Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Greed

When the blood stopped oozing from James Braden’s head, FBI Agent Ricky Hernandez knew his partner was finally dead. Hernandez was tucked behind a steel column in an abandoned airport hanger just inside the Mexican border. His partner was sprawled on the floor ten feet away, his body riddled with bullet holes from the ambush.

“Mr. Hernandez,” the man’s voice called out from behind him in a Mexican accent, “we have two kinds of soup today. We have chicken soup and we have screw-you soup. Unfortunately for you, we are out of chicken soup.”

A roomful of laughter echoed throughout the empty chamber of aluminum roofing and corrugated steel walls. Hernandez judged about thirty men surrounded him with AK-47s, while Hernandez had an FBI issue 9mm pistol with just one solitary bullet left. He stared at Braden’s corpse lying there in such an unnatural position, his eyes wide in horrified shock. Hernandez’s legs trembled. His left eye had an uncontrollable twitch. The desert heat was so viciously oppressive, his sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his chest.

The voice taunting Hernandez belonged to Antonio Garza, known as El Carnicero throughout the world of Mexican cartels. The Butcher. He was an infamous assassin with a legendary reputation for torturing anyone who crossed him. Including undercover FBI agents posing as drug dealers. Hernandez had seen the remains of the bodies Garza had left behind. Fingers, eyes, tongues, all severed and stuck inside the victim’s mouth, while the body floated in a vat of boiling water. The assassin was known to have a doctor on hand to continuously revive the victim and prolong the torment for hours, sometimes days.

“Mr. Hernandez,” Garza said, closer now. “I make you a deal. Come out right now and I let you speak with your family. You can say a proper farewell, eh?”

Hernandez was in shock, his mind numb to the statement.

“You can’t be saved, so make your peace,” Garza ordered.

Among other things, Garza was a chronic liar. Hernandez was lured into Mexico while undercover, so there would be no rescue. He was out of US jurisdiction. Then it hit him. He still had a minute or two to say good-bye to his wife. He fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

“I’m waiting,” he heard Garza say.

Tears blurred his vision as he tried to find his Nicole’s number in his contact list. He was bawling now, warm urine leaked from his bladder. Once he’d heard her voice he realized he wouldn’t be able to speak. He was wasting too much time just trying to gather himself. Then he saw the name just above Nicole’s. Nick Bracco. Hernandez knew then what he needed to do with the remaining seconds of his life. He pushed the button.

“Time is up,” Garza called out.

“Hey, Ricky,” came the voice on the phone.

“Nick,” Hernandez stammered. “Nick can you. .”

“What’s wrong?”

Hernandez’s hands shook, tears crawled down his face. “Please tell Nicole. .” he hiccupped and whimpered, “how much I adore her.”

“Where are you, Ricky?” Nick demanded.

“Now!” the assassin screamed, a barrage of bullets exploded all around the agent as he shriveled up behind the column for protection. His legs were getting pounded by direct hits and ricochets.

“Ricky?” Nick shouted into the receiver.

The shooting stopped. The tops of Hernandez’s feet were missing, only two toes stood out among the bloody stumps. Hernandez’s stomach spiked up into his throat. “Nick,” he uttered. “Promise me you’ll kill him.”

Footsteps came shuffling up behind him and Hernandez dropped the phone between his legs. He took one last look at his partner, then said, “I’ll be right there, Jimmy.” As he braced the tip of his pistol tight under his chin, the one thought which remained, the one glimmer of solace which contained him, was the thought that Garza would not survive long. Hernandez had an irrational rush of jubilation. Nick Bracco had been notified. Ricky Hernandez smiled.

Then he pulled the trigger.

* * *

Walt Jackson was considering going home. It was almost seven and his stomach was beginning to growl. He stood behind his desk, searching for a couple of secure flash drives he needed to take home, when his cell phone chirped. “Nick Bracco,” came up on his display. As the Special Agent in Charge of the Baltimore field office, Walt was the head of an elite anti-terrorist task force simply known as, “The Team.” Four of the shrewdest investigators the FBI had ever trained. Along with Nick and his partner Matt McColm, the team was split across the nation. Nick and Matt were in Arizona, while the other two worked out of the Baltimore field office. Nick Bracco was the lead agent of the group and rarely called to chitchat.

“What’s up?” Walt asked, finding the two flash drives and slipping them into his pocket.

“Sorry, Walt,” Nick said with a somber tone.

Walt’s instincts told him to prepare for the worst.

“Tell me,” Walt said.

“Jim and Ricky are dead.”

Walt’s pulse quickened. He felt lightheaded and plopped down in his leather chair with wobbly legs. He ran a hand over his face and looked at the floor. His new team was only six months old. They’d been grooming new members carefully ever since four of the original six members were murdered by a Russian assassin last year. Now the newborn group of four was down to two.

Walt had the overwhelming sense that he’d come too close to touching the sun and was now paying the price. He tried to control his breathing with mild success.

“You still there?” Nick asked.

“Yeah,” Walt croaked.

“Jill and Nicole need to know.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Sorry,” Nick repeated.

“Damn it,” Walt muttered. “Someone gave them up.”

“Yes.”

“Someone on our side.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, but I will.”

Walt took longer breaths while Nick patiently waited for him to recover.

“You took every possible precaution, Walt. There was no way to eliminate all the risk.”

“No I didn’t, or we wouldn’t have two more dead agents on the team.”

Walt’s stomach tightened, while his head throbbed. He was clearly losing the battle with his emotions, but needed a clear mind. He needed to make the right choices or the damage could accumulate.

“Nick,” Walt said into the phone, rubbing his temple. “You can’t go down there.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. Once you cross that border, you’re alone. Completely.”

“I know.”

“I mean, these cartels, for crying out loud, Nick, they are the law down there.”

“I understand.”

Walt looked around to assure his solitude. He was in his office with the door closed, yet still knew enough to keep his voice low. “You’re going to need help.”

This one seemed to stop Nick. Walt could tell his lead agent was surprised by his suggestion.

“You mean. . Tommy?”

There was no other help Walt could’ve been suggesting. The CIA was constantly at war with his division and adding untrained FBI agents to the body count simply wasn’t acceptable. Nick’s cousin Tommy, however, had roots within a well-known Sicilian family which occasionally operated outside the law. A family whose information had been very instrumental in capturing terrorists in the past. It was a relationship Walt found uncomfortable, but the return on investment had been remarkable.

“Yes,” Walt confirmed. “He’ll have contacts which could be extremely valuable.”

“Okay,” Nick said.

“I mean, we can’t afford to send shoes down there to muddle things up. The more agents we send, the scarier it gets. We use the surgical tactic we’ve planned. The smaller, the better.”