An Eye For An Eye (32 page)

“How’s the arm?” the president asked as he sat.

Richter held it up, opening and closing his fist several times. “Almost back to normal,” he responded. He had torn the ligaments in his shoulder, but thankfully that hadn’t required surgery. Although it still twinged now and then, over the last six weeks he had regained full range of motion, or mostly anyway. His hip too had healed; the bullet that had grazed it had done little damage. President Magaña, unfortunately, hadn’t been so lucky.

President Kendall smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” After a moment, the smile vanished. They shared a look. “We were lucky,” he said. “Damn lucky.”

Richter nodded. “We were, sir.” But, he thought, although Guerrero was in custody, the threat hadn’t gone away. Terry Fogel had disappeared. Review of the video captured by the drone told part of the story. In the chaos that followed the missile strike, a figure could be seen climbing out of the SUV and scrambling along the side of the building where he disappeared. Despite the handcuffs, Fogel had somehow made it out of the SUV and then had avoided not only drawing the drone crew’s attention but detection by the Navy SEAL Team as well. A massive international manhunt was underway, but where he was now was anyone’s guess.

On a positive note, Richter reminded himself, the FBI had painstakingly traced Fogel’s movements over the few months before the bombing, identifying several accomplices in the process. Two weeks earlier, they had arrested a handful of men. Questioning had led agents to a self-storage locker near Buffalo where two canisters of cesium had been discovered.

Pablo Guerrero was in Guantanamo. While the Mexican government planned to try him in absentia for the massacre in Mexico City, he continued to sit in solitary confinement, staring vacantly at the wall. He too, refused to talk, enhanced interrogation techniques having little effect on him. He began to lose weight, absently picking at his food, eating little and pushing the rest away. Doctors had finally concluded that he had lost the will to live. The interrogations had stopped; he was put on a suicide watch, and doctors kept a cautious eye on him while intelligence agents and law enforcement officials decided what to do. Meanwhile, he had been indicted in federal court in Manhattan on numerous charges related to the attack on New York. However, as far as both governments were concerned, he wouldn’t be leaving Guantanamo for a long time.

The cleanup in New York City continued. Testing showed that little cesium had escaped the confines of the station and the tunnels. However, the inside of Grand Central Terminal and the train and subway tunnels were still highly radioactive. The debate on what to do with the terminal raged on. While many pushed for closing the station permanently, ultimately knocking it down and hauling the contaminated rubble away—a task that would take years—Metro-North had resumed a limited service. Trains now dropped passengers off at 125
th
Street and the city had adjusted its bus routes to handle the volume. Further, a separate bus service had been established to transport commuters from the northern suburbs to Penn Station. The exodus that everyone had predicted hadn’t materialized. Life for New Yorkers, by and large, continued with many insisting that they would never leave. The large shrouds draped over Grand Central and the crews in radiation suits streaming in and out were a grim reminder of the risk. So were the radiation pagers. They had suddenly become as ubiquitous as cell phones for the many residents and commuters who refused to abandon the city.

Despite President Alameda’s initial protest, he had continued efforts to shut down the cartels. Privately, he asked President Kendall to expand Operation Night Stalker, agreeing to place the names of thirty-seven narco-traffickers on a kill list. Various factions tried to seize control of the drug routes, but with Guerrero out of power and with an increase in drone strikes the trade had splintered. The choke hold the cartels had held on Mexican society began to show signs of slipping, although the fight was far from over.

Alameda had established a special commission to determine what to do with the vast tracks of cartel property that had been seized. Proposals were being made for sections of arable land south of Ciudad Juarez. If approved, the program would divide and award the land to the indigenous population in an experiment to try and compensate the families that had been torn apart by the violence over the years. The government would then use funds from seized cartel bank accounts to begin constructing housing and to provide the seed money needed to the new farming communities. If the experiment worked, it would be expanded to other sites around the country.

After an elaborate state funeral, Magaña had been buried in his home state of Michoacán. Neither Richter nor President Kendall had attended due to security concerns. Maybe in a few months, Richter thought, he would make the trip, meet with Magaña’s family and tell them what really happened. He would tell Magaña’s children how much he admired their father.

Wendy Tillman’s body, along with those of the slain Secret Service agents had been returned home. Richter had attended each funeral. Tillman’s had been a private event in a suburb of Boston. It had been her childhood home, something Richter had only learned after her death. When he met her family, he realized how little he had known of the woman who had given her life protecting him. Tillman’s death was a stark reminder of how fragile life was.

