Lie Merchants
by
James Viser
Lie Merchants
Copyright 2010 by James Viser
Smashwords Edition
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
ISBN 978-0-615-39272-1
For more information about the book, please visit:
www.LieMerchants.com
For more information about the author, please visit his blog:
www.JViser.Blogspot.com
Chapter 1
I hate traffic, Tom thought as he braked to slow down along with hundreds of other commuters. For as long as he could see, a ribbon of vehicles stretched out in front of him before they snaked right around a bend and out of sight.
A pompous voice bellowed from his vehicle's sound system, "My friends. The day is coming when America will be restored to its former greatness. America will soon be a better place, a country that you can be proud of again. This President has destroyed the United States and made a mockery of our values. But Real Americans will know that through thick and thin, I have been your beacon of truth and I don't intend to let you down now, even in these uncertain times."
What is Bill spewing about now? Tom leaned over the center console of his luxury sport utility vehicle and strained forward to get a glimpse of what might be around the bend, causing the massive jam. He shot a glance at the digital clock on the dashboard. 7:15 AM. Damn it! I am always the first person through the door on Mondays. In frustration, Tom struck the top of his steering wheel with his fist so hard the horn beeped.
Through the rear window of the sedan in front of him, Tom saw his fellow commuter defiantly throw his hands up in response to the inadvertent protest. The motorist snapped his head to the right and barked some choice words as he suspended his arms in the air. Tom could see the driver mouth the words, "What the…?"
Frustration was setting in. Hundreds of vehicles had come to a near standstill on southbound I-25 between Castle Rock and Colorado Springs during the height of rush hour. It was hot and although the August morning sunshine made for good driving weather, the brilliance of the clear morning made the presence of the traffic jam even that more puzzling.
Bright flashes of blue and red caught the corner of Tom's eye. He looked up into his rear view mirror and could see police cars racing down the highway along the shoulder to his right. The sirens rapidly increased in volume as the cruisers approached at breakneck speed. Immediately to the right of Tom's SUV six patrol cars from the Douglas County Sheriff's office screamed by in quick succession like stock car racers. The draft from the urgent drive-by rocked Tom's SUV slightly from side to side. The symphony of emergency lights disappeared as the cruisers ducked behind the bend.
Tom slung his right arm over the top of the passenger seat to get a view of the emergency vehicles that inevitably would follow. The only thing Tom could see was more of the same – a hopeless, massive traffic jam. That's strange. If there was a car wreck ahead, where are the injured people? Maybe the paramedics were coming up from Colorado Springs to the south? That was the reasonable, logical explanation.
The pace of traffic began to quicken. Tom looked down at his dashboard. Twenty five miles per hour. Okay, I'll probably still be the first one in the office. That's good. He inhaled deeply and settled back in the leather seat. As the chief of American Home's Colorado Division, the fastest-growing and most profitable business unit in the nation's largest real estate brokerage, Tom felt it was important to be the first through the door, especially on Mondays. This traffic jam was inconveniently getting in his way.
"You Real Americans know what I am talking about," Bill's voice blared through the speakers, slightly startling Tom. He forgot the radio was still on. The voice of the talk radio host and self-described patriot, Bill Charles, was hard to ignore, but the anxiety from wondering what could get six Sheriff's cruisers racing down the shoulder of a major interstate in this affluent county distracted Tom's attention.
"Yes. Yes! Listeners and friends, the time is coming for Real Americans to take a stand and make this country great again!" As Bill squinted his eyes and frowned in front of his microphone, he complained, "We are all sick and tired of the crap that Washington is forcing down our throats…We certainly don't want our federal government to keep spending money …and we are damn tired of the oppressors in Washington…stealing the money of Real Americans and giving it to people who we don't know…we need a leader who will restore our nation to its former greatness and that day, my friends, is soon approaching."
Oh right, the midterm elections are coming up. That explains Bill's rant. Despite the logical explanation for the talk show host's tirade, Tom felt that there was something different in Bill's voice today. Bill seemed especially sure of himself this morning, but this was 'just talk' right?
The reason for the speeding Sheriff's cruisers slowly came into view. About a half mile up the road Tom could see the furious blinking of emergency lights from at least twelve cruisers stationed on the right-hand side of the road. Parked in front of the patrol cars was a large U-Haul moving van.
The rear loading door of the van was open and Tom could see several men standing inside the cargo bay. Tom gripped the steering wheel and pulled himself forward to get a better look, as his SUV slowly advanced. At least three deputies at the rear of the truck with handguns drawn were barking orders at the men standing in the van's hold. Six other officers provided cover from behind their cruisers, pointing their automatic rifles and shotguns at the suspects.
The deputies were ordering the men out of the truck, one by one, handcuffing them and then escorting them to a place on the side of the road serving as a makeshift detention area. Three more officers with shotguns nervously guarded the apprehended men as the suspects lay face down on the dirt next to the truck. Their shotguns at the ready, pointed at the men on the ground.
That explains the traffic jam. This must be a drug bust, or they captured a van full of illegal immigrants. I've never seen anything like this during rush hour, though.
As Tom's SUV approached the scene, he looked at the six men standing in the van waiting to be taken into custody. He could see the expressions on their faces. They were fit, well-fed and dark-skinned. They stood straight and proud, looking at the officers in the eyes. They did not look like peasants jammed into the back of a smuggler's truck. One of the men standing on the edge of the open loading door wore what looked like a white scarf drawn across his face with a black geometric pattern on it. That's weird.
Suddenly, a man emerged from the shadows at the rear of the cargo bay. He walked forward with authority holding his right hand high above his head. He was clothed in a long white robe, wore eyeglasses and was yelling something at the deputies. In response, all of the officers raised their weapons.
