Gary Ponzo - A Touch of Deceit

Sal nodded, thinking about the idea. “If we always know what they’re up to, then what happened on September 11th?”

Nick sighed. “Yeah, well, that’s when the gloves came off and all of this satellite communications stuff became routine. We’ve been infiltrating their networks ever since. And as far as Kharrazi goes, the CIA had the goods on him, but egos got in the way.”

“Ain’t that always the case,” Tommy said.

Nick rubbed the side of his face. “Look, there’s going to be mistakes made. That can’t be avoided. But we can diminish their abilities dramatically. You only have to go over there a couple of times a year.” Nick looked around at the rest of Sal’s crew. “You’ll need to find some staff members to take with you.”

Sal sat still a moment, then unfolded his arms and slapped his knees. “Damn. So the government actually wants us to go whack these assholes?”

Nick winced. “Let’s just say, the United States Government doesn’t mourn the loss of terrorists. And they’re willing to pay handsomely to expedite their demise.”

“What happens if we get caught?”

Nick nodded again, ready for the question. “When a terrorist is killed, the CIA becomes the lead investigator. They will work with the local authorities and confiscate any evidence left behind. This evidence has a way of getting buried. As long as the incident isn’t filmed by the media, it’s a safe bet that the killer will never be caught. The CIA will guarantee that.”

“They can do all that?”

Nick grinned. “Sal, if the CIA wants to, they can always find a way to gain jurisdiction. Once they have jurisdiction, they control everything. And I mean everything.”

Sal seemed satisfied with that.

Nick thought about something Kharrazi told him just before he bled out. “The United States has been forced to play by the rules when it came to terrorism, yet the terrorists don’t have those restrictions. Up until now it hasn’t been a fair fight.” Nick pointed to the document in Sal’s hand. “We’ve just evened up the odds.”

Sal lifted a plain brown cigar from his jacket pocket and played with it. “I don’t know.” He pointed the cigar at Nick, “How do you figure in all of this?”

“I’m simply the liaison for the State Department. Just an ex-FBI agent making decisions on my own. There’ll be no footprints to follow back to the White House.” Nick hunched over and looked up at the crew as if he were a quarterback in the middle of a huddle. “Everyone in this car is an American. It’s time we show these assholes how to play the game. We’ve always had the technology, now we have the muscle to back it.”

Nick could feel the testosterone level elevate around him as he spoke. He pressed down a bandage that was coming loose from his sweating forehead. He spoke, not as an ex-FBI agent, or Tommy Bracco’s cousin, but as a salesman trying to close the deal. He’d spent too many sleepless nights worried about the things he couldn’t do because of the law, or because of his moral obligation to follow the Constitution. Nick had turned the corner and he wasn’t ever going back.

He noticed Sal absently finger his cigar as he concentrated fully on Nick.

Nick said, “It's time we go after the leaders of these groups. We sort of take all the fun out of being the boss. It disrupts their plans and lowers the quality of leader they choose. After a while, they’re doing more fighting among themselves, than anything else.”

Sal stopped playing with the cigar. He put it back in his jacket pocket, leaned over and rubbed his hands together. “What kind of protection we get?”

“The best,” Nick said. He looked straight at Sal and said. “Look at me, Sal. What do you see?”

Sal appeared leery of the question and didn’t say anything.

“I’ll tell you what you see,” Nick said. “You see a man who’s just lost a close friend, and who isn’t about to take unnecessary chances with any more of his friends. You also see a man of Sicilian heritage who’s proud to be an American and who’s not afraid to make right some injustices that have been inflicted upon us. Now, does that remind you of anyone else in this car?”

It started slowly, but the corners of Sal’s lips quivered upward and kept going until it was a full-grown smile. This, of course, became contagious and a few moments later every man in the limo was smiling. Sal began to chuckle and the background chucklers filled in behind him. Now the whole car was a symphony of laughter, with Sal gently slapping Nick’s cheek. “You’re good, Nicky. You are really good.”

Nick slid into the limo next to Julie and across from Matt and Steele. The four of them rode in silence as the vehicle pulled away from the gravesite. Nick glanced at Matt and gave him an imperceptible nod.

Steele had a tissue up against her nose as she gazed out the window. Julie focused on the ball of tissues in her hands. Nick couldn’t remove the smile from his face. Matt ignored it, but Steele sat cross-legged in a knee length black dress and took notice of Nick’s behavior.

“Something funny?” Steele said.

Julie turned and saw a straight-faced Nick say, “What?”

Matt covered for him as he always would. He looked out at the opening in the overcast sky, “Looks like it might be clearing up out there.”

Julie must have seen the contentment return to Nick’s expression. She touched his face. “You okay?” she whispered.

Nick nuzzled her ear. “I’m fine.” He turned her chin to face him, their foreheads pressed together. “We’re fine.”

Julie smiled, then dug her face into Nick’s shoulder and let it all come out until Nick could feel the moisture make it through his jacket to his shirt. From the corner of his eye he saw Matt put his arm around Steele and watched Steele fall perfectly into Matt’s hold like two pieces of a puzzle reuniting for the first time since leaving the box.

Nick met Matt’s eyes. A partnership that needed no words.

Nick’s smile lingered. He looked out the window. “It does look like it’s clearing up, doesn’t it?”

Six months later

A couple of puffy white clouds looked lonely crossing the expansive Arizona sky. Beneath them, a spring breeze tickled the tops of the ponderosa pines that surrounded a small fishing lake. At the east end of the lake, Nick and Julie gently rocked on the porch swing. From their wooden deck they could take in the entire scene. Nick was reading the Sunday edition of the Arizona Republic while Julie worked a pair of knitting needles around a spread of yarn on her lap.

“Here come the neighbors,” Julie said.

Nick looked up from the paper and had to squint from the reflection of sunlight glaring off the lake. He saw two figures emerge from a path in the woods just north of the lake. Matt McColm and Jennifer Steele furiously pumped the pedals of their lightweight bicycles toward the Bracco’s A-frame. Their momentum guided them up the slope of grass that separated the Bracco’s home from the lake itself. They stopped in front of the porch, straddled their bikes, and took long swigs from their bottled water. They both wore shorts and tee shirts, which were marked with small patches of sweat. Matt slid his water bottle into the carrier below his seat and peered over the wooden railing that surrounded the deck, “Howdy, Sheriff.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “You’d be Sheriff too if the President flew into Payson to campaign for you a week before the election.”

Matt shook his head and smiled. “Sheriff Bracco.”

“He never gets tired of saying that,” Steele said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

“I never do,” Matt agreed.