by L. D Beyer
Not a smart move, Agent Dunn thought. Their boat, she knew—an even nicer fifty-two-foot Cabo Express—was in the slip next to hers. She smiled again as they neared her boat.
“Where you boys off to today?” she called down.
They paused and all but Grumpy smiled back.
“Fishing!” two replied simultaneously. “What about you?”
She flashed a big smile. “Oh, I don’t know. Once I’m done with this, I’ll probably pop open a beer and maybe work on my tan.”
The men exchanged grins until Grumpy said something. But by then it was too late. Suddenly there were shouts, and the dock was swarming with agents—coming out of the marina office, out of the cabin of Agent Dunn’s boat as well as the Cabo Express next door. With their hands full of gear, the men never had a chance. The look on their faces, Agent Dunn would later say, was priceless.
As the six men slowly dropped their gear and lay face down on the dock, Agent Dunn dropped the hose on the boat. She lifted the bench seat and pulled out a nylon vest—black with a large yellow ATF on the back. As she watched her fellow agents, and the men lying on the dock, she slipped the vest over her head. No, she wouldn’t need her gun today.
She climbed down to the dock and, while her partners searched and handcuffed the prisoners, she opened one of the coolers. Inside, wrapped in wax paper, she found the guns. Disassembled, oiled, they looked brand new. The other cooler and the duffle bags, she was certain, would be similarly filled. She closed the cooler. She waited a moment for her fellow agents to finish securing the prisoners. Then, one by one, they were led off the dock to the waiting black SUVs with the flashing lights that had, minutes before, suddenly materialized.
“Good job, Maureen,” the agent in charge said as he stepped over.
She flashed a smile. “Oh, just another day at the office,” she responded. Then, as she climbed aboard the Cabo, she called over her shoulder. “Looks like we just got ourselves a new boat!”
___
One more lap, Guerrero told himself as he reached the wall, turned, pushed off with his feet and began swimming back. When his hand touched the other side of the pool, he stopped and stood, taking a few seconds to catch his breath. He climbed out, grabbed his towel and, as he began drying off, he spotted Alberto. By the look on his face, Guerrero knew something was wrong.
“The boat never arrived,” Alberto said.
Guerrero dropped his towel on the chair. “What happened?”
Alberto shook his head. “I don’t know. The trawler waited for six hours, but the boat never showed. I tried contacting Jose, but…” He shook his head.
Guerrero cursed. “Anything on the news?”
Alberto shook his head again. “No. Not yet, anyway.”
Guerrero cursed again as he considered the possibilities. The trawler had returned safely which meant that, most likely, the Coast Guard had intercepted the boat, somewhere off the coast of Louisiana. And if that were the case, Jose and his men would have been arrested and the shipment of guns would have been confiscated. It appeared that the trawler hadn’t been compromised, not yet anyway. But it was only a matter of time. Jose and his men knew the name of the ship, knew the coordinates for the meeting location, and knew the captain.
He looked up at Alberto. “Get rid of the trawler.”
Alberto nodded.
Guerrero considered the loss. The supply of guns would take some time to replace. But it could have been worse. Once the guns had been unloaded on the trawler, it would have been easy to send the yacht back to los Estados Unidos loaded with drugs. But he had, wisely it seemed now, made the decision to not mix the gun shipments with the drugs going north.
It could have been bad luck, he knew: a random search by the Coast Guard. But his gut told him that wasn’t it. Something had gone wrong and he needed to find out what.
___
Richter shook his head. “No thanks. I’ll walk.”
The orderly, standing in front of him with a wheelchair, frowned. “I’m sorry. But it’s hospital policy.”
Richter shot the orderly a look as he picked up his bag. Five days in the hospital—being told what to do, someone constantly fawning over him—was enough. He was anxious to go home.
Five minutes later, he stepped out into the sunshine, the worried orderly close on his heel. Although the air was cool, it felt good and he stopped for a moment and tilted his head up, feeling the warmth of the autumn sun on his face.
“It’s good to see you up and about.” Mark Crawford smiled as he opened the rear door of the black SUV waiting at the curb.
Richter grinned back. “It’s good to be out,” he responded.
The driver, another FBI agent, took Richter’s bag. Crawford helped him climb in and Richter winced at the stab of pain as he settled into the seat. A minute later, Crawford climbed in the other side and they pulled out of the hospital lot.
“I’m not sure how much of this you’ve heard already,” Crawford said, “but I’ll fill you in on the raid.”
Richter nodded. He had read the paper. Nine Free Nation members had been killed in the shootout, including Gerry Nichols. Six others, plus one FBI agent—that would be him—had been wounded. Fourteen militia members had been arrested in the lodge. Thirty-three other members had been arrested within hours as they arrived at the training camp. Terry Fogel, it seemed, had vanished.
There had been an initial firestorm of negative press, with comparisons to Ruby Ridge and Waco, the media blasting the government for using excessive force. That had lasted two days, until the U.S. Attorney’s press conference.