The situation was getting very tense, very quickly and Tom was getting uncomfortably close to the drama. The man in the white robe was holding something in his raised hand. Now, the handcuffed men detained on the side of the road were lifting their faces out of the dirt and yelling the same words as the man in robes. Tom could see their mouths moving, but the efficiently sealed windows in his SUV wouldn't permit their voices to intrude.
One of the deputies from behind his cruiser suddenly placed his rifle on the ground and turned around to face the string of commuters. A look of horror and panic was on his face. He began waving his outstretched arms up and down. The traffic began to stop in response to what motorists thought was an order to stop. Tom stabbed his brake pedal with his foot to avoid rear-ending the sedan in front of him. His SUV lurched to a quick standstill. About two tenths of mile stood between him and the U-Haul.
What is the deputy trying to say? Tom pulled off his sunglasses and narrowed his eyes to try to get a better view of the officer. His heart began to race. Something was wrong. Tom reached down for the remote switch and cracked his window a few inches to hear the officer's voice. He watched the deputy's mouth and then the words registered.
"Get down! Oh my God! Get down now!"
As Tom stared at the officer's eyes, the deputy was enveloped in an orange and black fireball as the U-Haul erupted in an explosion twice the size of the van. All of the men in the moving truck were instantaneously incinerated as the blast violently tore apart the red and silver rental vehicle. The cars ahead of Tom were consumed by fire. The massive shockwave killed anyone within twenty feet of the explosion's epicenter.
"Holy shit!" Tom yelled to himself as he watched his windshield crack in front of him. His SUV rocked backwards on its rear wheels and he instinctively ducked to avoid flying debris that might smash through the glass. Peering up over the dash, the rear axle of the destroyed truck fell directly in front of his SUV in a loud, metallic clang. It was in flames, covered in burning oil and gasoline.
Tom scanned the interior of his car and checked himself for injuries. He patted himself down and looked at his chest only to find that his crisp white shirt and striped tie were unblemished. He felt a dull pain on his forehead and looked up at the rearview mirror, only it was missing. Looking to the floor, he spotted the mirror laying in the passenger foot well. The force of the blast must have detached it from the inside of the windshield, striking him in the head.
Tom looked outside at the destruction. Cars were strewn about the highway like burnt toys. The bodies of officers, commuters and the apprehended men littered the highway. Blood was smeared on the concrete road where people must have hit after being thrown from the explosion. The empty metal carcass of the U-Haul was burning furiously, belching thick black smoke into the air.
Still dazed and in shock, Tom stumbled out of his vehicle. A few of the officers stationed behind their cruisers were slowly getting to their feet. Tom circled around slowly to see other shocked and confused people getting out of their cars. He turned to his left to see a woman screaming only ten feet away, pointing at her baby in the rear of her car. Tom could see the agony on her face, but he couldn't hear much of anything over the constant ringing in his ears.
Tom Worth and his fellow commuters had no way of knowing that today was the opening round. The unimaginable had begun. Jihad had come to America.
Chapter 2
"Tom, what the hell happened to you? You look like shit," remarked Tom's executive assistant at the front desk.
"Good morning Karen. Trust me, it feels worse than it looks," Tom replied sarcastically as he breezed by the front desk. He always arrived early on Mondays. Karen was surprised not only to see the boss walk through the door forty five minutes past nine, but also bloodied and looking like he had been in a bar fight. Karen's blunt, but accurate commentary on Tom's appearance made him even more nervous about what had just happened and how bad he must look.
Tom walked a brisk beeline to the men's washroom. On the way, he unceremoniously threw his briefcase and suit jacket on the leather couch in his office. He pushed open the door of the men's room and looked at his face in the mirror.
Karen was right, I do look like shit. On the other hand, I was almost blown to pieces on the way to work. The shock was beginning to wear off, only now he was getting angry. Tom didn't know exactly what had happened, but by the looks of it, the explosion was no accident. Who would do such a thing?
Tom looked in the mirror and saw a version of himself he did not immediately recognize. The blood from the cut on his forehead had dripped and dried in dark red crusty streaks. He turned on the faucet and splashed cool water on his face. Using a wet paper towel, Tom wiped off the signs of the violence from only two and a half hours ago.
He inspected his face in the mirror, turning his head from one side to the next. With the blood wiped off, he saw the beginnings of a large purple bruise above his right eye. Great, now I'm going to look like I joined Fight Club. That's just perfect. I'll call Stephanie when I get back to my desk.
Tom dabbed the cut with a fresh paper towel. Satisfied that he looked presentable, he went back to his office. Tom looked down at his desk phone and noticed the blinking voice mail light, most likely a call from one of his brokers who closed a sale over the weekend. I'll call Steph after I listen to this message. He pressed the button and a voice over the speaker phone said, "Tom, this is John Allway in Boca Have you seen the news? Call me when you get this message."
His quarterly call with John Allway, Vice President of Finance for American Home's national headquarters in Florida, wasn't for another four weeks. He erased the message and saw that there were eight more. Each voice message contained a strained voice from John Allway, begging Tom to "Call me."
What could John want this early in the quarter? Tom turned in his chair to face his flat screen computer monitor and double-clicked the email icon with two deliberate taps of his right index finger. The application launched and emails rapidly populated his electronic in-box. Out of twenty-five emails, fifteen of them were from John Allway and marked "urgent."
Tom opened the first message and it read, "CALL ME NOW!!!" The date on the email was Sunday at 9:05 AM. Sunday? That was yesterday! Tom pulled his Blackberry out of its leather holster and looked at the screen, but it was dark. He pressed the power button to no effect. "Shit." The battery was dead. He had forgotten to recharge it over the weekend.
Tom picked-up the remote control and turned on the flat screen television on the far wall of his office. The set was already tuned to a cable news channel. As the picture came into focus on the fifty-two inch screen, crisp images came into focus of men and women in windbreakers with the letters "FBI" and "BATF" emblazoned in large block letters on their backs. Tom turned up the volume and listened to the brunette reporter speak into her microphone as the cameraman artfully framed the commotion behind her.
