Chapter 3
After the training event, Shane and his
team of six men flew in their helicopter back to the DEA tactical operations
center in downtown Tucson to do their after-action report from their recent deployment
to Mexico. After serving two years in the Navy SEALs, Shane was forced to leave
due to a severe shoulder injury from a night jump in Afghanistan. After months recuperating,
a friend told him about a position with the DEA. Six years later, and with
countless drug interdiction operations under his belt, he was tasked with
heading up his own unit.
Shane’s desert camouflage shirt and
pants bore a medley of dirt and sweat from the training event at the range that
morning. His weathered face contrasted sharply with his black scruff, which had
thin wisps of bleached hair from too much time under open skies.
The debriefs were always done informally
around the gear table in the armory where they could field-strip their weapons,
perform maintenance on their gear, and resupply before heading home. Shane had
even snuck in an ice-cold twelve-pack of beer so they could partake of what he
called “post-mission urban hydration protocols.” Everyone knew having alcohol
in a federal building was a hefty violation on Shane’s shoulders but the simple
act only made the men lift their bottles higher to him during their silent
toast.
“I know we already hashed some of this
out on the trip back through Arizona, but was there any more follow-up on the
ultralight plane routes used by the cartels on the Indian reservations?” said
Matias. He was stripping his M4 and peering down through the barrel.
“You heard the commander of the
federales down there and what our boss here said. They’ve got our intel on the
situation and will take ‘operable action’ against any border threats.”
“Which means nobody wants to step on
toes and piss off D.C. unless there’s 100% confirmation of a threat, and even
then, they’re going to bury their heads in the sand and point fingers after the
fact,” said Rory, a young operator with sandy-blond hair and bear-like hands.
Shane leaned over the table and took a
swig of beer while several droplets of condensation dripped onto his dusty
boot. “Our job was just to identify the dope-running corridors used by the
ultralights and relay that back to the State Department. Their boys on the
ground will now have to work with the federales and our border patrol units to expand
on any security risks.”
Matias rolled his eyes. “This is just
like last summer all over again when we provided solid intel on that cartel
working the canyons ten miles north of our border and the State guys later
denied knowing jack-shit about it because El Presidente was making an important
PR trip to Washington.”
“Sometimes these operations down south
don’t feel too much different than missions I did in Afghanistan. It’s another
region of the globe but the same dictators slinging around their profiteering
agendas,” said Rory.
Shane finished the last of his beer and
slammed the container on the table. “I’d love to solve the rest of this world’s
problems but I could sure use a cold shower and a slab of pizza in my gut so I
declare this official meetin’ over. Let’s rendezvous in sixty minutes at Cheese
Fiend’s Pizzeria on Speedway and finish this shift in style. Matias is buying,”
he said, looking at his friend with a grin.
“Not likely, amigo. I got two kids going
into college in Phoenix, remember. Rory’s got my vote. All he has to worry
about is that flea-bitten alley cat he has at home, so he’s got plenty of
dineros to blow on his friends.”
Chapter 4
It seems like Jared Sweinhart had spent
most of his life jogging—or more like sprinting. He had just returned from a
morning run through the upscale neighborhood in north-central Tucson. The place
comprised of million-dollar homes with their Spanish tile roofs, luxurious
watered lawns, and gated perimeters. Just the kind Jared like to case to determine
which would provide the highest yield of stolen goods with the least amount of
trouble.
Jared had only been in the Southwest for
three weeks after fleeing his hometown of New Orleans in search of more fertile
ground where he could start over as a thief and con-man. Before that, he had
gone by Michael, Tony, Donovan, and numerous other aliases, moving from city to
city during the past eleven years, not counting a three-year stint in prison in
Pensacola, Florida. His father, a habitual street hustler, who had died in a
craps-game gone bad in some dank alley, had always told him that to stay put
too long, anywhere, would be certain death.
His plan was to selectively pilfer a few
trendy homes in Tucson, fence the goods across the border in Mexico, and then
make his way up to Phoenix for a while before heading to Vegas. That’s how it
always worked—do a circuit of three cities, never staying longer than four
weeks. This provided three weeks to recon the most worthwhile homes, a week to do
the deed, move the stolen items, spend time with a few fine ladies, and then
toss his valuables in his weathered Tommy Hilfiger daypack and be on his way to
the next city.
