An Eye For An Eye

by L. D Beyer

  “You know,” Maria said with a smile. “I suspected something when I met him a few months back. He seemed happy.” She looked up and Kendall nodded. “I’m glad for him,” she continued. “He needs someone.”

  “That sounds like a mother speaking.”

  Maria laughed. “We ought to invite them both to dinner.”

  “I wouldn’t mind meeting her myself.” He sighed. “But with everything going on right now, it may take a while to arrange.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before the president put his arm around his wife. She leaned in.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  She turned and looked up. “For what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

  “For helping me put all this in perspective,” he said. He kissed her. “But mostly, just for being you.”

  ___

  As Terry Fogel made his way through the crowds, he could sense that something had happened. There was always a tension in the airport: missed connections, delays, people hurrying to catch planes. But he could sense something else, even if he couldn’t speak the language.

  He stepped into the restaurant and smiled, then shook his head at the hostess as he made his way to the bar. As he sat, the bartender asked him, in broken English, what he wanted.

  “Jameson’s,” Fogel said with a grin, nodding toward the bottles on the back of the bar.

  He smiled again when the bartender placed the shot in front of him.

  They chatted for a few minutes, then Fogel nodded toward the TV in the corner and asked what had happened. The bartender, a dark-skinned Mexican, with more Aztec than Spanish blood running through his veins Fogel guessed, shook his head. He glanced cautiously at other patrons then leaned forward.

  “They killed his daughter,” he said softly.

  Fogel feigned surprise as the bartender filled in the blanks. Nothing shocked him anymore.

  The bartender held his gaze for a moment then turned and walked to the end of the bar to serve another customer. Moments later, when he returned, he picked up a glass and polished it with a towel. He glanced around once more then leaned forward again. “El Ocho will get his revenge,” he said with a knowing eye and a nod. “Just wait.”

  Fogel asked several questions and the bartender, in a quiet voice and with more than a touch of reverence, answered. Fogel wasn’t surprised. He had seen the same thing from some of the boys back home. The exploits of some of his colleagues had become legend. His own had too, for a while anyway. And here in Mexico, in the barrios, amongst the working class, amongst the poor, El Ocho was a hero.

  It was a strange thing, Fogel thought. El Ocho was viewed as a hero. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange. Although many innocent civilians had been caught in the crossfire over the years, El Ocho had provided where the government had failed. He offered jobs where there previously had been none. He built schools and medical clinics and provided housing to people who had no means to support themselves. And, because of him, people who would otherwise go hungry had food on their tables. And he did this by satisfying the depraved needs of the Americans; a people Fogel knew, who had too much time and too much money on their hands.

  And so the game would continue, as it always did, as it always had for thousands of years: the Arabs and the Jews fighting over the same piece of dusty desert; the heavy-handed Chinese government suppressing a people who wanted nothing more than to have a small measure of control over their own lives; ethnic cleansing in the Balkans; apartheid in Africa; slavery and a brutal repression of the Native Americans in the U.S.; the list went on and on. And in his own country, almost eight hundred years of oppression under the British.

  It always came down to four things: economics, race, religion, and ideology. In his own life, he had found the key to economic success by serving as a hired gun, a mercenary available to the highest bidder. He would never become rich, but he lived comfortably and always had enough in his pocket for a good Irish whiskey. The differences in race, he never understood. And as for religion and ideology, he no longer had time for such nonsense.

  When the bartender left to serve another customer, Fogel glanced up at the TV, certain that Guerrero would call again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Patty sighed. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had planned a quiet dinner for the two of them. Then, in the morning, Matthew had promised to take her to New York City, to make up for the Valentine’s weekend they had missed. They had planned to visit the Museum of Natural History, have a late lunch in Little Italy, then check into a hotel. In the evening, they had tickets to a play—a Broadway production she had been looking forward to.

  Now, she thought as she stared down at her half-packed suitcase, he wouldn’t be coming home at all. Although Matthew hadn’t said much—security procedures typically prevented him from sharing all but what was already on the news—he had told her that an operation in Mexico had gone badly. What exactly that was, she wasn’t sure. There had been nothing on the news, not yet at least, but whatever it was, it was causing concern within the White House.

  She knew that Matthew had been looking forward to the weekend too; they had talked excitedly last night. She also knew that world events were out of his control. Still, she sighed as she began putting her clothes away, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

  ___

  Guerrero sat stone-faced as his wife wept openly beside him. He didn’t notice her sobs. He didn’t hear the cries of the others behind him. He didn’t hear the words of the priest. He didn’t see the large arrangements of flowers, almost overwhelming the small, white casket. He didn’t see the ring of men, all armed with automatic weapons, all nervously scanning the crowd.

  His father had once told him that all a man had in this world was his family and his God. His father, an old man then, close to death himself, had been wrong. He had no family. His Carolina was gone, stolen from him. And he had no God. What kind of God would permit this?