The president’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“I’ve given this a lot of thought.” President Kendall paused a moment. “I’m going to appoint Jessica Williams as National Security Advisor.”

“I think that’s a wise choice, sir.” Richter responded. He had told the president a week earlier that he would not object if someone else was given the job. He was, after all, only serving in an acting capacity.

The president smiled, then leaned forward. His face became serious. “I’m hoping you’ll stick around, though.”

Richter was silent a moment. He had been expecting this. “What are you thinking, sir?”

“How does Special Assistant to the President sound?”

Richter frowned, momentarily confused.

“You would be my advisor,” the president explained then chuckled. “The constitution was silent as to what departments and functions make up the executive branch. That was left for the president to decide, so I have a lot of latitude here.” He smiled again then became serious. “As I think you know, finding someone who can me give unbiased advice, someone who can put the country first and not their own ambitions, is a rare thing in Washington.”

Richter was silent for a moment. “I would have to speak to Patty first, sir.”

The president nodded. “You would. But as I said, I have a lot of latitude here. I’m sure that I could find something important, challenging, and meaningful for someone with Patty’s skills and credentials. Something at the State Department perhaps. Or on the congressional staff of someone we know and trust. Or even here.”

Richter nodded.

“And if not,” the president continued, “Georgetown University is close by.” He chuckled. “I think I might also have some pull there too.”

Richter nodded again. “I’ll need some time to think about it, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” David Kendall smiled again.

He paused and Richter could see the question in his raised eyebrows.

“So, Puerto Rico’s nice I hear.”

Richter grinned. Why was he surprised?

Richter sat by the side of the pool, his feet dangling in the cool water.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Patty asked with a smile.

“I thought I would just sit here and admire you,” he responded with a grin.

She splashed him, and he held his hands up in mock protest.

“Okay! Okay! I’m coming.”

He pushed himself off the side into the water, and a second later she was in his arms. They swam and played in the water for some time, oblivious to the people around them. Patty flung her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.

“Come on!” she said. “It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

He grinned. It was only noon, but Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffet had just finished telling everyone that the bar was open. As Richter and Patty swam over to the pool bar, Buster Poindexter’s voice came over the speakers next, telling the crowd by the pool that he was
feelin’ hot, hot, hot
. Taking stools in the shade, they ordered piña coladas then spent the next hour sipping their drinks and talking. Patty’s face was animated as she told him a story about her childhood, her first kiss at an eighth grade dance. She laughed, telling him that it had been a disaster. She had waited the whole evening for the boy to kiss her. Then when he finally got up the nerve, the lights had come on; the boy had turned beet red when they found themselves in the middle of the dance floor with everyone watching.

“Now it’s your turn,” Patty said as she stroked his leg below the water. It was her idea that they trade stories of their past. “I’ll even give you some time to think about it,” she said as she pushed herself off the stool.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She leaned over and kissed him. “To the ladies’ room,” she whispered. She turned, hesitated, then turned back and kissed him again. “And stay away from those girls,” she warned, gesturing toward the three coeds in bikinis at the end of the bar.

“Who me?” he shrugged sheepishly. The young ladies had been glancing down the bar at him. He hadn’t realized that Patty had noticed too.

“Yes you.” Patty shot him a warning look then laughed as she made her way to the stairs.

He smiled back. The three women, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, watched Patty as she walked up the tiled pathway. A handful of men in lounge chairs glanced up as well. He was one lucky man, he told himself.

He sighed and took another sip. It was their second day at the small resort in Puerto Rico. They planned to stay a week, swimming and walking along the beaches, shopping, touring the old fort and the old town—doing all of the things that tourists do. Then in the evenings, they would have dinner in Old San Juan followed by dancing, perhaps, or maybe a show.

He twirled the straw in his glass. Sitting there, in the pool with a tropical drink in his hand, the events in Mexico now seemed a long time ago. But the scars were just beginning to heal, he knew as he subconsciously flexed his shoulder. Both inside and out.

Next week, when they returned, he and Patty had an appointment at the White House, an opportunity to see exactly what President Kendall had in mind. Surprisingly, Patty had agreed to the meeting, was looking forward to it, in fact. Then there was Pat Monahan, who had made several overtures, wanting to know if he would consider coming back to the FBI. And on top of that, there was the phone call from the Secretary of Homeland Security that he had yet to return. The word must have gotten out and, he thought, it was reassuring to have options. Still, he wondered. Would he and Patty be happy in Washington?

