Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

“Hector, is there something else?”

Hector looked at his hands on his lap. “The Zutons are honing in on my piracy business,” Hector explained. “I used to make five hundred dollars a week, but now I’m forced to pay fifty percent of my profit to them. Some weeks they don’t believe my sales figures and I actually lose money.”

Garza stared.

“It’s getting crazy out there,” Hector said. “I say the wrong thing and I could turn up dead. I was wondering if you were needing some. . uh. . help?”

“You want to be on my payroll?”

“Mr. Garza, you are a very powerful man. It would be a comfort to know I was under your umbrella.”

Garza considered the request. Hector was fairly unreliable and mostly paranoid. For him to be sitting here was either an act of desperation or sheer stupidity.

Garza wiped a hand over his face. “Okay, Hector, let me consider your situation.”

Hector sat there for a moment seemingly uncertain what to do. From behind him, Victor slipped a steel wire around his neck and pulled it taut. Hector grabbed franticly at the wire, his eyes shocked open, his legs pushing upward, getting to his feet to alleviate the pressure. But Victor was too strong. The wire dug into Hector’s skin with such force, a red line appeared where the wire was imbedded into his neck. Hector only fought and kicked for a few seconds before the lack of oxygen had him unconscious.

Hector’s head dropped forward, then his entire body slipped to the floor. Victor kept up the pressure until Garza said, “Enough, he is dead.”

Victor let go of the wire, then checked for a pulse. He looked up at Garza and shook his head.

“Good.” Garza pointed to a couple of towels sitting on the counter. “Now, clean it up quick. I don’t want a big mess in here.”

Nick took the elevator to the basement of the Homeland Security Office and made his way to the detention cells. He tapped the bandage on his ear to make sure it was still in place while passing the three cells to his right, full of Mexican nationals who would be deported sometime soon. The very last cell on the left was reserved for individuals who required special attention, or the necessity to remain separated from the current detainees.

A Homeland Security agent stood guard outside the cell and opened the door when Nick approached. Sitting alone on a cot was Greg Chapin. The man was hunched over, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together. When he spotted Nick, he jumped to his feet with an eager expression.

Nick sat on the cot and motioned Chapin to sit next to him.

Chapin sat. He looked at the burn marks on the side of Nick’s face. “What happened?” he asked.

Nick felt his bandage, knowing he and Matt were fortunate to leave the scene with just scrapes. He looked over at the agent who stared at him anxiously.

“She’s dead,” Nick said.

Chapin’s reaction was delayed, as if the words needed to absorb into his bloodstream before they took effect. He stood and ambled toward the closed cell bars. He grasped a couple of bars and fell into them, his head pressed against the cold steel, his breathing labored.

Nick pulled a legal-sized sheet of paper from his back pocket and smoothed out the creases. He waited as Chapin struggled to gain his composure. The agent let go of the bars and wiped his eyes. He turned to see Nick holding the sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” Chapin asked with a husky voice.

Nick held up the paper. “This is your only chance to keep the rest of your family safe.”

Chapin seemed to understand. “WITSEC?”

Nick nodded.

Chapin seemed surprised. “You would offer it to me?”

“Only if you want to be part of the solution.”

“But, he’ll get to me,” Chapin’s eyes were pleading for hope. “Even in Witness Protection, he’ll get to me.”

“Not if we get to him first.”

“But how? It’s not like he gave me any information. We had a one-way relationship. I gave him info and he kept my daughter alive.”

Nick wanted to ask how that worked out for him, but he had to corral Chapin’s attention and get him to focus.

“You’re still a law enforcement official with investigative skills,” Nick reminded him. “He must have said something, anything which gave you insight to who was on his team here in the States. You have your suspicions.”

Chapin must have known his daughter wouldn’t survive. He seemed to be on the road to acceptance as he paced around the tight quarters in his cell, head down, mulling over something to himself.

“Don’t be selfish,” Nick said. “Think of your wife and son. They deserve to be protected.”

Nick didn’t want to push too hard, but he needed help and this was his best opportunity.

Chapin seemed lost.

“Listen,” Nick said, “every minute you waste beating yourself up over the past, you’re putting Kevin and Linda at risk.”

Chapin wheeled with surprise on his face. Nick held up the paperwork to show how he’d known their names. The Border Patrol agent was tormented and dropped down on the cot next to Nick, the burden appearing too heavy for him. He gazed out the cell bars with a distant stare.

“I did hear something once,” Chapin murmured. “One of Garza’s men uttered a name when I was relaying intel to him. The man said, ‘Just like Sandoval.’ I don’t know who or what Sandoval is, but Garza wasn’t pleased at the slip.”

Nick waited for any other insights from the beaten man, but after a few minutes Chapin placed his hands over his eyes and began to sob. Nick got up and motioned the guard to open the cell door. Once the door was shut behind him, he looked back at Chapin and wondered how many more Chapins were out there. Garza’s tentacles had reached over the border and into the heart of Arizona’s law enforcement. Nick would have to be smart about his moves. He was going to do everything he could to prevent Matt from getting in his SUV and storming Garza’s complex with a gun in each hand.

Nick left the basement with one word on his mind. Sandoval.

* * *

CIA Director Ken Morris still had a half-eaten bagel from breakfast on his desk while he conducted three online conversations with some of his finest Mexican contacts. None of them could help track the name of the undercover agent currently operating within one of the cartels.

He took a sip of six-hour-old coffee and hit the enter key to send the latest update to President Merrick, stating there has been no progress in the ability to discover who the agent was.

One thing was for sure, the agent had quit sending messages forty-eight hours earlier and frightened many into believing the man had turned. The President was willing to throw more money at the independent contractor and Ken was willing to endorse that philosophy, but he knew deep down it signaled a new sense of desperation.

At the same time he was struggling with a cryptic message left on the CIA website the night before. A series of letters were left anonymously and his tech team could only track the message to somewhere in Mexico. Even as his team worked on the message, Ken still played with them on a yellow legal pad, switching the letters around to make sense of them.

The letters were: nvloaads.

His cell phone buzzed. Walt Jackson. He snapped the phone into the docking station on his desk and pushed the speaker button.

“Hey, Walt,” Ken said.

“You sound dejected.”

“Yeah, well, lately that’s my normal tone. What have you got?”

“I’ve got an olive branch,” Walt said.

Ken dropped his pencil on the legal pad and leaned back in his chair. “You know, Walt, it’s never been personal.”

“I know.”

“It’s just. . well, I feel responsible to keep our department secure. I have a lot of mouths to feed over here. You understand, right?”