An Eye For An Eye (10 page)

“Eight men were killed in the bombing,” Jessica Williams said. “Two were captured by the Mexican authorities.”

Richter frowned. “The men who were killed were part of their security force?”

She nodded. “Yes. According to the gun camera footage, they were in cars next to the buildings at the time of the strike. Somehow, two survived.”

The men killed were more than ordinary guards, he knew. Like several of their rivals, Las Sangre Negras employed former members of the Mexican Special Forces. To supplement, they also hired federal police officers—all men who had been corrupted. They were brutal and had no qualms about killing, as the over ten thousand deaths attributed to them alone indicated. Many of those who had been killed by Las Sangre Negras in their turf war with rival organizations and in their ongoing battle with the government had been innocent bystanders.

“How big of a dent will this put in their operation?”

“That remains to be seen,” she responded. “Our estimate is that we destroyed close to ten thousand kilos of cocaine. That would have a street value of approximately one point three billion dollars.” She paused. “That’s billion, with a B.”

Richter shook his head.
Billion?

“The cartel’s take would be about a sixth of that, or about two hundred million, still a sizable amount.”

Sizable, yes
, he thought, but he also realized it was still a long way from breaking them.

“We think this was a major distribution point for shipments to the U.S.,” she added.

He nodded and made a note. “Any reaction so far?”

She passed him a series of photos. “These were released by the Mexican government this morning.”

He studied the pictures. The first showed a large crater and the still-smoldering ruins of what had once been the warehouse. There were over two dozen police officers, faces hidden behind masks, standing guard. The second photo showed two men, faces bruised, hands cuffed behind them, both wearing bulletproof vests. They were being held by more masked police officers for the cameras. The third showed eight body bags lined up side by side.

“Any response from the cartels yet?”

She shook her head. “Not that we’ve heard.” She went on to explain that she had already asked the CIA and NSA to monitor the chatter, to see if anything turned up.

She was good, Richter thought. As the Deputy National Security Advisor, she was Brett’s chief of staff—he caught himself—she was his chief of staff now, at least for the time being. Three years his junior, Williams was African American and bore a striking resemblance to former Secretary of State Condeleza Rice. With penetrating eyes and a meticulous approach to analysis that rarely left her without an answer, she conveyed a sense of confidence.

“They
will
retaliate,” Williams added. “It’s a matter of when and where.”

Richter nodded. She was right. Two hundred million dollars was a huge hit. So was the destruction of a warehouse. That would force them to reroute at least some of their shipments. How big of an impact that would have wasn’t clear. He picked up the picture of the body bags. From the cartel’s viewpoint, he knew, the eight men were inconsequential. They placed little value on human life, and there seemed to be a steady stream of soldiers and cops ready and willing to join their ranks.

He sat back as he thought about what he would say to the president. The mission had been successful. No innocent civilians had been injured in the process. And a hell of a lot of cocaine would never make it to the streets. Enough, possibly, to temporarily impact street prices, he thought. All that was expected, and the president could easily read that in a briefing document. As Acting National Security Advisor, what the president wanted from him was his analysis, his opinion. And Richter’s gut told him that there was a tidal wave coming. They just couldn’t see it yet.

Richter stared down the barrel, lining up the sights. He kept his focus on the front sight as the target blurred. He moved his left index finger until just the tip—the pad of his finger—touched the trigger. While keeping his focus on the front sight, he let out a breath and maintained constant pressure on the trigger, pulling back slowly. Once again, the noise surprised him and his arm jerked up. He lowered the weapon to the low-ready position and then brought it back up to his natural point of aim. He found the sights, aligned them on the target, then slowly squeezed the trigger again. The shot rang out, and his arm jerked up again. He dropped his gun to the low-ready position and went through the process again.

He had been on the range—the FBI’s indoor range at Quantico—for over an hour. The first thirty minutes had been frustrating, his left hand an unwilling partner, particularly so since he could not use his right hand for support. By the end of the hour, some two hundred rounds later, he’d begun to hit the target with some consistency. His shots were dispersed, looking more random than planned, but still they seemed to find the target more often than not.