He preferred working upscale homes in
ritzy neighborhoods rather than snatch-and-grab hold-ups on the street like other
cons did. Those kinds of bottom-feeding criminals gave thieves like him a bad
name. He despised the ones he had to live with during his three-year prison
stint. Most of the goons in his profession had poor hygiene, few teeth, and
could barely spell their names in the ground with a stick. Jared prided himself
on always being clean-cut, well-dressed, and articulate. His ruggedly handsome
face, striking blue eyes, and southern accent also added to his disarming
appearance. Jared’s greatest weakness was women, which was what ultimately led
him to being behind bars in Pensacola.
As his morning jog wound down into a
brisk walk along the cactus-lined sidewalk, he saw a thirty-something woman with
a tight bun of red hair walking her two Pomeranians. He immediately noted her
faux-gold earrings and cheap Korean watch with the imitation glossy diamonds
inset in the dial. The watch rattled around on her shotgun-freckled wrist.
Jared recognized her as a woman from the apartment complex where he was staying
under an assumed name. He had signed up for a three-month lease using the
credit history and identity of an old childhood friend’s deceased father.
“Morning, ma’am. How are you on this
fine day?” he said with a slight Louisiana accent and a half-smile that
accentuated the huge dimple in his right cheek.
“Why, just fine, thank you. Lovely day,
isn’t it? I just love the smell of those cactus blossoms in the air,” she said,
breaking her stride. The two lap-dogs stopped to investigate Jared’s new green-and-white
Nike running shoes. He moved back a few inches so the dogs didn’t slobber on
them. He always wore expensive tennis shoes that he kept meticulously clean—not
like the lowbrow riff-raff he had grown up around with their filthy twelve-dollar
generic tennis shoes with the cheap imitation-rubber soles.
“Certainly is, and are these your little
tour guides through the city?” he said, bending down to pet the dogs.
“Oh, yes, they go everywhere with me.
Even to the mall—I have a chest harness to carry them so they can see what I
see. They’re my only companions now that I’m divorced and stuck in my
apartment.”
Jared ran his hand over the black-and-tan
mops of the two dogs, casually glancing beyond to their owner’s alluring gold ankle
bracelet that was unblemished and was of above-average design. His gaze quickly
traced up her shapely, satiny legs and he looked up into her eyes. “I sure
wouldn’t want to be a four-legged critter in the desert.” he said.
“Ooh, are you a southerner?” she cooed,
pushing her free hand up against the side of her hair. “I just love that charming
accent.”
“Yes, ma’am. From Tennessee originally—Gatlinburg—
you know, the real home of country music, not Nashville with all those
inebriated one-song wonders.” He grinned while looking at her with his cobalt
eyes. He had to keep shuffling around so the diminutive dogs wouldn’t drool on
his shoes.
“Country music—are you a performer?” she
said, leaning back on one hip. “My daddy, God rest his soul, used to love Patsy
Cline and Arlo Guthrie.”
“Oh no, ma’am, not me. With my crackly
voice, I’d get tossed from even a Karaoke bar. No, I’m down here for a few
months…uh…doing some internal auditing for American Express. Just can’t wait to
get out of this furnace and back home to where there are more lakes and
rivers.”
“Well, there’s the pool at our apartment
complex—you should visit sometime. I usually go down for a dip in the late
afternoon,” she said, tugging on the pink leashes of her dogs.
“Why, that’s mighty kind of you. I’m
going to be tied up with work and business meetings the rest of the week,” he
said. As lovely as she was, Jared needed a woman to be a complete package—good
looks, nice legs, and most importantly, quality jewelry that could be hawked
when things went south in the relationship, which for him was usually at the
start of each month.
A forlorn look spread across her face.
“But when I see the afternoon sun, I’ll be thinking of you down by that pool,”
he said, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “Maybe if there’s time, I can swing
down and partake of your kind offer,” he added, offering his hand to shake hers
while unconsciously studying the tan line on her ring finger that had
previously housed a considerably wide wedding band.
