Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Victor seemed to accept his fate. He held out his arms like a martyr and said, “Go ahead and shoot me now. There are no names. I would never be unfaithful.”

“You lie. We know.” One of the soldiers spat on Victor’s pants.

Victor remained with his arms out. His eyes closed. “Please, shoot me. There will never be anyone more loyal to El Jefe.”

The two soldiers hesitated. The one on the passenger side leaned to his left to gain a better view of Garza’s open window. Garza held out his arm with a thumb up. The soldiers lowered their rifles and nodded. Garza opened his door and went around to the front of the car. He gestured with his head to his men and they wandered off into the desert.

On his knees Victor opened his eyes. “Jefe?”

Garza reached out with an open palm. “Come on,” Garza said, pulling Victor to his feet.

Victor was stiff and suspicious. He glanced into the desert to see the two soldiers lighting a match and smoking a joint.

Garza gripped Victor’s shoulders and locked him into a ferocious stare. “You are my number one warrior. I will never doubt you again.”

Victor just breathed.

Garza nodded to the SUV idling next to them. “Come on,” he said. “Get in. We have much to talk about.”

Victor returned to his seat in the SUV and remained quiet while Garza closed the door.

“Relax, Victor,” Garza said. “There’s a spy within our midst. I needed to be sure it wasn’t you. That’s all.”

“So this was just a test?” Victor said, a little puzzlement in his voice.

“That is all.” Garza shrugged. “I apologize if I frightened you.”

Victor shoved his boss affectionately. “Frightened? You want to see my underpants?”

Garza laughed. “You seemed rather nervous, eh?”

“I was prepared to die,” Victor said.

Garza pointed a finger at him. “Because you are loyal,” he said. “You had nothing to barter with.”

Victor took a deep breath and slumped back in his seat, finally convinced he was going to survive.

Garza reached down into his satchel, grabbed a large brown bag and handed it to Victor. He turned the interior lights on so his warrior could examine its contents. “This is for you.”

Victor looked into the bag and turned to Garza with a look of disbelief. “One hundred thousand dollars?”

Garza had trained his men to recognize packages of money and to formulate an approximate amount according to size, weight and denominations.

“Very good,” Garza said. “That is the precise amount.”

“But. .”

“Because you are my most valuable asset,” Garza said. “I need you to be my eyes and ears. I need you to protect me and to find out who this spy is.”

“Yes, Jefe,” Victor’s voice had regained a sense of authority.

“There is something else,” Garza said, peeking outside at the two soldiers in the distance. “We have a shipment to bring over in forty-eight hours.”

“Okay.”

“This particular shipment is different. It is not something we normally do.” Garza raised his eyebrows for affect.

“Different?”

“Yes. This is not from one of our people. This is from overseas.”

Victor seemed in deep thought. “That man, last night. Him?”

“Yes. I don’t like dealing with such people, but,” Garza pointed to the bag full of money in Victor’s lap. “Their pockets are simply too full of oil money and we cannot afford to miss the opportunity to take their funds.”

“I do not trust that man, Jefe,” Victor said.

Garza frowned. “Me neither, my friend. But once we make this transport we will never have to hear from him again.”

There was a chirp and Victor leaned over to retrieve his phone from the floor. He looked at the screen and said, “They want to know what to do with the border agent’s daughter.”

Garza shrugged. “Tell them to keep her alive for now. She might still be worth something. But they can do whatever they wish in the meantime.” Then he gave Victor a sinister grin. “And I do mean anything.”

President John Merrick was getting his hair cut in the White House salon while making small talk with Georgia Faucet. Georgia had been the White House beautician for nearly two decades and understood the dynamic of a multitasking Commander-in-Chief. Merrick nodded and gave monosyllabic answers while retrieving e-mail updates on his tablet computer.

“So when’s he coming?” Georgia said, working her shears along the side of his head.

Merrick looked up from the tablet on his lap. “When’s who coming?”

“You know.”

“No,” Merrick said. “I don’t. Tell me.”

Just then, a large man wearing a gray suit carrying a napkin full of olives came into the small three-chair salon.

“Him,” she said, pointing her scissors.

Secretary of State Samuel Fisk finessed a greasy green olive into his mouth and chewed.

Merrick laughed. “Have we become that predictable, Georgia?”

The beautician grinned. “Yup.”

Fisk sat in the vacant chair next to Merrick and offered him an olive.

“No, thanks,” Merrick said. “You know, Sam, just because the food here is free, doesn’t mean you have to eat all of it.”

Fisk ignored the comment and popped another olive in his mouth.

“How’d the meeting go?” Merrick asked, as he was swiveled away from Fisk so Georgia could trim his right side.

“I’ve had better times,” Fisk said.

“How are Louis and Ken getting along?”

“They’ve hit an all-time low.”

Georgia backed away from the President and said, “Do I need to leave for a minute while you two talk?”

Merrick looked at Fisk with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure,” Fisk said. “Just for a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind.”

Georgia placed her scissors on the counter. “I’ll be outside with the boys,” she said pointing to the hallway where two Secret Service agents stood guard. She shut the door behind her and Merrick swiveled around to face the Secretary of State.

“How come you never call me Mr. President?”

Fisk looked appalled. “I call you that all the time.”

“Yeah, at fundraisers or special ceremonies, but never when we’re alone.”

Fisk seemed to examine the integrity of Merrick’s questioning. He finally came to a conclusion, then shook his head. “Fuck you.”

“That’s better,” Merrick grinned. “I thought for a moment you’d forgotten why I cajoled you into this position in the first place. I don’t need yes men, Sam.”

Fisk shrugged.

“Well?” Merrick asked. “What about your War Room meeting?”

Fisk chomped on the last olive, then crumpled up the napkin and tossed it in the trash can under Georgia’s counter. “An offspring of Hamas is trying to get a dirty bomb across the Arizona border.”

“Who?”

“The United Palestinian Force. UPF.”

Merrick pulled his hands out from under his protective cape. “How close are they?”

“Close,” Fisk said. “The committee is still dubious about the potency of the bomb, however.”

“Which means?”

“They feel it’s lacking a main component to achieve full detonation.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Nothing.”

Merrick squinted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means just what it sounds like.”

Merrick jumped up from the chair and tossed the cape onto his vacant seat. “I’ll announce a press conference,” Merrick said, rubbing his hands together and taking random steps around the small room. “I’ll denounce this new terrorist organization and put them on everyone’s radar.”

“No,” Fisk said. “It’s what they want. They understand how Al Qaeda became a household name after 9-11 and they want that kind of global attention. Attention brings in new recruits and draws more funds.”