“We found a large cache of arms,” Crawford said. “M-16s, AK-47s, hand guns, grenades”— he ticked each off on his fingers—“as well as a large quantity of ammonium nitrate, primer cord, and other bomb-making materials.” He paused. “We also recovered several computers that had surveillance photos, diagrams and schematics, as well as detailed plans for the attacks.”
Richter nodded. He was aware of most of this. The U.S. Attorney had released just enough information to douse the public outcry. No one wanted to see another Oklahoma City.
Crawford continued: “We also found something unexpected. It seems they were involved in shipping stolen guns to Mexico.”
“Supplying the cartels?” Richter was surprised.
Crawford nodded. “Even more surprising, they were much more sophisticated than we thought. Six months ago, they set up a private trucking operation, handling mostly small shipments for a handful of customers.” He frowned. “They were mixing the arms in with legitimate customer shipments. The ATF believes they have identified the routes. The guns were delivered to cartel operations in Texas and Louisiana. From there they were shipped by U.S.-registered pleasure craft to a rendezvous point in the Gulf where they were off-loaded onto a Mexican-registered fishing trawler.”
Richter shook his head. The cartel link was disturbing.
“If we hadn’t stopped them when we did,” Crawford added, “the arms shipments could have become a significant source of funding, and who knows what they might have done then.”
Richter cringed at the thought.
“Of course,” Crawford continued, “we’ve frozen all bank accounts, at least those that we’ve been able to identify so far. But,” he sighed, “we’re still trying to sort out all that they were involved in.”
Richter glanced out the window as the SUV slowed. Although the light was green, the cars in front of them had stopped. He saw a cop in the intersection directing traffic. A second later, he heard the chirp of a siren and watched as the cop waved the ambulance through. Probably an accident up ahead, he thought. He turned back to Crawford.
“What about the shooting inquiry?”
Crawford was silent for a bit. “Ballistics confirmed that the bullet that shattered your arm came from Gerry Nichols’ gun.”
“How many shots did he get off?” Richter asked. For the last twenty-four hours—once he could think clearly—he had been playin
g the scene over and over in his head, trying to figure out what had happened.
“Two. We dug one slug out of the wall, inches from your window.”
Richter looked at Crawford, waiting for him to continue.
“Reardon was slow getting to his sector.”
Richter looked out the window as they began moving again. He had suspected it was something like that. He knew no operation ever went as planned and sometimes things went wrong. And while it could have happened to anyone on the team, Reardon’s stumble had almost cost Richter his life. He sighed. At a minimum, it had probably ended his career.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Mr. Watson?”
Brett Watson turned at the voice and held up his hand. The nurse, wearing the ubiquitous blue scrub pants and multi-colored pastel top, smiled.
“Are you ready for me today?” she asked as she stopped for a second in front of his chair.
He smiled back—a smile that didn’t quite make it to his eyes—and nodded.
“How are you feeling?” she asked as she handed him the clipboard and grabbed the handles on his wheelchair.
“Never better,” he smiled. Who wanted to hear the truth?
She patted his shoulder. “Sorry, we’re a little backed up today,” she said as she wheeled him through the door into the Nuclear Medicine wing.
She continued talking, more to fill the time than anything, as they made their way down the hall. He nodded and smiled occasionally but wasn’t really listening. His brain was flooded with thoughts, as it had been over the past two weeks. There was so much to do, and the treatments would hopefully buy him the time he needed. Still they took a lot of time; traveling back and forth and all of the waiting in between. This was his third radiation treatment and, so far, it hadn’t been as bad as he had expected. He had even dozed on and off the last time as the technician made the adjustments. Surprisingly the chemotherapy hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought either. That was good. He didn’t have time to waste lying in bed or bent over a toilet. His hair was starting to fall out, but he was beyond worrying about that.
The nurse’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“I’ll be back for you when you’re through,” she said with a smile and a pat on his shoulder.
He glanced up, realizing they were in the treatment room. He smiled back, weakly, then nodded at the technician. Thankfully, the technician said little as he helped him climb up on top of the table. He lay back and stared up at the machine. Until a few weeks ago, he had no idea what radiation therapy involved. It was like an X-ray, he decided. The machine contained a radioactive material—some toxic substance that doctors and scientists had figured out how to harness to give people like him a chance. Except in his case, the chance was not one of remission or survival, just a few more short weeks of life. Three months, maybe six was all the doctor could offer. Still, Brett had leaped at the chance.
From a legal and a financial perspective, he thought, there really wasn’t much to do. Their wills were prepared. Still they would meet with their accountant and their lawyer, making sure that the plans they had put in place four years ago, plans they never thought they would ever need, were ready. No, the issue wasn’t legal or financial. It was even more urgent. What does a husband do to prepare his wife, what does a father do to prepare his kids for the one day when he would no longer be there? How would he make up for the lost time—time he had wasted pursuing a career instead of spending it home with his family—when he had so little time left? What do you say to a seven-year-old girl who was still upset over a missed birthday? Or a thirteen-year-old boy who was struggling with the trials of being a teenager?
