An Eye For An Eye (11 page)

“You’re asking for too much.” Guerrero stated, careful to keep his voice even.

“But I’m the one taking the risk. Am I not?” Ramón responded. “Besides, you don’t have an alternative, do you?”

Guerrero was seething. This wasn’t what they had agreed to when they’d shaken hands almost three years before. He considered his position. It would take two or three weeks to reestablish his supply route to the U.S. He had other warehouses: two on the southern border with Guatemala, two in the state of Veracruz to the east of Mexico City, and one to the north in the state of San Luis Potosi. But the warehouse in Tamaulipas had been his main terminal for shipping product north. It was a risk, he had realized earlier, and one he was in the process of addressing. But he had not been quick enough.

Through a shell company, he had signed a contract on a submersible. But it would take several months to finalize the deal, and then there were the modifications that would have to be made to suit his needs. It could be four or five months before the submersible was ready. Conversely, for his overland routes, it would take him several months, at a minimum, to find another warehouse that far north, and quite likely much longer if he had to build.

He had made a mistake, and now he was stuck.

“One half?” he asked.

“One half,” Ramón responded.

Ramón’s men would pick up the product in Guatemala. Ramón was even willing to cover the transportation costs and the bribes required to move the product to the U.S. In return, Ramón wanted half of the shipment for himself. The lost profits weren’t the issue, Guerrero knew. Rather, it was the impact on his distribution network. When wholesalers and dealers in the U.S.—people who had come to rely on him for a steady flow of quality product—realized that he wasn’t capable of supplying all of their needs, they would quickly look for alternatives. And there would be Ramón, with an abundant supply.

“One half,” he finally stated.

After he hung up, he sat back thinking. He knew Ramón would continue to squeeze him, likely demanding a greater cut of the next shipment. This would further strengthen Ramón’s position in the U.S. as Guerrero’s own network shrunk. If he couldn’t replace the lost warehouse quickly, or find another alternative soon, he would have to concede territory: first somewhere like Atlanta, then maybe Boston or Chicago, and the dominoes would start to fall. If he were able to re-establish his own supply routes quickly, he could win those dealers back.

But with his foot in the door, would Ramón ever give him that chance?

“Are you sure you’re ready for tomorrow?” Richter asked.

“How bad could it be?” Patty asked as she snuggled up next to him on the couch. Both held cups of cocoa as the soft sounds of an orchestra playing holiday music drifted across the room.  Half a dozen presents lay open below the tree, the lights twinkling off an errant bow and several small pieces of wrapping scattered below. Several other larger boxes, still wrapped, were stacked in the back.

“Have you ever heard of
enhanced interrogation techniques
?”

“I don’t buy that, not even for a second.” Patty said as she leaned into him. “I’m sure your mother’s a wonderful person.”

Righter grinned. “Oh, you two will get along just fine. I’m the one who should be worried.”

Patty laughed then snuggled up again and let out a contented sigh. The following day, they would travel to Ohio for a second holiday dinner with his mother, his sisters and their families, and several cousins. They would fly, but not without several Secret Service agents on the plane with them. Once they landed, agents from the Columbus, Ohio, field office would meet them at the terminal, two armored SUVs full of gun-toting agents ready to haul Richter and Patty wherever they wanted to go.

Although he had resisted at first, with the classified information he was exposed to daily, he was considered a vulnerable target, and security protocol dictated that he have protection. It was an ironic twist that he found discomforting and more than once he had to remind himself that he was no longer the
protector,
he was now
the
protectee
.

It was a role that did not come easily to him.

Guerrero studied his daughter. She was speaking softly to the cat, scratching its belly, seemingly more interested in the white Persian than the game on the table between them. The cat was purring, content in her lap. He cleared his throat and Carolina looked up at him, the lights from the Christmas tree reflected in her eyes.  She smiled. Then she glanced down at the chessboard and, after a moment’s study, moved both her rook and her king at the same time. She looked up at him and smiled again.

Guerrero tried to hide his own smile but couldn’t. Carolina had just castled on the kingside. He was still surprised at how quickly she had picked up the game, learning critical opening moves, seeking to control the center of the board, developing her pieces, formulating a strategy, all while treating the game as a diversion from her main interest, whatever that happened to be at the time.

