keep his voice low. “You’re going to need help.”
This one seemed to stop Nick. Walt could tell his lead agent was surprised by his suggestion.
“You mean. . Tommy?”
There was no other help Walt could’ve been suggesting. The CIA was constantly at war with his division and adding untrained FBI agents to the body count simply wasn’t acceptable. Nick’s cousin Tommy, however, had roots within a well-known Sicilian family which occasionally operated outside the law. A family whose information had been very instrumental in capturing terrorists in the past. It was a relationship Walt found uncomfortable, but the return on investment had been remarkable.
“Yes,” Walt confirmed. “He’ll have contacts which could be extremely valuable.”
“Okay,” Nick said.
“I mean, we can’t afford to send shoes down there to muddle things up. The more agents we send, the scarier it gets. We use the surgical tactic we’ve planned. The smaller, the better.”
“That’s fine, Walt, but I’ll need Stevie to bring some tech toys with him.”
Walt looked out the bulletproof window behind his desk. The setting sun cast a shadow over the few cars left in the parking lot. His wife probably had his cold dinner already wrapped and in the refrigerator. After thirty years of marriage, she’d still be waiting for him with a smile and a kiss.
“I’ll have Stevie on the first flight out in the morning.”
“Good,” Nick said.
There was a silence while the two of them put their thoughts together. Walt wanted to tell Nick he’d hop on a plane and be there himself, but as he stared outside, he could sense the sun setting in too many ways. He owed it to his wife to be there. She’d seen too much action.
As if Nick could translate the silence, he said, “Stay where you are, Walt. You’re more valuable to me inside the beltway where you can get decisions made.”
Walt took the cue and said, “Nick.”
“Yeah?”
Walt squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. Be careful.”
Chapter 2
Not far from the US border, Antonio Garza, El Carnicero, stood inside the walls of his complex with a hose, watering the vincas and grumbling to some nearby soldiers about the status of his plants.
“Lo siento,” one of the soldiers said with an uneasy expression.
“In English,” Garza snapped. “Always, in English, you fool.”
“Sorry,” the soldier apologized.
Garza insisted his inner circle used their second language, because they needed the practice for when they crossed the border and tried to assimilate into the American public.
The late summer heat might have caused his garden to wilt, but that’s all that was drooping. His income had been growing remarkably over the past couple of years and the future looked bright. Being an independent contractor for the various cartels made him a necessity to everyone, yet no one’s enemy.
Just in case, his complex was surrounded by a ten foot block wall with subtle parapets for his guards to monitor the perimeter. The complex was able to withstand an attack from any number of weapons-including rocket-propelled-grenades. It was topped with a rectangular balcony which doubled as a watchtower.
Not by chance, the eight-thousand-square-foot building itself was built of brick on the side of a hill and housed thirty-five militia warriors, ready to follow his orders at a moments notice.
From behind him, Garza heard a window creak open and his primary lieutenant, Victor Sanchez, nodded for his attention.
Garza waved back. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” He handed the hose to one of the soldiers and gave instructions, then ran up the outdoor spiral staircase to his second floor office. It was an oversized room with dark tiled floors and rounded doorways with views from every direction. From there it was easy to spot anyone approaching the complex.
Garza passed a couple of armed guards on the way and as he arrived, he found Victor standing beside his desk holding out a cell phone.
Garza took the phone and smiled as he sat down and stretched his feet up on the desk. “How are you, my American friend?” he asked.
The man on the line didn’t sound like he appreciated the comment. “I have your information.”
“Please,” Garza waved his hand in a wide circle, “tell me everything.”
“His name is Nick Bracco,” the man said. “He’s been the Bureau’s top anti-terrorist agent for over a decade. He has a wife and an infant son. His partner’s name is Matt McColm. McColm is a sharpshooter who used to be with Special Forces before joining the Bureau. Neither of these men are stupid. They should not be taken lightly.”
“Excellent,” Garza said. “How motivated are they to come get me?”
“Very. You just killed two of their friends. They will retaliate.”
“Fantastic.” Garza’s eyes sparkled. “What else?”
There was a silence, which meant the American was considering how much to contribute.
“My friend,” Garza said. “Now is no time to be shy. We have much too much at stake. No?”
The line remained quiet for a few seconds. Garza waited.
“There is one other thing you should know,” the man said. “Bracco comes from a Sicilian family. His cousin, Tommy, has connections within a particular crime family out of the Baltimore area. No one knows how deep these relationships run, but there’s been rumors throughout the Bureau that Tommy has actually helped the FBI capture terrorists. He supposedly has informants all over the place. Maybe even below the border.”
Garza pulled his feet down from his desk. “You mean the FBI is using criminals to help them? Is that legal in your country?”
“Technically they’re informants, but they’re treated like consultants. The information flows both ways, however. There’s certainly some questionable ethical debates, but no one within the government is anxious to prosecute someone who’s rounding up bad guys.”
Garza twisted his chair to get a good look out the window. In the distance, past the airport hangar and the two-mile stretch of high desert landscape, was the border. He had so many good ideas roaming in his mind, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Where does this Agent Bracco live?” Garza said, pulling a notepad from his desk drawer.
“In Payson, Arizona,” the man said.
Garza found a pen in the same drawer. “And exactly what is his address?”
The man gave it to Garza and he wrote it down. El Carnicero circled the address and leaned back and sighed. “I have many surprises planned for this agent.”
“I’m sure you do,” the man said with no emotion in his voice.
Garza disconnected the call and placed the phone in his lap. He considered his next move. After a few minutes, he pushed a button on his phone. When a man answered, he said, “Expect company.”
“We’ve been waiting,” the man said.
Garza hung up the phone and went over to his window. Just below him, within the secure walls of his compound, his seven-year-old son Julio was waving a baseball at his dad.
“Papa,” he screamed. “Play with me.”
Amidst the soldiers with assault rifles, Julio was tossing the ball in the air and catching it with his baseball glove. It was a lonely existence for the boy, not being able to play with friends like a normal child. Since his mother was shot during a drug bust, Garza had been the boy’s sole friend.
Garza smiled. Julio was the only person who had received his unconditional affection. The boy’s attitude and zeal for life was the antidote to the daily stresses of his work. He picked up a worn baseball glove from a side table near the door and opened the window. “I’ll be right down,” he yelled.