He had told the president that he would take the job as
Acting
National Security Advisor for the interim, while the president continued the search for a permanent replacement. He knew the president wanted him back in Washington and, now that he was back, he realized the demons he had fled from two years ago were no longer there. The Secret Service had a new director, and many of the old guard—agents who had been there for years—were gone, forced into retirement. And while he had no desire to go back to the Secret Service, he couldn’t see himself giving up law enforcement altogether. But whether or not he could return to the FBI, as a street agent and not just as some desk jockey, remained to be seen.

After some basic suggestions, the range instructor had left him alone. Richter changed the clip, somewhat awkwardly nestling the gun against his body with his right arm. After reloading, he checked the safety once more then laid the gun on the bench before him. He flexed his left hand, working out the cramps, as he stared down range at the target, at the holes punched through the paper silhouette. Unlike his own shooting, the drones had hit their first target with precision and no collateral damage. He remembered what he’d read in the briefing on Project Boston, the last time the U.S. had aggressively gone after the cartels on Mexican soil. Then they had deployed Navy SEALs, who along with a Mexican Special Forces team, had succeeded in arresting much of the cartel leadership, destroying vast quantities of drugs, and disrupting their operations. Then, the narco-traffickers had been slow to react. But they eventually did and, after three SEALs were killed, the program had been suspended. This time, he thought as he picked up the gun, the cartels wouldn’t be slow. Of that he was certain.

He shifted into a shooting stance again and fired once more. When he finished the clip, he pressed the safety, ejected the clip, and checked to make sure the gun was empty. He laid the gun on the bench in front of him.

“Not bad for a one-armed guy.”

Richter turned and spotted the Director of the FBI standing next to the range instructor, behind the safety line ten yards away. Director Monahan said something to the instructor, received a nod in reply, then walked over.

Richter smiled. “Hi, Pat. I hope you didn’t come all the way out here just to make sure I didn’t hurt myself.”

Monahan laughed. “I had to speak to the new class of agents. Someone told me you were out here.” He paused as he studied the target twenty-five feet away. “Actually, for one-handed shooting, with your non-dominant hand, that’s pretty impressive.”

Richter smirked as he nodded toward the range instructor, now visible behind the glass in the observation booth. “I don’t think he was too impressed,” he said.

Monahan chuckled. “How’s the arm?”

“The cast should come off in a few weeks,” he responded. “Assuming the bone has healed properly.”

Monahan nodded. “When are you headed back to New Jersey?”

“This afternoon.” He smiled. “Patty had a paper published and received an award. Her peers are holding a reception in her honor.”

“Hey, that’s great.” Monahan smiled. “Do you have time for lunch before you leave?”

He checked his watch. “I should. What’s up?”

“The president briefed me on what’s going on in Mexico. In the last twenty-four hours, our JTTFs have been picking up some chatter from informants in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Dallas…basically all over. I know NSA and CIA are picking up increased chatter as well. Nothing definitive but concerning nonetheless.”

Richter nodded. He was aware of this. In his new job as Acting National Security Advisor he had unlimited access to information from the intelligence community and from law enforcement agencies. Quite possibly, he realized, he knew more than Monahan did. He studied the FBI Director for a moment. Monahan had been involved in Project Boston, Richter remembered. He knew what the cartels were capable of then and he knew what they were capable of now. The FBI Director had tracked him down because the chatter, as vague as it was, had him worried.

As he climbed the stairs, Matthew Richter heard the music and the dissonant sound of multiple conversations. At the top, he spotted a set of double oak doors, propped open. Even from the foyer, several clusters of people—drinks in hand, mingling—were visible.
This must be the place
, he thought. The room, lined with dark mahogany paneling, an ornate fireplace with a heavy wood mantel, and, on two walls, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, was both a lounge and a reading room. There were half a dozen antique coffee tables, each surrounded by three or four high-back armchairs. Between the chairs were matching end tables with brass reading lamps. A string quartet was playing in one corner next to a grand piano that held several plants and an arrangement of fresh flowers. This library, Patty had told him, was reserved for faculty.