He spotted Patty walking back down the path. That was the question, wasn’t it? Would he and Patty be happy in Washington? He wasn’t sure. But sitting there with a piña colada in hand, with the warm tropical breezes blowing in off the ocean, the smell of suntan lotion and the sounds of a steel drum band in the air and Patty coming down the path to the pool, he decided that it was something that he could worry about later. Right now, he had more important things on his mind. He lifted his drink in salute and Patty smiled back.

For a preview of
The Devil’s Due
, L.D. Beyer’s historic thriller, read on….

County Limerick, Ireland

December 1920

It was such an odd thought for a man about to die, but, still, it filled my head.
Will I hear the gun? Will I feel the bullet?
I stared at the floor of the barn, the dirt soaked with my own blood. The earth was cold against my cheek and I could hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof.
God pissin’ on us again. Only in Ireland.
The lights of the oil lamps danced a waltz across the wall and, in the flickering light, I saw a pair of boots, then trousers. Nothing more, but I knew it was Billy. One of my eyes was already swollen shut and I couldn’t lift my head from the dirt to see the rest of him. I didn’t have to; those were Billy’s boots.

“Fuckin’ traitor!”

The boot slammed into my ribs, and I heard myself cry out. I coughed, spit out more blood, and tried to catch my breath, but the boot came again. Through one eye, I watched the feet, the legs, dancing with the light, then the flash of Billy’s boot striking me in the chest, the stomach, the arms. I heard the thuds, felt my body jump, felt each jolt like lightning, sending agonizing bolts of pain coursing through my body. Unseen hands began to pull me down into the darkness. Yet still I wondered.
Will I hear the gun? Will I feel it?
Probably not
, I thought.
A bright flash then, what? Nothing, I guess. Blackness?
I sighed and waited for the bullet, wondering how I would know when it finally came.

There would be no Jesus waiting for me on the other side; that was for sure. No Mary, no saints, no choir of angels. Good Irish Catholic lad that I was, I had done enough in my short life to know that heaven wasn’t in the cards. Not for me, anyway. My head exploded in a flash of colors as Billy’s boot slammed into my temple.
Probably just the blackness
, I decided. Maybe that wasn’t so bad.

It was strange, but I realized that I wasn’t afraid anymore. Not of death, certainly. Billy had beaten that out of me. I wasn’t afraid of hell either. Despite all that I had done—and what happened two days ago was sure to seal my fate—I wasn’t sure I believed in the Church’s view of hell. Seven hundred years of oppression under the British was hell enough. Eternal damnation, I suspected, was in the here and now, in the pains and tragedies of everyday life. And, surely, I was in pain. Billy had seen to that. Pain and regret were all I felt now.

I suppose any man about to die has regrets, and I had my share. A sudden sadness overwhelmed me when I realized that I would never see Kathleen again.
My Kathleen
.

I don’t know how long I laid there with Billy kicking me, cursing me, calling me a spy, a traitor. It didn’t matter what I said; he didn’t believe me. At some point I stopped feeling the kicks, stopped feeling the pain, and surrendered to the blackness. Maybe I was already dead and didn’t know it.

Then from the darkness, I felt a hand on my face, surprisingly gentle, brushing the hair out of my eyes.
Kathleen?
Then a hiss.

“Oh Jesus, Frankie! What has he done to you?”

Liam?

Hands grabbed me below the arms and lifted me up, my own hands and feet still bound to the chair. I screamed and coughed up more blood, my body wracked with spasms. Surely I had a few broken ribs thanks to Billy’s boot. I squinted through the tears and there was Liam, his own eyes wet. What was he doing here? Had they sent him—my closest friend—to put the bullet in me?

My head hung limp, then I felt Liam’s gentle hands on my chin. Through one eye, I watched as he dipped the cloth in the pail and began to wipe my face. I gasped when he got to my nose. Liam pulled the cloth away, stared at it for a second, his face a grimace. The cloth was dark red; stained by my own blood. With a disgusted look, Liam dropped it in the pail.

“Do you want some water, Frankie?”

Not waiting for an answer, he held the cup to my cracked and swollen lips. I coughed again and most of the water ran down my neck to join the blood on my shirt. The little I drank tasted of copper.

“Jesus, Liam,” I hissed. “Is it a bath you’re giving me or a drink?”

Liam just shook his head.

“I thought you were one of us, Frankie.”

I coughed again and squinted through the pain. “I am, Liam.” I coughed once more, my voice hoarse. “I am.”

He shook his head again, and I could see the pain in his eyes.

“That’s not what they’re saying, Frankie. Three of our boys dead…” His voice trailed off, his eyes telling me what he couldn’t say.
How could you do it, Frankie?

