Authors: Murray McDonald
Always cover your tracks
, was a thought that never left her. Her life was lived by that mantra. She pulled out of the yard and followed the pre-ordained route. A route that went against her one mantra, one that would take her by every possible traffic camera between her and the destination. A couple of simple deviations would have resulted in no hits on any of Washington, D.C.’s street surveillance cameras. The journey time may even have been quicker as a result of avoiding a couple of sets of major traffic lights. However, her instructions were clear, be spotted as much as possible.
Even turning right out of the yard seemed wrong to her, as in reality it meant a slightly circuitous journey, although like everything else it was for a reason, one that should have filled her with dread. To enable her to drive past the headquarters of the government agency responsible for the security of government buildings and its plethora of cameras that would pick up every detail as she drove by. Somehow though, it didn’t. A smile broke across her face. She read the placard: Federal Protective Services, the forces that had been responsible for crushing the rioters and restoring peace to American cities that night. When they discovered the footage in the next twenty-four hours they were going to discover the greatest attack on American soil was planned, prepared, and launched two blocks from the FPS headquarters. A mere mile from the US Capitol Building and less than two from the White House.
During the daytime, even taking the most surveiled route wouldn’t have been too much of a concern for her. She’d have been lost amidst the constant flow of heavy traffic. At 3 a.m., in the aftermath of the unrest that had been crushed on the streets, even the normally deserted streets were wondering where the traffic was. Other than law enforcement vehicles, she had the road to herself. Every camera was hers and hers alone. Their constant gaze would pick up every detail of her journey, every nuance of her vehicle, every detail of the occupants.
Always cover your tracks.
She smiled as she drew up at her destination. A security camera watched her open the door of the mini van, exit onto the sidewalk, and enter the house using a key. Every single detail was recorded and would be analyzed for years to come.
Always cover your tracks.
She glanced towards the camera, her teeth shining bright as if she couldn’t contain her smile, not that that would form part of any footage. After all, wearing a black head to toe burqa with a veil, the blonde, blue-eyed bombshell was as anonymous as she had ever been.
Always cover your tracks.
Elsa closed the door behind her.
Fortunately, the next few minutes of her night’s work were undertaken out of the camera’s limelight. Her pistol corralled the four occupants of the house out and into her minivan without incident. All did as requested, walking calmly and taking their seats as she allocated. She was last to leave, locking the house behind her before joining her co-operative and captive guests. To the outside world, and most importantly the cameras, nothing would look untoward. The pistol was hidden beneath her burqa, on the far side of the camera, the bump in the burqa visible to her captives yet invisible to the camera. Detailed analysis would show one Muslim woman arriving to pick up the four Muslim residents of the home. The four men were recognized easily, students of Georgetown University with impeccable and unblemished records, the sons of high ranking Saudi Arabian families. The woman remained faceless, her burqa hiding every detail that could potentially expose her identity.
Elsa climbed into the last row and with her captives ahead of her and under her control, directed them to drive, taking the same circuitous and very visible route back to Buzzard Point and the yard in the shadow of the FPS headquarters.
At every opportunity Elsa instructed the occupants to look out of the windows, ensuring their images were captured for posterity and the investigation that would ensure the success of what was planned.
Joaquin Guerra watched the TV news with a growing sense of frustration and anger. The news from America was not only utter and complete bullshit, but was going to cost him billions in revenue and in all likelihood his business over the next few years. He had not risen to the top of the drug trafficking world through luck or by default. He had earned every step up the ladder throughout his life. A master strategist, he was always one step ahead of the authorities, if not five. He’d lost count twenty years earlier of the men he had killed by his own hand, never mind those he’d had killed in his name. A brilliant businessman, he had invested billions into the business, reaping far more in return, and as a charismatic leader of men, he commanded his men’s respect as well as their total devotion to him.
All who knew him would know he would never carry out such a futile and useless attempt on the American president. The full force of their DEA, FBI, and every law enforcement agency in the land would be directed towards his cartel. It wasn’t that he didn’t
want
to kill the man, he had cost him billions since his election, after all. President Caldwell had been harder on drugs than any US president in the previous twenty years. It was just that any such action wouldn’t make it any better, and in fact, retribution would make it far worse.
