“Never too busy for you, Santiago.”
“Good, because I need a delivery made today.”
Garza felt his throat tighten. “Today?”
“Yes,” the cartel leader said. “I need this done by tonight. No exceptions.”
“Santiago, I have my men already taking care of a delivery as we speak. We cannot handle any more deliveries today. I can have it done tomorrow morning, however.”
There was a pause. Every second that passed, Garza could feel the desert temperature rise. He watched as a trail of dust followed his team down the dirt road toward town.
“So you are working with one of my competitors, and they are more important to you than the Zutons? Is that what you are telling me?”
“Of course not. The Zutons are my most valuable client. I simply had this scheduled ahead of time.”
“I see.”
Valdez offered another gut-wrenching pause, while Garza scrambled for a way to avoid a conflict. He kicked at small rocks and waited for a response.
“I have been a very good customer, Antonio. I do not believe you want to deny my request. It might not be the best decision for your future.”
The man left it at that, the words hanging in the air like a butcher’s knife over Garza’s neck.
“Santiago,” Garza began without knowing what to say.
“Yes.”
Garza mined his brain for a way to make it work. This was no time to accrue enemies. Somehow he needed to make the bomb and Santiago’s product fit in the same transfer.
“I can do it,” Garza said with authority.
“Very fine,” Valdez said. “We shall meet at our usual location at five.”
“We will be there,” Garza assured him.
“I know you will,” Valdez said, then disconnected the call.
Garza looked down at his cell phone as if it were a loaded weapon. He had many calls to make, but the first one needed to go to his American partner. He could do nothing if the northern side of the border wasn’t ready for him. He pushed a button on his phone and put it to his ear. When Sonny Chizek answered, Garza said, “We have a double order to place tonight.”
“Just make it worth my while,” Chizek said.
Garza put his phone away and grinded his teeth. He could tell something wasn’t right. There were too many new players in his system. He began to consider who the infiltrator might be and how he might deal with him. Then a new thought occurred to him. How many ways could he dissect a human body while still keeping the brain alive long enough to see the mutilation.
This one thought sustained him long enough to dial his second number on his phone. When the man answered, Garza said, “You’d better know where the American FBI agents are right this minute.”
Chapter 21
In Hebron, Israel, Shimon Yosef sat cross-legged in the back of the prayer room patiently waiting for David Zuri to finish speaking with a crowd of older men. The men stood in a circle in front of the otherwise empty mosque. There was no furniture, simply a large expanse of carpet to allow the visitors the room to pray.
Yosef watched the young man bow and shake hands with the elders while the knife beneath his thobe scratched his inner thigh. The men began to exit the mosque and Zuri walked them to the door before kneeling beside Yosef and leaning over to pray. When he sat back and crossed his legs, Zuri handed Yosef an envelope. Yosef didn’t need to count the money inside to know it was light. Too light.
“What is this?” Yosef asked.
Zuri seemed to understand the vague question. “The money is simply not there. They’ve been threatened by Hamas to discontinue donating to us.”
Yosef dropped the envelope and bowed and prayed for the strength to be patient. He took a deep breath and returned upright, grabbing his knees for stability. “We cannot sustain these reductions.”
“What did the American FBI man say about our warning?”
“He is a fool,” Yosef snarled.
“But he must know about the bomb.”
“He is a fool, David. Do not let his actions dictate yours.”
There was a long, quiet stretch of time where the two men recited the words of the Quran written on the walls of the mosque, periodically lowering their foreheads to the carpet.
Yosef waited for Zuri to finish his prayers. The young man lowered his voice even though they were alone in the building.
“Hamas is too strong,” Zuri said.
“Hamas is a weak political tool. They choose words over actions. Words will never affect change as much as action will.”
Zuri seemed to digest this. “I do not know, Shimon. I feel we may have made a mistake. Too many of our followers have returned to Hamas for the protection they offer.”
Under his clothes, Yosef’s right hand found the handle of his knife. “By this time tomorrow, word of our attack in America will have spread across the globe. Then what would you say?”
There seemed to be some doubt on Zuri’s face. “This Sadeem. I do not know.”
“What do you mean?”
Zuri turned to face him. “We discovered him in the United States. He’s been with us for less than six months and we give him this kind of responsibility.” Zuri returned to face forward. “I do not know.”
“You have many doubts, don’t you?”
Zuri nodded absently. “I believe I shall accept an offer to return to Hamas.”
“They have made you an offer?” Yosef seethed beneath a stoic demeanor.
Zuri nodded. “They have the type of political muscle we will never see. Not in our lifetime.”
Yosef could stand it no longer. He pulled the knife from under his thobe and drove it into Zuri’s stomach, the force of the blade thrusting all the way up under the man’s ribcage and into his heart.
Zuri turned with shock on his face, trying to mouth words, but nothing came out. Finally, he dropped into Yosef’s lap.
“No,” Yosef whispered. “Not in your lifetime indeed.”
Zuri’s body lost all balance. Yosef held up his frame with the knife inside him. Like a puppeteer, he maneuvered him into a deep forward prayer position. His head against the carpet.
Yosef removed the blade with a sucking sound as the bloody instrument vacated Zuri’s internal organs. He wiped the bloody knife on the inside of Zuri’s shirt, then tucked it away. He picked up the envelope and stood over the dead man.
“You will not be alive to see the trauma we will inflict, David. That is too bad for you.”
As Yosef exited the mosque into the night air, his hand felt moist and he realized he needed to clean up. He found a coffee shop and used the bathroom to wash his hands. As he did this, he wondered for just a moment about the responsibility he had bestowed upon Sadeem. The man was a loyal follower and the cousin of one of Yosef’s closest friends. It was not someone they had stumbled upon arbitrarily. His conscience was clear.
As Yosef wiped his hands, he heard a beep from his cell phone. When he looked to see the text message, he smiled. It was from Sadeem:
Device is on the way. All is well.
Yosef had just taken one step closer to becoming a large player in the world of international terrorism. His words would no longer be a frail voice in the wind. He was about to bring the United Palestinian Force to the front of the pack and this one fact kept the smile on his face all the way home.
They pulled into the motel parking lot and entered the small office with the ragged look of four weary
