An Eye For An Eye (28 page)

The battered pickup came to a stop. Seconds later, after the dust plume settled, two men climbed out. Dressed in the long pants and long-sleeved, button-down plaid shirts of day laborers, they drew no more than passing attention from the old man sitting in the shade. Two young boys, not more than ten, looked up once before they went back to kicking a soccer ball in the dust on the side of the building. The driver walked over to the building: a small mercado
with the ubiquitous
Coca-Cola
sign in the window. The mangy dog, lying at the old man’s feet, picked its head up briefly and watched the driver as he stepped inside. Then the dog yawned, put his head back on his paws, and closed his eyes again.

The passenger looked around casually then, turning away from the building, took his hat off for a few seconds. He pulled a rag from his pocket and mopped his brow; he spit into the dirt, then wiped his mouth. As he put the rag away, he spotted the small shrine: nothing more than a white cross, decorated with flowers and blue ribbons. On the ground, at the base, stood three votive candles. He took a step, hesitated, then took several more until he could read the handwritten note attached to the cross. Te extraño, mi hijo. Te amo.
I miss you, my son. I love you.

A small cry escaped his lips, and he shuddered once before pulling the rag from his pocket again and wiping his eyes. He squinted up at the sun for a moment and shook his head before he put his hat back on. After a moment, he turned away.

He walked to the other side of the building, away from the soccer game, and followed the path to the cistern out back. He stopped by the cistern and nodded to the old woman. Avoiding her eyes, he thrust his hand into his pocket, handed her a few coins, then he disappeared into the outhouse.

A minute later, he stepped out, washed his hands then took his hat off again. He splashed the water on his face, rubbing the week’s worth of stubble on his chin. As he put his hat back on, he turned to see the driver coming down the same path he had followed moments before. Without a word, he took the two bottles of
Coke
from the driver; the driver then paid the woman and stepped into the outhouse himself.

Three minutes later, in a small cloud of dust, the pickup truck pulled out onto the road again and headed north.

“The team is ready, sir,” Williams said.

“How soon can they deploy?” the president asked.

“I’m told four hours. But I think it will depend on how solid our intelligence is. The more intel we give them up front, the better they can prepare.”

The president nodded. They didn’t know where Guerrero was, but his gut told him that if they could find Guerrero, they would find Magaña and Richter. Once they did, assuming Magaña and Richter were still alive, the SEALs would have to deploy immediately. Would he be putting more lives in jeopardy if he sent them in? Did he have any other choice?

He glanced over at the noise and saw Burt Phillips answer his phone. Phillips mumbled something, then walked over to the TV.

“Ernesto Alameda was named interim president,” he said as he turned.

Damn
, the president cursed under his breath. Alameda was left-of-center, a member of PRD—the National Democratic Front that was the successor to the corrupt, one party system that had ruled Mexico for almost sixty years before finally falling from grace in the 1990’s. He was a vocal critic of Magaña’s campaign against the drug cartels and publically opposed U.S. drug policy. It was believed that he was preparing to run for president himself when Magaña’s term was done.

The screen showed Alameda standing behind a podium flanked by the Mexican flag. They listened as the announcer described the scene.

“Ernesto Alameda made his first public appearance less than thirty minutes ago when he addressed reporters from the Presidential Palace at Los Pinos. In an emergency session of Congress earlier today, Alameda was selected to serve as interim president following the apparent abduction of President Filipe Magaña. Alameda provided few details about Magaña’s abduction, claiming that it was a national security matter. Meanwhile, other sources tell us that Magaña was vacationing at a private location on the Gulf Coast when his compound was overrun by armed terrorists. In the process, President Magaña was taken hostage and, as of yet, his whereabouts and condition are unknown.

“Alameda would not comment on who might be behind the abduction or the possible motives, but our sources tell us that it is widely believed that one or more drug cartels are responsible. In the past, Alameda has publically voiced his disagreement with Magaña’s drug policy and with the heavy influence that the United States exerts in Mexican national matters.”

As the news announcer continued, the president turned. “He’ll likely renege on our agreements,” he stated.

Phillips and Williams both nodded somberly, and the president’s face clouded. As he watched Alameda on the screen, any lingering doubts he had about sending in the SEALs faded.

Sitting in her office at Princeton, Patty tried to focus on her work, to push Matthew from her mind. She had to keep busy, otherwise the worry would consume her. She had been unable to reach him but assumed he was consumed with national security issues. Was he on his way to Mexico? she wondered. Was he already there? She felt a chill. Was he safe? She shook her head. No, she told herself, with the situation in Mexico, his trip had been cancelled. He was probably huddled in the Situation Room trying to assess what was happening right now. Felling a little better, she turned back to her work.

But after several failed attempts to focus on the papers she was grading, she gave up and switched on the TV. The channel, as was her custom, was set to a twenty-four hour news program. She watched for several moments, hoping to learn something new. Mexico had named an interim president. The transition of power was an interesting topic, she thought. Mexico’s constitution dictated a transitional process, she knew, but the unfolding of the transition, especially under the circumstances, would make for timely discussions. And especially when she considered all of the things that it signaled. The PRD had seized power. Although through a democratic process, they had seized it nonetheless by coercing enough votes for Alameda. And now it was likely that there would be a significant shift in foreign policy and, likely, she thought, domestic policy as well. She knew Alameda was a critic of the current approach to combating the narco-traffickers. The last time that the PRD was in power—or rather, its predecessor the PRI—the government had turned a blind eye to the narco-traffickers, quietly accepting the cartels as a fact of life in exchange, some said, for a share of the spoils that came with it. One of her colleagues had published a paper last week that suggested the political landscape in both North and South America, and ultimately the world, could change if Mexico succumbed to a violent revolution. The cartels, no longer content with the tacit approval they once had, might try to seize power. And she wondered: with the PRD now in office, was that still a possibility?