"Early this morning, federal agents raided the national headquarters of American Home, the nation's largest real estate brokerage. Agents from the FBI and ATF have refused comment, but it appears that they are in the process of seizing records, file cabinets and computers."
The disembodied voice of the anchor reporter in Atlanta said, "Who are those people behind you?"
"Those are American Home employees. About fifty people showed up for work this morning, but instead of going to their desks, they found their offices sealed off." The reporter turned sideways to give the camera a better field of view. She remarked, "You can see that the agents are loading those semi trailers here in the parking lot with boxes of records, files, computers and some office furniture." The cameraman panned the parking lot to give the audience a more complete view, which included a perimeter surrounded by agents in black battle dress uniforms armed with automatic weapons.
The voice from Atlanta chimed in, "Brooke, why is there such a large show of force?"
"Neither the FBI or the company has issued a statement…"
Tom's phone rang on his direct line. His attention turned away from the screen and he picked-up the handset. "Hello, this is Tom," he answered.
The voice on the other line said, "Tom, this is John Allway. I've been trying to reach you for days! Where have you been?"
Tom felt relieved to hear John's voice.
"It's a long story," replied Tom. "Sorry, my Blackberry ran out of juice."
"Tom, I wish I got hold of you earlier. Did you see the news?"
Tom swiveled in his chair, watching the scene of American Home's headquarters being raided unfold on the television. "Yeah, just now. What the hell is going on? Why is the FBI raiding headquarters?"
"Look, I'm not sure, but McCallister gave me his resignation letter at 4:45 last Friday afternoon. I haven't seen him since."
"What?" Tom winced into the receiver. "The CEO resigned and no one told me about it?"
"That's why I was calling and emailing you. I was trying to bring you up to speed. This morning, two FBI agents came to my house and escorted me to the office where they served a search warrant. When we arrived, the entire building was surrounded by what looked like soldiers. Tom, have you talked to Juan?"
"No, I called you first."
"Has he tried to contact you?"
"Uh, no. Not yet anyway."
Allway replied, "I haven't seen him either, but the FBI asked me a lot of questions about him. Maybe he's home sick and doesn't know what is going on. Look, I've got federal agents crawling over everything here. I gotta go. Take care of yourself Tom and call me later."
"Okay. Thanks John. Appreciate the call. Take care yourself." Tom placed the receiver back on the handset and looked out the window. He took in the scenery out of his floor to ceiling windows and the peaceful view of Rocky Mountains rising above the spruce, pine and aspen trees that decorated the office park. As he gazed at the majestic peaks, which had towered over the plains for millions of years unchallenged, the irony of how quickly things could change in the world of human events was not lost on him. Okay, now I will call Steph. Tom heard two abrupt knocks on his office door.
Karen leaned in the doorway. "Good morning. You look better."
"Thanks Karen. Good morning. What's up?"
"There are two people from the FBI who want to see you."
Chapter 3
An austere, tall African-American man and an attractive, Caucasian woman in dark business suits entered the office.
"Are you Thomas Worth?" asked the tall black man.
"Yes. Call me Tom. Please have a seat," replied Tom as he walked from behind his desk to clear the leather couch of his briefcase and suit jacket.
The tall agent didn't move. "Mister Worth, I am agent White," Malcolm White displayed his credentials, "and this is my partner, Ms. Black," Agent Black showed her FBI identification card.
Susan Black asked, "Is this a bad time, Mister Worth?"
Tom looked at Malcolm with a half-cocked smile and said, "Wait a minute. You're agent 'White' and she's agent 'Black'?"
Malcolm replied in a tone that was all business, "We get that a lot."
Tom realized that this was not a social visit.
"Mister Worth, your title is General Manager and Vice President. Is that right?" Malcolm asked
"Yes, I'm in charge of fourteen brokerage offices here in Colorado. This office is my regional headquarters."
Malcolm stared suspiciously at the now noticeable purple bruise on his forehead. "What happened," Malcolm casually pointed at Tom's head, "to your head?"
"Nothing. No, not 'nothing'. That's not what I meant to say."
"What did you mean to say, Mr. Worth?" asked Susan Black.
The events of earlier that morning were just now starting to settle in. Tom was still a little confused. He wanted to know who blew-up that moving van on I-25 this morning and why. "I meant to say that I saw people die this morning!" Tom angrily retorted. "Didn't you get the news? I was no more than ten car lengths from that van that exploded in rush hour this morning. Where were you two?" Tom realized he had raised his voice, which was unlike his typical buttoned-down executive demeanor. "Look, I am sorry. I am still more than just a little confused."
"We understand, Mr. Worth," replied Malcolm. "We did get the news, but right now we have a few questions. Do you mind?"
"No. No, I don't mind," Tom apologetically replied. "What do you want to know?"
"Do you report to Juan Calderon, Chief Operating Officer at American Home?"
Tom looked a little surprised. The agents knew quite a bit about him. He nervously answered, "Yes, I report to Juan."
"When was the last time you saw Mr. Calderon?"
"About three months ago. He came out for a quarterly review meeting."
"Did he act in any way that you would find unusual or different?"
"No, nothing unusual. Why?"
"I am sorry," said Malcolm, "I am not at liberty to say. I just have a few more questions. Have you communicated with Mr. Calderon since your last meeting?"
"Well, yes, about two weeks ago. We discussed sales numbers, which is typical about two months into each quarter. That's our routine."
"Routine," White said in a low voice as he turned his head towards agent Susan Black. The two FBI agents held their gaze for a few uncomfortable seconds. "I see. Well, then that's all we have for now, Mister Worth. Here's my card," said agent White. Then, he said with an uplift tone at the end of his sentence as if he was simultaneously making a statement and asking a question, "You will call me immediately if you have any communication with Juan Calderon?" The question could not be mistaken for a request, Malcolm's voice inflection underscored the gravity of the situation.
