Drone

25

Los Pinos, Mexico D.F.

“What do you mean Castillo’s dead?”

“Castillo, his son Ulises, his three brothers. All of them.” Hernán sliced his throat with his thumb.

“The Americans?”

“Who else?”

Antonio fell back into his ornately carved presidential chair, despondent. “If it weren’t for César Castillo, I wouldn’t be president.”

The Barrazas had cut to the front of the political line with cartel muscle and money. Hernán had engineered it all. He knew that many political dynasties had been midwifed by crime syndicates. The Triads in communist China, even the Kennedys and the mob. And God only knew if the rumors about Putin and the Russian mafia were true.

Hernán shuffled over to the credenza and poured himself a whiskey. He held up the bottle and glass to his brother, a silent offer of a drink. But Antonio waved him off. Hernán shrugged and tossed back the glass, then poured himself another.

“You needed Castillo to win the office. You don’t need him to keep it,” Hernán said. “Now that he’s gone, there will be a ‘peace dividend’ for you and Mexico.” He tossed back his second.

“Maybe it was the Bravos who finally took him out,” Antonio said. “Maybe we’ve been backing the wrong horse the whole time.”

Hernán poured himself a third glass, then another for his brother. He picked them up and carried them to the president’s desk.

“Americans? Bravos? It doesn’t matter who took Castillo out. The Bravos are in control now, either way. And you are still the president of Mexico. Sounds like a natural alliance to me.” He handed his brother the whiskey glass, then clinked his glass against his brother’s.

“Here’s to the end of the War on Drugs, and to the new peace for Mexico. Salut.”

“Salut,” Antonio said, halfheartedly. They both drank.

Antonio leaned forward. “Why do you think there will be a peace now? Won’t the Bravos come after us?”

“Why should they, if we leave them alone? Accommodations can be made, just like we had with the Castillo Syndicate.”

“With the Americans still breathing down our necks? We can’t suddenly stop enforcing all of our drug agreements with them.”

“We can put pressure on the little guys on the margins who aren’t falling in line with Bravo yet. Break up a few of their shipments. The Americans won’t know the difference, but Bravo will appreciate it. He won’t mess with us if we don’t mess with him. Still…” Hernán frowned with concern.

“What?”

“You might want to give Bravo something more. A token of friendship. An offering.”

“Like what?”

“Cruzalta and his Marinas have been harassing the Bravos for a long time. Pull all of their operations off of the east coast away from Bravo territory and let them go chase Chinese smugglers along Baja. And sack Cruzalta. He needs to retire anyway. That should make Bravo happy.”

“How do you know all of these things?” Antonio was genuinely curious.

“It’s my job to know them. I’ve already set up a phone call with Victor Bravo to see if we can work out some sort of an equitable arrangement. With your permission, of course.”

“Yes, of course. As you think best.” He drained his glass. “How about another round?”

Hernán nodded and picked up his brother’s glass to fetch a refill, adding, “And I have one more idea.”

Chichén Itzá, Mexico

Ali trudged up the steps of the Temple of Warriors. There seemed to be no end to the climb beneath the searing sky. He had read that the more famous Pyramid of Kukulkan had 365 steps cut out of the stone, one for each day of the year. But he had no idea how many steps this one had and he’d lost count. In the gross humidity of the day, it felt like it was taking a whole year to make the climb to the top. With each step he uttered silent prayers of protection to Allah against the foreign djinn he was certain inhabited this pagan shrine.

Ali was surrounded by a casual but nevertheless armed escort of Bravo’s most loyal sicarios, all of them former military men—defectors, mostly, from Mexican, Guatemalan, and Salvadoran units—who had swarmed to Victor Bravo’s organization a dozen years ago at the prospect of untold wealth. And they were loyal, Ali noted. In fact, more than loyal. Devoted to the man was more like it. Like religious disciples. Greed may have first drawn them to him, but Bravo’s revolutionary charisma was what kept them bound to him. Bravo valued them highly, but they lacked actual combat experience against Western armies. The kind Ali had in spades.

Victor Bravo was a few steps above Ali, cresting the top of the temple mount first. None of the tourists or guards had to be told to stay clear of this group of terrifying men, not even the dim-witted gringos fresh off of the cruise-liner buses swarming the compound below. As a precaution, Bravo closed the temple to tourists that day.

When Ali and Bravo’s men reached the top, the escort fanned out in a loose semicircle. The actual temple on top of the pyramid stood behind them. The black shade beneath its stone roof looked cool and inviting, but Ali shuddered. He imagined himself as a captured warrior standing in this very spot five hundred years ago, staring into that same temple mouth, soon to be led to slaughter on the reclining Chac-Mool idol looming in the dark like a demon from hell.

“Do you know why I brought you up here?” Victor asked. He was staring out over the compound through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. Today he wore his typical uniform: black shirt, black jeans, black cowboy boots with silver tips, and a giant silver belt buckle, topped off with a blazingly white straw cowboy hat, fresh out of the box.

All in all, though, he was modestly dressed for a man of his position. Most narcotraficantes wasted money on the trappings of wealth—expensive clothes, jewelry, palatial homes. Not Bravo. Most of his wealth went to his people. He’d built and maintained dozens of private schools, orphanages, and health clinics all over Mexico.

Bravo had once confided to Ali that he had modeled his organization along Hezbollah lines: a military faction to fight his enemies and a humanitarian faction to win the hearts of his people, whom he genuinely cared for. It was one of the many reasons Ali had secretly allied with Bravo even when he was supposedly working for Castillo.

“No, Señor Bravo. Why have you brought me here?”

Victor wiped his long, dripping face with a handkerchief. He was mostly indio, shorter and darker than the Mexicans up north, with no facial hair. Ali wasn’t sure how old Bravo was. Forties? Fifties? Sixties? No wrinkles in his mahogany-colored flesh or silver strands of hair betrayed his age. He wore his thick black hair long and tucked behind his ears. His melodic Spanish accent was definitely Yucatecan.

“This is the place of my people. Warriors, scientists, poets. We formed a great empire on this continent. We studied the stars, conquered our enemies, contemplated zero.”

Ali understood his pride. He was the son of a great world empire, too, but one far more vast and advanced than anything the Mayans had accomplished, and a thousand years older than the one that had mysteriously vanished from the jungle surrounding them. Iran now stood on the doorstep of greatness again, thanks to its nuclear program. Only the Great Satan stood in their way.

“This place is, indeed, the seventh wonder of the world.”

“You are truly a religious man, Ali?”

“I am an imperfect servant of the Most High, yes.”

“Then you understand me when I say that God has given me a mission and I will fulfill it. You have a mission, too, and you have already fulfilled it by helping me get rid of Castillo and his brood of thieves.”

“I am a humble soldier and I obey my orders, nothing more, jefe. The master does not thank the slave for doing his work.” Ali had said the same thing to César, of course.

“You may be a lot of things, but you are no slave. You set up Castillo’s idiot sons on the El Paso hit and you engineered his family’s slaughter by the Americans. You’re either a magician or a genius, but either way, you’ve handed me Mexico on a sliver platter.”

Bravo snapped his fingers and one of his guards approached with a backpack. “Most of the surviving Castillo captains have already started calling me jefe,” Bravo said.

“Do you trust them?” Ali asked.

“I trust their fear.”

“And Barraza?”

Bravo chuckled. “I spoke with his brother last night. Are you sure you aren’t a white wizard?”

Ali shook his head. “No, jefe. I am neither a jaguar nor a prophet. Only humble flesh and blood, like you.” Ali had provided all of the ELINT security for Bravo’s organization, including his encrypted cell phones. However, Ali’s technicians had put backdoors on all of Bravo’s equipment, so Ali was privy to all of Bravo’s communications. He had listened to the conversation with Hernán just an hour ago.

Bravo reached into the backpack and pulled out a black lacquered wooden box, then opened it. There was a pistol inside, nestled in crushed blue velvet. A .45 caliber 1911 Colt semiauto. It was solid gold with a mother-of-pearl handle. He pulled it out.

Ali’s eyes narrowed. Maybe today he was going to be a sacrifice after all. He calculated strike points on Bravo first, then on the nearest bodyguard. If he could secure the guard’s weapon—

Bravo turned the pistol in his hand and held the butt out toward Ali. He smiled. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Ali frowned. Was this a trick?

He picked up the gun. It was much heavier than an ordinary one made of steel. He clicked the magazine release. The magazine was gold-plated, too. He nicked the top bullet with his thumbnail. The bullets were solid gold, too.

“It belonged to Saddam Hussein. I won’t tell you how I acquired it, or how much it cost, because it is far less valuable to me than our friendship.” Bravo had taken the credit for the destruction of the Castillo Syndicate, and his reputation in the international underworld as an omnipotent force in Mexico had been sealed thanks to the Iranian’s scheme.

Ali gazed at the weapon in wonder. His uncles had died as young men in the catastrophic war with Iraq thirty years ago. His whole family cheered the day the filthy Sunni dictator was hanged by his own people, and they laughed with pride when they read that he had cursed his Iraqi executioners by calling them “Persians.”

And now I hold the bastard’s golden gun in my hands. Ali was genuinely touched.

“I am honored and humbled by this lavish gift, Señor Bravo.”

“It is offered with my gratitude for the work you have done.”

“But there is still much more to be done. Your newest recruits are being trained even as we speak.”

“How are they doing?”

“Very well. I have my best men preparing them. I’ll be returning to the camp soon to oversee the last three weeks of their training.”

“Excellent. Some of Castillo’s Maras up north are still holding out. I need the new men to put them down like the crazed dogs they are. A final assault and we will consolidate our position in Mexico. Our men, your guns.”

“A match made in heaven, as the Americans like to say,” Ali said. “And what about Castillo’s distribution network in the United States? We should take them out as soon as possible.”

Bravo draped an arm around Ali’s shoulder. “That is the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. This Castillo thing…”

“What about it?”

“His whole family wiped out. And for what? Because he killed the wrong kids. Really, just one wrong kid if we’re going to be honest about it.”

“What’s your point, jefe?”

“Do you have a wife? Kids?”

“Yes. Two wives and seven sons.” Ali didn’t think his three daughters were worth mentioning.

Bravo laughed. “Seven sons? That’s good. So you understand. I don’t want anything to happen to my children. Or to me.” Bravo steered him toward the temple.

“You are afraid of Myers? A woman?” Ali was incredulous. “We led her around by the nose. Why worry about a worthless one like that?”

“It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s her guns. Her planes without pilots. You’ve heard the rumors.”

Ali stopped and smiled. “You do not have to be afraid of such things, my friend. I have fought the Americans and their Predator drones before. Do you know why Americans fight with their robots? It is because they are afraid to fight and die like men. That is why they would not send their soldiers in to deal with Castillo.”

