An Eye For An Eye (27 page)

Silently, slowly, Richter crawled forward over the cold ground, sliding up behind the tree. There, he lay, still for a moment, listening to the sounds around him. Other than his own breathing and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees, he heard nothing. He slid quietly to the side and lay still again. Then, slowly, he turned his head, sweeping his eyes across the field before him, looking for the thing that didn’t belong; looking for movement. The sound seemed to catch him by surprise. The soft drumming, fast and steady, grew. He listened to the beating, finding solace in the rhythm. It was his heart, he realized. The sound grew and soon he could feel it in his chest, then after a moment, in his fingers and his toes, his whole body thumping. He could hear the blood pumping through his arteries, the sound building, the beats coming faster, until it sounded like a stream, a river, a rushing red torrent, the roar building in his head.

Startled, Matthew Richter woke to an agonizing pain. Wanting to scream but holding it in, he struggled with the kaleidoscope of images in his head. Slow, oozing, shifting, the scenes flashed before him, each vividly sharp for a brief instant before clouding, blurring then vanishing into the darkness only to be replaced by a new flash, a new image. He struggled to figure out what it all meant, but his thoughts seemed to form slowly then slip away. He knew what it was, he told himself. But when he tried to find the word, when he tried to explain it, the answer was just beyond his grasp.
What the hell
?

Patty suddenly flashed before him.
How long will you be gone?
He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came.
Is it dangerous?
He tried to shake his head, tried to form the words, but his tongue seemed lost in his mouth.
It’s just for a day
, he wanted to say,
maybe two
. He could see the fear in her eyes as she started to fade. She grew darker, fainter, until the only thing he could see was her face, her eyes incapable of masking her fear. He tried to reach out, but suddenly there was nothing left. She was gone.

He lay still for a while and concentrated on his breathing, trying to make order of the confusion in his head. Struggling to focus, he took inventory. His ears were ringing and there was a pounding drumbeat of pain in his head. His chest felt like it was in a vise.
What’s going on?
He opened his eyes, or tried to, but something sticky was blurring his vision, weighing his eyelids down. He tried to sit up, slowly this time, flinching at the jolt of pain that shot through his body. He lay still for another moment. Then he tried to move his arms and when he couldn’t, he struggled to understand why.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Then, he sensed something, more of an intuition than anything else. His arms were pinned.
What?
He was sure of it. His arms were pinned below something.
Below him?

He lifted his head slightly and felt another sharp stab of pain and, as he put his head back down, he felt something sticky on his cheek. After a while, he realized it was blood. The coppery taste was in his mouth, the smell was in his nose.
His own blood!

He was jostled, and he felt the pain coursing through his body again but he also felt something else.
He was moving.

After a while—he didn’t know how long—he woke again. The fog lifted somewhat, and as he lay there an image began to form in his mind. A helicopter. While he struggled with what that meant, President Magaña flashed before him. Then, as if a dam had broken, the thoughts came rushing back in a cascade. The secret meeting. The explosion at Magaña’s ranch.
What happened to Magaña?
Knowing he wouldn’t find the answer to the Mexican President’s fate until he found the answer to his own, he took inventory again. He tried to move his arms and legs and realized that he was bound and then, a moment later, that he was gagged. He felt a flood of panic, a fear so deep that he couldn’t breathe, that he would suffocate. He fought it, concentrating, slowing his breathing until the panic faded. Then he realized why he couldn’t see; he had been blindfolded as well. But he could smell and taste blood and knew that he must be injured.
The explosion!
That was why he was in pain. Okay, he told himself, pain he could deal with. He analyzed what he knew and the realization dawned on him. He had been kidnapped.

What happened to Agent Tillman? What happened to the other agents? Where is President Magaña?
He felt a stab of pain as he was suddenly jostled to the side.
Has he been kidnapped too?

“It hasn’t hit the news yet, sir, and the Mexicans aren’t saying much, only that there has been a security incident involving President Magaña and that they are investigating.”

President Kendall, sitting in the darkened living room in his pajamas, let out a breath. “What about Matthew?” he said into the phone.

“We haven’t been able to reach him,” Phillips said. “We’re trying to contact his security detail…” His voice trailed off.

Kendall frowned as he stared at the phone. “What about the drones?”

“From what I’ve been told,” Phillips said, “the Mexicans have denied us access, claiming its restricted air space.” There was a pause on the line. “Maybe we can get something from the satellites?” his Chief of Staff asked.

“It’ll take care of that,” the president said then paused a second, thinking. “I want to meet with the cabinet. And the NSC staff.” He glanced at his watch. Most were likely home asleep, unaware. It would take some time to get them back to the White House. “In two hours,” he added.

“Yes, sir,” the Chief of Staff responded. The president heard a car horn as Phillips continued. “Word of the meeting will get out. We’ll need to prepare something for the press when they start asking questions.”

“Let’s get on it,” Kendall ordered then paused. “But our first priority is Matthew. I want to brief our ambassador and have him formally request more information. We need to find out what’s going on.” He paused again, thinking. “In the meantime, who’s in charge?”