  The sun shimmered off the casket, the reflection painful to his eyes. Still, he didn’t blink. He continued to stare at the white box that contained his only child. He would no longer see her smile. He would no longer see her eyes sparkle. He would no longer hear her laugh. The image of her lying on the ground, her head destroyed, was forever burnt into his brain. He sat and stared, no concept of time passing.

  Sometime later, he wasn’t sure how long, he startled as the casket began to blur. Confused, he continued to stare as his vision clouded. He shook his head, a small movement, reluctantly taking his eyes away from the casket, away from his Carolina. His head hung on his chest and he stared down at his hands, blurry but folded neatly in his lap, as they had been for the last four hours. Something splashed, and he saw that his hands were wet.

  He looked up again, noticing for the first time that he was alone. The sky was beginning to darken and a moment later he felt the first drops of rain. He wiped his eyes then put his hands on his knees and stood slowly. He took two steps and then his hands were on the casket. He stood there for some time, his own tears mixing with the raindrops that splattered off the polished wood.

  The rain stopped just as suddenly as it had started. He wiped his eyes again and straightened. It was a while before he spoke.

  “Sí, Carolina,” he finally said. “It is my move.”

  ___

  Matthew Richter studied the aerial photos. The ranch, over one thousand acres, was nestled in the mountains north of Ciudad Victoria in the state of Tamaulipas. He studied the rugged terrain, the mountains along the eastern border, the patches of desert scrub brush and dirt to the west, the cluster of buildings and, beyond, the stables, riding trails, and cattle pastures.

  His soldier’s eye went first to the security, noting the layers: the outer perimeter fencing, the high walls farther in, the roving teams of guards, and the second wall surrounding the buildings. The guards, even from the aerial shot he could see, were all heavily armed, many on ATVs. He picked up another photo. A young ma
n, eyes hard, wearing the bush hat and the combat fatigues of a Special Force unit of the Mexican Air Force stared back at him. He was part of a total security force estimated at two hundred and twenty, all suspected to be deserters of the same unit. A small, highly trained, and heavily armed enemy, he thought with a frown.

  He glanced at the aerial photo again. Along the outer wall were machine gun nests—bunkers concealed in the heavy brush and supposedly manned twenty-four hours a day. There was a chance, CIA analysts had said, that some of the bunkers were also equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Yet, despite the security, another Special Forces unit, this one from the Mexican Navy, a unit that routinely trained with U.S. Navy Seals, had been able to insert a sniper team. No doubt since then the elaborate security at the compound had been increased. He studied the cluster of buildings and then individual photos of each. He read the descriptions on the back, reviewing what he had heard earlier.

  The final series of photos were of Pablo Guerrero; his chief of staff, Alberto Espinoza; and those of various members of the Sangre Negras hierarchy. Richter stared at Guerrero’s face for a moment then sat back thinking.

  He could not fault the Mexican government for their decision to deploy the sniper teams. President Magaña had declared the cartels an enemy of the state, and that made the leaders legitimate military targets. That Guerrero’s daughter had been killed was a tragedy, an unfortunate accident that could have been avoided had the sniper team chosen a better angle. However, as he knew, conditions in the field were often different from how they appeared during planning sessions, and a soldier in the field often had to improvise.

  Although Mexico had suspended any further sniper missions while they completed the investigation, President Magaña was undeterred. The Mexican military was considering several options, including an assault of the compound, but had specifically requested the use of U.S. drones to minimize the casualties.

  Richter had to give President Kendall an answer. He was against using the drones where non-combatants were present unless they were only being used for surveillance. But the Mexican government had requested armed drones. Unless they could isolate Guerrero—something the Mexican sniper team had tried, unsuccessfully, to do—his instinct was to say no. There were too many servants, gardeners, chauffeurs, and others whose only crime was working for the Guerrero family. That made a drone strike risky. An aerial assault of the compound was risky too, he knew, both because of the suspected SAM capability and the risk that innocent bystanders would get caught in the ensuing firefight.

  He sat back and, without thinking about it, began a series of exercises, moving his arm as the physical therapist had instructed. He raised his arm above his head, feeling the sudden sharp pain. He ignored it, holding it there while he counted to ten. He dropped his arm again and let out a breath. It had been two weeks since the cast had come off, and he was frustrated with the rate of progress.

  He continued to move his arm slowly as he stared down at the photos before him. He was still not sure what he would say when he met with the president in two hours.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The van crawled at a snail’s pace through the streets of Mexico City as the first signs of daylight began to filter through the buildings and the smog. Not quite six in the morning, the streets were already clogged, but the driver didn’t mind. Today, the city’s congestion would work to his advantage.

  Forty minutes later, the driver—a sound technician—finally turned on Paseo de la Reforma and followed it northeast. Modeled after the Champs-Élysées in Paris, the wide boulevard cut diagonally across the city, at one time providing Emperor Maximilian a direct route from his castle to the National Palace. Maybe then, the driver thought, a trip across the city had been easy. It took another twenty-five minutes before he reached the glorieta. At the roundabout, he turned again then followed a zigzag route toward the Zócalo, the main square in the heart of the city, the place where his Aztec ancestors had gathered seven hundred years ago.