"Yes. Yes, I will call you," Tom said as he sank back into his chair.
"Thank you for your cooperation. Good day, Mister Worth. We'll show ourselves out," Malcolm pointed to his own forehead, "And you might want to get that looked at."
"Yeah, good idea. Have a good day."
Malcolm and Susan walked to the elevator past Karen who was outside the office door. She gave them a surprised look as they walked by. Susan gave the executive assistant a tight smile and nod. They made their way down to the ground floor and walked briskly across the parking lot to a dark Ford Crown Victoria.
"Do you think he suspects anything?" asked Susan.
"Not sure, but if Worth does know something, he sure didn't act like it," replied Malcolm. "What time did Agent Eight fall off the grid?"
"Sometime between 5:00 PM last night and Midnight. He could be almost anywhere by now. He could be dead."
"Or worse."
Malcolm's cell phone rang and he efficiently answered, "Agent White here." Malcolm listened intently to the caller. "Yes sir. I understand. We're on our way now." Malcolm looked at Susan as he settled into the driver's seat, "We have to go. Now."
"Where?"
"To investigate a killing."
Chapter 4
Malcolm steered the dark blue Ford Crown Victoria into the parking lot of the anonymous strip mall. Four squad cars from the Colorado Springs Police Department were parked outside the First Heritage Bank. Their blue and red emergency lights flashing strenuously against the competing morning sunlight. Uniformed police officers were standing at the front of the door. Two paramedics sat in the cab of their ambulance, waiting for the investigation to end. The crime had occurred and the perpetrator was already long gone, but the investigation was just beginning.
Agents Black and White emerged from the company sedan and walked across the parking lot to the bank. As they approached, the officer taking a statement of a woman sitting on a bench just outside the bank entrance said something to her, got up and turned to face the agents. He introduced himself, "I'm Lieutenant Steve Mallory with the Colorado Springs Police Department." The uniformed officer looked at Malcolm, then Susan. By their look they must have been sent from the Denver office. "You must be from the FBI."
"Yes. I am Malcolm White," he presented his credentials. Nodding to his partner, "This is my partner, Agent Susan Black. "Are you in charge here?"
Lieutenant Mallory said, "Yes, I am in charge." He looked at Susan, then Malcolm and noticed the contrast between their names and skin color. Mallory said with a smirk, "You're kidding right?"
"Kidding about what?" asked Malcolm.
The Lieutenant could see that the agents were all business and hidden behind dark sunglasses, their eyes betrayed no sense of humor. Lieutenant Mallory's smirk faded as he quickly got the message. The lieutenant's demeanor quickly improved and he replied in a business-like tone, "Right," as he pointed to the woman sitting on the bench, "That is the bank employee who opened this morning. She came in as usual and found the body."
Susan looked behind her and saw a crowd of customers gathering behind the yellow police tape, ostensibly hoping to make deposits, get cash and perform other banking transactions. "Can we take a look?" asked Susan.
"Yeah, no problem," Lieutenant Mallory replied in a genuinely helpful tone. "Follow me." The officer continued to speak as he led them across the tile floor of the bank lobby, their footsteps echoing inside the empty building, which normally at this time would be bustling with employees and customers. "I called you in the moment we realized we were dealing with a bank. With the economy in the tank, there's been a string of robberies all over town. We don't know if they are connected, but we've been given orders to call in the Bureau first to see if they want to send someone down from Denver to investigate. I guess it was lucky you two were already in The Springs when we called."
The agents remained silent. Lieutenant Mallory led them to a high-walled cubicle in the corner of the bank. The lieutenant looked inside and then stepped back from the cubicle's entrance to give the agents a better view. "He's in there."
Malcolm entered the office slowly. He didn't look at the body first. Instead, he scanned the floor and walls, looking for signs or clues that could help explain what had happened to the dead man. On the brass name plate glued to a polished wood base sitting on the desk imprinted were the words Paul Blake – Loan Officer.
When Malcolm did turn his focus to the body, he saw that it was draped backwards in the chair with arms drooped at the sides off of the arm rests. The victim's blue eyes were open, apparently surprised at the time of his death. In the middle of his forehead was a hole where a bullet had entered. Blood had dripped from the entry wound and dried in a line down the victim's face.
Susan carefully walked around to the back of the body and the first thing she noticed was the exit wound – a gaping hole on the back of the corpse's head. Turning her head, Susan saw blood splattered onto the back of the wall like a large, red Rorschach inkblot behind Paul Blake's body. "It looks like he's been here for awhile," remarked Agent Black as she surveyed the dried blood on the cubicle wall and the fact that no blood was flowing out of gaping wound on Blake's head.
Malcolm pulled a pen from his suit jacket pocket and leaned down. Pointing at the office floor with the writing instrument, he said, "Look, over here."
Susan peered down at the Colt 1911 Government Model .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol lying on the floor and said, "That's certainly big enough to do this kind of damage."
"Suicide?" asked Lieutenant Mallory.
Malcolm looked around the room. This felt weird and he didn't know why. It was just a little too convenient for him and Susan to be in Colorado Springs just at the time a potential bank robbery needed to be investigated. It certainly appeared as if Paul Blake took his own life, or at least that's the way it was supposed to look. Malcolm replied in an even tone, "It certainly looks that way."
But Malcolm didn't believe in accidents or coincidence. He had been passed over for multiple promotions to FBI headquarters in Washington, but not because he lacked the diplomatic skills necessary for dealing with politicians on the Hill. Although his intuitive skills weren't always understood or appreciated, his superiors had determined that his uncanny ability to solve mysteries that confounded others made him more valuable in the field than behind a desk at headquarters.
