An Eye For An Eye (4 page)

Matthew Richter turned at the sound of the voice behind him and saw Special Agent Mark Crawford coming down the hall. Crawford, the Commander of the JTTF, was a career FBI agent. He wore a troubled look, which wasn’t surprising, given that the man rarely smiled, not in the office anyway. Despite that, he was a diplomat and deftly navigated the often tense relationship between the arrogant and overbearing Bureau and the ultra-territorial NYPD.

“You hear about the DEA agents?” Crawford asked.

Richter shook his head. “No.”

“Four agents were killed today,” Crawford explained, giving Richter the details of the raid.

Richter grimaced. Although he didn’t recognize any of the names, he had a number of friends in the DEA. They were all good people. While the FBI, with its vast resources, technical expertise, and regimented training, was often seen as arrogant—a reputation not undeserved given the air of superiority the Bureau cultivated within its ranks—the DEA had a reputation for operating more like street cops. They were far less bureaucratic and much more nimble than the FBI, where operations and raids were, if not centrally planned, centrally scrutinized. Whereas DEA agents were given a lot of latitude, FBI agents often had to wait for a final go-no-go decision from headquarters.

In the last two years the cultural differences had become painfully evident and, on the occasion when FBI bureaucracy frustrated him, Richter wondered what it would be like to work for the DEA. Still, he knew, as he thought about the four dead agents, a cautious bureaucracy wasn’t always bad.

As if reading his mind, Crawford put his hand on Richter’s shoulder. “The number one job of any leader is to make sure his people make it home safe when the day is done.”

Crawford held Richter’s gaze until Richter nodded. It was something he thought about every day.

Two minutes later, Richter strode into the briefing room. Located in the FBI field office in lower Manhattan, the space was set up like a classroom with rows of tables facing the front. The SWAT team, Richter noted, was already there. He said hello to several of his men, Crawford’s words still in his head. A moment later, Crawford himself stepped into the room and made his way to the front. Richter took a seat, and the room quieted as Crawford picked up a remote control.

“I want to brief you on Operation Minuteman.” He clicked the remote and a picture of a stern-faced man with a military crew cut appeared on the screen. “This is Gerry Nichols. He’s the leader of New Jersey Free Nation, a militia organization operating in northwestern New Jersey, near the town of Sussex. The group has been relatively quiet for the past ten years, mostly attending gun shows, making the occasional ham radio broadcast, and running around the woods in camouflage playing weekend warrior.”

There were a few chuckles from Richter’s team.

“Nichols took over as the head of this group two years ago and is referred to as ‘the Major.’ We’ve seen an increase in activity since then in terms of recruitment, training, the purchase of arms, and more recently, social media. In the past, gun shows were the primary venue for recruiting new members. However, Nichols has leveraged social media—Twitter, Facebook, and blogs—quite successfully. Most of their postings are the typical anti-government, conspiracy theory stuff we’ve seen before. But,” Crawford paused for a second, “the difference is that Nichols has succeeded in not only increasing membership but in soliciting donations from other like-minded people; including people who, apparently, would rather provide financial support than join an armed resistance.”

Crawford hit the button and a new slide appeared. The mug shot showed a long-haired man with angry eyes. “This is Dwight Nichols, Gerry’s younger brother. He has been—excuse me, make that had been—in and out of jail a number of times for weapons-related charges, assaulting a police officer, and possession of stolen goods. Three years ago, he was killed by a New Jersey State Trooper after threatening the officer with a gun.”

Damn,
Richter thought as he rubbed his shoulder absentmindedly. That Nichols was a heavily-armed and paranoid right-wing militia leader was bad enough. The fact that he might be holding a grudge made it worse.

Crawford changed slides again, this time to a grinning, ginger-haired man wearing a heavy wool sweater. “This is Terry Fogel. In the late eighties and early nineties, he was active with the Provisional IRA in Belfast. He was suspected of numerous crimes, including the execution-style killing of two British soldiers and the bombing of a police station in Derry.” Crawford paused, his face grim. “But, he was never charged in either crime. In 1998, after the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, he fled Ireland for the Middle East where he disappeared for a while. Then, as far as we can tell, he came to the U.S. five years ago, maybe more.”