  It was just after seven when he finally spotted the plaza through the gaps in traffic. He followed the line of cars and trucks as they turned right at the square, passed by the Federal District buildings and, then, turned left at the next intersection as the road curved around the plaza, past the National Palace. He maneuvered his van into the left lane and, at the end of the square, he turned left again, passing the cathedral. At the end of this side of the square, he turned left once more and pulled into the empty spot in front of the tent.

  Within seconds, two police officers were at his window. He showed his permit and identification and, after several questions, they seemed satisfied. The barricade was moved, and he pulled his van into the plaza. Even though the concert was not for another twelve hours, the square was crowded as workers set up the stage and installed temporary lighting and sound systems while the food vendors began setting up their booths around the perimeter. Normally crowded on most days, over one hundred thousand people were expected to descend on the Zócalo by late afternoon.

  The driver parked by the back of the stage and stepped out into the chilly morning air. He took his time unloading the cables and equipment. No sense rushing, he thought. He had more than enough time. As he stacked the cables on the ground, the supervisor hurried over.

  “You’re late.”

  The driver shrugged.

  The supervisor glanced at the cables and then in the back of the van.

  “These are the replacements they gave you?” he asked, indicating the two large speakers in the back.

  The driver nodded, knowing that he had been asked to bring the newer, smaller set.

  The supervisor shook his head. “Did you test them?”

  He nodded again. “Yes. And I brought another soundboard just in case.”

  “Okay. Get these set up and test them again. Leave the van there. If something goes wrong again, we’ll need our tools.”

  The driver shook his head. “The police told me I could only park here temporarily, just to unload.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” the supervisor said; his frustration was evident. “I’ll take care of it.”

  The driver nodded again. He hadn’t planned on that. He would have to improvise.

  ___

  Richter flexed his arm, feeling the slight twinge in his shoulder. Ignoring it, he picked up the gun. It felt heavy in his hand. He brought up his left hand to support his right. Flicking off the safety, he took a shooter’s stance then lined up the sights. It took him a moment to steady his aim. He let out a breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands. He dropped his arms to the low-ready position and stared out at the target. There was a hole in the upper right hand corner, an inch from the silhouette torso, and even farther, he frowned, from the center of the chest where he’d been aiming.

  Shit! He swore under his breath. The cast had been removed almost a month earlier and although he had diligently followed the physical therapy schedule, he wasn’t progressing fast enough. At least not according to his own expectations. Consequently, several days earlier he had decided that he needed to accelerate his therapy and, ignoring both his doctor’s and his therapist’s advice, he began lifting weights—once early in the morning and again late in the evening—trying to rebuild the muscles that he’d lost. It wasn’t much, just five and ten pound dumbbells. But it was a start. He could not accept the doctor’s warning that his days as a federal agent—at least the type of agent he wanted to be—might be over.

  He stared at the target. Based upon his first shot, he had a long way to go. He took a breath, brought his arms up again, and fired.

  After two clips, he was able to hit the target consistently. But his shots were spread out across the torso. Only one had hit the cross in the center mass. Not good, he thought, as he rubbed his aching arm. Frustrated, he switched hands, this time holding the gun with his left hand and using his right for support. Two clips later, he felt better. After almost three months of shooting with his lef
t hand, his useless right arm trapped in a cast, he had improved significantly. He wouldn’t win any shooting competitions, but he could hit what he was aiming at. Now, using his right hand for support, it was like night and day. There was a cluster of holes around the center mass.

  Not bad, he thought. But the target was only twenty-five feet away. He attached a fresh target to the frame and pressed the switch. The target slid away, and he watched it pass the twenty-five foot mark. He stopped at thirty-five feet. Tomorrow he would try again with his right arm. But, for now, he wanted to see just how good he was with his left.

  ___

  By 3:00 p.m., there were sixty thousand people in the plaza. Although the Zócalo was one of the largest city squares in the world, people were already jostling for space, trying to find a spot closer to the stage. Despite the crowd, people were in a festive mood, many singing and dancing, others laughing, playing, all excited for the concert still hours away. A line of seventy-five policemen were stationed in front of the National Palace while another two hundred were ringed around the square across the street. More wandered amongst the crowd, a visible presence designed to keep order. As the evening approached and the crowd grew, so would the number of police.

  Wiping his brow, the driver dropped his tool belt on the floor of the van, then shut the door. He locked the van and, when he turned, noticed his supervisor frowning, glancing at his watch.

  “It’s not time for your break yet.”

  The driver nodded in the direction of the line of Porta-Johns at the edge of the square. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.

  “Did you check the last connection?”

  The driver nodded again. “I tested everything twice. Everything is working properly.”

  He motioned the supervisor over to the soundboard. He punched a few buttons, slowly increased the volume, and music began playing though the speakers. The crowd began to cheer. He adjusted the balance and fade controls, effectively cycling through the channels, sending music to the two main speakers he had replaced, first the right and then the left. Then he channeled the music through the side speakers one at a time, before rebalancing the system.