The forensics team had arrived and would collect evidence, including the bullet lodged in the wall behind Paul Blake's body. Susan and Malcolm walked out of the bank towards their car. Susan knew how Malcolm looked when he was trying to piece clues, signs and messages into an explanation. "What do you think? Are Worth and Calderon connected?" she asked.
"I don't know, but I have a feeling we are going to find out," replied Malcolm.
Chapter 5
"We will be beginning our descent in just a few minutes. If you need to use the restroom, now would be a good time to do it," notified the co-pilot over the aircraft's cabin speakers. "We expect to have you on the ground in approximately fifteen minutes."
The sole passenger straightened himself in his leather chair and brought the seat back forward. He pulled his shirt behind him straight and fastened his seatbelt.
The Gulfstream G650 business jet initiated its descent for landing at General Rafael Buelna Airport in Mazatlan, Mexico. Black stripes outlined in gold were painted on each side of the large white plane as it gracefully arced over the Pacific Ocean below.
The only man on the plane looked out the window to his left as the plane gently banked left over the blue water below, giving him a wide-angle view of the action far below. It was a perfect, sunny day in this Mexican tourist town. Catamarans sailed briskly across the sea, sun worshippers seeking a golden brown tan basked on the beach.
Gringos, the passenger thought to himself. The Yanquis stereotyped Mexico as a backwards country run by stupid and corrupt officials. Most Americans had experienced Mexico only through the seedy border towns or luxury resorts, none of which represented the true spirit of the people. Mexicans were smart, proud and deeply family oriented, but the corruption that came with the burgeoning trade in illegal drugs was oppressing. In the passenger's mind, it was the Americans who were stupid. Weren't the Americans the ones who sniffed tons of cocaine every year and chain-smoked marijuana?
The pilot began to level out of the turn, settling the Gulfstream onto final approach. Coming out of the turn felt good to the passenger. It was much more fun to fly one of these high-performance jets than the slow and stubborn helicopters he flew as a pilot in the Fuerza Aérea Mexicana or FAM, the Mexican air force.
The pilot scanned the jet's instruments as he adjusted the flaps. Instead of dials and gauges, the "instruments" consisted of four large flat screen computer monitors displaying primary flight instrumentation, navigation, weather and other data streaming through the plane's satellite communications system. All systems were functioning normally and with a casual pull of a lever, the pilot deployed the landing gear and lowered the flaps to bleed off air speed. The plane slowly descended until its wheels hit the numbers painted on end of the runway. A small puff of smoke blew off each tire as they hit the tarmac.
The passenger felt his body slightly press forward against the seat belt as the pilot activated the reverse thrusters to slow the jet down quickly.
The G650 taxied up to the business jet center. Looking out his window, the passenger could see three black GMC Denali XLT SUVs lined-up in front of the open hangar door with a security detail of ten men surrounding the trucks. The security men all wore plain clothes, long guayabera shirts and khaki or black linen pants and dark sunglasses. They held black bags, most likely concealing submachine guns and extra magazines. Each security man scanned for threats, unfazed by the roar of the jet as it taxied up to the hangar.
The purser opened the door to the Gulfstream and indicated with a nod of his head to the passenger that it was safe to exit the plane. The man in the leather seat returned the gesture, adjusted his sport coat, grabbed his briefcase and walked down the jet's stairway. Two security men met him at the bottom of the stairs and escorted him quickly and efficiently to the middle of the three SUVs. The passenger got into the back seat and the rest of the team took their positions in the three vehicles. The SUVs quickly sped off the tarmac and onto the highway towards the city of Mazatlan, ten miles away.
Mazatlan is located on the Pacific coast, just east of the southernmost tip of the Baja California peninsula. The city was originally founded by German immigrants who settled in the area in the mid-1800s seeking to mine silver and gold in the surrounding mountains. They built roads and a port used to import mining equipment and then ship the precious metals to market. They also continued to pursue one of their favorite past times – brewing and drinking beer, by founding the Pacifico Brewery in 1900.
Over time, the silver and gold was mined out of the hills, but Mazatlan's seaport transformed the city into a key trading port, eventually becoming Mexico's largest and busiest. The beaches became popular with American tourists seeking to stretch their vacation dollars, bolstering the local economy.
Tourists in the western United States came to the beaches of Mazatlan because they were only a short flight away from Los Angeles, Phoenix, Dallas, Houston and other cities in the southwestern U.S. The passenger and his boss liked the city because it did not sport as high a profile as the more popular tropical resorts in the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, making it easier to avoid scrutiny from law enforcement agencies.
The passenger looked out the window at the desert landscape as it whizzed past his window. The three-truck convoy moved down the highway at ninety miles per hour to make it difficult for pursuers to follow unnoticed. Driving only a few feet apart from each other, the Denalis snaked in between the light traffic as the city came into view. Now the roads were lined with palm trees and blooming purple and pink bougainvilleas.
The convoy turned right and headed north on the Avenida Camaron Sabalo, the main street following the beach and leading up to the luxury hotels preferred by the Americans. The SUVs rocketed up the two-lane street winding through the one of the busiest parts of the city, oblivious to pedestrians, police and school children making their way home in the hot afternoon sun.
Eventually, the stores, hotels and shops began to thin-out. The Denalis traveled about a mile north of the city into more remote country. The passenger noticed his truck begin to slow, make a gentle left turn and then stop in front of two gates made of heavy gauge steel and painted black to look like wrought iron. After ten seconds, the large metal gates swung open electronically and two armed guards located inside the compound waved the convoy through.
The SUVs traveled down the private access road toward a rocky promontory overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Juan could see a large hacienda on the rocky outcropping populated with palm trees. It looked more like a luxury resort than the headquarters for La Familia, the most feared drug gang in Mexico.
