Garza sat in the basement and squeezed his phone while getting the news about the FBI agents’ actions in Denton. The government employees acting like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. And Garza happily remembering how that movie ended.
“Where is Chizek?” Garza asked the man. The guy was practically the only one who wasn’t shot during the incident because he claimed he’d been too startled by the whole thing.
“He does what he always does,” the man said. “He barks out orders, then runs and hides.”
Garza knew the agents were trying to shake him up, maybe force him to delay his transfer, or try to bait him into crossing the border. Garza was too smart for that tactic. The agents were obviously working alone, probably ignoring their superior’s orders and looking for revenge, otherwise the entire town would be flooded with law enforcement. Instead, Garza’s lookouts had assured him no one else had entered Denton and the only ones leaving were on their way to the hospital in Rio Rico.
“What orders did he give?” Garza asked.
“He told us to kill them,” the man said.
“Okay then,” Garza said. “What are you waiting for?”
“Yes, Jefe.”
Garza shook his head and dropped the phone on the side table next to him. He sat on the couch and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was almost eight o’clock. Almost time to get the shipments going. He stared at the bomb sitting on the cart in front of him. He wondered how dangerous it really was.
Garza got up and went behind the bar to pour himself another shot of mescal. He threw the warm, spicy liquid down his throat, then slammed the glass down on the bar. It settled him for a moment. He picked up the remote and turned on his large-screen TV and switched the channel to CNN. There was a news program showing the two podiums where the presidential debate would take place in Mexico City, while a journalist spoke about the monumental event. They showed footage of an earlier meeting between the two candidates and the United States Secretary of State, Samuel Fisk. The large man shook hands and posed for photos with President Salcido. The two men seemed stiff and formal, but when Fisk met with Francisco Rodriguez they spoke and laughed like old friends. An odd twosome.
Garza muted the TV, then opened the briefcase sitting on top of the bar and stared at the money for the third time in the past fifteen minutes. He had to put it away before it drove him mad with greed. As he shut the briefcase, he heard the basement door open and a pair of footsteps creak down the staircase.
Victor appeared and came over while Garza slapped a shot glass on the bar and filled it with mescal. Victor took the glass and downed it with one swig.
“Thanks,” Victor said.
Garza pointed to the TV. “You see that?”
The two candidates had just shaken hands and were heading toward their separate podiums. There was no sound, but Garza didn’t need to hear a word to know who would come out on top. Francisco Rodriguez was a masterful orator with a dynamic public persona.
“Politics.” Victor made a face. “It does not go well with mescal.”
“You don’t like it, eh?”
“No,” Victor said, pouring himself another shot. “It’s a waste of time anyway. Everyone knows Rodriguez will be the next president.”
Garza nodded, then turned and pressed on a wall-mounted display of knives from the Mexican Revolution. One side of the display opened like a door on hinges and exposed a wall safe. Next to the safe was a keypad, where Garza pressed a sequence of numbers and watched the safe pop open. As he placed the briefcase in the safe, he thought of something.
“You probably know the code to get in this thing, don’t you?” he asked, without turning.
Victor shook his head in mock disgust. “You use the same numbers for every password, Jefe. How many times do I tell you to change them?”
Garza smiled. “I know. I have too many things to remember already. I guess I am getting lazy.”
Victor tossed the shot of mescal down his throat and said in a raspy voice, “When do we go?”
Garza closed the safe and turned. “There are two FBI agents in Denton, this Bracco and his partner.”
Victor nodded tersely. “They want revenge for killing their fellow agents.”
“Yes,” Garza said. “But they are alone and desperate. They went into the Grill and shot up a bunch of customers, including the deputy.”
“How?”
“Like I say, they are desperate. They are alone and trying to lure me into their country.”
“Where are they now?”
“In a motel room waiting to die,” Garza said, filling the two shot glasses with mescal. “As soon as they are dead, we move.”
Victor held up his glass to toast his boss, but Garza hesitated and stared at Victor with a serious thought running through his mind.
“Listen,” Garza said, holding up his glass, but not ready to toast. “Anything ever happens to me, you promised you would take care of Julio.”
Victor smiled. “Of course, Jefe. He will always be well taken care of.”
The two men toasted their drinks and tossed them down. A sense of relief came over Garza as he picked up the remote and switched it to a Dodger baseball game. They were playing the Arizona Diamondbacks.
“Come,” Garza said, sitting in one of the two recliners. “Let us enjoy a few minutes of baseball before we earn our money.” Then he gestured at the bomb sitting next to them. “And make America a little more dangerous than it was yesterday.”
* * *
“He needs help,” Ken Morris said. “He’s trapped with a bunch of Garza’s men and needs a way out.”
