Balance of Power

“What do you want?” the guard asked. He was a very tall, lanky man with a curly spray of thinning brown hair.

Juan stood there for a long moment, apparently dumbfounded. “I want to know where the hell I am.”

“Where the hell do you want to be?” the guard asked.

“I’m looking for the Iglesias campground.”

The guard snickered mirthlessly. “I’m afraid you’ve got a bit of a ride ahead of you. Or more accurately, behind you and to the east.”

“What do you mean?”

The guard jerked a thumb to the right. “I mean the campground’s on the top of that next hill over there, the one with the—”

There was a dull series of phup-phup-phups behind Juan as the other familia members fired at the guards. The men dropped silently with red, raw holes in their foreheads.

As the familia members moved forward, Juan set the bicycle down, pulled off his backpack, and went to work.

The easiest way to get in was to announce yourself on the intercom and wait for the gate to be buzzed open. But that wasn’t an option nor was it the only way in. Juan removed a cloth from the backpack as well as a crowbar. His undershirt was heavy with sweat and the cool air chilled him as he climbed halfway up the fence to the left of the gate.

He flung the crowbar over the top while holding the free sleeve of his shirt. The shirt landed on top of the barbed wire. Juan reached his index and middle fingers through the nearest link, grabbed the crowbar, and pulled it back through. Then he removed the iron bar and tied the shirt sleeves together. When he was finished, he took the shirt belonging to Ferdinand, the muscular night watchman. He repeated the procedure so that there were two layers of fabric over the barbs. When he was finished, the men climbed over the safe zone they’d created on top of the fence. They dropped quietly inside the perimeter and then waited a moment to make sure no one had heard them. When they were certain no one had, they walked swiftly toward the metal door in front. They walked carefully, crossing the open area in relative silence.

The other three men had crowbars as well and Ferdinand had a.38 revolver in his deep-cut right pants pocket. There were extra shells in his left pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief so they wouldn’t jangle. Juan and his people did not want to kill any more people. But after what had been done to Senor Ramirez, they would not hesitate to do anything that was necessary to complete their mission.

They knew that the door would be locked and had planned accordingly. Juan was the tallest of the men and he placed his crowbar on the top left side of the door, between the door and the jamb. Martin bent low and put his bar on the bottom left side. The other man, Sancho, inserted his crowbar to the left of the knob. Ferdinand pulled the gun from his pocket and stood back, ready to fire in case they were attacked.

The men wedged the prongs of the crowbars in as far as they would go. If they didn’t get it open on the first try they would push them back in unison and try again. They figured that two strong pulls should do it. Martin had worked in construction and said that even if the door were double-bolted, the jambs wouldn’t be steel reinforced. Grounded metal like that would wreak hell with the radio broadcasts, he said.

The men pulled hard on Juan’s count of three. The door flew open on the first try, large wood splinters fracturing up and down the jamb. As soon as Ferdinand gave them the all-clear they ran in.

There were three people inside. One man was inside a soundproof booth and two people, a man and a woman, were seated at a control panel. As planned, Martin sought out the fuse box. He found it quickly and killed the electricity. The station died before the announcer could report what was happening. Under the brilliance of two battery-powered emergency lights mounted on the ceiling, Juan and Sancho ran over to the technicians. They clubbed each one hard across the collarbone. They fell to the ground, the woman moaning and the man shrieking. While Ferdinand covered them, Juan entered the booth. He walked calmly toward the announcer.

“I want to know who gave you the tape you played earlier,” Juan said.

The slender young man, bearded and indignant, moved back on the rolling chair.

“I’ll ask you one more time,” Juan said, raising the crowbar. “Who gave you the tape recording?”

“I don’t know who he was,” the man said. His voice was high and squeaky. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

Juan swung the crowbar against the man’s left tricep. The man grabbed his arm as his mouth dropped open and let out air, like a furnace. Tears formed in his wide eyes.

“Who gave you the tape?” Juan repeated.

The man tried to close his mouth. It didn’t seem to want to work. The chair thumped up against the wall and stopped.

Juan continued toward him. He looked at the fingers of the man’s right hand. They were wrapped around his upper arm. He swung the crowbar again, at the fingers.

The iron bar smashed the back of his hand, just below the lower knuckles. There was an audible crack, like the snap of dry chicken bones. The hand dropped onto the man’s lap. Blood pooled and caused the skin to bulge at once. This time the victim was able to scream.

“Adolfo!” he shouted from that wide, open mouth. “Who?” Juan repeated. “Adolfo Alcazar! The fisherman!” The man provided Juan with the address and Juan thanked him. Then he swung the crowbar one more time, just hard enough to break the man’s jaw. Juan looked out at Martin and Sancho, who did likewise. There wasn’t time to check for cellular phones and he didn’t want them calling ahead to warn the fisherman.

Five minutes later the four familia members were driving back down the road toward San Sebastian.

SIXTEEN

Monday, 8:15 P.M. Washington, D.C.

When Hood called home, neither Sharon nor the kids picked up the phone. The answering machine message came on after four rings; it was Harleigh’s from the day before.

“Hi. You’ve reached the Hood family. We’re not home right now. But we’re not going to tell you to leave a message because if you don’t know that, we don’t want to talk to you.”

Hood sighed. He’d asked the kids not to leave smart-ass messages like that. Maybe he should have insisted on it. Sharon had always said he wasn’t strict enough with them.

“Hey, guys, it’s me,” Hood said. The conviviality in his voice was difficult, forced. “I’m afraid I’m going to be at the office a while longer. I hope you all had a good first day of spring vacation and that you’re out at the movies or the mall or something fun. Sharry, would you please give me a call when you get back? Thanks. Love you all. Bye.”

Hood felt a flash of desperation as he hung up. He wanted very badly to talk to Sharon. He hated having this barrier between them and he wanted to make things better. Or at least to make peace until he could sit down, talk to her, and make things better. He tried Sharon’s cellular phone but got kicked into the answering system. He decided not to leave a message.

Almost the moment he put the phone in the cradle his private line rang. It was Sharon. He smiled and a weight seemed to rise from his chest.

“Hi there,” he said. This time the conviviality was effortless, genuine. There was noise behind her — loud talking and garbled announcements. “You guys at the mall?”

“No, Paul,” she said. “We’re at the airport.”

Hood had been slumped back tiredly in his big leather chair. He sat up. He didn’t say anything for a moment; it was a good habit he’d picked up during his political career.

“I’ve decided to take the kids to Connecticut,” Sharon continued. “You won’t be seeing them much anyway this week and my folks have been asking us to come up.”

“Oh,” he said. “How long do you intend to stay?” His voice was calm but his insides weren’t. He was looking at the framed family photograph on his desk. The picture was three years old but the smiles on the four faces