Ali was amazed at how much fear these Mexicans had of the effeminate Americans. First he had to bolster Castillo’s courage, and now Bravo’s.

Bravo shook his head. “You have a short memory, amigo. Remember the Gulf War? Remember the videos? ‘Shock and awe.’ The Americans destroyed Saddam’s army in a few weeks. You fought the Iraqis for almost eight years and couldn’t beat them. How many men did you lose?”

“A million martyrs, counting wounded.”

“You see? And Hussein had only primitive Soviet equipment for you to fight against. You can’t defeat the Americans, Ali. Nobody can. Their technology is too good.”

“The Taliban have a saying. ‘The Americans have the watches, we have the time.’ It has been over eleven years since the Americans invaded Afghanistan. The infidels have their aircraft carriers and supersonic fighters, while the poor Taliban fighters have only their rifles and their guts. The Americans are quitting Afghanistan just like the Russians did, and the Taliban remain. The Great Satan has the will to kill, but not to fight.”

“But the Americans defeated Hussein. He had thousands of tanks and hundreds of thousands of soldiers.”

“They only defeated Saddam because he was stupid. He left his tanks and his men in the desert for weeks and let the Americans bomb them continuously. Many strategic and tactical mistakes were made by that Ba’athist fool, and the Americans exploited those mistakes to the fullest. Do you not see? The Americans could never have fought an all-out war with Iraq for eight years, but we did. Do not let Myers’s actions convince you she is strong when, in fact, she is acting from a position of weakness. She uses drones because she is afraid to fight another real war with soldiers. That should tell you everything you need to know about the Americans.”

The ambient air temperature dropped as they entered the cool of the temple.

“Much better in here, isn’t it?” Victor asked. He pulled off his sunglasses. So did Ali.

“Yes.” Ali’s eyes adjusted to the dark. He saw the reclining stone image of the Chac-Mool lounging in the shadows. The idol’s lifeless eyes chilled him to the bone.

“What happened to the Mayans, Ali? Do you know?”

“No.”

Victor rubbed his hairless chin. “Nobody knows for certain. The best guess is that the ancient Mayans did it to themselves. Perhaps they grew too fast? Or reached too far? Maybe they fought one enemy too many. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that they are gone.”

“And that is the real reason why you brought me out here.”

Victor laughed. “That obvious, eh? Well, you are right. With Castillo out of the picture, everything changes. Before, we fought turf wars with him over production in this country and distribution in the north. Spilled a lot of blood to defend territory or to expand. We had to fight for both ends of the transaction. But not now. We will soon control one hundred percent of the production, so we will double our profits. Maybe more, since we will now control supply and the demand up there is infinite. I guess you could say that the Americans have the noses and we have the coke.”

“That’s good news, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. I need you to wipe out the Maras in Tijuana and Juárez, but I can’t let you cross into the States right now. I can’t afford to piss the Americans off. Do you understand?” It wasn’t really a question.

Ali began to worry. He had his own plans for the Bravo men he was training that Victor was not aware of.

“What are you proposing?” Ali asked.

“Myers has satisfied herself with the syndicate’s blood. I don’t want to give her an excuse to kill me and my sons, too, like that idiot Castillo did.”

“Are you not worried that you will lose control of the distribution in the States?”

“Not as worried as I am about those Predators hunting me down. There will be time for that later.”

Ali saw the determination in Bravo’s searching eyes. The unassuming drug lord had little education yet he was smart enough and ruthless enough to build the second most powerful drug cartel in Latin America that, thanks to Myers, was now the most powerful. But Victor Bravo was still possessed by the habitual fear and wariness of a poor rural farmer so he was unable to fully appreciate the strategic opportunity that Ali had just handed to him. Ali knew there was no arguing with him or with the armed loyalists that surrounded him.

“I bow to your wisdom, jefe. I’m leaving for the training camp tonight. When the cycle is finished, I will take the men north and weed out the Maras as you have commanded. When that mission is accomplished, we will return to the training camp and wait for your instructions.”

“Excellent.” Bravo patted Ali on the back and nodded toward the pistol still in Ali’s hands. “I hope you enjoy your new toy.”

Ali flashed the golden weapon in his left hand. “With just one of these golden bullets, I can buy another wife.” He extended his free hand. They shook. Bravo held on.

“Just be careful where you point that gun, hermano. It may be made of gold like a whore’s necklace, but it is still dangerous.”

Ali smiled, nodded. “I understand, jefe.”

Ali carefully set the pistol back in its velvet-lined case and shut the lid, wondering how much damage a golden bullet would do to a high sloping forehead like Bravo’s.

26

Arlington, Virginia

Jackson secured permission from Early to bring Sergio Navarro into the loop. The young analyst had been the one to find the Facebook video that had cracked the Castillo case open, and he wanted to reward him with something far more valuable than just a commendation in his service jacket. Jackson knew that Navarro had a thriving Internet business on the side, providing his own proprietary search engine optimization (SEO) service for online vendors. The DEA could never hope to match the money that Navarro could earn in the private sector, but it could offer him something that a fat paycheck never could: the pride that comes with hunting down the bad guys. By bringing Navarro into the inner circle, Jackson was hoping to convince the brilliant young technician to stay in public service.

After César Castillo’s death, all of the SD cards found in the drug lord’s safe had been downloaded and transcribed. Unfortunately for Navarro, he was the one who had done the downloading and transcribing. It was practically a snuff film marathon: torture, beheadings, gang rapes, people set on fire, and, on rare occasions, a simple gunshot to the head of Castillo’s enemies by Castillo himself with his favorite jewel-encrusted silver pistol. Navarro felt filthy after watching each of the tapes and numb after finishing the last transcription.

Ironically, the very first video he watched was Pearce’s crudely shot phone video of Castillo’s death by nerve agent. Navarro hated it. It was medieval to execute a human being like that. But after watching the snuff tapes, Navarro became angry. He wished that Castillo had suffered more than he had. In fact, he watched Castillo’s death one last time to cleanse his psychic palate before he wrote up his executive summary.

The single most important piece of intelligence Navarro gleaned from the viewing came from the footage of the Marinas, burned alive in the tunnel with napalm. It had been shot by two men speaking Farsi.

Coronado, California

Pearce drummed his fingers on his desk, thinking.

César Castillo was dead and that was all that mattered to Early—and by extension, to his boss—but Pearce hated loose ends. His CIA career began in the Clandestine Service Trainee Program where he was trained to be a Core Collector, i.e., a disciplined intelligence case officer. He’d been taught to run down every clue, every source, every suspicion. On Pearce’s first day at the Farm, the instructor had passed out a sharp, flat-sided object to each student in the classroom. It was a nail, the kind used to shoe horses. Pearce had only seen them before in books.

“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,” the instructor had said, and she recited the entire proverb in her thick New Jersey accent. “But maybe that’s too literal for you postmodern, chaos-theory types. So I’ll put it to you another way. You want to keep the tornado from blowing your house down? Then you better go find the friggin’ butterfly and tear its wings off before it starts flappin’.”

Pearce not only couldn’t find the butterfly, he didn’t even know what the butterfly was.

The Feds still hadn’t figured out who had posted the original El Paso video to Facebook that implicated the Castillo twins. Pearce couldn’t stop thinking about the mystery. The working theory that it was a teenage kid at the wrong place at the right time wasn’t making much sense to Pearce anymore. An amateur wouldn’t be able to hide from Fed hackers this long.

Just as troubling for Pearce was Castillo’s last phone call. Who was it made to? Obviously someone connected to the bunker line, which suggested that it was someone connected to Castillo’s security. That probably meant one of the four security guards Pearce had just killed. That would make the most sense. But why was the line scrambled? That seemed like overkill. Maybe an enthusiastic salesman had convinced the paranoid drug lord to add an extra layer of security to the only line of communication out of the bunker in the event of an emergency—after all, he would have been under assault, by definition, so secure communications would make sense. So why didn’t the other end pick up?

If the person on the other end had just had their brains blown out—like one of the four bodyguards whom Pearce had taken down—that would be a pretty good reason. And that probably was the actual reason.

But then again, Castillo’s phone was connected to a satellite uplink. Maybe he was reaching out to someone off the island. Someone with enough power or resources to rescue him. Who would that be? A corrupt general? A cop? A politician? And why didn’t that person pick up?

Could it have been an Iranian? Pearce had read Navarro’s report. Native Farsi speakers had shot the massacre video—whatever that meant. The Iranian security agencies weren’t operating in Latin America as far as he knew, though Hezbollah had made recent inroads. Mercs? Maybe, but highly unlikely. If anything, hired guns would have been on the island with Castillo, not offshore in strategic reserve.

Pearce’s options were limited. Ian was a brilliant IT analyst but even he had his limitations, and the Feds hadn’t solved the puzzle, either. There was one last hope. Pearce attached a couple of files to a secure e-mail expressing his concerns to Udi and Tamar and fired it off. They still had contacts in Mossad and the Israelis had the best hackers in the world.

Moscow, Russian Federation

President Titov was the one on the mat in a judo gi tossing his two-hundred-pound opponent around like a sack of potatoes, but Britnev was the one sweating. All he wanted right now was a cigarette, but the health-crazed president had forbidden smoking in the Kremlin. It would have been easier to smuggle in a missile launcher than a pack of Marlboros into the basement gym.

Britnev had conceived of the audacious plan that was now under way, and he was the point man in the field, so he was in the best position to observe things firsthand. It was only natural that he would be recalled to Moscow for a face-to-face meeting to discuss the latest developments with his boss, a famous micromanager and former KGB colonel.

“You’re certain about this?” Titov asked, his hands firmly gripping his opponent’s sleeve and collar. Titov was battling a thirty-year-old major in the Presidential Regiment of the FSB, the equivalent of the Russian secret service.

“I’m no metaphysician, Mr. President, but I’m as certain as one can be under the circumstances. In my opinion, the American invasion of Mexico can’t be too far off now.”

“Then we should move forward,” Titov said.

“There is still much to discuss,” Britnev said. He was a few years younger than Titov, but he didn’t feel like it as he watched his president manhandle the much-younger bull-necked security agent.

Titov grunted another kiai as he lifted the former Olympic judo champion up onto his hip, then flung him onto the mat in a lightning-quick throw. The major lay stunned on the mat for half a breath, but whether this was theatrics or not, Britnev wasn’t sure. Beating Titov in a judo match would be a career killer for the young agent, but Titov was truly in excellent shape. In either case, the major’s hesitation was just long enough for Titov to crash down on him and put him into a choking headlock. The Olympian pounded Titov’s back three times in submission and Titov released him. They both stood to their feet, faced each other, and bowed, ending the match. Titov laughed gregariously as he patted the major on his muscled back. “Maybe next time, Gregory.”