Richter shook his head, fearing where this was going. The next slide showed the two men together, both dressed in camouflage and toting assault weapons.

“Fogel has attended various Free Nation meetings over the last three years, serving, we believe, as a training instructor. In the past month, though, he and Nichols have met four times.” Crawford paused. “We’ve had an informant inside the group for the past five months. He tells us that they’re in the early stages of planning an attack.”

Richter frowned. He began to think through what was now looking like an eventual call-out. A direct assault on the camp might not be the best option, he thought, at least not while there were sixty or seventy people running around the woods with assault rifles and semi-automatic weapons. Better to apprehend Nichols alone, somewhere away from the camp. Same with Fogel. If they could plan it right, they might be able to arrange a simultaneous raid of the camp, preferably on a day when there was little or no activity, to seize the weapons. But, he thought, they would also have to identify the command structure and potentially arrest a few of the key lieutenants at the same time to lop off the head. That would be the ideal scenario, he knew. But would they have that option?

There were some murmurs in the room. Richter leaned forward.

“Have we identified the potential targets?” he asked.

Crawford nodded and a hush fell over the room.

“According to our informant, One Police Plaza,” he paused, his eyes narrowing, “and this building.”

As the helicopter lifted off the ground, Pablo Guerrero smiled at his daughter.

“Are you excited,
mi amor
?”

“
Sí, Papá
. I can’t wait to swim in the ocean.”

Carolina’s eyes were wide with excitement. Eight years old and she already had her mother’s beauty. Her regal features, her fine, dark hair, her green eyes, and her olive skin betrayed the traces of European blood in her veins. Guerrero reached out and took her hand.

“You will swim with me, Papá?”

“Yes.” He winked. “Of course.”

Carolina held his gaze for a moment, long enough to let him know she would hold him to his promise. Then she turned and watched as the ground fell away below them. He glanced over at his wife as she inserted a disk into the DVD player. She was in the process of putting her earphones on when she caught his eye.

“Two hours?”

“Sí. Two hours.” He smiled. “We’ll be there in time for lunch.”

She returned his smile then sat back and turned to the flat panel monitor on the wall of the cabin. He could see that she was happy. His wife enjoyed the finer things in life: the arts, shopping, dining. However, his restrictions over the last several years had been a point of contention. But he knew that the good often came with the bad in life, especially in his chosen profession. Along with the wealth and the notoriety came the restrictions. Safety was never far from his mind and that made it more difficult to travel these days.

While they had everything they needed inside their hacienda—servants, a pool, horses, tennis—she had complained of feeling isolated, confined. They had not been to Europe or South America in years. He had done what he could to make her happy but there were periods where she became moody, melancholy.

He rubbed his fingers along the rich leather of the armrest. This was his second trip in the helicopter, and he was still amazed at how smooth and quiet the ride was. The passenger compartment of the Sikorsky, configured for five, was spacious. Even with Alberto, his chief lieutenant, there was ample room. This was his latest toy; one, so far, that he had managed to hide from the authorities. Or at least those that mattered, he thought.

He looked back at his wife, noticing the faint smile on her face. The smile, he knew, was not because of the
telenovela
—some mindless nonsense she insisted on watching—but due to the anticipation of five days at the beach. And while this would make his wife happy, the truth was, he hadn’t bought the helicopter for her.

He squeezed his daughter’s hand. She turned and leaned into him, nestling below his arm. When she looked up at him, her eyes were filled with excitement. The smile on her face said it all.

“Are we still going swimming, Papá?”

“We can swim after our ride,” Guerrero said as he helped his daughter climb onto the horse.

“Papá!” Carolina said with feigned exasperation. She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless.

“A ride first, to check on the ranch.” Guerrero smiled back. “It’s been a while since we were here last.”

He waited while the stable hand adjusted the straps on his daughter’s saddle. Then, when the worker nodded and stepped out of the way, he turned to Carolina again.

“Listo?”
Ready?

Carolina wore a mischievous smile. “Sí, Papá.”

