An Eye For An Eye (29 page)

Jessica Williams slid a photo across the table. As the president picked it up, his eyes narrowed. The peasant, a hat in his hand, his hair matted down, was wiping his brow. The man had several days’ worth of growth on his face. Was this really Guerrero? he wondered. As he studied the man’s face, something about the eyes caught his attention. Instead of the weary look of an overworked laborer he had been expecting, there was an intensity in the man’s eyes that was menacing.
Damn
, the president thought, as he looked up.

“Are we sure it’s him?”

Williams nodded. “Yes, sir. The CIA has confirmed it.”

So that was why they hadn’t seen or heard from him for the last few weeks, the president thought. The man was clever; he had been disguising himself as a peasant.

“Do we know where he is right now?” the president growled.

“Yes, sir. We tracked him to a building on the outskirts of Monterrey.” Williams made a face. “It appears to be a slaughterhouse, sir.”

The president’s face darkened as Williams shook her head. “We don’t know if Matthew Richter and/or President Magaña are there, sir,” she added, her voice trailing off.

“But?” the president prodded.

“But,” she said after a deep breath, “something drew him out of hiding. Why else would he travel there?

The president nodded as Williams continued.

“Currently, the slaughterhouse is not operating. The hog pens are empty.” She paused. “Which is odd,” she added, “since it appears that the plant normally runs two shifts, five days a week.” She explained that CIA and NSA aerial reconnaissance from the last several months showed shipments arriving once or twice a day, animals being offloaded into pens and, on the other side of the building, refrigerated trucks leaving on set schedules. “Then last night, they abruptly shut down,” she continued. “When our people called the main number, a recording indicated that the plant would be closed for two days due to an agricultural inspection.”

“Regardless,” the president said with a wave of his hand, “we’re certain he’s there?”

Williams nodded and the president turned to the chairman of the Joint Special Operations Command.

“And the SEAL team, Admiral?”

The Navy Admiral, a steely faced man with close-cropped silver hair, stated that the SEALs were already reviewing the intelligence, learning as much as they could about the target location. They would likely insert by air, he added, and were working through alternate scenarios for infiltration—storming the building—and not only capturing Guerrero alive, if possible, but rescuing Richter and Magaña as well.

“They will be ready to go on your command,” he assured the president.

Like a rag doll, Terry Fogel was dumped in his cell. The door banged shut with a metallic clang. Naked and curled in a fetal position on the cold floor, Fogel’s breath came in gulps. His hands were protectively cupped over his genitals. It took a while for his breathing to slow. When he got up the nerve, he opened his eyes and pulled his hands away. His penis and testicles were swollen, and there were burn marks where the electrodes had been attached. He could feel the blood seeping out of his rectum. Still, he told himself, it wasn’t as bad as he had been expecting. He had seen worse at the hands of the British.

His nose was still swollen; one eye was puffy, an ugly purple bruise extending down to his cheek. That had been courtesy of the soldier in the truck, after the hastily shortened press conference, he thought with a small smirk. Since then, they had stayed away from his face, preferring instead to target more vulnerable, more sensitive areas. They seemed convinced that he had a part in the attack on Mexico City. The fools. Had he, he had told the two men from CISEN—Mexico’s Center of Investigation and National Security—the death toll would certainly have been higher. They hadn’t appreciated that answer but, between the shocks, he had seen something in the men’s eyes.
A glimmer of doubt?
he wondered.

Still, he knew, they might use him as a scapegoat, a vehicle for the vengeance that many Mexicans were demanding. He had initially been surprised that they hadn’t let the Americans near him.
They must know by now
, he thought. But it seemed the Mexicans wanted to exact their own pound of flesh before inviting the Americans in.

He heard a door banging followed by scraping. Then a hushed conversation followed by footsteps before the creak of his own door. Another hushed word and then two arms lifted him up; gently, this time. A blanket was draped over his shoulders. A man he had never seen before stood in the doorway as a soldier helped him to his cot. Another blanket was draped over his naked body.

