The shame of the whole thing was that he knew the Taskforce wouldn’t have been where it was without Pike. It had been a long, hard fight to get the unit established, and Pike’s initial successes had guaranteed its survival.
George broke him out of his thoughts, asking, “What are you brooding over? You look like someone just shit on your birthday cake.”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about how far we’ve come. If Knuckles gets to Omega, it will be like closing a circle. Missing that terrorist four times is what caused me to quit the first attempt at the Taskforce and build what we have now. Dumb bastard doesn’t even know he’s the reason so many of his friends are now dead or captured.”
“Yeah, I know. I’d like to be there to see him go down. That ain’t it, though. I know you better. What’s up?”
Kurt paused, then said, “Pike. Once we turned him loose we started taking out terrorists like they were delivered to our door. I don’t know… I guess I feel like I used him, then threw him away.”
“Cut that talk out. Pike was good, but even you said he was a handful. He was always going off on his own. He never asked for permission to do anything. Just did what
Kurt knew that was bullshit. The Taskforce had existed for only three short years but in that time had executed over twelve Omega operations, all perfectly. A third of those successful operations were done by Pike’s team, a number twice as big as the next most successful team’s. Other team leaders said it was simply luck — being at the right place at the right time — but Kurt had worked with Pike long enough to know it was something else. Most of the success was due to hard skills, but a crucial part was simply an ill-defined talent that couldn’t be explained. Pike just made things happen. Yeah, he was a handful, but you couldn’t argue with success.
George saw him bristle and backed off. “I’m not saying he wasn’t good. I’m just saying that this effort is greater than one man. You can’t let an individual — any individual — supersede what we’re doing.”
“Yeah, I know. I get it. I don’t need my own speeches thrown at me.”
Kurt had used the “greater good” argument to convince President Warren to begin with. He wasn’t sure anymore it was right. The greater good had been used to defend a lot of actions in the past, including Pol Pot and Hitler. In contrast, the constitution of the United States itself was based on the individual — every individual.
His thoughts were broken by their sedan pulling up to the security gate for the Old Executive Office Building next door to the White House. The imposing granite structure housed some of the most important offices in the U.S. government, including the office of the vice president and the National Security Council. It was also where the Taskforce Oversight Council convened.
George parked the car. “Hey, I know how you feel about Pike. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
Kurt smiled, letting him off the hook. “Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant. Let’s go get this brief over with.”
16
Within his palatial estate a few miles outside of Guatemala City, Miguel Portilla addressed the two Arabs in English. “To ensure I understand, you’re offering me a retainer to move items across the border into the United States for a period of three years. These items can range from human beings to boxes no larger than three feet by three feet and weighing no more than two hundred pounds. Is this correct?”
“Yes. We’re willing to pay you a handsome fee regardless of whether we bring you something to ship or not,” stated the taller of the Arabs in heavily accented English. He appeared to be the spokesman, with the other Arab simply looking on and listening.
Miguel was a smuggler, although applying that term to him was like saying Bill Gates was a computer salesman. He was the undisputed leader of high-end smuggling into the United States. First earning his reputation with the Cali cartel in Colombia, he now worked exclusively with Los Zetas, a ferocious drug cartel made up of former Mexican Special Forces currently at war with the Mexican government.
“If I agree to do this, it’ll cost much more than you’ve offered, as I believe the implications will have a traumatic impact on my business. In addition, I’ll get your items into the United States, but I won’t travel more than forty miles across the border. I have no interest in being associated with your enterprise.”
Miguel was no fool. He knew that he was being asked to smuggle people and equipment that would be used solely to inflict death and destruction on the United States. In so doing, he also knew that the United States would react in a frenzy of fear, turning its porous borders into an airtight Tupperware container that an ant would have trouble infiltrating. He cared not a whit about the damage and destruction, but was concerned a great deal about the future of his industry. He also knew that in this day and age, the one thing that could destroy him was being named as an associate of a terrorist group. He could bribe his way out of any smuggling charge or connection to Los Zetas, but he couldn’t stand up to the pressure the United States would bring to bear if he was seen as helping terrorists who murdered innocent American civilians. Drugs and death in Juarez were one thing. Death on American soil was something else entirely.
Before the Arab could answer, one of Miguel’s ever-present personal security detail came in and whispered in his ear.
“Show him in,” said Miguel.
The door opened, and Eduardo was led into the room. He appeared healthy enough but still bore the scars of his jungle panic. He looked timidly at Miguel, then at the two Arabian men. Miguel made a big show of friendship toward the young Mayan, seeking to put him at ease. “Eduardo! How’re you doing? I thought you’d still be on the professor’s expedition. Don’t worry. You can speak freely. These ignorant foreigners don’t speak Spanish.”
Eduardo was afraid to say the wrong thing to this powerful man. He had worked for Miguel in the past as a high-end coyote, smuggling migrant workers into the United States. Miguel was one of the few coyotes who could get you into the U.S. in style, not packed like cattle in the back of a non-air-conditioned U-Haul, destined to die of heatstroke in the middle of the desert. Of course, this service cost much more than the migrants could afford, so the first few years of their wages, instead of being sent back to the family, were mailed to Miguel. Failure to mail the wages guaranteed that there wouldn’t be a family in need of funds in the future. Miguel had earned the moniker of “The Machete” by his methods of ensuring compliance.
“Sir, you told me to tell you if the professor found anything. Well, he found something.”
Eduardo explained the entire expedition in detail, telling of his and Olmec’s actions, the discovery of the temple, Olmec’s death, and his subsequent journey here.
Miguel was intrigued. “Tell me again how Olmec died. What was it he found?”
Eduardo went through the description of the bag and Olmec’s symptoms, reliving the terror again as he told the story. Miguel failed to notice the increased interest of his two guests in the description of the death.
“And you know where this temple is? You can take some of my men there?”
“No, sir. Olmec read the map, and he’s dead. The only one who would know where the temple is would be the professor. I wish I could take you there, but I can’t.”
Miguel’s demeanor turned cold. “But you said you had a GPS. Surely that would make this simple. Where is it? Are you hiding something from me?”
Eduardo felt sweat pop on his forehead. “Sir, the professor took the GPS back. I promise I don’t know where the temple is, but I do know where the professor is. He’s staying at a hotel in Flores waiting on a flight home. He’s got the GPS. I promise I’m not hiding anything.”
Miguel began smiling again. “I believe you, Eduardo. You’ve always been true to your word. So I understand, only two people have been to the temple, you and Olmec, and only one person knows the location, the