“From what I understand, there’s no automatic succession,” Phillips said. “Their Congress would need to elect an interim president.”

The president heard more noises: a truck’s horn and then the chirp of a siren. Phillips was on his way in.

“Okay,” the president said as he stood. “I’ll be down in the Situation Room.”

When Richter woke again he was shivering. The air was bitterly cold, and he pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to preserve what little body heat he had. His arms were still bound behind him and he had a pins-and-needles sensation radiating down both. There was an intense pain in his right shoulder, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the explosion, from lying on his side for so long, or a lingering pain from the gunshot wound he had suffered what now seemed like ages ago.

He struggled to roll over and, after several attempts, succeeded. He instantly felt better as the pain in his right shoulder subsided to a dull throb. He took inventory again. The ground was cold, and he felt the packed earth against his cheek. Had he been dumped outdoors? The ringing in his ears was gone and he strained to listen, searching for the sounds of people, of a road or highway, anything. After a moment, he heard the trill of a bird followed by a flutter and then a cooing sound. There was a bird’s nest nearby, he realized, and that meant he was outdoors, or close to it.

He noticed a distinct odor: an earthy, dusty smell that reminded him of the root cellar at his grandfather’s farm. This was mixed with a faint, lingering sweetness that reminded him of animals, of hay, of manure. It wasn’t strong, but it was there nonetheless and he realized that he was in a barn or some sort of enclosure where farm animals had once been penned.

He put that thought aside and continued. He was still blindfolded and gagged, but, as he shifted his position slightly, he caught a small sliver of light along the bottom of the cloth. He rubbed his face against the cold earth, ignoring the pain, and, after a few attempts, succeeded in moving the blindfold slightly. The sliver was bigger now.

He saw a shaft of light coming in through an open window, the dust particles flittering and dancing in the air. The window was nothing more than an opening in the cinderblock wall—no glass, no shutters. He spotted a tree outside and, from the angle of light, he knew that the sun was low on the horizon. Other than the sounds of the birds there was a stillness that told him it was morning.

He lifted and turned his head slightly for a better view when he heard a soft moan behind him. He rolled over again, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder. He bent his head back as far as he could and, through the slit, he saw a bloodied, gagged, and blindfolded face. He recognized the nose and chin. They belonged to Felipe Magaña.

He heard noises, muffled voices, and then someone was in the room. Suddenly, there were hands below his arms and he was being lifted, his feet dragging on the dirt floor as he was carried.
Where?
He feigned unconsciousness, his head lolling to one side, as his senses catalogued what they could. Even with the blindfold, the sudden brightness told him that he had been carried outside. He focused on sounds and smells, trying to get a sense of his surroundings—and his options—when he heard a car door opening. He was thrown in the back and covered with a heavy blanket and suddenly everything was dark again.

When he learned that Magaña and the American National Security Advisor were still alive, Guerrero had cursed and immediately thought that he would have to eliminate a few of his own men for failing him. But they had survived and now Guerrero realized how much better that would be.

His prisoners were now on their way to Monterrey. Guerrero would soon be leaving for Monterrey as well. There were some jobs, some tasks that were better handled personally.

Magaña and the American National Security Advisor were being taken to a business that Guerrero owned on the outskirts of the city; a legitimate business that provided services to ranches like his.
How fitting
, he thought with a grin.

He didn’t waste time congratulating himself on his foresight. To him, at least, it had been obvious that one day he would have to leave the drug trade behind and, knowing this, he had quietly purchased dozens of businesses around the country. Most were secluded ranches or farms, but others were small manufacturers, restaurants, metal fabricators, or car dealerships operating and even thriving in the cities. They had been purchased through shell companies, and he had paid all of his taxes and complied with the government’s many regulations. They had been useful as a way to launder money and, as he had planned from the very beginning, they would one day provide a legitimate income during his retirement when the day came that he decided it was finally time to leave the drug business; the day when he decided that he could retire comfortably. But that day had come and gone years ago and he was still here.

Over the years, some of the businesses, especially those in the border cities and in the major ports, had been converted to serve as bases for smuggling. And his drug business continued to grow. He had also purchased numerous beachfront properties, both on the Pacific and the Gulf coasts and large houses—private haciendas really—in the larger cities. Some were for speculation, others were meant to be a second or third home, and then a fourth or a fifth. At the time, he knew the day would come when he might have to run, and he realized that he would need a place to run to, a place where he could forget the drug business, reinvent himself as a legitimate businessman and continue to live in the lifestyle he had grown accustomed to.

But that wasn’t going to happen, he knew, not now. His wife had left him. She was living now in one of his houses in Mexico City; living the life that he had planned for them both and for Carolina. His wife was in mourning too, but it hadn’t taken long for her to flee. Although she had never said anything, he knew that she blamed him for Carolina’s death. And so he had helped her, had his men deliver her safely to the house. She had servants and access to cash and he had made sure that she had a handful of men to provide for her protection. Lost in the masses of Mexico City, she would be able to hide in plain sight.

And so, he had been shrewd, he had been wise years ago when he’d begun to acquire businesses and properties. But no congratulations were deserved. For despite all of his planning, there was one thing that he had never contemplated. And now, he owed it to her, he owed it to Carolina, to make them pay.