Carolina was speaking softly to the cat. They had played for the first time only two months ago, he remembered with pride. He had shared only the barest of details: the names of the pieces, their positions, their movement, and the objective of the game; to capture the king. The first two games, Carolina had moved her pieces seemingly randomly, and had quickly lost. By the third game, she began asking questions. He explained certain moves, a few basic strategies, but kept his answers brief.

Now she rarely studied the board for more than a few seconds. He suspected that she had a photographic memory. She would look away, at the TV, at her iPod or whatever else seemed to be more important at the moment. A minute or two later, she would glance back at the board and make her move. She was methodical, having taken after him.

She had her mother’s beauty, yes. But from him she had inherited an athletic ability that her mother had never known. And she had inherited his ability to analyze, to reason, to plan, and to plot.

Chess was something he had first learned at the age of five from a Canadian missionary who had spent six years living and working in his barrio in Monterrey. From the missionary, he had also learned English. When the man had left, just before Guerrero had turned ten, he had given Guerrero a chessboard, telling him that he had an exceptional talent. And it was a talent, he thought with pride, that Carolina had as well. She was more intelligent than most of the people he dealt with on any given day, he thought, remembering his recent conversation with Ramón. He knew that she could do anything she wanted, that the barriers that held most people back couldn’t hold her.

That thought made him proud but troubled him nonetheless. His wealth gave them everything they wanted: a huge ranch—actually, ranches—and dwellings in multiple cities, beach houses and servants and a lifestyle that was the envy of most. But as his success grew, he could feel his freedoms slowly slipping away. His wife had been the first to notice, complaining that she could no longer visit Mexico City for a long weekend, could no longer travel to the U.S. or Europe, was no longer able to dine at the restaurants she loved. It was a small trade-off, he had reasoned at the time. After all, they had everything they wanted right there.

But now, he thought as he studied his daughter, it wasn’t enough. Not for her. His own success had resulted in one barrier still standing, one that he had yet to figure out how to move out of her way. That he would figure it out was never in doubt; it was only a matter of time.

He realized Carolina was looking at him, and he smiled. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“What is it, mi amor?” he asked.

She laughed. “It’s your move, Papá.”

It was three in the morning when the ambulance came to a stop at the traffic light. The driver yawned and stretched. He glanced in his mirror and noted the black truck behind him, his companion for the last six hours. He could just make out the two men in the cab, nothing more than dark shadows through the windshield. Behind them, he saw two more men leaning over the cab of the truck. Their faces hidden behind masks, they scanned the intersection nervously, their weapons ready. He knew there were two other men behind them, watching the rear. It had been a long ride, the driver thought. But for those men standing in the back, he knew, the ride had seemed much longer, for it wasn’t too long ago when he had been back there himself.

The light changed and he pulled forward, while the black truck, with the emblem of the
Policía Federal
on the side, followed closely. At the next intersection he turned, then, at the end of the block, pulled through the gate into the fenced-in lot.

The police truck slowed behind him, then after a quick nod from the guards at the gate, continued on. As the ambulance pulled into the warehouse, the security guards closed and locked the gate and then the large overhead door was pulled down. This too was locked.

The driver hopped out, stretched his tired back, and nodded to the six guards waiting for him.

“Buenos días.”
Good morning
.

“Buenos días. Todo bien?” He was asked.
Everything okay?

He nodded. “Todo bien.”

While the driver went to use the restroom and to find a much-needed cup of coffee, the guards opened the rear doors of the ambulance and began unloading the boxes.

Several minutes later, in the small kitchen, the driver poured his coffee and thought about the day ahead. He wanted to sleep, but by the time he got home, it would be close to five. His wife and his mother would already be up and would have his breakfast ready. Then, while they cleaned and cooked, he would play with his son, almost two years old now, until it was time for his son’s nap. Then he too would take a
siesta
.

He had thought about moving closer to the city—with his new job he could afford to now—but Ciudad Juarez had become a battleground. He couldn’t risk his family being caught in the violence. He poured a second cup of coffee for the ride home and headed back to the warehouse.

The shipment, he saw, had already been unloaded.

“So you are an ambulance driver now, Jorge?”

He smiled at the guard, a former
capitán
in the police and the man who had recruited him.

“Sí. I am an ambulance driver.” Last week it had been a plumber’s van and, before that, a farm truck, the shipment hidden below a mound of beans. Each week, something different.

“Listen. Don’t go on Avenida Tecnología. There is a raid in progress.”