“Yes, sir. But I doubt it.” The major smiled sheepishly and strode away. He had the easy, loping gait of a world-class athlete. It seemed to Britnev that the younger man didn’t wear his humiliation well.

Titov picked up a folded towel from a bench and patted his sweating face with it as he approached Britnev, who noticed a slight limp in Titov’s stride.

“Let’s get some steam, Konstantin. I just had new eucalyptus panels installed. We’ll have a chance to talk further about this Mexico situation.”

Britnev forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr. President. I could use a good steam.” Inwardly, he sighed. It was going to be a long time before he got that cigarette.

27

Mexico City, Mexico

It was five in the morning when Hernán’s chauffeur pulled out past the tall, bougainvillea-covered walls of his palatial estate in Lomas de Chapultepec, but it was a long drive across town to Tláhuac, one of the most impoverished barrios of Mexico City, a semirural enclave of muddy streets and urban sprawl on the far eastern side of the nation’s capital.

Hernán’s armored Land Rover sped along past Carlos Slim’s mansion just down the street from his own home, but the multibillionaire had a much larger estate, befitting his unimaginable wealth. No one missed the irony that the world’s richest human being lived so close to millions of people living in squalor within the same city limits. In fact, Hernán had used that line in his brother’s last campaign speech. Today was a chance to put a down payment on that veiled promise of structural reform. He just hoped that Antonio would arrive on time. Mexico’s working poor, despite the racist stereotypes of the yanquis, were the hardest-working people on the planet who, according to the Organization of Economic Cooperation and Development, logged more hours per day in paid and unpaid labor than any other OECD citizen. As a point of personal pride, Hernán didn’t want his brother to show any disrespect to the people he was appearing to help today, but Antonio wasn’t known for being either prompt or an early riser.

Tláhuac, Mexico City

Hernán wasn’t easily impressed, but the fact that so many television and newspaper people were here in Tláhuac at this hour of the day so far from their downtown offices meant that Antonio’s press relations department had gone the extra mile. He could only imagine what bribes and/or threats were levied to generate this kind of media turnout. Catered breakfast in the press-only tent certainly didn’t hurt. No matter what country he had ever traveled to, Hernán found that nobody was more susceptible to the lure of free food than the media.

The locals had turned out in big numbers, too, in their freshly scrubbed cotton shirts and simple print dresses. It was a fabulous and enthusiastic crowd. Lucha Libre wrestling stars were in attendance, along with clowns, balloons, mariachi bands, and bags of candy for the kids. Today it was meant to feel more like a national holiday than a press conference. It was a time for celebration and his rock-star brother did what he did best, all smiles and polished delivery as he cut the ribbon on the new health clinic and school for the neighborhood.

The TV cameras and radio microphones had picked up all the good sound bites, including the one key question Hernán had planted with Octavia Lopez, the super-sexy news anchor of the most watched evening broadcast. Lopez was desperate to change her image from a busty former beauty queen to a serious journalist, and Hernán knew the planted question would please her immensely. He hoped so. Because tonight after the broadcast, in exchange for the favor, she was supposed to please him immensely at the little love nest he had set up near her apartment.

“Is it true, Mr. President, that this clinic was funded in part by Victor Bravo and his drug money?” Lopez asked.

Antonio scowled, as if she’d posed an unexpected “gotcha” question rather than a carefully pitched softball. He was, after all, a trained actor. Hernán had prepped him with a carefully crafted response.

“There is an old saying. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ People think they know who Victor Bravo is. I don’t. Not socially. Not politically. The state police tell me he’s never been convicted of any drug crimes; in fact, he’s never even been arrested or accused of any crimes at all. But that’s modern-day journalism for you, isn’t it? But here is what I do know: the enemy of Mexico is her poverty. And if Victor Bravo or any other person is willing to help my administration fight that battle, then he is a friend of Mexico’s, which means he is a friend of mine.”

On that last note, the mariachis erupted on cue with a patriotic tune and the people cheered as the president made his way through an adoring crowd toward his limousine. Antonio had delivered the riposte perfectly, as befit his previous profession. Hernán’s words in his brother’s mouth would be repeated a thousand times on radio and television over the course of the twenty-four-hour news cycle.

Surely that would be enough of a first kiss to let Victor Bravo know that the Barraza wedding bed was warm and friendly enough. All Bravo had to do was jump in and everybody would have a good time.

Peto, Mexico

Ali had set up the Bravo training camp deep in the heart of the Yucatán jungle a few miles outside the small town two years earlier, before he’d begun his security work under Castillo. Infiltrating not one but two Mexican drug cartels had been the most nerve-racking experience of Ali’s short but violent life, but it was worth it. Quds Force plans in Latin America hinged on the success of his mission, and the last phase of the mission was about to begin.

Ali had brought four trusted Quds commandos to carry out the primary training duties while he was earning Castillo’s trust and setting the trap to lure the Americans into battle. The training camp had already trained three previous cycles of Bravo recruits from around the country.

On the current training cycle, the recruits were locals, mostly poor young campesinos looking for something more than the chance to dig in the dirt for yams or corn on their own miserable little plots of land or, worse, breaking their backs for a few measly pesos a day on the big fincas of the international conglomerates getting fat on NAFTA-fueled contracts. A few could read, a few could write, but mostly they were Ali’s “little chestnuts”—small, brown, and hard, like the ones his grandfather grew in the Zagros Mountains. Ali genuinely liked them for their easy smiles and endless capacity for suffering. Because of his religious scruples, Ali refused to allow female recruits to integrate with the men, though several women had served Victor Bravo’s organization honorably and ruthlessly over the years.

Ali wished he had an imam with him. This could be a field ripe for harvest for Allah. The mission of the Quds Force was to export the revolution worldwide, and imams were essential to that mission. But Victor had his own strange, syncretistic faith and would have opposed Ali if he’d shown up on his doorstep with Muslim missionaries. But Ali was patient. He knew there would be opportunities for the spread of Islam soon enough.

For religious instruction at the training camp, Victor had recruited an aging American Jesuit priest who drummed pagan liberation theology into their illiterate skulls. Father Bob exchanged his liturgical services for an endless supply of filtered cigarettes and the occasional bag of premium weed. When Ali’s Quds Force commandos arrived to begin their training duties, Father Bob began preaching against “religious fundamentalism,” but within a week, he disappeared. Ali reported to Victor that the old priest had returned to New York to tend to an ailing relative. The truth was the American’s throat had been opened by a razor-sharp commando knife and the old infidel’s bones were rotting in the bottom of a nearby swamp.

Besides their intensive physical training, the new recruits spent the first few weeks in weapons training, learning not only how to fire the weapons, but also how to break down and reassemble their AK-47s, which the Mexicans called “goat horns” because of the shape of the magazine. The jungle echoed constantly with the roar of automatic-rifle fire, but no one in the area seemed to notice or care. Local law enforcement had been paid to look—or, technically, listen—the other way, and nobody was being shot. In fact, Victor’s presence had saved the local police from the other cartels that used to prey on them.

Once the trainers were convinced the campesinos wouldn’t accidentally shoot themselves, they introduced them to the basic principles of land navigation, small-unit tactics, and maneuvers. By the time Ali arrived, they had become an effective guerrilla unit.

Ali easily assumed command of the training unit. In his absence, Ali’s name had been invoked frequently by the trainers with a mixture of awe and terror, and they regaled the impressionable young men with tales of Ali’s heroic exploits against the Western armies in the Middle East. Ali also had a natural command presence, and the fearsome Quds Force soldiers carried out each of his orders with an instant precision that also greatly impressed the peasant recruits.

Under his command, Ali marched the boys twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, and frequently tested their combat skills. Ali also used this time to repeatedly drill into his recruits the mission they were assigned.

“Where are you going?” Ali sang in a marching cadence.

“We’re going up north!” the Mexicans shouted back.

“They put up a fight?”

“We burn ’em all down!” they called out in breathless unison.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re going up north!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“WE’RE GOING UP NORTH!”

Mile after mile, chant after chant, they marched and marched and marched.

One afternoon, Ali marched the Mexicans deeper into the jungle for some real fun: RPGs—rocket-propelled grenades.

“Only the top four recruits will have the honor of carrying one of these into battle,” Ali said, holding up one of the launchers. The Iranians manufactured their own RPGs, but they opted to smuggle in Vietnamese copies in the unlikely event any of the weapons were seized.

The Iranians strapped the wood-and-steel launchers to their backs along with the packs that held the long-stemmed charges. The big green bulbous warheads poked out of the top of the packs like misshapen bowling pins. The Iranians purposely marched in front of the Mexican recruits as a reminder of who was in charge, but also to keep the RPGs front and center in the peasants’ minds. The recruits laughed and nudged one another like schoolboys, lusting after the wicked-looking devices as if they were young women.

When they reached the prepared firing range, the Mexicans gathered around Ali as he cradled one of the weapons in his arms. The panting recruits broke out their canteens and drank as he spoke.

“You men are doing very well. I am very proud of you. So proud that I am going to let you in on a little secret. You are not just being trained to root out Castillo men up on the border. Any gangster with a pistol could do that. No, you have been selected for a very important mission by Victor Bravo himself. A mission all the way up north.” They listened earnestly, but their eyes were all locked on the launcher in Ali’s hands. He patted it. “But more of that later.”

Ali pulled out one of the big HEAT rounds and loaded it.

“Stand clear!”

The Iranians pushed the men aside, away from the coming rocket blast. Ali kneeled and lined up one of the large twisted ficus trees in his iron sights.

WHOOSH! Ali loosed the first rocket-propelled grenade. The armor-piercing round slammed into the tree, shattering the trunk and breaking the mighty tree in half. The top came crashing down to the jungle floor.

The Mexicans howled with delight.

“This is how David slays the giant, brothers. Who wants to go first?”

28

Tel Aviv, Israel

Nine days earlier, Pearce had asked Udi and Tamar to find the answers to two questions. The first was, who was Castillo calling from his bunker the night he died? The second was, who originally uploaded the massacre video and where did they upload it from?

Thanks to the Farsi clue Pearce passed on, Israeli intelligence had acquired the answers to both. As former Mossad agents, Udi and Tamar weren’t easily surprised, but the answers to the two questions knocked them back on their heels. What had Pearce gotten them into?

Udi picked up his phone and called Pearce. Unfortunately, it was 3:37 a.m. in Wyoming.

“This better be good,” Pearce grumbled, still half asleep.