The Sinaloa Cartel was about to become the biggest pariah in the world. They were going to be under fire from every side imaginable. His rivals would see their situation as a weakness to exploit and his allies a reason to desert him. He would never have more power than he had at that moment. He was head of the largest drug trafficking business the world had ever seen, he had an army of heavily armed men ready to fight and die for him, he had more cash at his fingertips than most countries of the world could ever dream of. All of it would be diminished once the Americans began their retribution. He would survive, of that he had no doubt. He believed in his ability to be ahead of his rivals, but the Sinaloa Cartel would be effectively destroyed, only a skeleton of its former glory would remain.
Joaquin Guerra picked up the phone. He had only one play. All or nothing. War.
As entertaining as Eric’s exploits were, Clay had a country to run. He called for his NSA, Secretary of Defense, and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Val approached while he awaited their arrival, and wrapped her arms around him.
She pulled him close. “It’s been a tough day.”
He hugged her back, maintaining an outward strength for the team around them in the PEOC. To the outside world it looked like he was helping his wife, in reality she was the rock. She had come to him just as his will was breaking; it had indeed been a tough day, one of the toughest he had ever experienced. He held on, gaining strength from her resolve, from her faith in him.
“We’ll get through this. Tess will get though this.” They both looked at their daughter curled up on the sofa, asleep, with her young brother by her side.
“What’s your plan?” Val asked.
“Destroy the cartels!”
She nodded her approval. “What about the empty positions?”
“I need to think about who best to replace—”
She shook her head. “The country needs to see you be decisive, they all had able deputies, appoint them. We need to appear strong and resolute. The country needs to see you lead.”
Clay nodded. He knew she was right, the country needed to see him lead. They needed to see him, period. He needed to explain what was happening, show them he was okay, unharmed and fully in charge.
“Tell the networks I want a ten minute slot within the next hour. And get me the VP and Speaker of the House on the phone,” he said, breaking away from Val and barking orders across the room.
Val enjoyed watching her husband command the room. It was her job to give him the faith and belief when he needed it. She turned back to her children. They needed her now, or certainly Tess did. Val could not believe how stupid Tess had been. That, however, was for another time. Tess needed her mother’s love not scorn, not that it was easy. Val had done so much to get them where they were, she had given her life to help Clay become president, and Tess could have thrown it all away in one petulant instant. How the story had been altered she had no idea, she simply thanked God it had.
“It’s 3.30 a.m. Mr. President, no one will be watching TV,” replied his harassed and shattered press secretary.
“I don’t care. Those who are awake will see it and those who aren’t will wake up to a rerun. I’m not asking for your opinion, just make it happen!”
“I have the VP for you on line one,” Ramona interrupted, scowling at the press secretary, “and the speaker on line two.”
“Thanks, Ramona,” Clay said, knowing the press secretary was about to get ear bashed as a result of questioning him. The attempt on his life had hit her hard and Ramona was being even more protective of him than usual. She knew Clay Caldwell was one in a million and had given her a job few men would even have considered her for. He had transformed hers and her family’s life and she would never be able to repay him for what he had done for her.
The calls were over quickly and he received the answer he needed before addressing the nation. It would be one of the least viewed presidential addresses in history and one of the most replayed. At 4.30 a.m., a few hours after the attempt on his life that had taken three of his closest advisors, President Clay Caldwell addressed the nation, assuring them that the government was strong and the retaliation to the attack would be significant. Both houses were being recalled as he spoke, an extraordinary session of both houses, one to confirm new appointees to replace the great men they had lost, and congress to sanction the use of US forces, to once and for all deal with the drug problem that blighted their great nation.
It was a rousing performance that barely touched on the FPS and detention camps that would have otherwise flooded the headlines. The right to enjoy a peaceful and secure life free from the threat of violence and disruption had hit a chord across the nation. The president’s already impressive approval ratings, despite sending riot troops onto the streets, surged to in excess of 70%. Even among African Americans he was hitting above 50%. Over fourteen thousand had been detained in the riots, all detained in camps outside of normal due process and under the powers of the National Defense Authorization Act, which allowed US citizens to be detained indefinitely without charge. Of the nearly 14,000 detainees, nearly 96% were of African American descent. Any other day, it would have caused an uproar heard across the world. With everything else happening, it barely made the bylines.
Joe woke up to one of the worst headaches he had ever experienced. His hands shook uncontrollably and his body was soaked in sweat. Sandy looked at him, her head tilted ever so slightly to the side. She was worried. She had every right to be, since he was no use to anybody in that state. He stood up as the bus pulled to a stop, the last one before D.C., and his legs wobbled under him. For the first time in his life, he felt his age. A young man offered him a hand.