Her cell phone rang and she spun away from the TV, hopeful that it was Matthew.  But when she saw the number she was confused.

“This is Patty Curtis,” she said.

“Ms. Curtis, this is the White House operator. Please hold for the president.”

The president?
Before Patty could respond, the line clicked. A moment later, it clicked again.

“Patty?” she heard.

“Yes…yes sir…this is Patty.”

“Patty, this is David Kendall.” There was a pause and Patty could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

“Hello,” Patty responded as the dread rising up inside her continued to build.

“Patty, I’m afraid I have some terrible news.”

Four miles over the Mexican landscape, the Reaper banked gracefully while, a thousand miles away, the sensor’s eyes scanned the six screens in front of him. He suddenly leaned forward.
Holy shit!
He zoomed the camera in and studied the man as he stared up at the sky, his face contorted in pain. The sensor cursed silently when the man put his hat back on. But two minutes later, now by the outhouse, he took it off again as he washed his face.
That’s him!
the sensor thought. He tracked the man as he walked back to the truck. Then, he kept the camera on the truck as it pulled onto the road, a wake of dust billowing behind.

“Possible visual on Banjo!” the sensor said into his mic, more excitement in his voice then he intended. “Designate as Target One.”

“Copy, Sea Dog,” he heard the mission controller’s reply. “Wait for confirmation.”

“Copy,” the sensor replied.

The sensor felt a rush of adrenaline. The intelligence pukes would have to verify it, of course. But he felt the excitement that always came before they engaged a target. He glanced over at the pilot. After a moment, the pilot looked up, then nodded once before turning back to the screen. It was show time.

When they pulled the blindfold off, it took a moment for Richter’s eyes to adjust to the light. He blinked once or twice as the guard checked his hands, then his feet, making sure they were bound securely to the chair. The guard—terrorist, Richter corrected himself—gave him an evil look, a warning. Richter exchanged a glance with President Magaña. The Mexican president’s face was a mask of stone. Subdued but not intimidated, he showed no fear as the guard checked his bindings. Throughout it all, Richter noted, Magaña had maintained a dignified silence.

The guards left, and he took the opportunity to study their surroundings. As he took in the cavernous room, he felt sick as adrenaline flooded his body. He fought the feeling—pushing it down, hiding it—knowing that panic would do him no good. He glanced over at Magaña. He saw the flash of fear in the president’s eyes then a quick, almost imperceptible nod. Magaña’s face hardened. They exchanged another glance and Richter found strength in the president’s resolve. He nodded at Magaña then turned, taking some time to study the room, cataloguing what he saw, weighing their options.

Directly over their heads was a rail system, suspended from the ceiling, with large hooks—shackles—hanging down. The rail continued, then turned and passed into another room. He looked down, knowing what he would find. At his feet was a six-inch wide trough that ran the length of the floor, following the pulley system as it curved into the next room. It was called a collecting trough, he remembered.

The trough and the floor around it were stained brown, and there was an unmistakable stench, a coppery smell that brought back images from his childhood. He glanced to the far corner, where the rail system began. There, he saw the door that led to the hog pens. Just inside the door, below where the overhead rail began, was where the
sticker
stood when the plant was operating. Then the scalding tank and the tumbler where the hair was removed. And the area where he and Magaña were sitting would normally be occupied by a team of workers. Dressed in boots, wearing hardhats and large aprons, each had an assigned task. Using enormous knives, the first was responsible for removing the heads, the next person, the entrails, before the pigs, hanging by shackles, passed on to the next station. There, the carcasses were split, sometimes with a chainsaw, before they were washed. Richter’s eyes followed the rail again to where it curved out of the room. Although he couldn’t see it, he knew the rail curved into the chilling room, a large refrigerator where the carcasses were stored temporarily to cool them before they were further processed in the cutting room. He glanced back down at the collecting trough and the stains on the floor and the muscles in his face tightened. This, he remembered, was called the
kill floor
.

That they had been brought here was not a good sign, he told himself unnecessarily. The building was full of weapons: knives, hooks, saws, things that could do considerable damage to a human body. He pulled at his arms unsuccessfully then tried to move his legs. He had to find some way to get his hands on those weapons before they were used on him.

President Kendall stared at the faces around the table.

“We cannot let Mexico fall,” he said. “And we will
not
abandon one of our men.”

The Secretary of State hesitated. “We have an appointment, sir”—she glanced at her watch—“in six hours.”

The U.S. Ambassador, Kendall was aware, would meet with the Mexican Secretary of Foreign Affairs and learn what he could. But by then, he knew, both Richter and Magaña could be dead, killed by Guerrero directly or by corrupt Mexican troops during a rescue attempt. Would Guerrero hold them for some form of ransom? Or, as Jessica Williams had suggested, would he kill them for revenge? Would he torture them first? Were they dead already or, worse, would Guerrero make their deaths a public display, a sign both of his power and of the impotence of the U.S. and Mexican governments? The problem was, without any solid intelligence on where Guerrero or Richter or Magaña might be, he was powerless. The only thing he could do was prepare for the chance that they would find them, and when they did, ensure that U.S. forces were ready to react.

“We run parallel courses,” the president said. He nodded at the Secretary of State. “We pursue diplomatic channels, find out what Mexico knows, what intelligence they have,” he paused. “Whatever they’re willing to share,” he added dryly. “We need to know what they’re planning. Meanwhile…” his voice trailed off and he looked up as Jessica Williams rushed in.

“Sir! We’ve located Guerrero!”