“Castillo was calling Hernán Barraza.”

Pearce rubbed his tired face, processing. He sat up. “And he didn’t pick up. Why?”

“Maybe Barraza was scared? Surprised?” Udi said.

“Or cutting himself off from Castillo,” Tamar chimed in.

“My guess is the latter,” Pearce said. “But it doesn’t really matter. The big news is that this proves a direct link between Castillo and Hernán. Maybe even the president himself.”

Pearce headed for his kitchen, the cell phone still stuck in his ear. It was time to make coffee and get to work. “So how are you doing on the Facebook thing? I would’ve thought that would be the easier of the two nuts to crack.”

“I know. Crazy, eh? But whoever put that video up really knew his business. My friend says he’ll keep at it.”

“Any connection between the video upload and the Iranians?” Pearce asked.

“No. It was a dead end,” Udi said. “If we find out anything else, I’ll call.”

“Thanks, Udi. And thank your ‘friend’ for me. Shalom.”

“Shalom.” Udi hung up the phone.

Tamar scowled at Udi. “I hate that you lied to him.”

“Me? You were on the call, too.”

“You know what I mean,” Tamar said.

Udi sighed. “I hate it, too. But we owe more to Israel than to Troy.”

“That doesn’t make it right. He’s our friend.”

“I know. But we have our orders.”

“We don’t have ‘orders.’ We no longer belong to Mossad, remember?”

Pearce had recruited Udi and Tamar to his company on the condition that they leave Mossad and all other Israeli government employment. They had agreed to his terms because they wanted to work with him. But when Mossad hackers had chased Pearce’s lead straight into a Quds Force mainframe, they asked Tamar and Udi for help. Mossad was terribly shorthanded in Latin America, and the Sterns knew Mexico well. The former agents couldn’t say no to the request or to the possibility of breaking up a Quds Force cell in Mexico.

“This is the last time we’re going to lie to Troy, I promise,” Udi said.

Tamar shook her head. “You mean until after this mission?”

Peto, Mexico

It had been a good training cycle. His officers had performed a miracle, transforming young, illiterate peasants into combat-ready soldiers. When the campesinos had first arrived in camp six months earlier, few of them even owned a pair of shoes, let alone handled a weapon. Now they could fire a rifle and march in order, more or less, and they had learned to obey orders without question. More important, they shared the pride and camaraderie of all men-at-arms who sweat and bleed and suffer together.

They will be doing plenty more bleeding and suffering soon enough, Ali reminded himself. He was training these sheep for slaughter.

With his grueling regimen, Ali had forged them into a unit completely devoted to him. He’d proven to them that he could outshoot, outmarch, and outfight any man in the unit. His men wore their blistered feet and black eyes as evidence. But he also knew how to reward them, particularly on the last night of training camp.

Though it was against his Islamic convictions, Ali allowed the recruits to partake of a particularly potent kilo of genetically modified marijuana. He also issued his men brand-new black fatigues.

They were all sitting together in a circle. One of Ali’s Quds Force trainers, Walid Zohar, a tough young Azeri sergeant, taught the Mexicans an old Iranian army song about love and loss, and the Mexicans in turn taught the Iranians a song about the hardship of the peasant’s life. The drug-fueled emotions ran high as the sun began to set. Ali signaled a technician to set up the video camera. When it was up and running, Ali barked his orders.

“Get your weapons now!”

Stunned—and stoned—the boys looked at one another and laughed. The dope had made them forget that they were supposed to be real soldiers now.

Ali fired his pistol into the air. BOOM!

That got their attention.

“Your weapons! Now!”

The Mexicans scrambled for their AK-47s stacked neatly near the tents, but they crashed and stumbled into one another, cursing and laughing, until all of them had picked up a rifle.

“Line up here!” Ali commanded, pointing to an imaginary line.

Sobering up quickly, the boys formed a line. The four stars of the group lined up in the center, each carrying an RPG and a grenade pack slung on their backs.

“Port, arms!”

The Mexicans slowly but accurately raised their guns diagonally across their bodies. Their bloodshot eyes narrowed with concentration.

Ali began the familiar cadence of the marching chants.

“Where are you going, Bravos?”

“We’re going up north!”

“They put up a fight?”

“We burn ’em all down!”

“I can’t hear you!”

“WE BURN ’EM ALL DOWN!”

Ali turned to another one of his officers, who picked up a rucksack and approached the Mexicans, passing out black balaclavas.

“Put those on. They make you look like warriors!”

The Mexicans pulled them on despite the stifling heat. They stole glances at one another and tried not to laugh. They thought they really looked badass now.

“Port, arms!”

The guns snapped to position faster than the first time.

Ali ran through the marching chants again and again. The video camera caught every shout, louder and angrier each time, as Ali drove them on.

Suddenly, Ali switched his cadence and began chanting in a low voice. “Bra-vos, Bra-VOS, BRA-VOS!”

The recruits mimicked him exactly until they were finally roaring out the name “BRA-VOS!” then they broke out in a spontaneous cheer. One of the Mexicans, completely caught up in the moment, racked a round in his weapon and opened fire. Seconds later, all twenty-four AKs roared into the air, blasting rounds until the mags emptied.

Everything was caught on camera even better than Ali could have hoped for. Lucky for the recruits. Had these been real Quds Force soldiers in the field, Ali would have pulled out his pistol and shot the first man in the face for breaking fire discipline. What he should do now is run them all for miles until they puked their guts out and dropped.

Instead, Ali marched them back to town for showers, beer, barbacoa, and whores. Their skills were minimal but sufficient for the task at hand. He had forged them into a unit loyal to him; a weapon that he could wield in his war in the north, against Victor Bravo’s wishes. But he couldn’t use them yet. Ali still needed a trigger. One that his computer-warfare specialist in Ramazan would soon help provide.

Mexico City, Mexico

They had taken every possible precaution.

Udi and Tamar arrived at the Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City under Canadian passports after a three-hour Aeromexico connecting flight from Havana. But the wearisome journey had begun in Tel Aviv twenty-six hours earlier. Flying Lufthansa to Frankfurt then Air France to London and Aeroflot from London to Havana had kept them off of the American fly lists, which was important, if for no other reason than Pearce had access to all of the DHS databases. They were under strict orders to keep Troy out of the loop. This was a Mossad operation only.

Udi drove the rental car while Tamar called ahead to their contact on a secured cell and arranged for the meet-up later that afternoon at their small, secluded hotel on Sierra Madre, a quiet, tree-lined suburban street not far from the Israeli embassy. That gave them six hours to shower, sleep, and fight off jet lag before Levi Wolf arrived with the guns.

What brought them back to Mexico had caught Mossad by surprise. After penetrating a dozen firewalls and chasing hijacked servers around the globe, they broke into the Quds Force mainframe in Ramazan, Iran, and made off with a file without being detected. When they finally cracked the file, Mossad discovered an agent code name and the location in Mexico City where the video had been uploaded from.

“Maybe we should have told Pearce after all,” Udi said. He knew how much Pearce hated the Quds Force and how he would have wanted to be in on the kill.

“Against orders, love. You wanted to tell him? You shouldn’t have asked for Menachem’s help,” Tamar said. Menachem was their direct superior in Mossad. “We were using his guys for the Facebook upload question and they found it, so now he wants those Quds scalps on his wall for himself.”

They showered together but they were both too tired to fool around. They weren’t scheduled to meet with Levi Wolf for another six hours. Tamar set her watch and Udi called down to the front desk for a wake-up call as a backup. They practically passed out. They’d need every brain cell activated for the snatch-and-grab operation.

29

The White House, Washington, D.C.

It was Roy Jackson’s first visit to the Oval Office. He was in awe of the room but tried not to show it as he summarized his latest intelligence briefing for Myers and Strasburg.

“Our analysts confirm that the bulk of the Castillo organization has already been absorbed into the Bravo organization. In our opinion, the Barraza administration will soon make an alliance with the Bravos, if they haven’t already done so,” Jackson concluded. “Initial reports are that drug-related violence is already in steep decline.”

“Congratulations, Madame President. Your decapitation strategy is an apparent success,” Strasburg said.

“Then why don’t I feel like celebrating?” Myers asked.

“Because you’ve helped create an unholy alliance. Churchill felt the same way about his partnership with Stalin during the war, but it was necessary in order to defeat Hitler. What matters is that you have achieved your objectives if Mr. Jackson’s report continues to hold true.”

Myers’s face soured. “It’s a nasty business, Karl. I don’t know how you’ve put up with it for so long.”

“It’s sausage making,” Strasburg said. “Blood sausage.”

“I just hope this really is the end,” Myers said.

Strasburg nodded, but said nothing. Hope wasn’t a word in his lexicon.

Mexico City, Mexico

Levi Wolf brought more than guns to the hotel that night. He’d recruited two of the embassy security staff for the operation as well. One was already at the location to keep an eye on things.

The stolen Quds file looked legit. Udi had forwarded it to Wolf before they arrived, and Wolf had staked out the location. There was only one Iranian who regularly occupied a warehouse in the barrio known as Tepito, famous for its boxers, crime, and poverty but especially for its tianguis—the open-air markets that sold everything from counterfeit Chinese software to seedless watermelons to black-market weapons, if you knew where to look.

Wolf was certain that the five of them could take down the lone Iranian. His man on the scene said he was there now. If the Iranian kept to his schedule, he’d be there for another two hours. Wolf reported that the Iranian looked more like a businessman than a soldier and appeared lightly armed, if at all. No one else had entered or left the warehouse in the last twenty-four hours.

After Wolf briefed Udi on the general layout, he turned the operation over to him. Udi had kicked down more doors than anyone else on the team and there was no time to lose. The idea was simple enough. Grab the Iranian alive and haul him back to the embassy for questioning. The trick was not getting killed doing it.

Tepito reminded Udi of the bazaars he’d been through all over the Middle East, Africa, and the Balkans. Places like Tepito formed a thin, permeable barrier that allowed commerce and crime to commingle without infecting the larger society as a whole. Tepito was a city on the edge of everything civilized. The kind of place where men and women racing through the streets with guns printing beneath their civilian shirts weren’t paid much attention to, much less bothered, especially at night.

Drenched in sweat, Udi and the team made their way to one of the back streets behind the markets to a row of crumbling warehouses. The men carried only pistols. Running through the streets with automatic rifles would draw unwanted attention, from either the police or the gangs that controlled this area. For overwatch duty, they gave Tamar the largest weapon in their arsenal, a 9mm Mini-Uzi machine pistol, just in case reinforcements did show up.

Udi couldn’t access Pearce’s drones without him knowing or use any of the other whizbang gadgets he often deployed. This operation would have to be old-school all the way. Udi even opted for hand signals rather than comms, just in case the Iranians were scanning for them.