The convoy pulled up to the covered main entrance and the security detail emerged from each of the Denalis. The passenger stepped out of the SUV, looked into his reflection in the tinted window and carefully put a few stray hairs back into place. He narcissistically admired his classic Latin good-looks in the glass.
It was true. He attracted beautiful women from all walks of life aspiring to wealth – real estate agents, models, starlets or just run-of-the-mill gold diggers. It really didn't matter to him, because he got what he wanted and they got the opportunity to vie for his attention and substantial wallet. His vanity was matched only by his intellect and bravery. He graduated from the University of Texas with a Bachelors degree in Finance and returned to Mexico to serve his country doing what he loved the most – flying.
The passenger entered the grand hacienda and was greeted by a large, fat Mexican man also wearing a huge guayabera shirt. There must be enough fabric to make a four-man tent. How undisciplined the passenger thought.
"Bienvenidos. Welcome to Hacienda Del Mar," said the fat man.
"Con mucho gusto, Pablo. It has been a long time," replied the passenger.
"He is waiting. I'll take you to him."
"No problema," the passenger answered matter-of-factly.
The two men walked across the Mexican tile floor under tall ceilings, towards the rear of the building. The two men walked through glass French doors into a courtyard with a large fountain in the middle. Along the two sides of the courtyard, to the left and right, were walls with windows and similar French doors leading to other parts of Hacienda Del Mar, a sprawling complex of residences, halls, offices, garages and underground caches. As they walked around the large fountain, about twelve feet high, their footsteps were drowned out by the water flowing from the top and over the tiers into the pool below. Such a large place, thought the passenger, but fitting for a true leader.
As they approached the rear of the hacienda, the courtyard opened up into a large patio, approximately three hundred feet wide extending up to the edge of the rocky cliff. The concrete deck was poured around two very large rocks on the cliff, hugging the edge as it looked over the ocean. Large palms, lush flowers and other vegetation were tastefully planted throughout the patio and an edgeless swimming pool was on the far right side. Around the pool were two young women laying on chaise lounges in the afternoon sun.
The passenger could see El Jefe sitting in a patio chair by a round, granite top table surrounded by three other chairs. The boss looked up to see him and Pablo walk across the huge deck. El Jefe smiled widely, got up from his chair and walked confidently towards the passenger and greeted him warmly with a handshake and then a short embrace.
El Jefe took a half step backwards and looked at the passenger. He said, "Juan Calderon! It is good to see you! It has been far too long."
"Con mucho gusto, El Jefe, it is good to see you as well," replied Juan Calderon.
Chapter 6
"Did you enjoy the new 'toy' I bought?" asked El Jefe.
"The plane? Yes! It was very nice. Much nicer than those old helicopters we used to fly," replied Juan as he stood in front of El Jefe. With his eyebrows raised for effect, Juan nodded his head and repeated, "It is a very nice piece of equipment."
The late afternoon sun was beginning to fall into the sea and a slight onshore breeze began to blow. Juan could feel the thick, salty air in his nose.
El Jefe gestured to a seat at the table. "Please, have a seat Juan, next to me."
"Si, El Jefe." Juan casually, but dutifully replied to his superior.
"Have a drink. Some ice tea? Cerveza? Margarita?" asked El Jefe.
"Water is fine, thank you."
"Always disciplined, that is what I like most about you, Juan. And, you have done an excellent job for La Familia in the United States."
"Gracias, El Jefe. But I am just doing my job."
"And some job you have done." El Jefe replied. In a more serious tone, the drug boss said, "Juan, you have proven yourself to me again. But, maybe you are too good, too good to go unnoticed, that is. You barely made it out of Miami before the FBI captured you."
"I was lucky, but they don't have anything on me. No one suspects a thing."
El Jefe nodded his head in apparent agreement, repeating "No one suspects a thing." He looked off into the distance, "No one suspects…a thing." El Jefe shot a look at Juan. "NO ONE SUSPECTS A 'THING'!?" he thundered as he threw his glass of ice tea across the patio, smashing it one of the huge boulders forming the edge of the deck. The two women by the pool on the opposite edge discretely left the patio, wanting to avoid the worst of El Jefe's famous temper.
"If no one suspected a thing, Juan, then why the hell did I have to send my private jet to pluck your ass out of Miami? Why are Federal agents from the FBI ransacking the headquarters of American Home? Why are you, sitting in a chair, here, in front of me in Mazatlan? If everything was 'okay', as you say, then you would still be back in Florida selling real estate."
El Jefe's complexion had changed from that of a calm and confident commander who was in control – knowing who was an enemy and how to manipulate them through bribes, threats, enticements or bullets, knowing how to manage the rivalries among his lieutenants and use their petty competitions to strengthen his own position, knowing how to maintain anonymity and safety from U.S. law enforcement – to a man of extreme anger. Juan had seen this volatility before from El Jefe, in combat and business dealings. His temper was a strong asset when used properly and fortunately he always seemed to be able to use it wisely more often than not.
Juan didn't flinch and continued to look El Jefe in the eyes, maintaining a calm composure. El Jefe always admired Calderon's steely demeanor and ability to remain cool under fire.
"Look Juan. The Americanos got close this time, too close for my taste. I am worried, Juan. You worked years to maneuver into your position at American Home and now you are on the run. I can't use you in the United States anymore."
Juan felt uncharacteristically nervous. He felt a tingle at the base of his neck and it spread up to his temples. He felt a little dizzy. Not being useful in an organization like La Familia was a death sentence. He had never felt this way before. El Jefe was Juan's former commander who had led him into battle and to whom he had sworn an oath of allegiance. El Jefe had given Juan purpose and brought meaning to his life. His was a life filled with the things that a Mexican Air Force helicopter pilot couldn't afford on his own – money, freedom and most importantly, respect from his compatriots. La Familia was a professionally-managed organization run like any elite corps of Special Forces troops, which was in fact what they used to be.
