An Eye For An Eye (2 page)

While his investigative partners walked the fine line between civil liberties and keeping America safe, Richter’s SWAT team focused on enforcement. The team was often called on to execute search warrants in high-risk situations and, occasionally, to engage and arrest heavily armed and violent criminals before they could carry out their plans.

Unlike his old job, where his days could range from the boredom of standing watch to the adrenaline surge and occasional flashes of panic whenever the president ventured out of the White House, working for the SWAT team was different. When they weren’t on a call-out, they were either training or briefing. He found he could lose himself in his work.

After five years in the Secret Service, including eighteen months on Presidential Protective Detail, he had been on the cusp of leaving law enforcement altogether. FBI Director Patrick Monahan, newly named to the job, had made an aggressive pitch to join the Bureau. More as a courtesy, he had listened as Monahan discussed a variety of opportunities, all based in Washington.

“You’re a good cop, Matthew, and I could really use you here.”

At the time, Richter had nodded but said nothing.

“The Bureau has slipped in recent years and, more and more, we have begun to look and operate like we did during the Hoover era.” Monahan shook his head. “I don’t need to tell you that that’s something we can’t afford to do. The president has asked me to reorganize the FBI, to reform it.”

Richter had waited, certain what was coming next.

“I am creating a new role: Special Assistant to the Director. I want you to help me.” Monahan paused. “Then, within the next year, I’m sure a number of positions will open up. While I can’t make any guarantees, I’ll give you a lot of latitude to choose what you want. So”—Monahan sat back—“what
do
you want? What would you like to do?”

Richter shook his head. “Right now, what I want is to get away from Washington for a while.”

Monahan had been persistent, and several months later Richter had finally agreed to join the Bureau but with an agreement that his role—whatever it turned out to be—would not be in Washington. After completing the training course in Quantico, he had requested to train with the elite Hostage Rescue Team. He excelled thanks to the two years spent with the Army Rangers before college. Four months later, when the job as the SWAT team leader for the New York City JTTF opened up, Richter had expressed an interest. He was surprised when, two days later, Monahan told him that the job was his.

Richter hit the button on his watch as he reached the entrance to his condo and slowed his pace to a walk. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The summer sun was hot and he could feel the sweat running down his chest, below his shirt. He glanced at his watch. Not bad, he thought—a six-twenty-one pace overall. He was considering running the New York City Marathon in November and would have to decide soon. Although he had no doubt he could complete it, the training was a large commitment—three months or more—and he was concerned about his job. He was on call twenty-four hours a day and there was no telling when his phone would ring next.

Pablo Guerrero was known as
El Ocho
. It was a nametag he wore with honor and one he had carried with him ever since he was a boy and had first begun working for the Rodriguez brothers. At the tender age of ten, on his birthday no less, he had been given a task that would prove to be pivotal in his life.

He remembered the day vividly. Alfonso, the younger Rodriguez, had put his arm on Guerrero’s shoulder and smiled.

“Today, Pablo, you will become a man.”

Alfonso had led him to the back room where
la policía
were waiting. There, Alfonso handed him the gun and nodded. He took the gun and stared at it for a moment and then at the line of men. He stepped up to the first man, knowing what was expected of him. The man was bound and gagged, kneeling on the dirt floor. His eyes were scared, pleading. Guerrero stared into the man’s eyes as he brought the gun up, pressing the barrel into his forehead. The man, a federal cop not much older than his brother, began to cry, his sobs choked off by the gag in his mouth. Guerrero pulled the trigger and the man flinched at the metallic click.

Confused, Guerrero pulled the trigger again; still, the gun didn’t fire. He turned and stared up at Alfonso, wondering what he had done wrong. Alfonso, smiling, held his hand out and, after hesitating a moment, Guerrero handed him the gun. He watched as Alfonso ejected the empty clip and put a new one in.

“You have courage.” Alfonso pulled the slide back, chambering a round. “Maybe, when you’re older, you can try again.”

“No.” Guerrero shook his head, holding his hand out. “I’m ready now.”

Alfonso stared at him for a second then smiled and handed him the gun again. Guerrero stepped back to the first man, put the gun to his forehead again, paused to stare into the man’s pleading eyes once more, then pulled the trigger. He flinched at the sound, incredibly loud in the small room, and watched as the man crumpled to the floor. He stared at the body for a second, at the lifeless eyes, at the blood that was starting to pool in the dirt below the man’s head. Then he stepped up to the next man. Thirty seconds later, eight federal cops lay dead on the dirt floor.

