An Eye For An Eye (6 page)

Richter glanced around the room, gauging his men. Standing around a scale model of the militia compound, each wore the serious expressions of a warrior preparing himself for battle.

“Does everybody know their job?” he asked then waited until he saw heads nod. “I know I’ve said this before, but I’m going to say it again. These guys may not be as disciplined as a regular military unit, but they are heavily armed. We need to do this right. We need to maintain the element of surprise. We need to hit them hard and fast. We each need to cover our positions. And we need to be prepared for the unexpected. Things can change very quickly in a firefight.” He paused and looked at each man once more. “Anyone have any questions?”

There was a chorus of head shakes.

“Okay, we go in as one and we come out as one.”

This was met with several grunts. The meeting broke up and the men walked off to check their gear. Richter followed them into the locker room.

Thirty minutes later, when his gear was ready and he was showered and changed, he saw Agent Kevin Reardon slipping on a suit coat. Most of the other guys were wearing jeans. He walked over.

“Where are you off to, Kevin?”

Reardon sighed. “A wake. Kid I used to coach in little league baseball was killed; shot to death.”

Richter frowned. “What happened?”

“Apparently, he got mixed up in drugs.” Reardon shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it. “I thought the kid was too smart for that.”

“I’m sorry, Kevin. Where was this?”

“Trenton.” Reardon shook his head again. “I know his folks. They’re good people. I can’t figure out how this could have happened.” He grabbed his bag, slipping the strap over his shoulder. He gestured with his head back to the briefing room and the scale model. “I know these guys are bad, but when are we going to start focusing on some of these drug dealers? Christ! Kids are dying out there!”

Richter put his hand on Reardon’s shoulder. “That’s DEA territory. We have enough on our plate as it is.”

Reardon nodded. “I know. I know. I’m just venting, boss.”

Richter studied him a moment. “You okay for tomorrow?”

Reardon’s face hardened. “I’m ready, boss.”

Richter nodded.
I hope so
, he thought.

Guerrero smiled when he saw the message; a confirmation from the bank that the wire transfer had been received. That meant that the third shipment had arrived. Currently, he knew, it was being broken down, separated into smaller loads. It would soon find its way north.

It had taken a long time and a lot of planning, but his efforts were now paying off. Although at first he had been wary, smuggling was a way of life for his new partners. Guns, people, drugs—it didn’t matter what the contraband was—the African warlords were proving to be reliable, savvy businessmen. His first two shipments had already found their way up to Italy and to Spain, to markets willing to pay twice as much as los gringos
.
His third shipment had just arrived safely in Sierra Leone. If it continued to go well, he might eventually ship a full ocean container. It was proving to be an easy and low-cost way to move the product, and the European market provided him with diversification. What was it los gringos said?
Don’t put all of your eggs in one basket?

The bribes he had paid to the police and to the customs inspectors in Veracruz to look the other way had been a sound investment. They also opened up another potential route to the U.S. Borrowing a page from Colombia’s playbook, he was exploring the possibility of acquiring a mini-submersible—a submarine. He would acquire it through a shell corporation, of course, claiming the vessel would be used for marine research. But how difficult would it be, he wondered with a smile, to take on a load in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico and then transport it to a rendezvous point off the coast of Louisiana?

This was the lesson Ramón had never learned. Brute force wasn’t always the best answer. Sometimes it was better to watch your enemy, to study his moves, to figure out what he was thinking. It required patience but it often revealed weaknesses that could be exploited and opportunities that could be seized.

“Marine One is ready, sir.”

President Kendall looked up at Burt Philips and nodded. As he handed his bag to an aide, he joined Phillips and together they walked out the door. As they followed the walkway around the West Colonnade, Phillips continued.

“Everything is set with President Magaña,”

The president nodded. He and the Mexican President would meet, out of sight and away from the press. His daughter told him he was old school, but he believed that face to face meetings were critical, especially when the stakes were as high as they were. He and Magaña both agreed that few if any options remained, but he wanted to meet the man in person one final time before he said yes. Phillips’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Have you given any thought to Brett’s replacement?”

