Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Garza and Victor walked next to the rails behind Sadeem who seemed to be taking in the landscape with extreme interest. They didn’t have many guests inside the tunnel so it was the first time a visitor had seen the construction. As Sadeem seemed to examine the ventilation system, he glanced back at the two men and it caused Garza to remove his gun. Victor must have sensed the anxiety because he had his pistol at the ready as well.

“Where do you plan on taking the bomb?” Garza asked.

“You will have to read about it in the paper,” Sadeem said, casually.

A thought suddenly crossed Garza’s mind. “Just how do you plan on detonating the device?”

“With my cell phone,” Sadeem answered.

Garza felt his pocket to make sure he still had the suicide bomber’s phone. As they walked further down the tunnel, Garza noticed Sadeem’s pace slowing, leaving a gap between them and the lead group.

Victor was glancing at his cell phone as usual.

Garza shoved Sadeem with the tip of his gun and once more the man turned.

“Do not touch me again,” Sadeem demanded. “This is not a video game, Mr. Garza. Real people are going to die tonight and people like you who delegate your manhood for profit, will be left staring at an empty image in the mirror each day.”

Garza felt the man was beginning his descent into the next world already. He wasn’t even making sense now.

They continued deeper into the tunnel. Occasionally an overhead light flickered. Sadeem’s pace continued to slow, so Garza added another push of his gun to get him moving.

The man swung around and stepped toward Garza with determination on his face. Garza readied himself as the man approached.

A gunshot rang out in the tunnel and reverberated throughout the long underground tube. Garza’s men whirled and crouched into an attack position, their rifles ready to fire.

Sadeem fell to the floor. Another gunshot. Sadeem writhed in pain, clutching at his chest while a couple of dark stains grew on his white shirt. Victor stood with his arm outstretched and his gun still aimed at Sadeem.

“Why did you do that?” Garza asked.

Victor held up his cell phone with his free hand. “I just received word from a contact in Libya. Sadeem was the CIA plant. He was sent here to kill you.”

A sense of relief washed over Garza. Sadeem was a constant source of stress for him, but now he had to consider the reality of Victor’s actions.

Garza took a breath and watched the spy slowly slipping away on the floor of the tunnel. The man lifted his head to say something. He moved his lips, but nothing came out.

Garza looked at Victor. “I appreciate it,” he said. “But now what? We’ve already been paid to have this bomb detonated in the United States. A lot of money, I may add.”

“No,” Victor responded. “We were paid to transfer this man and his bomb across the border. Once he is there, we cannot control what he does.”

“Go ahead,” Garza said, liking what he was hearing so far. “Then what?”

“We drive his body and that bomb out into the desert,” Victor said. “We call our Border Patrol contact and have him send a man out to retrieve the body. While he’s there, he pumps the corpse full of bullets and finds this nuclear weapon in the trunk. The Border Patrol agent is a hero and we did our job. Everyone gets what they want. Back home, Sadeem is declared an incompetent.”

Garza watched the bomb still rolling away from them in the cart and gestured to his men. “Can you please stay with the weapon?” he asked in a fiery tone.

All five men scrambled back down the tunnel to catch up to the bomb.

“Okay,” Garza said to Victor. “Let’s get to work.”

Sonny Chizek was in the recreation room of the Chizek Mine Company’s main building, walking around the pool table, looking for his next shot. He had his iPod playing on the overhead speakers while he stalked the nine-ball in the corner pocket. He was a heavy man so it allowed him great stability when he leaned over and drew back the pool stick between his large fingers. He hit the cue-ball with such force, it skidded sharply into the nine-ball and knocked it into the pocket so hard, it jumped up an inch before dropping in.

Chizek swaggered around the table, chalking the tip of his pool stick as Aerosmith wailed overhead. The recreation room was an open portion of the bottom floor with a pool table, a couple of vending machines, and a long countertop against a window overlooking Denton. Since the mine sat on a hill, the window offered Chizek a picturesque view of the Denton skyline at night.

Steven Tyler was screaming, “Walk this way,” as Chizek lined up his next shot. He slammed the cue-ball into the five-ball and almost sent it over the lip of the table into the dark fringes of the room. On the opposite wall from the window was a large industrial garage door which gave access to the loading dock just outside.

From a mile away, Chizek could see a truck’s lights coming up the solitary road which led to the mine; the road paralleled the Mexican border by just a few yards. He kept the interior lights low so he could keep an eye on the exterior of the building at all times.

Chizek grabbed his bottle of beer from a tall side table next to him and took a long drink. The truck stopped at the fenced-in entrance and blinked its lights. The lack of moonlight accented the truck’s headlights as Chizek pulled a remote control from his pocket and entered the four digit code. The gate opened and the truck found a parking space just below the window.

Chizek put down his beer and lined up another shot on the pool table. He cracked the six-ball against the cushion for a bank shot and watched it jump into the side pocket with a crisp thump.

A buzzer sounded and Chizek pushed a new set of numbers into the remote and the front door unlocked. Eight of his men came through the door, all smiles and looking for praise.

“Nice work,” Chizek said, giving Carlos Grider a fist bump.

“Edgar took the shot,” Carlos said, as he opened the fridge and handed out beers to the crew.

“Good job, Edgar,” Chizek said, over the sound of Joe Perry’s lead guitar. “Carlos, I need you to be ready for the delivery. The rest of you go scout the perimeter and make sure we remain alone.”

When the men left, Chizek glanced at the clock. “It’s nine thirty. They’re supposed to be here in a half hour.”

Carlos sat on a stool by the window and glowed in the aftermath of his accomplishment. He drank his beer while Chizek lined up another shot.

“How much will it cost me to repair the damage?” Chizek said.

“To the motel?” Carlos asked.

Chizek looked up. “What else did you damage along the way?”

Carlos gave an impish grin and shrugged. “Nothing else, I guess.”

Chizek tried a combination, hitting the three-ball into the eight-ball, but missed the mark. The balls scattered around the table, but didn’t fall in a pocket.

George Thorogood and the Destroyers were now playing “Bad to the Bone,” while Chizek strutted around the table, prowling his next shot and bobbing his round head to the beat of the drums.

“You did good, Carlos,” Chizek said. “We’ll have to get you a nice little bonus once this job is completed.”

“I like the sound of that,” Carlos said, raising his beer bottle up in a mock toast.

Chizek was mentally preparing for a special package. Garza had told him it was a volatile piece of merchandise, not the typical drug shipment. He’d hinted about its explosive nature, so Chizek didn’t have to guess it was a bomb. What bothered him the most was that Garza had paid him five hundred thousand dollars up front for the transfer. Ten times the going rate. It made him wonder how much Garza was making on the deal.