“Get away,” he snapped, and Sandy scowled at him. “And you keep your thoughts to yourself,” he huffed, guiding himself off the bus with the use of the seat backs. The stairs proved more of a challenge, each step down on his wavering legs jolting and jostling his already aching brain, further disorientating him. The last step down was the step too far. Letting go of the hand rails as he exited the bus was too much for his legs to bear, and he stumbled and fell onto the sidewalk. Sandy rushed to his side, licking his face. He pushed her away and pulled himself into a kneeling position. His body continued to sway, so he dropped forward onto all fours, his feet, knees, and hands all anchoring him to the ground yet it still it wasn’t enough. He laid his head on the ground, bringing his forearms and elbows into play. The world stopped moving.
“Poor man, should we call a paramedic?” asked one of the other passengers who was waiting to collect their luggage.
“I don’t need a paramedic, I need a drink,” Joe mumbled.
A young girl stepped forward and placed her bottle of water next to him.
“Not water for Christ’s sake, I said a drink!”
Even Sandy backed away from him, such was the vitriol in his voice towards the young girl who had simply wanted to help. She ran into her mother’s arms, tears streaming down her face. The rest of the passengers made their feelings clear as they barged by him, ensuring their bags nudged or full on hit him as they passed.
“Asshole...”
“Drunk…”
“Idiot…”
“Scumbag…”
He’d finally done it, hit rock bottom, making a little girl cry for going out of her way to help him. That was low, even for him. As the shame of his behavior sank in, his headache dissipated. His mind had something else to focus on.
With the last of the passengers having collected their luggage, Joe was left on his own by the bus. Sandy had retreated a distance that suggested she may or may not have been with him. He pulled himself onto his feet, unsteadily regaining his composure, and caught his reflection in the window of the depot. As rough as he had ever looked, his hair was matted to his forehead, his clothes clung to his sweaty skin, his face had a gray pallor, and his eyes were dark and deep from his restless sleep. He looked like shit, which was better than how he felt.
“Who am I kidding? Helping a president,” he scoffed to himself. “I can’t even help a little girl feel better about herself for helping me.”
He steadied himself as the full extent of where he was, what lay ahead, and how ludicrous him being able to help had been. He had given his old friend false hope. He was a loser, a complete and utter failure. He couldn’t function without a drink. He was pathetic, that’s all he was.
Joe stumbled into the depot. There was another half hour before the final leg of his epic journey. A TV screen had a somber faced President Caldwell addressing the waiting area. All were listening intently to his words. An attempt had been made on his life, three of his advisors were assassinated in the White House, and the Sinaloa Cartel had been named as the perpetrators. The president laid out his plan of action and asked for calm. Extraordinary sessions had been called in both Houses and the government was going to do everything in its power to bring the perpetrators of every crime to justice over the coming days whilst ensuring the safety of every one the country’s citizens.
The president wished God to bless America and was gone. A somber mood fell across the lounge area. An assassination attempt on a president was no small matter, it was an attack on every American, whether Republican, Democrat, or whatever political stance. It was the country that had been attacked, violated.
Before the somberness had a chance to brew into anything more, footage from Mexico was broadcast, running street battles, the banner headline “
Sinaloa Cartel declares war on rivals
.” From all reports not only had they had tried to assassinate the US president, the heads of the major rival cartels had been assassinated over the previous few hours as well. The Sinaloa Cartel was expanding across Mexico in a night of violence and death that dwarfed any previous night in the drug wars’ history.
It was apparent that battle had not remained contained within Mexico. The Sinaloa Cartel had spent the night quietly wiping out rival dealers in the US and Canada. Their Sicario killers had swept through city after city, targeting rival dealers. Drug den after drug den was being found that morning from San Diego to Seattle and Miami to New York with dead dealers and smugglers. In one night the Sinaloa Cartel had effectively wiped out all competition.
Race riots, assassination attempts, drug wars, and a daughter being held to force the president to do their bidding… Joe took a long, hard look at himself. His biggest worry was where his next drink would come from. His friend had the weight of the country on his shoulders, the world, and the lives of his children. His friend had asked him, of all the people in the world he could have called on, he asked
him
, Joe Francis Kelly, for help. The least he could do was try.
“Coffee, please,” he called to the waitress in the café.
“How’d you like it? Espresso, cappuccino, Americano, grande…?”
“Strong. As strong as you can make it.”