He sighed. Nancy was strong. And she was organized. She had left him in the waiting room so she could run errands—pick up his medicine, drop off a forgotten lunch at school—not wanting to waste the time they would have together later when he was home.
It was amazing how quickly life could change. What was important two weeks ago—the growing nuclear threat in North Korea and Iran, the drug cartels and the looming collapse of the Mexican government, and several dozen other risks that he had carried with him every waking moment—seemed trivial now. It almost seemed like a dream, a past life that he wanted to put behind him so he could focus on more important things in the little time he had left.
When Matthew Richter had stopped by the day before for insight into what was happening in Mexico, he had given Richter a few minutes then politely steered him towards his staff. They were capable and competent people and he trusted them. Maybe in a month or two, if he was still around, he might feel he had more time to spare for his country. But for the moment, he needed to be there for his family. And, he knew, he didn’t have too many more moments left.
___
It felt strange to be back, Matthew Richter thought as he pulled up to the gate. More of an apprehension than déjà vu, the feeling wasn’t unexpected.
Three officers, members of the Secret Service Uniformed Division, turned to study his car. Although Richter didn’t recognize him, one of the officers nodded in recognition. Somewhat clumsily, Richter put the car in park then held up his FBI credentials for the officer. He had been out of the hospital for two weeks and was still struggling with the awkwardness of using his left hand for everything.
“Welcome back, Agent Richter.” The officer hesitated then offered a weak smile. “I hope you don’t mind, sir, but we have to check the car.”
Richter smiled back. “I would have been surprised if you didn’t.” He popped the trunk and unlocked the doors. He watched as one officer with a dog circled the car while the other slid a large portable mirror below his rental. Moments later, the gate opened.
“You know where to park, sir?” the officer asked as he handed Richter a pass.
“I think I can still find my way around,” he responded with a grin. He pulled forward, following the curved drive. Seconds later, he parked. Climbing out of the car, the feeling struck him again. With a sigh, he headed for the door.
In the vestibule, he nodded to other officers that he recognized. One of the men handed him a plastic bin. “You’ll need to check your weapon, sir.”
Richter lifted his right arm; it was in a blue sling. “I’m not carrying,” he responded. He dropped his keys, phone, and credentials into the bin, then patted his pockets. He felt the lump in his coat. Feeling awkward and naked without a gun, he still carried a tactical baton. He was putting the baton in the bin when a voice he recognized stopped him.
“He doesn’t need to do that. I’ll sign him in.”
Richter turned to see Keith O’Rourke, the supervisor of the White House Secret Service Command Center.
“Keith! I thought you were planning to retire.”
O’Rourke smirked and shook his head. “It seems I’ve been planning that for the last five years.”
Richter struggled for a moment as he gathered his belongings. O’Rourke handed back his visitor’s badge. As he followed his old mentor around the metal detector, O’Rourke leaned close and whispered. “I was wondering when we’d see you here again.”
Richter grinned. “It’s good to see you too, Keith.”
After they entered the lobby on the ground floor, O’Rourke stopped. “So, clipped in the wing, huh?”
Richter gave his former mentor a summary of the raid.
“How’s the recovery coming?”
Richter frowned. “Slow. It’s going to take some time before I know the full impact.”
O’Rourke nodded then, thankfully, changed subjects, filling him in on what had been happening in the White House and the Service since he had left.
“It must feel a little strange to be back, huh?” O’Rourke asked minutes later when they were standing outside the Oval Office.
“More than you can imagine,” Richter responded with a chuckle.
He shook hands with a few people he knew—somewhat awkward with his left hand—before the door opened.
___
; “Hi, Matthew!” Maria Kendall exclaimed as she threw her arms around him. Instantly she let him go. “I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes flooded with worry, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
Richter smiled, “It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Kendall.” He raised his arm slightly, nodding at his sling. “And no—no harm done.”
“It is so good to see you! And please,” she said, “it’s Maria.”
Richter smiled and nodded as she took his arm and led him to the couch in the middle of the Oval Office.
“Dave will be back in few minutes,” she explained as they sat. “So how have you been?” She asked. “You’re working for the FBI now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
She frowned, but he saw the smile in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, ma’am…Maria.” He grinned. “Force of habit.”
“I was so sorry to hear that you had been shot,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “How’s the recovery coming? What do the doctors say?”
Richter dutifully answered the First Lady’s questions then asked a few of his own.
“How are the girls?”
“Oh, they’re both doing well, thanks.” A proud smile spread across her face. “Angela’s a sophomore at Boston University and Michelle is still playing soccer at Brookfield Academy.” She laughed. “If you ask Dave, they’re both growing up too fast and it’s driving him nuts.”