A minute later, the two riders led their horses on a trot over the rough terrain, the soft breeze from the ocean at their backs. They followed the path that wound through the cactus and sagebrush, past the gullies and washouts. They rode side by side. After a few minutes, they found themselves at the base of a hill. Still trotting, Guerrero looked over at his daughter. She handled her horse, a small Arabian, well. The Arabian was larger than the horse she had back at the hacienda. But was Carolina big enough? he wondered. He glanced ahead as the trail narrowed to a single track and then wound its way up the steep hillside through a series of switchbacks. It was time to see what she could do.

He smiled. “You lead,” he said.

Carolina smiled back, gently snapped her reins and pulled ahead. As Guerrero followed, he marveled at how deftly she handled the horse with only an occasional flick of the reins. For the most part, she let the horse follow the path on its own. The small Arabian, he could see, knew that she was in charge, accepted it, and rider and horse had become one. His chest swelled with pride. Yes, she was almost big enough.

It was dark as Guerrero strolled along the bluff overlooking the ocean. Walking by himself, he passed the few cows that were still out, lying on the ground, their legs tucked below them. He followed the rough split-rail fence over the uneven ground to the gate. Beyond was the path that led down to the ocean. Resting his hands on the gate, he stared out over the sea. There were no stars or moon tonight—the clouds were rolling in—just the path, the beach, and then a vast black expanse. As he stared out into the blackness, he considered the news.

Earlier, when he and Carolina had returned from their ride, he had found Alberto waiting for him. Now, while Carolina was fast asleep and her mother was ensconced in front of a movie, he was able to consider the implications. The loss of the tunnel was a setback. More important than the loss, though, was the lesson. It may have been nothing more than bad luck. Los gringos—the DEA—had become much more active along the border, with increased surveillance and undercover operations. The local police in Texas had become more wary too. But, as much as he could, he avoided what Ramón faced in Arizona and California by not letting the bloodshed spill across the border. Unfortunately, some of his people, it seemed, had been caught by surprise and had reacted. He would deal with them, but the implications of their actions were clear. The stakes had been raised again, and now he had to wait to see how the Americans would respond.

It had become a game of cat and mouse, a lesson he had learned the hard way. He had built a system of distribution routes to the U.S., over land—and under it too—as well as across the water. This gave him backups should any one be compromised. The problem was, this was the third tunnel he had lost in the last two years.

The Americans were becoming a nuisance, he thought as he stared out at the ocean. He would have to figure out how best to respond.

Brett Watson felt a churning in his stomach and quickly turned and hurried to the restroom. He’d just made it into the stall when he threw up.
Jesus!
he thought. What the hell was wrong with him? A moment later, he stepped out of the stall, noting, thankfully, that the restroom was empty. He washed his face in the sink and rinsed out his mouth as best he could. He looked up at the mirror. His face was pale and his eyes were glassy. Maybe he had the flu, he thought. But that didn’t make sense. How could the doctor have missed that? He put the back of his hand to his forehead. He didn’t have a fever—or at least he didn’t think so.

He stepped back from the sink and felt the burning pain in his stomach. He looked at his watch and swore. He was late. He popped two more antacid tablets into his mouth then grabbed his binder and rushed out of the restroom.
Must be an ulcer
, he concluded. Lord knows, this place did that to a person.

The men gathered around the plotting table and stared down at the large four-foot by six-foot aerial photo, an image obtained from Google Earth. Agent Beth Callaway tapped the photo, drawing everyone’s attention.

“This was an old hunting camp. It’s spread out over four hundred and sixty acres. The camp is bordered by state land on the western side and farmland and undeveloped private property to the north and south.” She traced her finger along a two-lane road on the eastern border. “This is Manutonk Reservoir Road.” Her finger stopped at a break in the trees, and she pointed to a dirt road that snaked into the forest. “This is the only access road.”

Richter leaned in. He saw what appeared to be two columns on either side of the access road with a bar stretching across. Agent Callaway noted his interest.

“That’s a gate—a steel, cantilevered slide gate like you might see at the service entrances and private terminals of an airport or”—Callaway looked up—“businesses located in the bad part of town.” She traced her finger along the perimeter. “It’s difficult to see here, but the entire property is surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire.”