“Mary—you can call me Mary.”
“Jared…my good lady…it’s been a pleasure
talking with you,” he said and then continued with his jog down the street.
While Jared couldn’t help notice someone’s
jewelry and personal manners, he also just loved people. He hated being alone
in his apartment. His father had tried to instill in him that a con-man needs
to be a loner and not get attached to any person or place, but Jared relished
the company of others, especially women. He just loved being in a lady’s
presence—any size, any age, any color; not simply to meet his primal needs but
just for the pleasure of their fragrance, laughter, and the sheen of their
velvety hair. His father, however misguided his sparse parental advice had
been, was right about women—they were the loveliest creatures on earth.
It was a weakness he was well aware of and
one that had caused him to linger in a city longer than he should have on occasion,
but a personal flaw in his precarious line of work that he could not overcome.
He finished his jog and strode through
the parking lot by his first-floor apartment. As he walked past an ornamental
display of flowering yucca plants, he paused to read the grisly headlines of
the newspaper lying beside his neighbor’s front door:
Hundreds Killed in Overnight
Cannibalistic Rampage in Several Southeastern Cities.
He glanced down at
the images and shrugged his shoulders,
Hmm…maybe I will stay out west. Too many
congested places back home and people always bitching about their lawns and how
their car needs waxing
.
And now they’re chomping on each other, Christ!
He unlocked his door and went into his
one-bedroom apartment, feeling the cool blast of air-conditioning. After his
shower, while donning a long-sleeved blue dress shirt with pseudo-pearl buttons
and blue pleated slacks, he heard the sound of a vehicle coming to an abrupt
halt in the main parking lot. A glance out the corner of his bedroom window
revealed two U.S. marshals moving in on his abode with their Glocks drawn. The
first man looked to be around six feet and two-twenty with giant shoulders and
a lopsided haircut. The second man was lean, with a face like an old boot. Both
had the predatory look that Jared knew all too well.
Jared slid on his sweaty Nikes, impatiently
brushed a fleck of dirt off the tongue of the right shoe, and grabbed his
pigskin Hilfiger daypack. He climbed out the back window just in time to gain a
short gap between him and his pursuers. The marshals saw him dart across the
back alley and the chase began.
The next hour saw him winding through
alleyways, over fences, and finally through the back of Tiberto’s Mexican restaurant,
eluding his pursuers through his superior physical conditioning as he had done
on so many occasions before. While his heart was racing from his escape, his
nerves were still and his facial expression stolid.
Thinking he had lost them, he casually
unruffled his shirt collar, grinned, and turned to walk down the steps of the
restaurant. The next moment he felt the wind forcefully exit his chest and his
ribs compress as one of the marshals slammed him to the ground and deftly
applied the handcuffs.
“Well, if it isn’t Jared Sweinhart—or is
it Larkson or Janson this time?” said the burly man hunkered over him with one
knee on Jared’s spine. “I’ve got a nice holding cell for you downtown,
hillbilly.”
It was 1:40 p.m. as Carlie pulled the SUV
to the security gate at the United States Secret Service building in downtown
Tucson. She depressed the window button and flung her hair back while handing
her ID badge to the lanky guard.
“Morning, Paul. You lads going to be
able to keep cool in that little sweat box today?” she said, nodding to the
booth behind him where another guard was waving to her.
“I’ve been out in hotter than this
before, Ms. Simmons. Nothing can compare to the summer heat of Fallujah,” the
young man said, robotically scrutinizing her photo before him.
“Yeah, I hear you,” she said.
Carlie pulled into the parking garage on
the second floor and left the engine running while she gathered up her belongings,
allowing her to partake of the A/C for a few more minutes. She grabbed a water
bottle off the armrest holder and took a long sip while adjusting the holster on
her right hip.
As Gerald disembarked with his range bag,
she leaned out the window. “I’ll be right in. I need to call my brother in San
Diego and let him know about making it out for his birthday this weekend.”
After not receiving an answer, she left
a message on her brother’s phone and then exited the vehicle. Removing her gear
from the back, she turned and saw a dark-haired man approaching. He was wearing
a made-to-match blue suit and paisley tie and his brightly polished Italian
shoes echoed off the concrete walls.