He nodded and thanked his former boss for the warning. Ignoring the pain in his back, he climbed back into the ambulance and considered his alternatives. It would take a little longer, maybe thirty minutes at this hour, to reach the storage facility near the airport. There, he would drop off the ambulance and retrieve his car. So he would be home a little later, he knew, but it was better than finding himself caught in a shootout.

He was fumbling with the key when a blinding flash rocked the building and his world went dark.

It was a few minutes before 4:30 a.m. when Matthew Richter kissed a still sleeping Patty goodbye. He stepped outside to find a light dusting of snow and two Secret Service agents waiting for him on his front stoop. The first snow of the new year, he thought, a fine way to end the holidays.  

“Good morning,” he said. He held his hand out and caught a flake. “Going to do this all day?”

“No sir,” Special Agent Wendy Tillman answered. She smiled. “At least not in Washington.”

He followed Tillman to the waiting SUV, the second agent trailing behind. Tillman held the door. As Richter stepped up, his foot slipped on the slick pavement and he awkwardly grabbed the passenger assist handle to keep from falling. He felt Agent Tillman’s steady hand on his back.

“Are you okay, sir?”

He nodded and thanked her as she helped him into the seat. The cast was supposed to have been removed—on the morning of New Year’s Eve no less—but after seeing the results of the CAT scan, the doctor had taken the cautious approach and told him the cast had to stay on for another six weeks. He cursed silently as Tillman closed the door. He hated not being in control.

Richter’s security detail consisted of three agents: a driver, an agent riding shotgun—an appropriate description of the well-armed agent who climbed into the front passenger seat—and Wendy Tillman, who climbed into the rear seat next to him. Tillman was the agent-in-charge.

Although he had been uncomfortable at first, there were some benefits to a security detail, he reluctantly admitted. With the number of classified reports and briefs he received each day it gave him more time to read. And there was always a lot of material to get through in a day. Today was no exception, he thought, as Tillman handed him the morning briefings. He turned on the map light and scanned the documents, performing his own form of triage and selecting the most critical ones to read first. With the three-and-a-half-hour ride to Washington, traffic permitting, he should be able to get through the bulk of the pile. He glanced at his watch. They should arrive in Washington by eight, just in time for a short meeting with his staff before his daily briefing with the president.

The SUV had just pulled onto the highway when his phone rang. He glanced at the phone, seeing Jessica Williams’s name in the display. The SUV was equipped with a secure telecommunications unit—STU in government parlance—which allowed him to discuss sensitive matters without fear of compromising national security.

“Last night’s operation was successful,” she said then told him about the raid in Ciudad Juarez. They had been tracking the shipment since it had left Guatemala five days before. This shipment belonged to the Alacránes
cartel, which controlled much of the central part of the country from north of Mexico City up to the State of Chihuahua. Rather than let the Mexican authorities intercept it, they had allowed the shipment to reach the warehouse in Ciudad Juarez. That was the real target, a location they had been searching for, for over three weeks.

“Preliminary estimates are nine dead and four thousand kilos of cocaine destroyed.” She paused. “There were no survivors.”

“We need to include this in the brief.” Each morning, Richter provided a summary of breaking international events and situations—typically those that had security implications for the U.S. and for its major allies—in the president’s daily brief.

“I already did,” she responded. She was silent for a moment then added, “I have some bad news.”

He waited.

“The two men from the Sangre Negras raid? The two survivors? They were killed yesterday while in government custody. Right now Mexico’s position is that, while they were being transferred to a military prison, there was a scuffle; they tried to overpower their guards and were killed in the process.”

Richter frowned. U.S. agents had been hoping to question the two men, and the U.S. Attorney’s office was currently working on an extradition request. Williams promised to follow up with her contacts in the CIA, the military, and the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City to see if she could get any more insight into what had happened.

Ten minutes later he hung up. He stared out the window as dawn broke over the hills to the east. He didn’t buy the story. The two men would have been handcuffed with shackles on their arms and legs. They would have been under heavy guard. It was highly unlikely that they had been able to free themselves to attempt an escape. More than likely, his gut told him, the Sangre Negras cartel had just covered their tracks by bribing the police guard.

He wasn’t surprised—frustrated, yes—but not surprised. He sat back and closed his eyes and considered how difficult the war was going to be when their number one ally couldn’t be completely trusted.