Walt was behind his desk, watching the Mexican presidential debate on CNN when Ken called to give him the news. They’d finally had contact with the CIA operative below the border.
“But he’s still in Mexico?” Walt asked, turning down the volume on the wall TV.
“Yes, but if he gets even a slight opening, he’s going to take it.”
“So how can we help?” Walt asked.
“Where is Nick?”
“He’s close,” Walt said, watching prior footage of Sam Fisk shaking hands with Francisco Rodriguez like they were college roommates. “He has until midnight before we send in the troops.”
“Why are we waiting?” Ken asked, a level of frustration in his voice. “Let’s get down there and confiscate this device.”
“Because the device hasn’t crossed over the border yet,” Walt said. “And if we go barging in there, they’ll see us coming.”
“So?”
“So, Nick has a plan.”
There was silence for a few moments before the CIA Director said, “Walt, does this plan include a bit of revenge for what Garza did to Ricky and Jim?”
Walt jumped to his feet. The names of his slain team members bristled the hair on his neck. “This is my turf, Ken, and I run this operation the way I see fit. That area is walled off. No one gets in or out. This is still a nuclear device and we have to treat it with respect. We have to allow for the possibility this could be a suicide mission. If Nick tells me he needs another three and a half hours to get this done, then he gets it. No one is going to force me to make a bad decision and put more men and woman at risk.”
There was a short sigh on the other end of the line. “Okay,” Ken said. “It’s your game. Just do me a favor, Walt.”
“What’s that?” Walt asked, clenching his fist.
“If this device goes off on US soil, just remember who told you about it.”
Walt hung up the phone before he could respond to that. He stood there gripping his cell with enough strength to crush a walnut. Ken was wrong about the intel on the device, but that was getting at the heart of the matter. The FBI and CIA had budgets to consider and if one appeared weak or incompetent, then the budget committee would scrutinize the amount of funds they earmarked. Survival of the fittest.
Walt looked at the time, then stared at his phone, willing it to blink with a message from Denton. Was he giving Nick too much leeway?
“C’mon, you guys” he muttered. “Don’t get greedy. Just find the damn thing and get out.” But he knew they were trolling for sharks with chum around their necks. He also knew he was dealing with two alpha males who weren’t likely to forget what happened to their fellow agents.
Especially Jennifer Steele.
Carlos Grider slowed the Ford pickup as they approached the Denton Motel. The neon sign was missing a couple of letters, but it was still the only light coming from the building. The only other glow came from behind the curtains in room number eight. He had two friends in the cab and five in the back, waiting for his signal.
There was virtually no moon out, so Grider coasted in the dark, looking for anything suspicious. The office was already closed and the only car in the parking lot was the white BMW which belonged to the FBI agents. Mr. Chizek gave them direct instructions. Either kill the agents or die trying. There was no returning without succeeding with their chore.
He rolled the truck into the gravel parking lot, checking his rearview mirror to see Edgar Santos already with the rocket propelled grenade up on his shoulder. Before the clerk left for the day, he’d confirmed the two agents entered their room and now Carlos could see their outlines on curtains inside the room. One of them seemingly animated over something the other was saying.
Carlos slowed the truck until it was just twenty yards from the room. The agents’ shadows were clearer from this close and he was positive they were both there. Carlos stopped the truck, but kept idling. He checked up and down the road and saw nothing for miles, then waved his arm, signaling Edgar to take the shot.
The rest of the guys had their guns out all ready for a gunfight. They’d known about the one agent’s skill with a pistol, but there were eight of them now and they were all motivated to take the guy down.
Carlos waited, but he was impatient. “Let’s go,” he whispered, wondering what was taking Edgar so long to pull the trigger. The shadows were still there, but Carlos imagined them opening the door any minute. He heard voices from the room. The two agents were having a heated discussion.
Carlos was watching the argument when he heard the whistle and felt the heat of the rocket as it launched into the window and detonated. The explosion was instant and powerful, causing the entire wing of the motel to burst outward, sending flying shards of debris at the truck. Carlos covered his face with his arm and ducked as he was pounded by bits of glass and stucco. Some of the men in the back were screaming from excitement. In just a few seconds five of the motel rooms had completely disintegrated, like the remnant of a Midwest tornado strike.
As the debris still rained down, Carlos stepped on the gas pedal and jerked away from the site, his tires spitting gravel as it spun out of the parking lot, the guys in the back whooping and hollering as they hit the road.
Carlos took one last glance back at the decimated motel and knew even a cockroach wasn’t going to survive that blast. He pushed a button on his phone and smiled.
“Yeah,” answered a man with a beefy voice.
“They are dead, Mr. Chizek,” Carlos said.
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yeah,” Carlos said, looking into his rearview mirror and seeing smoke drifting over the opening where a building once stood. “I’m sure.”