He saw her across the room. She was smiling, holding a glass of wine, and chatting with what he assumed were colleagues and friends. He scanned the room, his eyes briefly stopping on each person, before he caught himself.
Old habits die hard
, he thought, as he began walking over.

“You must be Matthew Richter.”

He turned to an older, gray-haired man dressed in a conservative business suit. A pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around the man’s neck.

“I’m Fred Newburg,” the man said, sticking out his left hand.

The dean of the department
, Richter remembered as he shook the man’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Newburg grinned. “Please don’t ‘sir’ me. It’s Fred.” He laughed. “If anything, I should be calling you sir.”

Richter found himself smiling back.

Newburg nodded toward Patty. “She’s quite a lady. We’re lucky to have her.”

That makes two of us
, Richter thought before he caught himself. He glanced over at Patty. Hopefully she was still feeling the same way.

Newburg continued to chat as he steered Richter toward the bar.

“Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression,” Newburg said in mock seriousness. “I don’t want you to think that this is all we academics do: wine and cheese parties every night.” He laughed again. “Your boss might decide to cut funding for education.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Richter answered with a grin. The man was charming, he thought. He had an easygoing approach and was clearly skilled at the small talk circuit. Not unlike a politician. Well, he was the head of the Political Science department, Richter thought.

As the bartender prepared their drinks, Newburg asked, “So how’s the arm doing?”

“Not bad,” he responded. “The challenge has been learning to use my left hand for everything.”

Newburg smiled and nodded. They chatted for a moment.

“You know, I’d like to ask you about Iran or North Korea, but Patty told me that I couldn’t.”

Richter smiled back but said nothing. There wasn’t much he was allowed to say about either other than that they continued to monitor the situation closely; a polite way of saying, no comment.

With a glass of wine in his hand—a glass he probably wouldn’t drink—he let Newberg introduce him to Patty’s colleagues.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night.” Patty was smiling, but he could see that it was forced.

Richter held up a hand in mock protest. “Hey, your boss cornered me. I kept trying to sneak away.”

She frowned and rolled her eyes. His attempt at humor, he noticed, had fallen flat.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he took her hand, hoping to ease the tension. “But I’m here now.”

She smiled briefly. She seemed about to say something but, instead, averted her eyes, seemingly drawn to the laughter coming from the conversation behind her. She dropped his hand.

“What did you think of him?” she asked when she turned back.

“Your boss?” he asked. He was relieved that she had changed the subject. “Actually, he’s very charming.”

She smiled briefly again. “Speaking of bosses, I want to show you something.”

She led him over to the grand piano, several Poinsettias sitting on top. At the end was a large arrangement of flowers.

“
Your
boss sent those.”

He picked up the card, the Presidential Seal on the outside.

Patty-

Congratulations!

David & Maria Kendall

That wasn’t surprising, he thought. It was something he had seen the president do numerous times during the eighteen months he had served on his security detail.

“He also called me,” she said.

He turned. That was a surprise.

She took his hand, and he could see her eyes were moist. “
Your
boss can be very charming too. And persuasive. After I talked to him, I think I know why you couldn’t say no. He needs you.” She paused a moment as she stared up into his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

He shook his head. “I’m not happy about it either.”

Then she smiled, a real smile this time, and he felt the tension ease.

She let out a sigh. “So, I guess, as long as this is only temporary,” she said, her eyes steady on his until he nodded, “Then I can make the sacrifice for my country.”

He grinned. “That’s very patriotic of you.”

She grinned back, hesitated for a second, then leaned in and whispered, “Well, you better take me home and reward me for my patriotism before I change my mind.”