“I have,” the president responded. “While I think Jessica Williams is certainly qualified, I have someone else in mind.”

As Brett Watson’s chief of staff, Jessica Williams
was
highly skilled and highly competent. But Kendall was leaning toward bringing someone new to the White House. Well, not new, he thought, but it had been a while. The question was, would he say yes?

In the cold darkness of early morning, Richter snaked forward on his belly, slowly covering the last few yards to the large oak. He lay still for a second and listened to the sounds in the forest. A silent approach was always a challenge, even more so when the ground was covered with freshly fallen leaves. As he searched for telltale signs that their approach had been compromised, the foliage continued to drift down lazily, landing softly around him. Other than the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees or through the leaves on the ground, he heard nothing. He felt a moment of pride—his team was good. He slowly tilted his head to the side, just enough to see the building. Although sunrise wasn’t for almost two hours, he was careful to keep his face hidden in the brush. The building—or rather the lodge—stood about sixty yards away. He studied the lodge for a minute, noting the location of the doors, the windows, the electric meter—everything was as he had expected.

Thanks to Google Earth and photos taken from a Bureau plane that had performed a bit of aerial reconnaissance—ostensibly, practicing touch and go’s at a nearby airport—they knew exactly what the building looked like. For the interior, they relied on building plans and a handful of pictures their informant had smuggled out. Armed with this data, they had been able to produce a mock-up for training. Although constructed of facades, they had recreated the great room inside, including the circular banquet tables arranged in front of the chalkboards on one end and the couches and easy chairs arranged in front of the fireplace on the other. On one side was a commercial kitchen, next to that a small storage room, and then a restroom.

Information obtained from the county’s zoning department told them about the building’s construction—standard wood frame with a faux log-cabin exterior—the location of electric and water services, and the type and location of the heating and cooling system.

Richter pulled his head back behind the tree then, after a second, glanced to either side. He spotted nothing unusual. Not that he had expected to. His team was good. He pulled his microphone wand closer to his mouth.

“Blue Lead in position. All clear.”

One after another, he received eleven replies. His team was ready. He checked his watch, sliding the sleeve up slightly to expose the luminous dial. It was exceptionally bright in his night vision goggles before they adjusted to the change. Four forty-five. It was time. He pulled his wand close again.

“Blue One. Blue Two. Go.”

Although he couldn’t see it, he knew that, on the other side of the building, two of his men would begin making their way silently across the twenty-five yards of open ground toward the back door that led to the pantry and the kitchen.

Two minutes later he heard, “Blue One inside.” Another minute later, he heard, “Blue Two in position.”

He settled back to wait.

Thirty minutes later, he spotted two figures coming down the path on the far side of the clearing.

He cupped his hand over his mouth. “Two inbound,” he said softly.

As the two figures approached the building, he could see that both were dressed in camouflage and were carrying weapons; one man held his casually at his side, the other had his slung over his shoulder. Richter’s jaw clenched as he studied the rifles, noting that they were fully automatic M-16s. Although he had been expecting this—their informant had indicated that the group had been buying stolen military weapons on a regular basis—it still sent a chill down his spine. He noted that both were also wearing thigh holsters, but from his spot, he was unable to tell what type of handgun each carried.

The men were speaking, but with the breeze rustling through the trees, he couldn’t make out what they were saying. The man with the rifle on his shoulder unlocked the main door. It shut behind them with a bang. A moment later, the lights in the main room flickered on, and Richter watched through the window as both men placed their rifles in the gun rack against the far wall. Seconds later, the lights in the kitchen came on. Richter glanced at his watch again. Five-thirty. Right on time. Shortly, he knew, one of the men would start the pot of coffee, while the other would begin to set the tables. They would then begin cooking the eggs and sausages, heating up the frozen home fries, and making toast. According to the informant, breakfast was always the same on a training day.