Tamar climbed a shaky steel ladder and took her position on the roof across the street from the target warehouse. The Iranian’s big rolling steel door was shuttered tight with a rusted lock that looked like it had never been opened. A small entrance door fronted the main street, and a rear door opened to an alleyway. One of the security men was posted to the back alley exit, while Udi, Wolf, and the other security man approached the front.

After Tamar gave the all-clear sign, Udi and his men slipped quietly through the unlocked front door into the dim warehouse. There was an office with a large covered window and a closed door on a second-story landing. The Iranian’s shadow wandered back and forth across the drawn shade, hand to his head, as if he were on a phone call.

Udi led the way up the short flight of rickety stairs and paused at the closed door. An AM radio played scratchy Middle Eastern pop tunes on the other side.

When the shadow faced away from the door, he gently tried the handle. It appeared unlocked.

Udi believed in leading from the front. He signaled his men, then pushed his way inside, pistol drawn.

Tamar bit her lip. Wolf’s assurances that the Iranian was an easy target didn’t calm her fears. She’d learned the hard way that nothing was ever easy in this business, but she knew that her husband was a pro. The team had broken in thirty seconds ago, but it seemed like a lifetime to her because she couldn’t see or hear what was going on inside.

Then gunfire. Like hammers banging on sheet metal.

Tamar guessed fifty shots, mostly pistols, but at least one automatic rifle firing three-round bursts. As quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped, but Tamar was already sliding down the ladder fireman-style. She dropped the last four feet to the concrete and raced across the street, bursting through the entrance door just in time to see a man at the rear exit turn and open fire at her.

The door frame shattered by her face and she flinched as a jagged splinter tore into her cheek. She dropped to one knee and fired back, but the man had already fled. Something caught her eye. She glanced up at the office. Wolf’s leg had caught between the stairs. The rest of his swinging torso hung upside down off of the staircase, facing her, arms reaching for the floor, like a man forever falling, chest clawed open, face masked in seeping blood.

Tamar dashed for the rear exit, ducked low in the frame, and turned the corner, leading with her weapon.

No one in the alley. Alive.

Just the wide-eyed corpse of one of the security men, his jaw shot away, belly split open to the fetid air.

Tamar turned back and raced up the rickety stairs two at a time and dashed into the office, fearing the worst.

She found it.

Her Nikes splashed in blood. The other security man was dead on the floor, shredded by large-caliber slugs in close quarters.

But Udi was gone.

Coronado, California

It was still dark outside. Pearce could hear the waves crashing on the beach below, hissing as they raced away.

He had just put the water on to boil for his first cup of tea when his phone rang. He read the caller ID. Picked up.

“Tamar?”

Sobbing on the other end. Finally, “Troy…”

She filled in the details. Couldn’t find Udi. Couldn’t call the cops. Tried everything. No one else to turn to. “I’m sorry—”

“Forget that. Are you at the embassy?”

“No.”

“Are you secure?”

“Yes.”

“Stay put. I’ll call you back.”

“Udi…”

“I know.” Pearce clicked off. Speed-dialed Early. “Need a favor.”

Early knew that tone of voice. “Name it.”

Pearce named it.

Early laughed. “Is that all?”

“Since you’re asking.” Pearce named two more. Called Ian, then Judy. Texted Tamar when and where to meet him.

Prayed he wasn’t too late.

30

On board the Pearce Systems HondaJet

Thirty minutes later, Judy banked the HondaJet away from San Diego onto a southeastern course for Mexico City. Pearce tapped on the iPad he was using to zero in on his missing friend.

“So, how did you find Udi?”

“Uniquely coded carbon nanotube transponder implants. Ian’s jacked into an air force recon satellite and tracked the signature.” Pearce zipped open a small tactical pack. “I’ve implanted all of my people with them for situations like this.”

“That’s cool.” Then it hit her. “Wait, you just said ‘my people.’”

“Yes. You have them, too.”

“I never gave you permission—”

“Here.” Pearce held out a Glock 19 pistol.

Her face soured. She touched her stomach. Felt queasy, violated. “How?”

Pearce pressed the weapon closer to her. “You’re gonna need this.”

Judy pushed it away. “You know I don’t do guns,” Judy said.

“We’re not exactly going to Bible study.”

“Don’t do those, either.”

Pearce thought about pressing the issue but let it drop. Judy had lost her faith years ago, but not her moral sensibilities. Her only religion now was flying.

He shoved the 9mm pistol back in the bag. “I don’t make any apologies for protecting my people.”

“We’re gonna have to talk when this is all over.”

“ETA?”

“Ten-thirteen, local.”

Pearce glanced at the instrument panel. Judy’s Polaroid was missing. He hoped that wasn’t a sign of things to come.

Benito Juárez International Airport, Mexico City

Judy taxied to a stop inside a private hangar just as Tamar rolled up in a beater Chevy Impala with rusted Durango plates and a scorpion sticker plastered across the rear window.

“Perfect,” Pearce said. He’d trained his people to steal old cars. No GPS or OnStar systems to track them.

Judy piled into the backseat, wiping the greasy fast-food wrappers and crushed beer cans onto the filthy carpet with a sweep of her arm. Pearce tossed a mil-spec first-aid kit and a duffel bag loaded with rifles and ammo next to her. Within minutes they were on Avenue 602 heading east out of town, Tamar behind the wheel. Pearce was glued to the tablet while Judy watched Mexico City slide past through the grimy windshield. The car had no air-conditioning. It was going to be a long, hot ride.

Forty minutes outside of Mexico City, Tamar turned onto a rutted dirt track leading back into farm country. Against her instincts, she had to slow down as the rocks thudded sharply against the car’s undercarriage. No telling what damage they were doing. They had to roll their windows up against the clouds of dust they were throwing up.

All three of them wore ear mics, linked to one another. Pearce had other channels open, including Ian’s.

“In a hundred meters, pull off to the right,” Pearce said. “Let’s get a visual.” The air force satellite Ian had access to was only a signals intelligence unit. It couldn’t provide video surveillance.

Tamar pulled over and killed the engine. A small berm gave them some cover from the small farm thirty meters off of the road. Udi’s signal had been flashing from there since Ian had found it earlier that morning.

They unloaded quietly and scoped out the ramshackle farm. The house was barely more than a shack. In the front, a couple of goats chewed on grass and a half dozen chickens wandered around a tractor that hadn’t moved since the Carter administration. Off the near side of the house, five huge sows shouldered against one another in a muddy pen, grunting as they fed greedily from a trough, fat stinging flies buzzing in their flicking ears. Otherwise, no other sounds or movement.

“There.” Pearce pointed at a dirt bike dropped in the grass.

Three yards from the bike, a body.

Tamar gasped.

“Not Udi. Too young. Let’s move.”

Pearce carried a short-stock M-4 carbine. Tamar gripped her Mini-Uzi. Judy hauled the medical kit.

The three of them crouch-walked past the motorcycle. Key still in the ignition. Smell of gas. They reached the body. A teenage boy, fourteen, maybe fifteen. Single gunshot to the side of his head. “He tumbled off the back and the bike kept rolling,” Pearce whispered in his mic.

Judy felt for a pulse. Knew there wouldn’t be one. “Dead awhile.” She shooed the flies off of the boy’s head wound.

“Wait here,” Pearce said to Judy. He nodded at Tamar, gave her a hand signal. Tamar sped around back, keeping low to the ground, as Pearce approached the front door.

“Another body back here,” Tamar whispered. “Probably the boy’s mother. Throat cut.”

“Bastards,” Ian hissed in Pearce’s ear.

Pearce reached the porch. The door was shut, but a front window was open.

“In position,” Tamar said.

“Hold,” Pearce replied. He pulled a four-inch-long Black Hornet Nano helicopter drone from his pocket and activated the flight software on his iPhone. The half-ounce surveillance drone featured a small camera. No telling what or who might be waiting inside. Pearce powered up the unit and tossed it through the window. Forty seconds later, the Norwegian-built drone had circumnavigated the two-room shack. No trip wires, no bad guys.

“All clear,” Pearce said. “But stay frosty. Go.”

Pearce and Tamar burst into the two-room shack at the same time. They cleared the shack.

Cigarette butts on the plywood floor, ashtrays overflowing on the card table. Dirty dishes in the filthy washtub. Christ on the bedroom wall staring down at the unmade bed tangled with bloody sheets.

Pearce pocketed the Hornet.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

Tamar’s eyes posed the obvious question.

Pearce checked his tablet. The transponder signal still flashed. It was only accurate to ten meters. “Better check outside,” he said.

He stepped off of the porch into the blinding sun, heading for the far side of the house. Clothes already sticky with sweat. Tamar took the opposite tack and headed for the animals. Judy was still crouched low by the boy, shooing flies. She’d covered his lifeless face with a square of gauze from the medical kit.

Pearce checked the side of the shack. A rabbit cage with three fat rabbits and a rusty rake leaning against the wall. Farther back, an outhouse. Flies. Stink.

A bad kind of stink.

Pistol up, Pearce opened the door. A corpse. Pants down around his ankles. Bled out. Pearce didn’t have to raise the slumped head.

Must be the dad, he told himself.

Tamar screamed.

Pearce bolted toward her. She stood near the pig trough, clutching her horrified face in her hands.

It was Udi.

Pearce recognized the mop of hair and the thick hands, but not much else. The pigs had gutted him. Had devoured his face.

Tamar howled, crazed with rage. Her Uzi split the air, slugs slapping the huge pig bellies. The swine screamed as if possessed, charging and slipping through the mud and gore, dropping one by one, as 9mm rounds sliced through their spinal cords and brain stems.

Tamar stopped firing, pirouetted, arms flailing. The Uzi sailed through the air as she spilled into the grass, her shoulder painted red.

A shot rang out. The bullet zooped like an angry bee past Pearce’s ear. He dropped to one knee, trying to see where it came from.

Judy ran full throttle toward Tamar, despite Troy screaming in her ear, “Down, down, down!” until she dropped by her friend’s side with the med kit. She began unzipping it when a geyser of dirt leaped up between them.

“Let’s go!” Pearce shouted as he grabbed Tamar’s shirt collar and dragged her toward the tractor, Judy close behind.

Pearce lay Tamar behind the shelter of the big rear steel wheel where Judy could safely work on her. Pearce crouched behind the small front wheel. Another rifle crack. A round spanged against the tractor.

“Status!” Ian shouted.

Judy tore open the med kit and ripped open bandages.

“Tamar’s hit. Judy and I are under cover.”

“I’m calling in support—”

“Stand down, Ian. I need that guy alive.”