“Ms. Simmons, good afternoon. My name is
Agent Phillip Alderman with the Department of Justice’s Office of Internal
Investigations,” he said, extending his hand.
“Hello. I’m headed upstairs to unpack my
range gear and then going home. Is this something we can discuss tomorrow?”
“Regrettably for you, no,” he replied
without a trace of expression. “Will you accompany me to the conference room
where we can begin?”
“Begin what?” she said, trying to recall
if she had missed an email about this guy showing up. She knew it was probably connected
with the fatalities that had happened on last month’s security detail in Brazil.
In the intervening six weeks since the event, she had tried to pour herself
back into work with her usual obsessiveness but the nightmares stabbed through
her mind every night.
She took a deep breath and pushed away
the memory.
No way I’m gonna go through another week of interrogation on
that incident. Gerald had better be in that room along with my supervisor. I’m
not going to have a justifiable shooting…
she swallowed hard
…a defensive
shooting tarnish my application to the D.C. office.
“Are you former Secret Service or just with
the investigation division?”
“Actually I was an agent briefly, long
ago, before transferring to the Department of Justice. I always preferred
investigations over the idea of being someone’s disposable bodyshield.”
She led the way through the parking
structure to the stairs. They moved up two flights and into the main office
structure where the other agents had their individual offices. She strode past
Gerald, who was staring in surprise beside the drinking fountain.
Carlie pushed open the conference room
doors and threw the dusty range bag on the table, then stood with her arms
folded while Phillip casually lowered his briefcase and opened the lid.
“Ms. Simmons, I am here because we need
to discuss the matter of the defensive shooting by you on the afternoon of July
6 outside the embassy in Rio,” he said, pulling out a tin of red licorice
drops.
How can I trust a man who eats that
crap? This guy can’t be a former field agent
—
look at those soft, lotiony
hands.
“It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m off the
clock, plus I’d like to have my bureau chief here for any questions about that
incident.”
“Look, from the various reports I’ve
read, I’m sure this can’t be easy to talk about given the age of the attacker
you killed, but we do need to address this, now that all the facts are in.”
“I know what the facts are, and if we
could ever stick to just the facts at these meetings then this whole thing…” She
stuttered and rolled her eyes. “This whole thing could probably be stuffed into
a file already. But you people always want to play the head games, hoping for
an emotional exposition where…..”
“Uh, that’s not exactly what I had in
mind, Ms. Simmons. I am just here as part of the inquiring board put together
to investigate the actions and judgments of Secret Service agents with a
history who are applying for assignments in our D.C. office.”
Carlie stood with her hands oscillating
between being balled in fists or resting forcefully on her hips. The face of
the teenager she had dispatched on that dreadful day began seeping back into
her psyche. She knew her training had over-ruled everything else once she had
seen the young man raise his pistol but her disciplined tactical mindset was
struggling to contain her dormant anguish. Carlie shook her head slightly,
trying to clear away the haze of that memory but only seeing the young man’s
glazed brown eyes as if she was standing over him again.
“So, let’s begin with why you signed on
in the first place to be on a protective detail, Ms. Simmons? I mean, it’s not
for everyone.”
“Free airfare and lots of nice hotels
with those kidney-shaped pools, I guess.”
Phillip glared at her, tapping his
slender fingers on the glass table. “I’ve just gotten through hours of travel
and my usual courtroom patience has grown thin. This questioning process will
take a few hours this afternoon followed by a polygraph tomorrow and a
follow-up with your supervisor on how this will affect your operational status.
In the meantime, I do suggest you cooperate with me before my jetlag clears,
causing me to cogitate on your non-compliant tone,” he said, rolling his pale,
spindly fingers around in the licorice tin.
Polygraph…non-compliant tone…why, this son
of a bitch. Where the hell is my bureau chief?
She knew that
most of the twenty field agents were off today, except those on the security
detail for the president’s daughter. Carlie had figured Gerald and her bureau
chief, Michael Enright, would be present for this though.
She leaned forward with her fists on
the table. “Look, I am in the field of executive protection and the training
that we receive…”
“Please skip the job description from
the federal recruiting ad and just get to the heart of the matter,” he said,
motioning her to sit down as he began sliding back into his chair. He glanced
over her shoulder as several agents moved quickly past the room.