“And now the British have our names,” he continued choking on the words. He sighed and wiped his eyes. “They’ll hunt us down. Is that what you want?” His eyes pleaded with me, and I knew what he wanted to say but didn’t.
Do you want to see me with a bullet in my head too, Frankie?

“Liam…” I coughed again—a spasm—bright, hot lights of pain slicing through me.

He shook his head sadly. “I thought you were one of us, Frankie.” There was a hurt in his voice that matched my own pain.
How could you betray me?
his eyes seemed to ask. He sighed, dipped the cloth in the pail, then wiped my nose again. “I thought you were one of us…”

“Liam…”

He leaned close and whispered in my ear. “For the love of God, Frankie! He’s going to kill you anyway. You know that. Why don’t you tell him what he wants?” He sniffed then turned away and wiped his eyes. “I can’t watch this anymore.”

“I didn’t do it, Liam.”

He stared at me for a moment then leaned close again. “Ah, Jesus, Frankie. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter. You know that. If they suspect you’re an informant, you’re an informant.”

He was right, but still I protested.

“I swear on my father’s grave, I didn’t do it, Liam.”

“But you’re the only one still alive?”

A small doubt, but his eyes, like his words, told me it was hopeless. If Liam didn’t believe me, Billy and the others surely wouldn’t. And why should they? It was supposed to be a simple operation. But something had gone wrong—terribly wrong—and now here I was, waiting for the bullet. Better that it would be coming from one of my own than from the fuckin’ British. For some reason, that made me feel better.

“I know, Liam,” I wheezed. “I know. But I didn’t do it.”

Liam shook his head, unsure what to do.

“Did you write your letter?” he finally asked, choking on the words.

My letter. My last chance to speak to Kathleen, to tell her in my own words what had happened. Billy hadn’t given me the chance, though.

“Just tell Kathleen I love her.” I looked up into my friend’s eyes. “You’ll do that for me won’t you, Liam?”

He nodded slowly. “Aye.” He paused, his eyes telling me he expected more. “And your mam?”

My mam.
What could I say to a woman I hadn’t spoken to in three years. Would she even care?

Suddenly, there were shouts from outside, and I flinched at the sharp crack of a rifle. This was followed by two more, then shouting again. I stared up at Liam, unsure what it meant. Before I could ask, the clatter of a machine
gun filled the air.

“Oh, Jesus!” Liam screamed. “It’s the Tans!”

A fear I never knew gripped me, and I forgot about the pain of Billy’s boot. The
Black and Tans
! For the last year, the scourge of the British army, wearing their mismatched uniforms, had sacked and looted our towns and terrorized our people. Ex-servicemen, soldiers who had seen time on the Western front—and many who had seen the inside of a British jail—they had been sent to supplement the ranks of the
Peelers
, the Royal Irish Constabulary. These were war-hardened men, more than one who had been languishing in prison for one crime or another. And now, Britain had cleaned out their jails and sent their criminals to be our police. In April, they had gone on a rampage in Limerick; in December, they’d burnt the city of Cork.

“Liam!” I pleaded.

Before he could answer, bullets tore through the windows of the barn, chipping stone, ripping into the wood. The cows and sheep screeched in a panic, slamming into the cart and threatening to finish what Billy had started. Then one of the oil lamps was hit, and seconds later the hay was on fire. Liam slammed into me, and I howled in pain when I landed back on the blood-soaked dirt. He was screaming as he frantically clawed at the ropes that bound my hands. The fire raged as chips and splinters flew. Soon the sparks hit the ceiling and the thatch began to smolder, the sheep and cows shrieking all the while.

“Come on, Frankie!” Liam screamed as he struggled to untie me.

I felt his arms pulling, dragging me through the dirt to the cow door in the back. He kicked it open, peeked outside, then pulled me through.

“For fuck’s sake, Frankie! I’ll not be dragging you the whole way! Get up! Run!”

I struggled to my feet, the emotion and adrenaline masking the pain. I limped after Liam across the field, scrambled over the stone wall, falling once and crying out in pain. But somehow, I got up and kept going. Behind me, the guns went silent, but the screech of the animals, the shouts and the sounds of motorcars carried across the fields. I lost sight of Liam, knowing he’d done his part in setting me free. Now I was on my own.

I kept running, unsure where to go, just wanting to get away. But I couldn’t run all night, not with broken ribs and the life nearly beat out of me.

As the sounds died behind me, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath. Hands on my knees, I looked back across the field, expecting to see British soldiers, or worse, Billy. But in the darkness I saw nothing. I turned again then hesitated. Finally, I realized there was only one place I could go.