After a minute or two, Richter knew that the informant had been right as the smells from the kitchen wafted through the trees. The odors also told him that the back door was propped open.

Twenty-five minutes later, in the faint light of dawn, he heard his earbud click: “Two more inbound.” A moment later, he saw the two men through the trees, following a different path to the clearing. They were talking softly, but he could hear the occasional laugh. As they entered the lodge, the men propped open the door. Through the window, Richter watched as they too placed their rifles in the gun rack.

Over the next ten minutes, he heard several more calls and watched as the others, in groups of two or three, arrived. All were dressed in camouflage and all were carrying M-16s. And on most he saw shoulder, hip, or thigh holsters as well. They were ready for war.

Daylight grew, and he took off the night vision goggles. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. He watched as the men congregated in the great room. The noises of a half dozen conversations carried out the door. By six-thirty, the twenty-two men who had camped out in one of the bunkhouses overnight—all except one—were inside the lodge. If their informant was right, the rest would not show up until much closer to eight. He peered past the men at the gun rack and counted again. Twenty-two M-16s were lined up neatly in a row. He hoped they would stay there. But if they didn’t, his team was ready. Each of his men carried a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun with a thirty-round clip and, on a thigh holster, a Springfield .45 caliber pistol with eight rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Their weapons, their training, and their method of assault—employing speed, surprise, and violence of action—shifted the odds in their favor. Still, he knew, it was dangerous to assume it would be easy.

He heard another click.

“Visual on Buffalo.” Then, “Buffalo inbound.”

Thirty seconds later, he saw Gerry Nichols, carrying a rifle in both hands, making his way silently down the path. He was by himself. As he crossed the clearing, Richter saw that he too had a thigh holster and a handgun.

When Nichols entered the building, the conversations abruptly stopped. He placed his rifle in the gun rack. The men stood and joined him in the center of the room. Nichols nodded toward one man who stepped forward and bowed his head. Half the men joined him, while the rest, including Nichols, simply stared straight ahead.

When the prayer was done, the men lined up in front of the serving tables and began filling their plates. Many went for the coffee first and then fell into the back of the food line. Richter pulled himself up into a crouch.

“Yellow.” He spoke softly into his microphone, using the prearranged code. He watched as the men sat in groups of four or five and began eating. He waited until the last man picked up a tray and placed his food and coffee on it.

“Green,” he hissed into his mic.

This was followed instantly by three thumps and the crash of glass as flash-bang grenades were shot through the windows of the lodge. Richter saw startled faces then turned his own a half second before the grenades exploded.

“Go! Go! Go!” he yelled as he jumped to his feet and ran toward the building.

“Police! Police! Police!” Richter shouted as he darted toward the blown-out window. In less than a second, his eyes took in the scene. A dozen or more members of the militia were lying on the floor, breakfast trays, plates, and food scattered in every direction. To his left, he noted four men running toward the gun rack. He ignored them. To his right—his assigned zone—four men were crouching, two of them reaching for their side arms. As gunfire erupted around him, he adjusted his aim slightly, centering his sights on the first man. He squeezed off two shots and then swung his arms slightly to the left and squeezed off two more.

He caught more movement in his peripheral vision but ignored it as he swung his gun back to the other two men in his assigned zone. His sights shifted from one man to another, watching their hands, searching for guns, wary of sudden movements. One by one, the men lay face down on the floor. Richter swept his gun over the zone again as shots continued to ring out.

It was so unexpected that it took a moment before his mind registered what had happened. Something slammed into him and he stumbled backwards. He struggled to stand and watched in disbelief as his gun slipped from his hands. He tried to lift his arm but found that he couldn’t.
Son-of-a-bitch!
he thought as he glanced at his shoulder and saw the wetness spreading down his sleeve. So dark it was almost black, he noted as he slumped to the ground.