“Not until my boss and my partner are present.”
“Actually they were supposed to be here
by now,” said Phillip, looking out through the windows of the conference room.
A bald man in a blue blazer rushed by,
pausing at the conference room door. “We’ve got an emergency briefing with the
chief now,” he said, then scurried away down the hall.
Carlie looked at Phillip, raising an
eyebrow.
Maybe they got a report about a D.C. circus monkey parading around in
a suit.
Carlie hopped up and walked down the
green-carpeted hallway, with Phillip following behind as other agents peeled
out of their offices.
When they arrived at the briefing room,
Carlie saw that nearly all of the department’s twenty field agents on the weekend
shift were gathered around, querying each other.
Michael Enright, a burly
African-American man, entered the room and motioned to his assistant for the
lights to be dimmed. The overhead visuals came across the screen behind his
left shoulder as he began speaking. The images were from different televised
news stations throughout the U.S. which showed dozens of savage attacks. Though
each occurred in different locations—a mall, a grocery store, a school yard—the
horrific scenes all bore a resemblance: dozens of ghastly-looking humans with
yellow skin and heavily wrinkled faces maniacally assaulting innocent
pedestrians, mauling them and then moving on to another victim.
The room was silent as the chief spoke. “Last
night there were police reports being circulated about groups of deranged
individuals chasing and biting people along the coastline in the southeastern
United States. Reports began coming in late this morning from Orlando, Denver, Dallas,
and most recently Santa Fe. Bite victims seem to become infected within thirty
minutes and begin the disease transmission all over again through hunting down
others. Dallas SWAT reported that headshots are effective in neutralizing the
threat. The Arizona National Guard is being mobilized as we speak, to help
contain any potential threat. So far, there are only a few isolated reports
here in the Southwest and I am going to meet with the governor shortly to
discuss options about closing our borders.”
Carlie took a slow sip from her water
bottle, not even noticing the cool fluid as she tried hard to swallow. She
thought of her brother and how he should be notified of what was going on even
though it was against protocol.
He has to know by now, though, with all the
news reports.
She forced herself back to the chief’s voice when she heard
her name called.
“Gerald and Carlie—you’re heading up a
support detail to go to U of A’s medical research school to help secure Gemini and
offer assistance to her dayshift crew. A helo will be inbound to your location
for possible extraction. I’ve already been in touch with Gemini’s detail and
they know you’re coming. The rest of our teams will concentrate on potential
ex-fil efforts for the senator and his family if this outbreak creeps any
further north towards the city limits.”
“Roger that, sir,” said Gerald from
across the room, nodding over to Carlie.
Everyone in the room knew the code name
Gemini stood for Eliza Huntington, the nineteen-year-old daughter of the
President of the United States. She was in her first year of pre-med school at
the University of Arizona. Being as her father was in his second term, she had
the usual four-man security crew following her every move 24-7. Though she
liked to shy away from the media, her past comments about her “remora-like
bodyguards” as Eliza called her Secret Service detail, had never sat well with
Carlie and the other agents who had worked her PPD over the past year. Carlie also
suspected that the main reason her own transfer requests to D.C. had been
ignored was because the Secret Service needed a female agent on Eliza’s protection
detail. Part of her didn’t mind sitting back and learning from the more
experienced agents. She had patiently waited through five rounds of
applications for the D.C. position during this past year and was now growing tired
of the constant battle to move ahead in the pile of applicants who seemed to be
passing her by.
Gerald had made his way across the room
while the chief continued doling out orders to the others. He came over to
Carlie and leaned over her shoulder. “Time to go get princess un-charming from
her university castle?”
“If she’s still there when we arrive—she’ll
probably be in the courtyard signing off on another Save the Sonoran Desert petition,”
she said before turning away. She walked back to her office to grab her
shoulder bag and headed downstairs to the armory. Carlie glanced over her
shoulder and saw Phillip hastily packing up his briefcase in the conference
room.
Back to some honest-to-God work with
real warriors,
she
thought as she strode down the hallway to the stairs.