Ron was taking notes in his leather binder, muttering something to himself. He repositioned his glasses and wrote some more. Becker had worked with him long enough to know to leave him alone when he was like this. This was what Becker referred to as one of his genius moments. It was the way he made his calculations. At last he looked up and took his glasses off.
“I like it. I think it will play well. The libertarians will like the fact that we’re not putting our troops overseas and instead focusing on something closer to home. The base will like it because it uses our troops to damage a clear villain. And everyone will like it because it takes a strong stance in the war on drugs.”
“Now I know you’re lying. There’s never a time when everyone likes it.”
“Everyone that matters,” Ron said.
Senator Becker said, “It’ll be a gamble. I’ll be like a peacock with my feathers out during the primary, which I know worries you.”
“Maybe, sir, but—”
“I know what you’re going to say. We’ll need to consider the increased scrutiny we’ll be under.” Becker gave Ron a knowing look.
“I am sorry for any problems I’ve caused us, sir. I should have been more careful.”
The senator ignored him. “Even the hint of impropriety can get blown out of proportion. The opposition research we’ve faced thus far will be nothing compared to a presidential campaign.”
“The contributions were from a 501c. The FEC has no ability to link it back to—”
“You received death threats.”
“Sir, they were trying to play hardball.”
“Your lobbyist friend is dead.”
Ron paused, choosing his words, then said, “Sir, if you want me to go to the police — let them know that you had no knowledge of any of it… I’ll fall on my sword, sir.”
Becker slammed his hand down on the desk and pointed at Ron. “Don’t be naïve. Saying that won’t make a difference in the papers.”
Ron looked like a beaten dog. “Sir, you could always call off the vote. Or amend the bill to be friendlier to the… investors.”
“I’m not going to be bullied. People buy into my agenda. Not the other way around.”
“Sir, I never meant to suggest that your strategy wasn’t the right choice.”
“You leaned on me, Ron.”
“Sir, I gave you sound counsel.”
“Which happened to align with the direction Dahlman and his backers were pushing you.”
“Sir, this bill is counter to many of your own previous stances. My advice lined up with your own—”
Becker cut him off. “Things change. Now I need to know you’re loyal to me.”
“Of course, sir.”
“If people start poking around, this could get ugly.”
“I understand.”
“Your professional relationship with Dahlman can’t become an issue for me.”
Ron reddened. “Yes, sir.”
Becker said, “You know as well as I do that those clients of his play by a different set of rules. Well, now we’re not in their favor anymore. We obviously can’t go to the authorities because we don’t want them digging around and finding out who you’ve been drinking beers with at Bullfeathers.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But for God’s sake, they just shot someone dead. Now I need you to clean up this mess. Figure it the hell out.”
Chapter 8
Renee, Trent, and Max said their goodbyes to the Carpenter family and flew to Virginia. From there they were picked up by a sleek private jet.
“Courtesy of Charles Fend,” said Max with a wink.
Trent whistled. “The royal treatment. Please give my thanks to your dad.”
Max said, “It’ll help us fit with our cover. The wealthy playboy that I play so well, my trophy girlfriend, and our private security man slash luggage boy.”
“Trophy girlfriend?” Renee asked.
“Well, I didn’t want to say eye candy. I thought you might be offended.”
Trent said, “I’m fine with you calling me a luggage boy as long as there’s some free booze on board. Hell, usually when they have me fly, the rear ramp gets opened and they ask me to leave halfway through the flight. This should be much better.”
Max turned to Renee. “It’s important, in the world of spy tradecraft, that you fully embrace the transformation into your cover assignment. You’ll need to act like a devoted, fawning girlfriend who completely worships and adores her man.”
Renee blinked. “That sounds awful. Why can’t I just be myself?”
Two hours later, the jet was headed southwest. Trent slept in the rear of the cabin, aided by two glasses of bourbon on the rocks.
Renee sat in a cream leather chair opposite Max, chewing gum, her thin MacBook Pro on her lap, white earbuds in her ears. Max recognized the pattern. She was in work research mode. Hyperfocused learning, she called it. Conducting her due diligence at the beginning of a new project.
“Look at this.”
She turned her computer so that he could see the screen. “Do you know that since 1999, over half a million people in the United States have died from drug overdoses?”
“Half a million?”
“Yes. And the overdose deaths are rapidly increasing — mainly due to the rise in opioid addiction.”
Max had been reading up on the cartels on his tablet. Encrypted intel documents sent by Wilkes.
“You know we won’t be able to solve the opioid crisis, right? That’s not what this is about, Renee.”
She ignored him and began typing, her fingers racing over the black keys.
“Hello?”
“Wait,” was all she said.
Max did as commanded. A terrier, waiting for his master’s command. He took a deep breath. Being in a relationship with a woman who was smart, opinionated, and sexy really hurt a man’s ability to pretend he was in charge.
She stopped typing and looked at him. “Okay, I found what I was looking for. I’m ready to debate.”
Max held his hands up in surrender. “I’ve learned that debating you is never in my best interests. How about you just arm me with your newly acquired knowledge?”
Renee began. “The US uses more opioids than anywhere else.”
“Okay. So what? Isn’t that just because of population?”
“No. This is per capita. The US leads the way, by far. Canada is number two, by the way. So I would be helping your country and mine.”
Max cocked his head. “You keep telling me that you’re an American now.”
“I have dual citizenship. But I still like Canada better.”
“Why?”
“Better beer and prettier lakes.”
“We’re getting better at beer, you know… ”
Renee tapped on her trackpad and opened up a window. “This is the DEA’s National Drug Threat Assessment. It’s one of the most comprehensive annual reports on the illegal drug trade and how it affects the United States. It says that Mexico is the biggest source of heroin for the US market.”
“I thought most heroin was grown in Afghanistan.”
Renee said, “You’re right. Most of it is. But there’s a global demand for opium. And most Afghan poppy production ends up sold to European or Asian markets. Cheap Mexican heroin is flooding into the US. And look.” She brought up a color-coded map of the United States. “Do you remember the name of the cartel that Wilkes mentioned?”
“The Sinaloa cartel, I believe.”
“Right. They — according to this document — are the number one producer of heroin sold in North America. They control the region where it grows. Something about the climate in the warm, mountainous regions is conducive to growing poppies. And they have ultra-cheap labor. Women. Kids. Often working under slave-like conditions, growing the crops. Armed men standing watch over them. And you know how Trent was so broken up about the black tar heroin he found in the dealer’s possession? He was right. His brother Josh probably overdosed on Mexican heroin — produced by the same cartels that Trent once went after. I don’t know that you could ever point the finger at one person. But I certainly think that if you wanted to hold someone accountable at a high level, the higher-ups in the Sinaloa cartel would be a great pick.”