In El Jefe's world, men are not created equal. El Jefe considered himself top of the food chain, a man of character and respect who had carved out a life for himself in a country filled with weakness and corruption. He had created an organization based on honor, precision, achievement and self discipline. When El Jefe bestowed respect on someone, it was indeed valued because he himself was a man of great achievement and personal integrity. He showed unwavering loyalty to those who served him well, compensation commensurate with skill and service. He gave each the opportunity to advance in the ranks. El Jefe had created a true meritocracy, no matter that he was in the business of trafficking illegal drugs.
El Jefe proved himself a formidable leader on the battlefield, but grew disillusioned with his corrupt superiors who seemed to be getting rich while he took all the risks. The drug lords lured him with huge sums of money to provide security for protecting their narcotics shipments from rivals. The lucrative compensation and opportunity to fight the corrupt politicians and their police cronies seduced him. The hypocritical government officials had no honor or respect for themselves and hence received no respect from the people.
But the more he learned about his drug trafficking masters, the more El Jefe realized that they were as corrupt as the politicians. His bosses killed for fun, rather than purpose. Their unquenchable appetite for violence for its own sake turned off the professional soldier inside El Jefe. And the wanton killing attracted unwanted attention from law enforcement. El Jefe know it was only a matter of time before the stupidity and bloodlust of his paymasters would threaten his own life.
So, El Jefe killed his employers and assumed control and gave himself the title of "El Jefe," the boss of bosses. He provided a new sense of purpose and discipline to the business. In only a few years, El Jefe's superior organizational skills and managerial prowess empowered him to build La Familia from a small band of elite soldiers into a multinational business with its own private army that reached deep into the United States, Central and South America and into Canada.
Juan knew that from time-to-time, certain sacrifices had to be made. If one member of the unit had to be sacrificed to protect the others, then Juan realized El Jefe would not hesitate to do what had to be done, even if it meant eliminating his trusted lieutenant.
Juan had gone through this calculus many times before. If it came his time to be sacrificed, then so be it. Live in the moment, don't worry about the future. He had gotten farther in life than he expected, so he was ready to die at any time. If El Jefe had decided that Juan had outlived his usefulness and today was Juan's last, then so be it. Juan was surprised to feel his stomach cramp up in anxiety, despite the fact he showed no outward signs of distress.
"Juan, La Familia is the richest, strongest and most powerful cartel in the Western Hemisphere. Thanks in no small part to your efforts. I own the drug distribution market in the United States. Over the past few years, La Familia has become the sole surviving cartel 'superpower'. My enemies have become 'friends' you might say. They have found that it is more in their interests to pay me a tariff for every kilo of cocaine and marijuana that enters the United States, instead of my killing them. That way, they get to keep some profit and avoid the expense of having to defend against me, which is impossible anyway."
"El Jefe, you could have it all, if you wanted." said Juan.
"Yes, but once you 'have it all,' as you say, then others will come who will try even harder to take it away. Allowing four to five smaller gangs to function keeps my most likely rivals satisfied with the good life, keeping them weak and avoiding the temptation to take me out. They know they are no match for our numbers, skills and firepower. As a result, anyone wanting to get into the business is far more likely to challenge one of the smaller fish first. They will fight amongst each other before daring to face me and because they know they cannot win in the first place, they quickly agree to pay the tariff instead getting a bullet in the head."
Juan agreed, "That is true."
"This strategy ensures that not one American can get high without my making money off of it, but what is good for business is also good for everyone. We have brought relative peace to the system. Because of our influence and power, a Cold War of sorts has emerged among the cartels. Thanks to me, life has become more peaceful and easier for everyone. I am a force for good."
"You are wise, El Jefe. That is why I joined you."
"And I am glad that you did, but I am not happy that the FBI has raided American Home. I am concerned that someone must have tipped them off. Someone on the inside, but I haven't figured it out yet. When I do, there will be consequences to pay. Fortunately, we have other ways to operate and are always looking to expand. We are like a business, Juan. No different than Goldman Sachs or Merrill Lynch!" El Jefe laughed heartily. "We just don't need any bailouts like the gringo banks." El Jefe's mood seemed to be lightening up a bit.
"Si. No bailouts here," Juan said with a grin.
"Juan, I have a new assignment for you. I am forming a new partnership and need a liaison, a man I can trust."
Juan felt better now. The tingling sensation at the base of his neck and temples was gone. Apparently, El Jefe had decided that there were more missions for Juan and that today was not his last.
"What is it?"
"Tomorrow you will go to Dubai."
"Dubai?" Juan sat up in his seat and looked quizzically at El Jefe.
"Si. I will tell you more at dinner tonight."
Chapter 7
Juan arrived for dinner at exactly 7:00 PM, as ordered by El Jefe. He arrived in the dining room to find the most powerful drug lord in the Western Hemisphere already sitting at the large round table and sipping a margarita.
"Juan! Please, come join me!" said an elated El Jefe as Juan entered. The room, like all the others at Hacienda Del Mar, was beautifully appointed and filled with large live plants. Various cacti, palm trees, large leafed rubber trees and blooming flowers ornately decorated the space, making one feel as if he was in a luxury greenhouse or a botanic garden. The aroma of the fragrant blooms filled the air, providing an atmosphere of calm, but dangerous beauty. Juan motioned for Juan to sit at the right-hand side of the large wood table.
"Si, El Jefe. Thank you," replied Juan dutifully.
El Jefe was reading a magazine. Juan squinted to improve his focus on the title as he pulled back the chair next to El Jefe and took his seat.
El Jefe noticed Juan's interest in the publication and said, "It's the latest Forbes Magazine. The 'World's Most Powerful People' issue.
"Interesting, who is number one?" asked Juan.