“But Troy—”

“That’s an order.” Pearce tapped his earpiece, cutting Ian off. He pulled his Glock from his holster and handed it to Judy. “Take this.” And he added, “Just in case.”

Another bullet hit the tractor. The steel fender rang like a church bell.

Judy shook her head as she applied pressure bandages to Tamar’s shoulder wound. “Forget it. Just go!”

Pearce glanced through the tractor. Two hundred yards away, sunlight winked off of a scope. A man stood in the bed of a pickup truck using the roof as a rifle bench. Too close for comfort, especially with a scope.

Judy was right.

Just go.

Pearce dashed back toward the motorcycle in the grass. He’d seen the key in the ignition. He prayed there was still enough gas in the tank. Dirt puffed next to his foot. Pearce pumped the kick-starter twice and the engine roared to life. He gunned the throttle hard, popping the clutch and shifting gears as fast as he could. The bike tore up dirt clods behind him as he raced toward the berm. He took the hill at an angle and jumped it easily, crashing both tires into the dirt road just a few feet behind the pickup, fishtailing ahead of him, racing away. The man in the back of the battered gray Dodge crashed to the steel deck, dropping his rifle in the bed. Otherwise he could’ve shot Pearce dead without even aiming.

The truck picked up speed, throwing dirt and rocks behind it. Pearce could feel the grit blasting against his face; his Oakleys saved his eyes. He kept the throttle full-on with his right hand while he slid the M-4 sling around with his left. He raised the carbine up and fired three three-round bursts, trying not to hit anyone.

Slugs sparked on the tailgate, then shattered the rear glass. The truck didn’t slow down—in fact, it kept gaining speed, but the man in back ducked down. The bike Pearce was on was only 125cc, too small to keep up with a big V-8 truck engine running full bore. He fired again, twice, aiming for the tires. He missed. Fifteen rounds left.

The shooter in the back of the truck sat back up, aiming his gun. Pearce ducked low as he swerved the bike side to side. The big semiauto rifle thundered.

Pearce felt the heavy rounds blow past his head even with the wind and the dust whipping his face. He raised his gun again, firing at the tires.

The left rear truck tire blew. It must have been a retread. The tire unwound like a strip of tubular dough and wrapped itself around the rear axle. The truck bucked and swerved as the driver lost control. The big Dodge plowed into a ditch on the side of the road and flipped over.

Pearce dropped his carbine to downshift. He was still a hundred yards back and didn’t want to come racing up to a hail of bullets. The rifle cracked again. Pearce ducked off the side of the road and dropped the bike, finding cover behind a rock. A bullet shaved a fleck of stone just above Pearce’s head. He shifted to one side of the rock and opened fire, emptying his mag.

WHOOSH!

The truck erupted in a cloud of fire and steel. Shrapnel whistled past. The pressure wave rocked the trees overhead.

“I SAID I NEEDED THEM ALIVE!” Pearce screamed.

“Wasn’t us, boss. Still haven’t armed the missiles,” Stella said. She had been on overwatch with an extended-range Reaper drone temporarily “borrowed” from an air force maintenance hangar. A $14 million favor, courtesy of Mike Early. Pearce wasn’t stupid enough to think he could handle the mission without a Hellfire angel on his shoulder.

Pearce tapped his earpiece as he raced toward the burning hulk. “Ian. Are we alone out here?”

“All clear.”

“Must have been a suicide bomb,” Pearce said. “Damn it.”

Pearce stopped. Stood as close to the flames as he could stand. No survivors. “Judy, how’s Tamar?”

“The bullet passed clean through the shoulder, but she’s in shock. I’ve stopped the blood flow and got her on a plasma drip. She’s stable for the moment, but she needs help now.”

“Ian, call in a medevac.”

“Already on the way,” Ian said. He’d notified a private air-ambulance service out of Veracruz on standby. “ETA two minutes.”

“Can she talk?” Pearce asked Judy, running back to the bike.

“She’s out.” But knowing Pearce, added, “I know she’d tell you this wasn’t your fault.”

He almost believed her.

Washington, D.C.

Britnev sat in one of the computer carrels at the Georgetown public library. He hated computers, at least for this kind of effort. He’d been trained in the early ’80s in the traditional methods of tradecraft—dead drops, brush passes, and one-time pads. Britnev believed that using any kind of electronic communications was the clandestine equivalent of walking around with his fly open. But in this case, it couldn’t be helped. His contact in Mexico refused to communicate with anyone but him and this was the best arrangement they could make.

After covering the PC’s webcam with a sticky note—he always assumed a computer’s webcam was hacked—Britnev logged in under his fake identity and pulled up a coded e-mail in his Dropbox account left there by his Mexican contact, Ali Abdi.

Britnev memorized the jumble of numbers and symbols in the e-mail message—they would have looked like gibberish to anyone passing by—then deleted both the e-mail and the Dropbox account.

He took a short but sweaty walk to a nearby Starbucks and ordered a venti black iced tea with lemon, no sugar, and took a seat in the back, away from the windows. Britnev pulled out a pen and deciphered the code in his head, scratching each letter onto a napkin. Ali had already informed him last week about the Castillo decapitation strike. What Ali hadn’t been able to find out was who was behind it.

Until now.

Britnev was a little queasy. The intel had come from the Israeli Ali had tortured and killed in Mexico. He knew what terrible things Ali had done to get it, but he pushed the butchery from his mind and finished the transcription. The first letters on the napkin spelled a name.

Troy Pearce.

Britnev transcribed the rest. A request from Ali for intel on Pearce and Pearce Systems. Britnev took a sip of tea, crumpled the napkin, and pocketed it.

Ali had found his trigger and handed it to Britnev. Now it was up to him to pull it.

31

Texas City, Texas

The Estrella de la Virgen was a privately owned twenty-five-thousand-ton Mexican oil tanker ported out of Veracruz but sailing under a Panamanian flag and captained by an American, Gil Norquist.

The Estrella had arrived at the Millennium Oil refinery on the Texas Gulf Coast loaded with a shipment of gasoline from PEMEX, the state-owned petroleum company of Mexico. Millennium was experiencing a shortage of summer-blend gasoline for its distributors and had made the emergency purchase after a recent spike in market price. It was a pretty standard run and the Estrella had made the exact same trip several times earlier in the year, though not always to the Millennium facility. BP, Marathon, Valero, and several other refineries were located in the Houston port area as well.

When Captain Norquist confirmed that his Grand Cayman bank account had received a deposit of $50,000, he gladly turned a blind eye to the twenty-eight unregistered civilian passengers and the unmarked crates of cargo they had hauled on board his ship. He assumed it was another drug and guns shipment; he’d had this arrangement with the Bravo organization for years. The Estrella had special passenger and storage compartments fitted out for just such transactions. The passengers always stayed clear of the crew on the short voyage, and the crew knew not to venture down to where the mysterious passengers were located. His ship was never inspected on the Mexican side because Bravo owned the Veracruz port authority. Clearing customs on the American side wasn’t much more difficult. It was just a matter of timing the unloading with the shifts of the customs officers who were on the Bravo payroll. Security on both sides had been something of a joke for years now.

A brilliant orange sunset greeted the Estrella as she docked in Texas. Once her lines were secured and the marine loading arms attached to the Estrella’s cargo manifolds, the unloading procedures began. The marine surveyor was already on board gathering samples from the cargo tanks to test for purity.

The captain stepped into the cargo control room along with his first officer and radioed in to the loadmaster person in charge (LPIC) onshore. The order of tanks to be emptied, their flow rates, and the destination tanks on the tank farm were all agreed to and soon the gasoline began to flow.

During the gulf crossing, the Bravo soldiers and their Quds Force officers remained well hidden belowdecks. They used their time to change out of civilian clothes into their combat gear. The officers also had the men break down, clean, and reassemble their weapons to keep their anxious young minds occupied.

After an hour, Captain Norquist checked his watch and decided it was time to go. The eager redheaded mistress he kept in Houston would be waiting for him in her cherry red Mercedes SL convertible down in the port parking lot. They would go out for a couple of thick rib eyes at Charley’s Steakhouse, and then he would spend the evening with her at her downtown condo, messing the sheets up for the better part of the night. They’d grab breakfast at their favorite diner first thing in the morning and then she’d drive him back just in time to cast off and set sail back to Veracruz. They were both creatures of pleasure and routine, and it had been a mutually satisfying arrangement for the past five years.

He turned over the control-room responsibilities and the overnight watch to his extremely competent Filipino first mate and headed for his small private cabin. At forty-eight years of age, Norquist still cut a dashing figure, like an old Hollywood leading man, with just a hint of silver in his thick blond hair. He didn’t bother changing into his civvies because his mistress said she loved him dressed like a sailor in his crisp white captain’s uniform.

Norquist stepped into his bathroom and ran the water in his small steel sink. His mouth watered; he could already taste the succulent slab of beef he’d soon be tucking into at Charley’s. He leaned over and splashed his face with cold water, then rose up just in time to feel a hand slap his forehead and yank his head back, exposing an enormous Adam’s apple. Norquist didn’t even feel the razor-sharp blade slice open his throat, but he heard the tremendous gush of air escaping out of his lungs through the gaping wound, and his dimming eyes caught sight of the arterial spray spattering against the mirror. The last thing his unconscious mind registered was the sound of his own body thudding against the steel deck.

The Quds Force commandos and their Bravo recruits were clad in black from head to foot, their faces hidden beneath balaclava masks despite the suffocating humid night air. They burst into the port control room and slaughtered the port technicians with suppressed semiautomatic pistols, then remotely opened the valves on the massive port storage tanks, emptying thousands of gallons of gasoline and oil, flooding the storage yard. They had already slapped magnetic demolition packs to several of the tanks and set the timed detonators to blow with just enough time for them to make their escape.

Hamid Nezhat led the team out of the main gate, careful to run in full view of the security cameras high up on the lampposts illuminating the parking lot. The Quds commandos all lugged the antiquated AK-47s and RPG-7s even though they had trained on superior German and Israeli equipment back in Iran, but it was necessary for the show.

Nezhat spotted a red Mercedes convertible shot to hell in a reserved parking space. The long, busty torso of a woman had tumbled out of it, her corpse half trapped inside the car while her upper body twisted out and her bright red hair splayed like a fan on the hot asphalt. Wide, green, lifeless eyes stared unblinkingly at a hazy night sky. A pity and a waste, Nezhat thought to himself. What he could do to a woman like that.

Two big Chevy panel trucks were parked haphazardly near the Mercedes and Walid Zohar, Ali’s Azeri sergeant, stood in front of the first one. He was dressed the same way as the rest of the team and also had his head covered.

