Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

Garza looked confused as Matt’s grip forced his upper body to bend unnaturally backward, over the bar. As Garza fought off Matt’s attack, he glared at Victor through the corner of his eye. He tried to say something, but his windpipe was crushed.

Matt punched Garza straight-on and drew blood from the assassin’s nose, while Victor stood there with his rifle out in a firing position.

Nick watched like he was at a movie theatre, his mind not able to comprehend what he was seeing.

Garza hit Matt with an uppercut and dazed him. Matt lost his grip for a moment and Garza looked at his enforcer with fire in his eyes.

“Victor!” Garza shouted. “Shoot him. Now.”

Matt kicked Garza in the chest and forced him up against the bar, his back cracking with the collision.

“His name is not Victor, you piece of shit,” Matt snarled at him.

Garza looked puzzled.

Matt connected with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head which buckled Garza’s knees.

“His name is Marco Diaz,” Matt sneered. “We were in the same Special Forces Unit together. A brotherhood which can’t be washed off with money or power.”

At the same moment Nick put it together, the reality came to Garza’s startled face. Victor was the CIA’s plant.

That’s when Matt moved in and pummeled Garza with a barrage of punches. The fury came out of him with rapid combinations. One to the head, then the body, then two to the head. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. The sound of knuckles hitting flesh filled the room, while Garza’s body reacted to every punch like a crash test dummy.

From behind him, Marco Diaz said, “That’s enough, Matt.”

But Matt didn’t stop. He kept punching, uttering small sounds of grief as he pounded the assassin until Garza finally slumped to his knees. Every time Matt connected, he muttered, “Jimmy,” then, “Ricky,” then “Jennifer,” purging the anguish from his heart. Garza’s bloody face held no sense of comprehension. He lingered on his knees with vacant eyes, then collapsed forward onto the floor.

Matt stood over the man with pent up anger still oozing from his soul, breathing like he’d just sprinted a marathon.

Marco came behind Nick with a pair of wire cutters and snapped his wrists free. Nick rubbed his wrists, smearing blood all over his hands and grateful for the opportunity.

Matt seemed to notice his Special Forces teammate for the first time. He took two long, exasperated steps toward Marco and wrapped his arms around the man’s shoulders in a bear hug.

“When I saw you in the tunnel. .” Matt gasped. “I thought I was seeing things.”

“I know, buddy.” Marco patted Matt on the back, then pulled away to look him in the eyes. “I am so sorry.”

He didn’t need to finish. They all knew what he meant.

Matt nodded and gave Marco a crooked smile. “We got the bastard, didn’t we?”

“That’s right,” Marco said. Then his face turned serious. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Nick’s mind began to clear. “What about the bomb?”

Marco rolled over Garza and pulled a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “Here’s the detonator. It’s not on a timer, so we should be okay. But the sooner the bomb squad gets to it, the better.”

Nick checked Garza’s pulse. The assassin would survive the beating. Barely. He patted Garza’s body and removed a gun and a blade from his belt holster. On the TV screen, a squad of soldiers were already flooding into the mine, following Stevie’s arm as he pointed down the tunnel entrance.

Marco went behind the bar and pushed a button. A second later the hydraulic wall began to open. Then he came over and pulled Garza up to hoist him over his back and carry him into the tunnel and drop him into an open cart.

“Tell me something,” Nick said. “Is Decker on his payroll?”

Marco nodded, then pulled out his own cell phone. “It’s all right here. You’d be surprised how high it goes.”

Marco suddenly ran up the stairs, two steps at a time.

“Where you going?” Matt asked.

“Give me thirty seconds,” Marco said, then shut the door behind him.

Nick grabbed Matt’s arm. “You okay?”

Matt’s eyes glistened from the emotional strain he’d just endured. It must’ve been therapeutic, however, because Matt grinned for the first time in days. “I’m okay,” Matt said.

The basement door opened. Nick grabbed Garza’s gun and readied himself, until Marco came down the stairs, holding a young boy in his arms. The boy was still half-asleep and in his pajamas. He was rubbing his eyes when Marco gently placed him on his feet next to Matt.

Nick raised his eyebrows at Marco.

“I keep my promises,” Marco said, running behind the bar and pulling open a knife display on the wall.

“What’s your name?” Matt asked.

“Julio,” the boy said, softly.

Marco returned holding a briefcase in his right hand. “C’mon,” he said, grabbing Julio and tossing him over his shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

“What’s that?” Matt asked, pointing to the briefcase.

Marco smiled. “We’ll talk.”

The East Room of the White House was a large, high-ceiling room, elegantly decorated with chandeliers and gold curtains. Because of its size, it was used for special ceremonies, entertaining dignitaries and the occasional dinner. This time the large room was set up for a special press conference.

Behind the podium, in a walkway, hidden from the crowd of reporters, Samuel Fisk stood still while a couple of White House aides groomed him. One woman patted his face with a round sponge pad, while a male aide fixed his tie.

President Merrick lingered next to him, examining the sheet of paper containing Fisk’s opening statement.

“You ready for this?” Merrick asked.

“I’m a little hungry.”

“Of course you are.”

Merrick seemed to scrutinize the speech until he dropped the paper by his side and looked at the two aides. “Are we about done here?”

In a matter of seconds, Fisk and Merrick were left alone. The only sound came from the gaggle of reporters milling around, anticipating the sudden press conference.

“What about the bomb?” Merrick asked in a soft voice.

“What bomb?” Fisk replied, with an innocent expression.

While Merrick stared, Fisk could see the wheels turning inside.

“So, we don’t mention it?” Merrick asked.

“Why?” Fisk said. “Nothing good could come from it.”

Merrick nodded. “You think this United Palestinian Force is finished?”

Fisk wiped his hands in the air. “They’re done,” he said. “They’ve exhausted all their resources and their top three officials have been spotted leaving Israel. Why kindle a fire which is already dead?”

Merrick cracked a smile and handed the briefing notes back to Fisk. He slapped his friend on the arm and said, “Go get ’em, Tiger.”

* * *

Francisco Rodriguez sat on his leather couch with his feet up on the ottoman smugly watching his wall TV screen. The American Secretary of State was about to give a press conference and his sources had told him the Secretary would be announcing the President’s endorsement of the Mexican candidate for president. Rodriguez was already fifteen points ahead in the polls with less than a week before the election. No matter who the United States decided to endorse, the outcome was in little jeopardy. In fact, his advisors were even suggesting he would benefit more from a Salcido endorsement.

Rodriguez was in the upstairs loft of his mansion, where he entertained guests and spent most of his down time relaxing. Two of his advisors were sitting on the couch alongside him, with drinks clinking in their hands. Three members of his security team stood in their defensive positions, by the door, the window and the back of the room.