"The President of the United States," said El Jefe in a half joking manner. He turned the magazine towards Juan and pointed to the top list with his finger landing just below the President's name. El Jefe nodded knowingly, "Yes, he is very powerful, El Presidente, the Commander in Chief. The U.S. military with its nuclear weapons, submarines and aircraft carriers are indeed formidable threats."
"That's true," nodded Juan in agreement.
El Jefe then sat back in his seat and with a relaxed voice breathed the words, "But, they are no threat to me." He waved his hand at the page and said, "Look a little closer, Juan."
Juan scanned down the page, looking at the names of corporate titans, entrepreneurs, heads of states and entertainment moguls. The powerful came from America, Asia, Europe, India and South America. One name was from Mexico – Hernando Gonzalez was number eight. Juan's eyes widened and said, "El Jefe, you are on this list! They know about you. How is this possible?"
"Yes. They do know of me, but they don't know much about me. I suppose the U.S. authorities had something to do with my name showing up on that list, wanting to expose me and make me a target for my rivals. But what they don't know is that I am more powerful than anyone on that list. The others above me have wealth, but the Americans have underestimated my assets, including our relatively small, but powerful and motivated private army. We have recruited from the military, the police and ordinary people, regular Mexicans who are tired of being nobodies or sick of working in perpetual servitude to the industrial families. We have 5,000 men, and even a few women," El Jefe started to smirk, "under arms. They are loyal soldiers because they have no alternative. They have left their homes and in this economy there are no other jobs for them. La Familia is now their family, their employer and their church. We are a single, motivated unit. I am hiring faster than any multinational corporation and offer the best wages."
El Jefe continued, "Our soldiers are equipped with the latest weaponry – automatic assault rifles, heavy machine guns, night vision equipment, vehicles and more. Through our contacts in the Middle East we have even managed to acquire a few Stinger surface-to-air missiles and anti-tank rockets. Juan, our forces are better equipped and more motivated than the Mexican Army, maybe even some units of the U.S. military. And we have an edge," he finished as he nodded to the corner of the room.
Juan looked at the corner where he saw a six-foot tall figure standing motionless. Standing in the corner, the stone figure looked like a smiling grim reaper. The face was a skull, sculpted by the artist so that it gave a sinister grin. In its left skeletal hand, the statue held a large scythe while the right hand beckoned with a feminine gesture from the end of its extended arm. Candles burned brightly in front of a glass of tequila on a table in front of the statue. The tequila was an offering to the icon of Santa Muerte, or "Saint Death."
Not just anyone could run a drug cartel. The toxic mixture of greed, violence, and competition among ambitious lieutenants had the potential to destroy the organization from the inside. El Jefe realized La Familia needed something more if it were to hold together for any length of time. So he appropriated the folk saint Santa Muerte to create a narco-terrorist religion of sorts. It is human nature to want something more than mere physical existence, and a sense of spirituality, even if it was evil, maintained cohesion in La Familia's ranks.
It was said that making an offering to Santa Muerte before embarking on a hit, drug run or other operation would protect the faithful in the course of committing a crime. Bravery was good, but the supernatural power of Santa Muerte gave El Jefe's soldiers a psychological edge, empowering them with additional fervor in battling the police, the army or rivals. El Jefe didn't really believe there was a real Santa Muerte, but it helped him recruit souls in this deeply religious country who would otherwise be worried about being damned in hell for joining the drug trade. Santa Muerte gave the criminals the protection they could never hope to receive from God.
Juan knew the value of mixing the evil promises of Santa Muerte with La Familia's core competencies. The cartel was extraordinarily good at smuggling and applying violence to protect its lucrative routes into the largest illegal drug consuming market in the world – the United States. La Familia's troops often skirmished with police and the Mexican army and almost always came out the winner in combat. Increasingly, La Familia was encountering U.S. law enforcement as its border incursions became more frequent and bold. But for now, the U.S.-Mexico border was a leaky sieve, making it relatively easy for the cartel to move any sort of contraband across the frontier with impunity.
"The Mexican Army doesn't dare to attack us. They know we would tear them apart, just like the Indians we took care of in Chiapas."
"Si, El Jefe. Not to change the subject, but why am I going to Dubai?" asked Juan.
As the two settled in for an elegant dinner El Jefe continued, "Juan, I have essentially conquered Mexico. Politicians are weak. They are afraid of me and can be bought with money, coerced through force, or simply voted out of office by placing a few extra ballots in the right boxes. Why open yourself up to the scrutiny of the press when you can simply control events from behind the scenes?"
Juan knew that El Jefe's question was rhetorical. He knew there was much more freedom and satisfaction to El Jefe's life than that of an elected official being subjected to public scrutiny and the constant criticism of the press.
"I am rich beyond anyone's dreams. I am richer than I ever imagined I would be. But, money has not made me complacent."
Juan looked quizzically as he swallowed a bite of swordfish with mango salsa, and said, "That is true, you never rest, El Jefe. What is your next challenge?"
"Good question, Juan. You are smart. Very smart," El Jefe remarked as he shook his fork at Juan. "We control the supply routes into the United States through Mexico, Central America and South America. But the world is changing, Juan. It is getting smaller," said El Jefe as he closed the magazine and flipped it over so the cover showed. He pushed it across the table to Juan. The cover story was "Globalization".
El Jefe explained, "Technology has enabled globalization, the transfer and flow of money, goods and information across the world. Globalization isn't something just for Wal-Mart anymore. The market for cocaine, heroin and other drugs is also global. Our data shows that the demand for heroin in America is growing. Apparently, the Yankees are bored with just smoking pot or sniffing cocaine. They are looking for a bigger, better high. Americanos are stupid, but they are good customers and pay in U.S. Dollars. Our customers want a new, better product and our business is to supply it to them. Do you know where the biggest producers of heroin are located?"