“I’ll have Stevie on the first flight out in the morning.”
“Good,” Nick said.
There was a silence while the two of them put their thoughts together. Walt wanted to tell Nick he’d hop on a plane and be there himself, but as he stared outside, he could sense the sun setting in too many ways. He owed it to his wife to be there. She’d seen too much action.
As if Nick could translate the silence, he said, “Stay where you are, Walt. You’re more valuable to me inside the beltway where you can get decisions made.”
Walt took the cue and said, “Nick.”
“Yeah?”
Walt squeezed his eyes shut. “Please. Be careful.”
Chapter 2
Not far from the US border, Antonio Garza, El Carnicero, stood inside the walls of his complex with a hose, watering the vincas and grumbling to some nearby soldiers about the status of his plants.
“Lo siento,” one of the soldiers said with an uneasy expression.
“In English,” Garza snapped. “Always, in English, you fool.”
“Sorry,” the soldier apologized.
Garza insisted his inner circle used their second language, because they needed the practice for when they crossed the border and tried to assimilate into the American public.
The late summer heat might have caused his garden to wilt, but that’s all that was drooping. His income had been growing remarkably over the past couple of years and the future looked bright. Being an independent contractor for the various cartels made him a necessity to everyone, yet no one’s enemy.
Just in case, his complex was surrounded by a ten foot block wall with subtle parapets for his guards to monitor the perimeter. The complex was able to withstand an attack from any number of weapons-including rocket-propelled-grenades. It was topped with a rectangular balcony which doubled as a watchtower.
Not by chance, the eight-thousand-square-foot building itself was built of brick on the side of a hill and housed thirty-five militia warriors, ready to follow his orders at a moments notice.
From behind him, Garza heard a window creak open and his primary lieutenant, Victor Sanchez, nodded for his attention.
Garza waved back. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” He handed the hose to one of the soldiers and gave instructions, then ran up the outdoor spiral staircase to his second floor office. It was an oversized room with dark tiled floors and rounded doorways with views from every direction. From there it was easy to spot anyone approaching the complex.
Garza passed a couple of armed guards on the way and as he arrived, he found Victor standing beside his desk holding out a cell phone.
Garza took the phone and smiled as he sat down and stretched his feet up on the desk. “How are you, my American friend?” he asked.
The man on the line didn’t sound like he appreciated the comment. “I have your information.”
“Please,” Garza waved his hand in a wide circle, “tell me everything.”
“His name is Nick Bracco,” the man said. “He’s been the Bureau’s top anti-terrorist agent for over a decade. He has a wife and an infant son. His partner’s name is Matt McColm. McColm is a sharpshooter who used to be with Special Forces before joining the Bureau. Neither of these men are stupid. They should not be taken lightly.”
“Excellent,” Garza said. “How motivated are they to come get me?”
“Very. You just killed two of their friends. They will retaliate.”
“Fantastic.” Garza’s eyes sparkled. “What else?”
There was a silence, which meant the American was considering how much to contribute.
“My friend,” Garza said. “Now is no time to be shy. We have much too much at stake. No?”
The line remained quiet for a few seconds. Garza waited.
“There is one other thing you should know,” the man said. “Bracco comes from a Sicilian family. His cousin, Tommy, has connections within a particular crime family out of the Baltimore area. No one knows how deep these relationships run, but there’s been rumors throughout the Bureau that Tommy has actually helped the FBI capture terrorists. He supposedly has informants all over the place. Maybe even below the border.”
Garza pulled his feet down from his desk. “You mean the FBI is using criminals to help them? Is that legal in your country?”
“Technically they’re informants, but they’re treated like consultants. The information flows both ways, however. There’s certainly some questionable ethical debates, but no one within the government is anxious to prosecute someone who’s rounding up bad guys.”
Garza twisted his chair to get a good look out the window. In the distance, past the airport hangar and the two-mile stretch of high desert landscape, was the border. He had so many good ideas roaming in his mind, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Where does this Agent Bracco live?” Garza said, pulling a notepad from his desk drawer.
“In Payson, Arizona,” the man said.
Garza found a pen in the same drawer. “And exactly what is his address?”
The man gave it to Garza and he wrote it down. El Carnicero circled the address and leaned back and sighed. “I have many surprises planned for this agent.”
“I’m sure you do,” the man said with no emotion in his voice.
Garza disconnected the call and placed the phone in his lap. He considered his next move. After a few minutes, he pushed a button on his phone. When a man answered, he said, “Expect company.”
“We’ve been waiting,” the man said.
Garza hung up the phone and went over to his window. Just below him, within the secure walls of his compound, his seven-year-old son Julio was waving a baseball at his dad.
“Papa,” he screamed. “Play with me.”
Amidst the soldiers with assault rifles, Julio was tossing the ball in the air and catching it with his baseball glove. It was a lonely existence for the boy, not being able to play with friends like a normal child. Since his mother was shot during a drug bust, Garza had been the boy’s sole friend.
Garza smiled. Julio was the only person who had received his unconditional affection. The boy’s attitude and zeal for life was the antidote to the daily stresses of his work. He picked up a worn baseball glove from a side table near the door and opened the window. “I’ll be right down,” he yelled.
Chapter 3
It was only 6:15 AM in the Bracco house, but infants couldn’t read digital clocks so Nick’s son, Thomas, was up and ready to go. Thomas was on his back kicking his legs in the air with a playful smile. Julie Bracco changed his diaper on one side of their bed while Nick threw underwear into a canvas bag on the other side.
Julie tickled her son’s tummy while she asked Nick, “How long will you be gone?”
“A few days,” Nick said, acting as casual as possible about his treacherous assignment. He tossed some shirts into the bag and caught a reflection from the lake in their backyard.
From their second floor bedroom window, Nick could see the lake glistening in the early morning sunlight, while pine trees cast long shadows across its shoreline. He’d moved his family to Payson, Arizona, to escape the threat and stress of dealing with terrorists, but the move hadn’t changed the landscape. It certainly didn’t dissuade a Kurdish terrorist from tracking him down and attempting to murder him and his wife. It was the final act of the terrorist’s career and prompted Nick to install a high-tech security system just for times like these.
Nick decided to remain in the mountain community hoping his wife and infant son would be safer, while he operated the west coast division of the Bureau’s anti-terrorist task force. Now, he wanted his wife to feel secure while he left and found revenge for a couple of his close FBI teammates.
As if she could sense the tension in Nick’s mind, Julie looked up from the bed with a worried expression. “What’s going on?”