He rang the small bell he kept on his desk and, seconds later, one of his maids was standing at the door, nervously wiping her hands on her apron.

“Find Alberto,” he ordered.

Guerrero stood when the servant left. It was time to visit the pigs.

Burt Phillips sat down heavily on the couch. “There’s no official word, sir,” he said softly. “Unofficially, the Mexicans believe that they may have been taken hostage. Publically, they’re stating that President Magaña is taking a well-deserved vacation.”

The president let out a breath. “So, we don’t even know if they’re alive?” he asked, his voice rising.

Phillips shook his head. Jessica Williams, sitting next to Phillips, leaned forward. “The only thing we know for certain is that eight of our people—Matthew’s Secret Service detail—were killed,” she said. “We’ve confirmed this through diplomatic channels. State is working to arrange to have the bodies turned over to us as soon as possible, but that may take some time.” She went on to explain the challenges with the Mexican criminal investigation and the desire by Mexican authorities to perform autopsies. The FBI, she said, was anxious to send a team of investigators, but, so far at least, the Mexican government had not granted permission.

“Guerrero?” The president looked at each of them.

Williams nodded. “That’s what the CIA believes, sir. The little we’ve been able to get from Mexican Intelligence—all through informal channels—is that they believe so as well.”

The president sat back as he considered the news. “No word on succession?”

Phillips shook his head. “From what we understand, they’ve scheduled an emergency session of Congress, but nothing yet.”

The president ran his hand through his hair then looked up. “Could this be the beginnings of a coup d’état?”

Phillips and Williams both shook their heads. “We don’t believe so,” Williams said. “The government seems to be functioning as normal. Their military has been put on high alert and, so far at least, the generals are following orders. But strangely enough, their Navy has been running a training exercise in the Pacific and, based upon satellite images and signal traffic, the exercises are continuing as scheduled. And this morning, based upon Night Stalker intelligence we provided, they raided a warehouse on the border with Guatemala.”

The president considered this for a few seconds. “So we don’t think Guerrero is making a play?”

Williams shook her head. “No, sir. Not yet at least.” She paused then added, “We’ve heard nothing from him. No public statements. No internet videos. Nothing.”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “And the motive?” he asked. He was afraid of the answer.

Williams let out a breath. “Revenge, sir,” she said. “We believe that he wants revenge for his daughter. The bombings in Mexico City and in New York apparently haven’t been enough. The CIA believes—I believe—that this is no longer about drugs. I’m not saying that he’s giving up the business. He’s still moving a lot of drugs, and word on the street is that he may be making a play for Los Arquitectos turf in Michoacán.” She paused. “But we believe that this is about revenge, plain and simple.”

The president shuddered as the image of Matthew’s body swinging from a highway overpass flashed through his mind. He was silent for a moment before he abruptly stood.

“The game has changed,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Phillips stood. “Can I ask what you intend to do, sir?”

The president turned back and stared at his Chief of Staff for a second before he answered. “I’m going to pull all Night Stalker assets. As of right now, they have new orders: to search for Guerrero and for Richter and Magaña. That goes for all military, all intelligence, and all law enforcement teams we have down there. I want all hands on deck leveraging every intelligence network, every source we have.” His eyes narrowed. “We have a SEAL team training for Guerrero?” he asked.

Phillips glanced over at Williams.

She nodded. “Yes, sir. They’ve been deployed to Texas. They’ve been training, running scenarios in the desert.”

The president’s eyes narrowed. “I want them ready to go on my command.”

A steady rain fell as President Kendall stared into the Rose Garden. Standing below the portico, he listened to the hiss of the rain splattering off the leaves, the staccato tapping off the drops on the roof, the patter of the raindrops splashing off the stones. Several Secret Service Agents stood watch at a respectful distance.

The dark, grey skies matched his mood.

Harry Truman had a sign on his desk that said,
The Buck Stops Here.
Kendall had seen the pictures, had heard the story.
The president
, Truman had said,
whoever he is, has to decide. He can't pass the buck to anybody. No one else can do the deciding for him. That's his job
. And, Kendall thought, the president had to live with the consequences of those decisions, as difficult as they might be. Truman certainly knew that, having issued the difficult order to drop atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, instantly killing ninety thousand people and forcing a Japanese surrender to end World War II.

President Kendall had made his own decision, a series of them actually and, as a result, people had died as well. Thirteen hundred people in Mexico City, fifty-nine in Manhattan. Scores injured and countless more exposed to radiation. And as difficult as it was to accept—as difficult as the loss of innocent life was—he knew he had had no choice. He could not ignore the threat of a terrorist organization that was capable of overthrowing an ally right next door. The consequences for the U.S., for the world, were too grave. And as long as there was a risk that they would explode another dirty bomb, he had to do everything he could to stop them.

And so he had sent Matthew Richter. He would not be alive today if not for Matthew. Richter, then a Secret Service agent, had risked everything to save him two years ago. He was much more than a friend, Kendall thought as he choked away a sob. He sighed as the weight of his decision hung heavy on his shoulders. Had he sent Matthew to his death?