He had earned respect at a young age and had quickly learned that his penchant for violence could get him anything he wanted. At the age of twenty-three he had killed Alfonso Rodriguez—shot him twice in the head as he was dining with friends—and had taken over the Rodriguez drug trafficking operation in the northeastern state of Tamaulipas. Guerrero then quickly and violently eliminated his east coast rivals and consolidated his control over the highly profitable Gulf Coast drug routes. He named the new operation
Las Sangre Negras
. The Black Bloods.

Violence was a useful tool, but one that had to be used carefully. Unfortunately, most of his rivals didn’t think that way. He had heard rumors about Ramón’s plans before Ramón sent his two
sicarios
—his two hit men—to New York. Information—intelligence—was crucial, and Guerrero’s tentacles reached far and wide. He had called Ramón and warned him that it was a foolish idea. But Ramón had always been hardheaded and much too emotional.

“We must teach
los gringos
a lesson!” he had shouted over the phone.

Even though they were competitors, Guerrero had convinced Ramón several years ago that, instead of fighting each other, an agreement to stay out of each other’s turf and to occasionally help each other when needed was a smart business decision.
Un alianza de sangre,
they called it
.
A blood alliance. An apt name, he thought. There certainly was a lot of blood spilled to promote and protect their mutual businesses. But, as he had cautioned Ramón, if they weren’t careful, it would be their own blood that was spilled. Besides, there was more than enough business to keep everyone happy, and when they found the occasional barrier in their way, they simply removed it.

Guerrero had no qualms about removing barriers in his way. That was how he looked at it. A government official who refused to be bought? An obstacle easily removed. The Army general who was behind the raid in Monterrey that had resulted in the death of thirty-nine of his men, the arrest of half a dozen others, and the seizure of his warehouse? Another obstacle. These were dealt with in the usual fashion. And civilians? What was the American term? Collateral damage?

But the Americans were different. They were an obstacle—a barrier—that was true. But there were better ways to handle them. What worked in Mexico would not work in
los Estados Unidos.
With the Americans, it was better to be more subtle, to not draw their attention. And in a country that prided itself on safety and being prepared—they had far greater resources and were more sophisticated—a different approach was required. And so he had prepared himself, carefully building a distribution network over the years, finding multiple ways of getting the drugs the Americans craved into their cities. From there, how the drugs got into their hands—and ultimately into their noses, their lungs, and their veins—he left to the local gangs who peddled them in the ghettos, in the dance clubs, and outside the schools. For that matter, he had turned over the local distribution—the wholesale business—to the gangs as well. And when the police or the DEA shut those down, it was easy to find others who were more than willing to take on that role.

Ramón hadn’t learned that lesson, or if he had, he ignored it. Guerrero stared out the window at the bright blue sky. Another beautiful day, he thought. But would it last, now that Ramón had succeeded in drawing the attention of los gringos
?

The president swirled his glass, took a sip, and sighed. It was Friday night. Why shouldn’t he relax with a glass of wine? Why shouldn’t he forget about work for a while? His eyes narrowed. Despite the wine, something was nagging at him. Although the FBI had foiled the planned attack, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the game had suddenly changed.

“Dad! You haven’t heard a word I said!”

The president turned to his daughter. Michelle was frowning. A junior, her world revolved around soccer, boys, and the trials and tribulations of high school. She believed that despite the fact that he was the president, he was hopelessly lost and out of touch. Or at least, he thought, that’s how it appeared. He sighed. So much had changed over the last two and a half years.

“Seriously, Dad! Sometimes, it’s like you’re in a different world.”

He smiled. “I’m sorry, honey. I might be here, but my brain hasn’t quite left the office yet.”

She shook her head, but he could see the smile.

“What were you saying?”

“I’m going out to a movie.”

The president smiled. “What are you going to see?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll decide when we get there.”

The president took another sip of wine. “Okay. Who’s going? The usual gang?”

Michelle shook her head. “No. You don’t know him.”

The president flinched. He hadn’t seen that coming. He looked from his daughter to his wife, Maria, then back again. “Him? What’s this? A date?”

“Yes, Dad,” Michelle sighed, rolling her eyes. “It’s a date. With a boy.”

Despite the sarcasm, or maybe because if it, the president smiled. “Do I get to meet him?”

Michelle shook her head. “No way.”

She stood abruptly, gave him a kiss on the cheek, waved to her mother, and before he could say another word, she was gone. He shook his head.
School started a few days ago and she already has a date?
The president frowned at his wife.

“Who’s this boy? Someone from school? Have you met him?”

Maria laughed. “You sound just like my father when I was her age.” She patted his arm. “Relax, Dave. It’s just a date. Besides, do you know how intimidating you can be? The poor boy is probably nervous enough knowing there will be half a dozen Secret Service agents in the theater with them.”