The man in the doorway said something and the soldier left, closing the door behind him. Fogel heard the click of the lock. The man stepped forward, and Fogel noticed the black bag in his hands. His heart started to pound, and he fought the panic.

“Oh, no!” the man said in perfect English. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He shook his head, making a tsk-ing noise. He pulled a chair over by the bed and placed his bag on the floor. He reached for the blanket then stopped.

“May I?” he asked.

Fogel hesitated, then nodded, and the man lifted the blanket. Fogel watched the man’s face change; he heard the sudden intake of breath. The man shook his head again.

“What have those fools done to you?” the man said softly.

“Ah, now,” Fogel said. Despite the pain, he grinned. “I’ve had worse.”

The jolt of electricity hit Richter like a bolt of lightning. His body arched uncontrollably, straining at the restraints until his chair tipped and he slammed into the floor. Every nerve in his body was on fire. He struggled to breath, gasping in labored pants. After a while, he opened his eyes. Pablo Guerrero stood over him. He held the cattle prod up and nodded at it.

“Now you know what the pig feels like, eh, Señor Richter?”

Richter said nothing and, after a moment, Guerrero turned toward Magaña.

“We will speak in English,
Señor Presidente,”
he said. There was no mistaking the contempt in his voice. He turned back to Richter. “I want Señor Richter to know exactly what’s going to happen to him.” He smiled, a perverse grin that did nothing to mask the hatred in his eyes. He turned back to Magaña and sneered.

“And I want you to watch so you know exactly what’s going to happen to you.”

Magaña said nothing. Guerrero scowled at him then turned and barked an order in Spanish. Richter felt arms grabbing him and gritted his teeth as he was roughly hauled up. Sitting upright once again, he looked up at Guerrero.

“You see, Señor Richter, the pigs come here in trucks. When we put them into the pens they start to squeal.” Guerrero smiled again. “Do you know why?” he asked after a second.

Richter said nothing.

Guerrero leaned in, his face inches away. Richter could feel the man’s hot breath.

“Because they know. They can smell it. They can smell death and they are scared. An animal knows when he is about to die, Señor Richter.” He paused and sneered. “Do you feel like a pig now?”

Richter said nothing, and Guerrero thrust the prod into his chest again.

His brain exploded in a flash of white light, and his body slammed into the floor again. Then there was a blue flash as his head hit the concrete. His body convulsed, and he felt like he was going to be sick. He had to fight the darkness creeping over the edges of his vision. He concentrated on breathing.
In then out. In then out.
Slower, he told himself.
In then out.
It was something he could focus on instead of the pain coursing through his body. After a while, he opened one eye—a slit below a swollen lid—and looked up at Guerrero again.

“The pigs don’t like it either, Señor Richter. But fortunately, for them, it’s over quickly.” His eyes narrowed. “For you,
unfortunately
, things won’t be so quick.”

Richter remained silent. He wasn’t sure if he had screamed when the prod hit him, but he was determined to not give Guerrero the satisfaction if he could help it. Guerrero nodded once at someone and Richter felt hands under his arms again as he was lifted up. He winced as pain shot down his right arm, and he suddenly felt woozy and nauseous. He wasn’t sure if his arm was broken. He closed his eyes, trying to force the dizziness and pain away. His head hanging low on his chest, he focused on his breathing again. Guerrero was saying something, but he ignored him as he took inventory once again. His right shoulder was on fire, and he could taste the blood in his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue, he realized. He slumped forward to spit the blood out, then hesitated when he felt it. He let his head drop like he was drunk. He moved his arms again; nothing more than a twitch. The ropes had loosened somewhat, he realized. He hadn’t been able to lean forward before. His head down by his knees, he opened one eye—nothing more than a slit again—and could see that two of the cross supports for the chair’s legs were broken. The rope hung loose around his ankles. What about his hands, he wondered. He resisted the urge to try to free his hands, knowing that one or two of Guerrero’s men were standing behind him.
Wait for the opportunity
, he told himself, hoping one would come before Guerrero zapped him again. He wasn’t sure how many more shocks from the cattle prod he could take.

