Mike Maden - Drone

The president bolted to his feet. “If that Myers bitch thinks we’re going to do this again, she’s crazy. If that isn’t good enough for her, then fuck her. Do you understand me?”

Hernán Barraza nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. I understand perfectly.”

Camp David, Maryland

President Myers admired the tall pines through the large picture window. She loved the presidential retreat nestled in the low wooded hills of Catoctin Mountain Park. It reminded her of her mountain home in Colorado. The main building where she stood was, in fact, a lodge, just one of many reasons she felt more comfortable here than in the White House.

She needed another meeting with her inner circle. The problem now was secrecy. There had already been too many scheduled meetings with the same people not to draw outside attention, and the Washington rumor mill was in full grind. Myers wasn’t ignorant of the political forces on both sides of the aisle arrayed against her. Just being kept out of these meetings was causing something of a scandal among senior congressional leadership, especially in her own party, Senator Diele the most vocal among them. Myers had discovered early on that Washington, D.C., was just like high school, only with money—other people’s money, technically. Jealousy, cliques, and rivalries were the stock-in-trade for the preening, precious egos that populated the Hill.

“Sorry to drag you out in the woods away from your families on a Saturday, but we needed to talk about yesterday’s fiasco,” Myers began.

“It’s our job, Madame President. No need to apologize,” Jeffers said.

Lancet flashed a sympathetic smile. “I used to have a pastor who said, ‘There’s no rest for the wicked, and the righteous don’t need any.’ So we’re good to go.”

“Thank you. Let’s get to it so we can get you all back home at a reasonable hour. Mike, what exactly happened down there?”

“Near as we can tell, somebody must have dropped a dime on the operation and the Castillos set a trap.”

“What about operational security?”

“There are many honest cops and some truly terrific people fighting the good fight down there, including Colonel Cruzalta and his Marines,” Lancet said.

“You’re sure about Cruzalta?” Myers asked. “We all know there is a tremendous amount of corruption in the police and even military ranks.”

“The people I really trust say that Cruzalta is the best there is,” Lancet said. “Loyal, smart, and incorruptible. He understands what the drug trade is doing to his nation. But you’re right. There is a lot of corruption in Mexico. ‘Plata o plomo,’ they call it. Silver or lead. It’s the cartel’s way of saying either you accept the bribe or the bullet, but either way, you’re going to cooperate with us. And of course, once someone does cooperate, they’re compromised forever. So no matter how secure they think an operation is, there’s always a good chance someone—a clerk, a secretary, a disgruntled traffic cop—is going to call it in when they see the trucks roll out of the gate.”

“The explosion was horrific,” Myers said, her face clouding with emotion.

Lancet nodded. “Castillo employs some of the world’s finest chemists in his labs. Some of them are concocting pesticides and herbicides for his legit businesses, but others are cooking meth. Any of his labs can put together a batch of napalm. Near as we can tell, the poor bastard driving the truck didn’t know he was hauling more than cattle.”

“So, Mike, give me some options,” Myers said.

“President Barraza has shown that there’s a limit to what he’s able to do, at least tactically. And given the political reality today, he’s probably hit the limit on what he’s willing to do.”

“Faye?”

“As we discussed the other day, legally we’ve hit a wall. We still can’t technically prove that the Castillos are guilty of the El Paso massacre, at least not by American legal standards—”

“Setting those boys on fire looked like a confession of guilt to me,” Myers interrupted. “If nothing else, they’re guilty of murdering those Marines.”

“Again, not provable, but I don’t disagree with you. That makes it a Mexican problem, not ours. The El Paso massacre is a criminal matter, with both domestic and international dimensions. American and international criminal law is quite specific about what we may and may not do. We also have extensive treaty obligations with Mexico, as well as Memoranda of Cooperation and Memoranda of Understanding with them in regard to criminal matters. In short, we have no legal standing to pursue this case any further as a legal matter without Mexican cooperation, and we’ve seen what their cooperation has gotten us.”

“Can we set up some sort of a sting? A trap? Lure the Castillos out of Mexico and back up here?” Myers asked.

Lancet shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, we’d have to spend a great deal of money and time to set up a scheme that would be convincing enough and tempting enough to lure them out of Mexico. That means getting a lot more people involved, and that has its dangers, too. The syndicate isn’t without resources on our side of the border, either, except over here, they use more sexo than plomo to get cooperation. Corruption isn’t as bad here as it is down there, but the problem is getting bigger up here, for sure.”

“So I’m asking you both again. What are our options? How do we get justice for the families who lost loved ones in El Paso?”

Lancet shrugged. “You’ve ruled out American troops on the ground. The Mexicans have ruled out further military action on their end. And the law prevents you from carrying out any law enforcement function without the express permission of Mexico, which they aren’t going to give, at least not right now. Maybe in a few years if and/or when you get the new immigration and trade agreements rammed through Congress. Maybe that will give you some leverage.”

“Mike? You agree with Faye’s assessment?”

Early shrugged. “You’ve pretty much eliminated all of the reasonable options, that’s for sure.”

“Then I want the unreasonable ones. Do you have any?”

Early rubbed the stubble on his unshaven chin. “It just so happens I know a guy.”

New York City, New York

September 13, 2004

“You think Early knows?” Annie asked. She was spooning into Pearce, his arms wrapped around her naked torso. They were lying beneath high-thread-count sheets in a penthouse suite overlooking Manhattan.

“About us? If he hasn’t figured it out, he isn’t much of an intelligence analyst,” Pearce said. “Of course, he isn’t a professional spook like we’uns.”

“What do you think he’d say if he knew?” she asked. She rolled over and kissed Pearce on the nose.

“He’d say, ‘Why not me?’”

“Besides that, goof.” She rolled back over off the bed, padding toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

“He’d say, ‘Pearce, you’re one lucky sumbitch. Don’t screw this up.’”

“Lucky? Why? Don’t you get laid very often?” Annie teased.

“Lately, I’ve been doing okay, I guess.” Pearce stretched and yawned. “But what I think he was referring to was the emotional component. I’m usually not very good at that sort of thing.” Pearce rolled out of bed, too, grabbing the top sheet. He stood behind Annie and wrapped both of them in the sheet, pulling her close to him. They gazed out over the amazing Manhattan skyline beneath their feet.

“Oh. So this is emotional for you, is it?” she whispered.

“Yeah.”

“You’re such a girl.”

“Some girls,” he said with a playful smile. “But I wasn’t looking for it.”