“No problems, brother?” Nezhat asked in Spanish as his men loaded into the two vans.

“One guard at the gate, neutralized. Roads are clear.”

“Good.” He checked his watch. “Seven minutes to clear out.” He slapped Walid on the shoulder and the two men crawled into the big van, Walid taking the driver’s side. Nezhat was pleased. Phase one of the plan had been a complete success. Phase two would be even more spectacular, he thought, but also far more difficult to execute. He glanced back over at the Mercedes. He prayed that one of the virgins waiting for him in heaven was a big-breasted redhead like that one.

32

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Myers stood up from behind her desk and checked her watch. It was nearly 10 p.m. “The meeting begins in two minutes.”

“Then you should go. We can discuss this matter later,” Strasburg said, remaining seated. His arthritic knees were particularly troublesome lately.

“You spoke about timing, Doctor. I’d say this tragedy starts the ball rolling on our plan, wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps.” Strasburg polished his glasses with the silk pocket square from his elegant Savile Row suit. “But it’s not without its risks.”

“It’s a simple risk-versus-reward calculation. The reward is clearly greater than the fallout if we fail,” Myers said. “We can’t just keep swatting bugs, especially now that they’re swatting back. It’s time to drain the swamp.”

“Your critics will accuse you of ‘nation building,’ an activity you promised never to engage in.”

“I have no interest in nation building. What I want is a free and democratic Mexico, governed by and for Mexicans. Tell me a better way to accomplish that goal than what I’m proposing and I’ll take it.”

Strasburg shrugged with a smile, defeated. “I can’t.”

“Would you be willing to contact Cruzalta? Make the inquiry on my behalf?”

“I think it would be more persuasive if it came from you, Madame President.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Well, it’s time for me to go. Will you be joining me?”

“I’d rather be waterboarded. With your permission, I’d prefer to make a few phone calls from here.”

“Of course. Make yourself at home.”

Dr. Strasburg had been in the Oval Office faithfully serving presidents of both parties for over forty years. Maybe I’m the one who should be asking his permission to use the phone, Myers thought to herself as she headed for the Situation Room.

Time to find out if the world really had come to an end.

The Situation Room, the White House

Organized chaos.

The room was packed despite the late hour. Too many people, Myers thought to herself. Who are they? What are they even doing here? A dozen department, agency, and committee heads sat around the table in a carefully choreographed pecking order. Congress was on summer recess, but the bigwigs had hung around or flown back in just for this meeting. Seated behind their bosses in a row of smaller chairs were the senior staff members of each high potentate, and standing off to the sides and behind the senior staff were the young junior staff and assistants. The room burbled with a hundred whispered conversations and urgently tapping keyboards.

Some of these people were a strange breed of adrenaline junkie who just wanted to be in on the action. Others were simply afraid to not be in the room, for reasons of ego and perception. All of them wanted to be near the seat of power.

Crisis was the time when the presidency became paramount in importance, primarily because a singular voice and singular mind were more effective in the short, intensive time frame of a national emergency. Congress usually dithered at times like these, seldom mustering more than nonbinding resolutions and patriotic proclamations. There was nothing decisive about 535 men and women organized into committees designed to ensure their incumbencies in perpetuity. Who in her right mind would turn to a madhouse of caterwauling whores like the U.S. Congress when real decisions had to be made?

“Bill, let’s bring this meeting to order now, please.”

Donovan gaveled the room to order like a circuit court judge. Voices hushed. Lights were lowered. A big digital screen flashed satellite images of what was being called the Houston catastrophe. Huge gouts of fire raged in the night above a dozen large circular tanks in the overhead shot. A burning tanker ship—the Estrella de la Virgen—was half sunk next to the dock.

“As you can see here, it appears that an attack on the Millennium Oil storage depot in Texas City, Texas, occurred some three hours ago. Firefighting units from seven municipalities, along with Houston Port Authority firefighters, firefighting tugs, and oil-fighting specialists, have all converged. Police, army, and National Guard units have been activated and deployed for security and evacuation.”

“Has anywhere else been hit?” Myers asked.

“Not that we’re aware of. We’ve alerted every storage facility and refinery in the nation and additional security personnel have been deployed.”

“Where are the attackers now? Any captured or killed?” Early asked.

FBI Director Jackie West answered. “They’ve gone to ground. No bodies, no clues. We have a massive search under way.”

“Who’s responsible?” Senator Diele demanded.

Donovan nodded to his assistant running the laptop. Port security-camera video flashed on the big media screen. Two dozen armed men wearing black combat fatigues and black hoods running, shooting rifles, or planting bombs were displayed in a wide variety of camera angles. The video was alternately black and white, night vision, wide angle, or close- up, depending upon the make, model, age, and location of the security camera.

Donovan narrated. “You can see the assailants. Military dress, no insignia, AK-47 assault rifles, and RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenades. A few carry sidearms. My guess is that they’re all male. But with their faces and bodies covered and no audio available from any of these cameras, we’re unable to determine the nationality or affiliation of these terrorists.”

Director West discreetly answered her vibrating smartphone. She frowned.

“Bill, I’m sorry to interrupt. Can you pull up the al-Jazeera website on your laptop?”

Donovan’s assistant nodded and tapped a few keys. Moments later, the live English-language broadcast appeared. It was the jungle video showing the Bravos in their masks and uniforms and brandishing their weapons and repeatedly shouting, “Burn them all down!”

The attractive Lebanese-American news anchor read her teleprompter. “To repeat, members of the Bravo Alliance have posted this video to our website claiming responsibility for the attack on the Houston oil refinery early this morning, local time. They claim it was in retaliation for the attempted murder of the Bravo family by Israeli assassins hired by the American CIA. They also condemn the illegal mass assassinations of the Castillo crime syndicate carried out by the administration of President Margaret Myers earlier in the year.”

“Shut it off, please,” Myers asked.

“What was that about Israelis and assassins?” Diele asked.

“It’s bullshit,” Early said.

Jeffers turned to the treasury secretary. “On a different subject, what’s this attack going to do to the stock market when it opens tomorrow?”

The treasury secretary read from her smartphone. “Dow futures are already down five hundred points, and oil is spiking to over $120 per barrel on the open spot market.”

It was the oil price that worried Myers most. The fragile economy, still limping along at 1.5 percent annual GDP growth, was barely above stall speed and could easily tumble into a tailspin if those prices didn’t come back down quickly. The cost of just about everything—especially food, transportation, and utilities—all depended upon the price of oil. More important, consumer spending accounted for 70 percent of the nation’s economic activity, and high fuel costs robbed the average consumer of what little discretionary income was available.

“That oil price will sound like music in the ears of OPEC. Russia, too,” the energy secretary added. The Oklahoma native was intimately familiar with petroleum economics. Her entire family was in the oil business, as was her husband’s.

She isn’t going to do too badly in this crisis, either, Myers thought.

“What we need is a decisive military response.” All eyes turned toward Senator Diele.

“Are you proposing an invasion of Mexico, Senator?” Early asked. “We could dust off Plan Green,” he said with an easy smile.

Plan Green was a plan to invade Mexico that was drafted by the American secretary of war in 1919 and had been recently republished. Surprisingly, it hit the New York Times best-seller list for nonfiction almost overnight.

“We do have current contingency plans for a Mexico invasion. Canada, too, for that matter,” General Winchell said. Senator Diele’s friend was dead serious.

“It wouldn’t necessarily have to be a full-scale invasion. But our lack of serious action sends a very powerful signal that we are weak. President Myers, with all due respect, your failure to provide a more violent and timely response to the El Paso massacre is partly to blame here,” Diele said.

The room erupted in debate.

“You’re out of line, Gary. Back it way up,” Senator Velázquez growled. The normally affable Texan had family in Houston.

“I apologize, Madame President, if I’ve offended you, but I hope you see my point. This attack was an outrage. Another Pearl Harbor or 9/11. It demands a swift and violent response.”

“An invasion of any size isn’t justified by this singular act, horrible as it is, but I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”

Myers turned to the secretary of state. “What do the Mexicans have to say about all of this?”

“President Barraza’s office has expressed his outrage and concern, as well as his support, but then again, so has Trinidad and Tobago, so I don’t know what it’s worth. I’ll be curious to see what the Mexican government’s response will be following this al-Jazeera report, but my guess is that they’ll just offer more of the same.”

“Is there any chance at all the Mexican government is behind this?” Greyhill demanded. He was skyping from an air force base in Greenland and clearly agitated.

“To what purpose?” Strasburg said, incredulous.

“Dr. Strasburg’s right. There’s no indication of official Mexican involvement,” Donovan added.

“They better damn well be kicking down doors and taking names trying to get at these guys,” Diele insisted. “If we’re not going to kick some ass, somebody has to.”

“Right now we have an economic crisis on our hands. I have complete confidence in the Department of Homeland Security to find and arrest the bastards who did this,” Myers said.

Donovan sat a little taller in his chair. “Thank you, Madame President. We’ll catch them before they strike again.”

Myers addressed the rest of the room. “So for the moment, let’s focus on our options for tackling the economic issues. Suggestions?”

She sat silent as a sphinx as she listened to the options. Some were conventional, some out of the box. All of them had carry costs. None of them was a perfect solution. Factions began to form. Arguments broke out.

After an hour had passed, Myers held up the palm of her hand. The room silenced.

“Thank you all. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Would you care to share it with us?” Diele asked.

She stood, and gathered up her papers.

“I’ll be holding a little press conference tomorrow morning, Senator. Tune in, if you can. I think you might get a kick out of it.”

33

Gulf of Mexico, near the Texas coast

The stock market opened on Monday morning and immediately plunged over 650 points before the secretary of the treasury ordered trading suspended on the New York Stock Exchange “for reasons of national security,” an order the NYSE directors complied with happily and immediately. Unfortunately, the secretary had no such authority over the Asian markets, which had plunged precipitously the night before, and the European markets had jumped off of the same fiscal cliff as the rest of the world before trading was suspended there, too.

The price of oil was holding steady at $127 a barrel this morning, after a steep 30 percent increase in just twenty-four hours. The only reason the spot price was holding, according to Myers’s advisors, was that if the economies of the world really were going to crash—as it seemed they probably would at any moment—then the demand for oil would plummet, and the price would drop. It appeared as if the oil speculators were giving her some breathing room, albeit temporarily. The financial markets waited eagerly to see what she would do with the respite.

Myers flew to Houston on Air Force One, which was crammed with the Washington press corps. They all then loaded into a fleet of Bell Ranger helicopters and choppered out to one of Chevron’s biggest oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.