There was a noise outside and Guerrero barked an order in Spanish. Richter heard footsteps and turned his head slightly and watched out of the corner of his eye as Guerrero’s two men went through a doorway. He coughed once and spit a mouthful of blood on the floor. Then he sat up slowly, acting more dazed than he was. He opened his eyes—squinting—and saw Guerrero before him. The man’s eyes were like daggers. He glanced over at Magaña. The Mexican President held his gaze for a second then nodded once and gestured with his head toward Richter’s chair. Turning back to Guerrero, Richter moved his arms slightly, and although he could still feel the rope biting into one wrist, the binds were looser than he thought.
But loose enough?
he wondered.

Guerrero’s eyes bore into him. He could feel the man’s hatred; he could feel the rage. He waited, bracing himself for what was coming.

“You took her from me!” Guerrero suddenly hissed. “She was nine years old, and you took her from me!”

Richter said nothing. Guerrero was responsible for thousands of deaths—for taking the lives of innocent men, of innocent women and even children whose only crime had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that fact seemed lost on him, Richter realized. He stared at the cattle prod in Guerrero’s hands, judging the distance. The possibilities played out in his head, but no matter how he looked at it, Guerrero was still too far away.

Richter sighed. “You had your revenge,” he said, his voice weak. “Mexico City…New York…”

“Do you think any of that comes close?” Guerrero hissed back then lunged forward.

Richter saw a flash of light as the fire exploded in his body again.

The black and white image from the synthetic aperture radar was crisp and clear.

“I have target building in sight,” the sensor said into his microphone. “Designate as Target Two.”

Two seconds later came the mission controller’s reply: “Copy, Sea Dog. Building is Target Two.”

The sensor centered the crosshairs on the building and locked in the laser designator. A second later, he heard the pilot.

“Pilot copies. Building is Target Two. Target is Sparkle.”

Their role, the sensor knew, was to support the special ops team. The firing solution on the building was a precaution; the decision to destroy it would come from the men on the ground. His eyes slid off the building to the parking lot and fenced-in area surrounding it.

“There are four vehicles in the lot,” he said as he spotted the three SUVs and the battered pickup parked side by side. “Designate as Target Three.”
One five-hundred-pound bomb should do it
, he thought.

“Copy, Sea Dog. Target Three identified.”

“Pilot copies. Target Three.”

The sensor continued to scan the screens. He spotted the men standing by the gate.

“I have four men, all armed, by the gate.”

“Copy, Sea Dog. We see them.”

Two more men exited the building. The sensor called it in.

“Sea Dog, how many are in the building?” the mission controller asked.

The sensor switched on the ultrasound system. Referred to by the crews as the X-Box, the prototype system used sound waves at specific frequencies to penetrate solid surfaces, seemingly impenetrable surfaces such as the reinforced concrete of the slaughterhouse below. The sound waves bounced off the lower-density objects inside, then, using complex algorithms, the system’s computer converted the reflected energy into the three ghostlike figures that suddenly appeared on his screen. Two appeared to be stationary—nothing more than oozing white blobs—while the third appeared to be moving. The third blob seemed to shift, dissolve, then reappear as the figure moved across the room.

One was definitely Banjo, the pilot knew. He had followed the truck for two and a half hours until it had pulled into the slaughterhouse lot and he had watched Banjo go inside. The other two could be terrorists, but he and everyone on the operation were hopeful that they were the two friendlies they had been searching for. Codenamed Spartan and Aztec, the two men—high value VIPs—had not yet been located. The sensor glanced briefly at the two pictures provided to him by the intelligence analysts. He hoped they weren’t too late.

“Looks like we have three inside.”

“Copy Sea Dog. Three confirmed inside Target Two.”