from Joaquin, Mayhew had become a problem to the cartel so Junior killed him.
On the recording, Junior spoke of the dead as if he’d gotten tired of his old car and traded it in for a new one. People were objects. How could anyone be so calloused? Emma had been his world, not a thing. Irreplaceable.
As much as it hurt, being separated from his kids, Jared knew that it would keep them safe. That, and they had round the clock observation. Jared could rest easy at night, despite sleeping alone, without his bride.
“Go ahead, Mr. Sanderson.”
The prompt brought Jared back to the room of a dozen other men and women, also in cheap attire. Spencer, his new friend nodded for Jared to present his research.
Clearing his throat, Jared stood, noting his slide deck on the projection screen with the wag of a finger. He tapped enter on his laptop and changed the screen to a crude chart.
He did his best to explain how the cartel used Northern to launder money through public and private investments. Not laundering really as the funds had come into the firm already cleaned. Still, Northern invested them into public and private securities, making them even more legitimate.
The crux of the scheme involved insider trading. Jared started with the easiest transactions first, showing the incidents of sabotage to companies, following a timeline of when Northern invested funds, betting on those companies’ demise.
It didn’t take long to show the pattern of stock manipulation and insider trading. But the meeting wasn’t with the SEC. These were military men, NSA, FBI, CIA and the Secretary of Defense herself, Mrs. Lorna Roode.
When he clicked to the next slide, half of the room leaned forward in their chairs as if a couple of inches let them read the projection better. Jared explained the correlated timeline of the Euro futures market and the trades placed by Northern. The next slide was a video, dated a month after the trades. Short clips highlightning a series of terrorist attacks across Europe.
The next slide showed the drop in futures value following the attacks and then the sizeable increase Northern received when they finalized the second wave of trades.
“Currency manipulation?” an NSA official said, his voice sounded first of skepticism, but he wore a look of fear.
“Yes sir.” Jared went to the next screen.
“I’m sorry son, but the cartel doesn’t have pull like that. Not in Europe.”
Jared nodded. “I don’t think we are dealing with just the cartel.”
A CIA official interjected, “So what? Al-Qaida and the chicanos got together and had a baby?” he shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it. Sure, it looks like the cartel’s been up to some stuff, but we’re talking about global influence, here.” The official shook his head and stood as if to leave.
“Sit down Dan,” Roode said. “Go on, Mr. Sanderson.”
The evidence seemed so clear to Jared. He expected that anyone would take to it quickly, anyone smart. He hadn’t expected to have to sell these guys on the evidence.
“Thank you ma’am.” Jared cleared his throat. “It’s not just currency manipulation. I think this is all leading up to something.”
Roode held up a hand. “Before we get to that, Mr. Sanderson, please tell us who they is.”
She’d found the weak spot in his theory. He didn’t really know. The National Islamic State was the likely bet, but he didn’t know who among the many factions might have this kind of coordination. And he struggled to tie anything back to anyone past the cartel. The contacts had been layered. Joaquin received his information from Junior who received it directly from Guzman. Maybe the terrorists ran Guzman.
“Qui bono, ma’am,” Spencer said. “We need to dig deeper to know just w
ho we’re dealing with and how they’re tied in with the cartel, but when you connect the dots, as Mr. Sanderson has done, you’ll see that it is highly probable that we are dealing with a very powerful terrorist outfit.”
“But who? Where?” Roode wouldn’t have any suppositions.
A portly man raised his hand. “Madam secretary, we may be able to corroborate Mr. Sanderson’s theory.”
Roode nodded for the man to continue.
“I’d like to remind everyone that this is highly classified. I assume Mr. Sanderson has been made aware of his obligations with the information shared here.”
Jared nodded, though Roode didn’t seem the least bit concerned. She waved her hand. “He has the security clearance to be here so out with it.”
“There is a group identifying themselves as the New Islamic State, with a leader known as Askari.”
“Askari is Arabic for soldier,” said a woman at his side. That remark earned her a short scowl.
The man continued, “We believe Askari to be a native English speaker, most likely born in the US as many of the communications are first received in English then later translated.”
Roode leaned back in her chair. “What makes you think he’s involved with the Sinaloa Cartel?”
The man shook his head. “We don’t have anything regarding that, ma’am. Except that these string of terrorist attacks across Europe were, as far as we can tell, coordinated by the NIS.”
Dan from the CIA raised a hand. “With this information, we’d like to follow the money, see if we can get a better sense of what the NIS and this Askari character are planning.”
Roode all but ignored the guy. “Mr. Sanderson, why don’t you proceed with your presentation?”
