“By using heroin as an economic growth tool?”
“It worked. It kept money flowing in. Do you know how much worse Afghanistan would be right now without those jobs? Growing poppy is perfect for Afghanistan. It needs little capital investment, it grows well in their climate, and the profits are enormous. We helped feed and employ the people of Afghanistan by growing those opium plants.”
“You made a deal with foreign intelligence operatives and drug cartels.”
“You don’t make deals with your friends, Max. I did what needed to be done to protect American interests.”
“You mean to protect your own interests. Didn’t you know that these drugs would be sold in the US? Didn’t you think about the consequences?”
“Most Afghan heroin ends up in other countries.”
“Is that what you told yourself? Don’t be naïve. It’s a global market, and Afghanistan makes ninety percent of it. Afghan heroin might not all end up in the US, but it still affects Americans. You also helped facilitate laws that loosened regulations on opioid sales in the US—”
“Regulations kill the economy—”
“Save your political speak. Your actions were calculated. With one hand, you guys opened the valve for heroin coming in. With the other, you made sure that there was a growing customer base. In your own backyard, for God’s sake. You made money off narcotics so that you could win elections.”
The senator’s mask of confidence began to crack. “The people that use that stuff are the scum of the earth. They’re leeches on society. So what if they get high? Keep them in the slums. They’ll shoot themselves up into oblivion and we’ll all be better off for it.”
“Decrease the surplus population, eh?”
Becker rolled his eyes. “Spare me. You don’t see me out there using drugs on the street. Some people are just weaker.”
Max turned to Trent. The veins in his forearm pulsed as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His eyes burned holes into the senator as the muscles in his jaw flexed.
Just then Caleb Wilkes came into the cabin, looking annoyed. “Time to go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. We’re done with him.”
Max, Trent, and Wilkes departed the home, leaving the senator inside.
When they were alone, Wilkes said, “I just talked to my buddy at the FBI. He says they’ll nail him eventually. But he’ll spend the next few years in and out of court. Appeals. All that jazz.”
Max shook his head in disgust.
“Why did the ISI and Ian Williams go to all this trouble?” Trent asked. “Why clean house with their network? Becker’s the only beneficiary.”
Wilkes said, “Maybe not. You know that Opioid Epidemic Bill that Becker was pushing? This ISI-sponsored group of investors stood to earn huge from that. Becker and the remaining members each stood to gain financially.”
“How?”
“The Opioid Epidemic Bill would greatly reduce the number of legal opioids in the US. But Ian Williams and Syed’s group were planning to capitalize on the black market it would create. Some of my intelligence sources told us that the Sinaloa cartel was going to start buying over three hundred percent more heroin than it ships today. They were going to get it from Afghan suppliers next year to feed the new demand. The cartel would make a fortune. The ISI’s investor group was also going to buy a lot of the extra supply from the legitimate international opioid suppliers around the world and make their own unlicensed pills to sell on the black market.”
“Who were these investors?”
“Businessmen, criminals. Shady financiers. People the ISI grouped together to help them make money and influence national policy in their favor.”
Max nodded. “And Syed and Williams thought they had the perfect American politician in their pocket to provide them cover. One with very strong presidential prospects. They just had to get rid of any remaining connections to him before he got too famous.”
“They couldn’t really pick someone to become president that far out. Too much uncertainty.”
Wilkes said, “The FBI investigators think he’s got accounts that they were transferring money into. Sort of a backup payment. Like I said, it’ll all come out eventually. Maybe he would get elected president? Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, he was valuable to them.”
“Not so valuable anymore, though.”
“No, not anymore. He’s a wounded animal now.”
“But not dead,” Trent said. Max exchanged glances with both men.
They walked to the CIA vehicles that remained at the entrance gate. It was dark out. Max and the others watched as the senator, who had been looking at them out his front window, disappeared into the house.
Across the water, they could see floodlights set up in the backyard of the cartel mansion. Yellow tape marking off areas of past violence. A few FBI agents in blue coats scavenging over the yard, looking for clues to assist the forensic investigation.
“Becker’s law enforcement detail got called off?” asked Max.
Wilkes said, “Yes. Once it became apparent there was no longer a need. Once they indict him, he’ll have another type of police escort.”
The men gave a dark chuckle.
Wilkes got into his car, bade them farewell, and departed down the road.
Max and Trent stood alone by their car. A streetlight buzzing above them.
Trent said, “He killed his own daughter and helped encourage a plague of drug addiction around the world, all for his own benefit. Prison is too good a fate for him.”
Max got into the driver’s seat. “Come on.” Trent got in and they drove a half mile down the road, parking behind the same grove of trees near where Max had landed the gyrocopter a few days earlier.
Trent said, “You wait here.”
“No. I want to come.”
They walked into the woods adjacent to the senator’s home, surveilling their prey. The senator had gone out onto his back patio. It was near 11 p.m. He was drinking by himself. Very few lights on in the home. No guests.
“Ready?” Trent whispered.
Max didn’t reply. He watched Becker sitting there. A despicable waste of a man.
“I don’t think I can.”
Trent looked at him.
Max said, “Everything he did. In his mind, he justified it. He tried to say he was helping Afghanistan. Helping fight the war on terror. Everything he did, he had an excuse. A rationalization for why he could make such an immoral choice.”
“He killed his own daughter. Or at least knew about it. Didn’t stop it. He helped flood our country with opioids. Guy’s practically a mass murderer.”
“Yes, he did. And he deserves to die for that. But it’s not our place to kill him.”
“I killed people in Mexico. What’s different?”
“Because here he’ll face justice. Our country is what’s different. The rule of law. We need to let him face justice the right way. Let’s not tell ourselves the same thing he did. The ends don’t justify the means. We are honorable men, and we should make the less satisfying choice, because it is righteous.”
Trent didn’t say anything for a long time. Max began to worry that his words hadn’t mattered.
Then Trent said, “Can we at least go in and scare the shit out of him? Maybe slap him around a little?”
Max thought about it. He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
A few moments later, they both approached the senator wearing black masks. When Trent’s hand came up over Becker’s face, he was half-drunk. The old man struggled at first, but he was no match for Trent’s brute strength. Max turned the last remaining light out near the rear of the home, and they were engulfed in darkness.
Trent held him nearly upside-down, and Max whispered into Senator Becker’s ear.