She pulled her hand away. “As you can see, the camp is heavily forested, which should work to your advantage.” She traced her finger along the access road to a fork then continued down the path that curved south. The road led to an irregular-shaped clearing, curved around it, headed west for a quarter of a mile, then curved north. She tapped the clearing.

“This is the parade ground. It’s used for training and also serves as a firing range.” Her finger continued along the road to a large structure hidden below the trees.

“This is the main lodge which serves as mess hall as well as a meeting and training facility.” Her finger went back to the dirt road and followed it north. She stopped and tapped her finger again.

Richter spotted the twenty-plus small structures hidden amongst the trees.

“These are the bunkhouses,” she said. “According to our informant, each can accommodate two to three men.” She looked up at the serious faces around her. “Apparently, they prefer sleeping in these versus the barracks.” Her finger traced a line over to a larger structure at the end of the dirt road. “The informant indicated that the barracks are only used when the bunkhouses are full, which apparently is not too often. Many members from the surrounding communities choose to sleep at home.”

Richter studied the photo. Spread out over a quarter mile, each bunkhouse, he figured, was no more than twelve feet by twelve feet.

“They look rustic,” he noted out loud.

“They are,” Callaway responded. “Not much room for more than two or three cots or a couple of bunk beds.” She tapped another structure close to the barracks. “This is the latrine and shower facility.”

Callaway was silent a moment, letting the men study the map. Richter’s eyes digested the layout as he considered their options. They would probably come in from the western side where the state forest would conceal their approach. Breaching the fence would be easy. The critical question was where to hit them. The bunkhouses were the obvious choice; while the would-be soldiers were sleeping. He would need more information on the structures: the type of doors, whether there were windows, the materials used in construction. But still, it would be risky, he thought as he counted, finding twenty-six. They were spread out over a large distance. That would require a large assault team, three or more men for each building. A large team would require a lot of coordination and, the larger the team, the greater the chances that someone would spot them.
Not undoable
, he thought,
but not ideal
.

He bent closer, staring at the photo.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Callaway turned and frowned. “Dog pen. According to our informant, they have ten German Shepherds, which serve both as security and as a military canine unit. When they leave the compound, when no one’s there, the dogs are let out to roam.”

“And when the men are there?”

“They’re usually kenneled at night.”

“Usually?”

Callaway shrugged and Richter glanced back to the photo. The pen was in the middle of the bunkhouses. Unless they could somehow neutralize the dogs, without drawing any attention, attacking the bunkhouses was not an option.

He glanced at the lodge. That would allow a much smaller assault team, but presented different risks. No conditions were ever ideal, he knew, but his goal was to ensure that the raid was successful, with minimal loss of life. In a perfect world, the men would surrender peacefully. But the world was far from perfect. Based upon the propaganda he had read, the surveillance photos of their training, and the profiles of the more vocal and influential members, it was highly likely that these men would resist. Richter glanced up at his men, studying each of their faces one by one. Knowing there would be a fight, he felt the weight of his responsibility to ensure that each of them made it home safe when the firefight was over.

“Do we believe the threat is real?” the president asked.

“Director Monahan and his folks think so,” Watson responded. He explained what the FBI knew about the New Jersey Free Nation. “They have been amassing arms—assault weapons—and they have been training with a known Irish terrorist.” He paused, his face a grimace. “Their informant has shared enough details about the planned attacks that the FBI has no reason to doubt that they’re serious.”

The president stood and began pacing. After a moment, he stopped and leaned forward, his hands on the back of the couch.

“Not on my watch, Brett.” His eyes were hard; every word was measured.

Watson nodded but said nothing.

The president came around the couch. “When are we planning to hit them?”

“Monahan’s team is working through the details now.” Watson winced. “Probably within a week.”

The president studied his National Security Advisor for a moment, noting the bead of perspiration on his forehead. “Brett, are you okay?”

Watson nodded. “I’m fine.”

The president sat down next to him. “Are you sure?”

Watson nodded again then suddenly jumped up. “Excuse me, sir,” he blurted as he rushed out of the room.