The president shook his head. “If some boy is going to ask my daughter out, I should at least get a chance to meet him.”

Maria smiled, and the president realized that he had missed something.

“She asked him out, didn’t she?” he said after a moment.

Maria was still smiling. “Yes, she did. And she didn’t want to scare him off by telling him that he had to come here first.”

The president held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. Okay.” He smiled weakly. “It looks like the two of you had this all worked out beforehand anyway.”

“She’s almost seventeen,” Maria said, holding up her glass. “She’s growing up, Dave.”

Frowning, the president clinked his glass against hers. “Yeah. Too damn fast.”

Maria shook her head again. “You know the girls won’t always have you or the Secret Service to protect them.”

And that was the problem, Kendall thought. Over the last two and a half years he had learned just how dangerous a place the world could be.

As Matthew Richter climbed out of his car, he realized he was nervous. It wasn’t the butterflies in his stomach that he always felt before a call-out; the adrenaline-fueled minutes of anxiety before they got the green light, before he and his team burst through the door, guns thrust in front of them, not exactly sure what was waiting on the other side. No, there was no mission tonight, but still, he felt a moment of doubt, a slight uneasiness that told him it had been a while.

He was a few minutes early, he noticed, as he climbed the steps. Inside, he nodded at the grey-haired man in a tux, standing behind a desk.

“Hi. Reservations for two. The last name is Richter.”

“Ah, Mr. Richter,” the maître d' said with a smile. “Right this way, sir. Your guest is already here.”

Surprised, he checked his watch again. He
was
early. He followed the maître d' through the dimly lit dining room past a dozen tables, most occupied. He heard the faint sounds of a piano and, as a waiter passed by with a tray in his hand, he caught the smells of rich French sauces and fresh-baked bread. A sommelier was opening a bottle of wine for a smiling couple, their faces illuminated by the soft light of a candle.

Damn!
He thought as he eyed the couple.
Was this what she was expecting?

He followed the maître d' into another room—smaller, only half a dozen tables—and there was Patty, sitting in front of the fireplace. He smiled, trying to hide his discomfort.

“Hi,” he said as he took a seat.

Patty smiled back. “Hi.” She waited until the maître d' left then, with a twinkle in her eye, shook her head. “I didn’t realize this place was so…fancy.”

“The food smells wonderful,” he replied, unsure what else to say.

She laughed. “You know, for a brief moment, I thought about meeting you outside and suggesting we go find a pizza parlor or something.”

He grinned, relaxing a bit. “I must admit, I was beginning to question your…choice of restaurants.”

“You were going to say ‘motives,’ weren’t you?” Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was trying to be diplomatic.” She was charming, he thought, as he felt himself beginning to relax. “So, how did you find this place?”

“One of my colleagues mentioned it.” She laughed again. “He told me he and his wife come here occasionally and that the food was excellent.” She shook her head. “He didn’t say a thing about the ambiance!” She shook her head again and sighed. “Men!”

“Did you ask?” He found, somewhat unexpectedly, that he was enjoying himself.

“Okay.” She chuckled and shook her head. “I’m guilty.” She gestured to the room. “I can see that was a mistake.”

He grinned. “So I guess my mistake was letting you pick the restaurant?”

She grinned back. “Are you saying you want to sneak out of here and grab a pizza?”

“Heck no! Not after you made me walk past the kitchen.”

The waiter came and they each ordered a glass of wine. They chatted for several minutes and Richter realized that he was glad he’d come. He’d been on only a few dates since Stephanie’s death two and a half years ago, each time realizing that he wasn’t yet ready. This was the first time, though, where he thought about taking a relationship beyond the occasional cup of coffee or racquetball game. He must have been sending out signals because most women, after one or two dates, stopped calling. That he had never called them either wasn’t lost on him.

Patty Curtis was different, though. He never would have guessed that the woman he’d met two months ago in the condominium parking lot was a college professor, teaching political science at Princeton. One Saturday morning when he was strapping his bike to the rack on his car, he noticed her. She was wheeling her own bike out of the building.

“Where are you off to today?” she had called over.

An hour later, he was following her through the trails of a nearby state park. They met twice after that to explore other trails. And even though they had stopped for lunch each time—nothing more than a slice of pizza or a burger at a local diner—this was their first real date.

Richter tasted the wine—a Bordeaux—and found it was better than he had expected. Patty took a sip and he watched as she studied her glass, nodding appreciatively. She set her glass down and leaned forward.

“Okay. So next time it’s your job to pick the restaurant.”

He grinned. “Oh, so you think there’s going to be a next time?”

She smiled confidently. “Oh, I know there will be.”