Myers began her early morning press conference on the blustery deck of the big rig, flanked by the CEOs of Chevron, Shell, ConocoPhillips, ExxonMobil, Baker Hughes, and Halliburton, along with the rig’s oil-begrimed crew of roughnecks, roustabouts, and derrickhands, some of whom were sitting high in the superstructure. Against Jeffers’s recommendation, Myers excluded all members of Congress, wanting to keep the event as apolitical as possible.

Myers wore blue jeans and steel-toed workboots along with a denim shirt and a white hard hat that sported an American flag on the front. The sounds of a working rig—turbines, drills, hammers, chains, and ocean wind—filled the air. A crisp morning sun rose just above her shoulder. It was an image of hardworking Americans beginning a brand-new day.

“My fellow Americans. First of all, let me express my deepest condolences to the families of the three firefighters who lost their lives last night battling the oil fires down in the Houston area. Because of their brave sacrifice, along with the heroic efforts of all of our first responders, National Guardsmen, and military units, the fires have been finally contained. Our nation is grateful to all of you for your courage and skill, and I want to thank each of you personally for what you have accomplished. I have been told that the fires will be completely extinguished by noon tomorrow, local time.

“Second, let me assure you, my fellow citizens, that we’re monitoring events very closely at home and around the world. The catastrophe in Houston has caused crude oil prices to spike, which in turn threatens to throw our economy—along with the rest of the world’s—back into a recession, or worse. This morning I am signing an executive order that puts a temporary freeze on all environmental regulations related to oil exploration, drilling, production, and refining, as well as removing all restrictions on drilling on federally protected lands. I am clearing the path for the construction of new oil and gas refineries as well. It’s time for ‘Drill, baby, drill!’”

The rig crew roared with approval. Grinning CEOs clapped and hollered.

“This same executive order applies to the American natural gas and coal industries as well. I am also opening the strategic petroleum reserve and clearing the way for the Keystone Pipeline construction to begin immediately. In short, I am declaring America’s energy independence today. Before the end of my first term, America will no longer be an energy importer, which means we will stop funding global terrorism at our gas pumps. By 2020, I intend for the United States to be the world’s largest and most profitable energy exporter, creating tens of thousands of new high-skill, high-paying, high-tech energy jobs this year and every year that will refuel and replenish the next American century.”

Another round of raucous applause and cheers rang out.

“Third, I want to assure the American people that national security is of the utmost importance to my administration. The horrific violence inflicted upon the Mexican people as a result of the drug wars has now crossed our borders and as many of you know, that violence has touched my own family in the recent past. Thousands of federal, state, and local law enforcement officials are on the hunt for these narcoterrorists at this very moment, and I promise you, they will be brought to justice. Thank you, and God bless each of you here today, and all over this great nation, who make the energy industry possible, and God bless the United States of America!”

The steel platform thundered with cheers and shouts of “USA! USA! USA!” as Myers smiled and waved at the adoring rig crew.

Within eleven minutes of Myers’s press conference, the Dow Jones futures had reversed their steeply downward trend. Trading was resumed.

By the time Myers landed back in Houston an hour later, the Dow had climbed back into positive territory, and when her plane touched down at Andrews Joint Air Force Base at 1:14 p.m. EST, she was greeted with the unbelievable news that the spot price of oil had simmered back down to just $102 a barrel.

Because oil prices had responded so favorably to her new energy policy, the Dow actually began screaming upward and reached a new market high for the year. Investors were betting heavily that a new American renaissance had just been launched and that an era of prosperity and job growth appeared to be just around the corner. Foreign markets followed suit.

Jeffers read the economic headlines out loud, straight off of the Internet feeds as Air Force One was taxiing to a stop. So far, it was all great news, especially on the employment front. Tens of thousands of jobs in the energy sector, along with ancillary occupations like transportation and machine building, were projected to be filled in the months to come.

But Jeffers stumbled across a couple of critics, too. The “usual suspects” whined about the imminent destruction of the environment and the hastened onset of global warming as a result of Myers’s new energy policy.

“What’s wrong with these people? You just saved the global economy, and you’re bringing new jobs to America,” Jeffers said.

“If my critics saw me walking over the Potomac, they would say it was because I couldn’t swim,” Myers joked. “You need to stop reading those ‘nattering nabobs of negativism.’ They’ll only give you indigestion.”

Jeffers threw a thumb at the passenger compartment where the press corps was seated, his face reddening.

“But half of those dick wipes are sitting back there sucking down mimosas and cheese blintzes on our dime. Effing ingrates. I ought to kick them out onto the tarmac right now.”

“I’ll hold the door open for you, if that would help.”

Jeffers ran his fingers through his thick silver hair. “This job’s going to kill me, I swear.”

“I can probably find you an easier one roughnecking on an oil rig. I met a few guys today I can introduce you to.”

“Ha-ha, Madame President. Speaking of critics, Diele wants a meeting with you. Today, if at all possible.” Jeffers checked her calendar. “You’re free at two this afternoon, if you can stomach the idea.”

“What do you think he wants?”

Jeffers grinned. “Your job.”

“Speaking of which, where’s the vice president?”

“Probably sitting in your chair with his feet up on the Lincoln desk. You want to talk to him?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

34

The White House, Washington, D.C.

Diele arrived at the Oval Office ten minutes late, his petty reminder to the president of his seniority in elected office. Myers had invited Dr. Strasburg and Mike Early to join them, along with the vice president.

The Senate Armed Services Committee chairman was clearly agitated that he wasn’t getting a private meeting with the president as he’d requested. Everybody took their seats on the sofas and chairs in front of Myers’s desk.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Senator Diele?”

“First of all, congratulations on that oil rig speech. Great optics. I just wish you would’ve invited a few of your friends on the Hill to accompany you.”

By “friends,” Diele meant himself, of course. Screw everyone else. There were several big energy companies based out of his state and they stood to profit handsomely from Myers’s “Drill, baby, drill!” policy. So did Diele.

“Then let’s put together some comprehensive energy legislation and pass it, and I’ll give you all the optics you want, Gary, along with all of the credit, if that’s what it takes.”

“You misjudge me, Madame President. All I want is what’s best for the American people, which leads to the reason why I’ve asked for this meeting.”

Diele took a sip of coffee. Myers had taken the liberty to order it with heavy cream and three sugars, the way she knew Diele liked it. So did the White House steward. He’d been schlepping coffees for the rancid old legislator for years.

“And what have I done—or failed to do—that leads you to think the American national interest isn’t being served?”

“I believe I made my position clear the other day. We need a strong, forceful military response to the Houston attack, not a ‘law enforcement’ exercise. Have you seen the papers? Every op-ed page around the country is calling for some sort of military strike.”

“Gary’s right, Margaret. The nation is scared. A swift, surgical strike into Mexico and you’ll get a ‘rally-round-the-flag’ bump in the polls.” Greyhill had seen plenty of presidents use military action to bolster public approval when the opinion polls flagged.

“I’ve thought about it a lot, Gary. The Houston attack underscores the reality that the drug lords represent a strategic threat to the United States. My responsibility as president is to defend our borders against such attacks.”

Diele smiled. “We’re in agreement on that point, I assure you.”

“I’ve initiated a plan to seal the U.S.-Mexico border. The Department of Homeland Security is coordinating with the relevant federal law enforcement agencies, state governments, and the Pentagon to ensure that no undocumented person may enter the country, and no illegal drugs or weapons, either.”

“You’re aiming at the wrong target,” Greyhill insisted. “It isn’t the dishwashers and the pool cleaners who are threatening our way of life—”

“And I’m calling for the full enforcement of the immigration laws we currently have on the books, including fines, penalties, and jail time for those employers who are employing illegal aliens.”

She leaned forward in her chair.

“This isn’t just a terrorism issue, it’s a public-safety issue. Tens of thousands of illegal aliens fill our jails and prisons. Many of them are members of criminal gangs like the Bravos. One GAO report stated that illegal aliens committed over seven hundred thousand crimes in just one year, over eighty thousand of which were for violent offenses like murder, robbery, assault, and sex crimes. It’s estimated that between 1,800 and 2,500 Americans are killed by illegals every year, and too many of those who die are law enforcement officers. Many illegal immigrant criminals are repeat offenders and, worse, have been deported on multiple occasions. This will not continue during my administration.”

“But you can’t close the border. A billion dollars a day crosses over on twelve thousand trucks and railcars.” Diele’s voice rose a couple of octaves when he got excited. Many of his big donors relied on cheap illegal labor to run their enterprises at a profit. This new policy wouldn’t sit well with them at all.

“A lot of the problems we’re facing—human smuggling, drugs, guns—are coming in through those NAFTA trucks,” Early said.

Greyhill shook his head. “You’re biting the hand that feeds you. American industry needs the raw materials and manufactured goods that those trucks carry. The National Association of Manufacturers is going to jump down your throat on this one.”

Myers took a sip of coffee.

“I’m more worried about the American worker than the NAM. We’ve got to turn off the spigot of cheap, undocumented workers that flood our labor market decade after decade. It depresses wages while draining away expensive, taxpayer-funded public services for lawful citizens. If Congress wants to change the immigration laws, fine, but until they do, it’s my constitutional responsibility to vigorously enforce the laws that Congress has already put on the books.”

“You know you’re going to be painted as a racist xenophobe, don’t you?” Diele asked. “Punishing poor Hispanic migrant workers who are just trying to feed their families so that you can protect the oil companies—”

“I don’t care what other people think. I know my own motives. Do you doubt me on this?”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to protect you. After all, we’re in the same party.” Diele turned to Strasburg. “What is your opinion on these matters, Doctor?”

“I believe, Senator, that your analysis is fundamentally correct but incomplete. By shutting down the border, more pressure is put on the Barraza administration than ours. The Mexican economy is far more fragile and far more export-dependent than our own.”

“That should put a fire under their tails to get at Bravo and his thugs, pronto,” Early added. “Let them do the dirty work of kicking down doors and midnight raids.”

“That is what you asked for, isn’t it?” Myers asked. “Put pressure on the Mexican government to act?”

“I see,” Diele said, setting down his coffee. He smiled thinly at Myers. “It appears that this was less of a meeting of minds than a school lesson for yours truly. Be it far from me to try to dissuade you from your plans. After all, you are the president.”

Myers fought the urge to laugh. Diele was a frustrated presidential candidate from years past, and Greyhill’s number one supporter last year. Was he merely lamenting the fact she was the person occupying the office? Or just reminding himself that he wasn’t? Probably both, she told herself.

Diele made a point of checking his watch, then stood. “Looks like I’m late for my next meeting. Thank you for your time, Madame President.” His smile faded. “Mr. Vice President. Gentlemen.” He turned on his well-polished heels and left.

“That didn’t go well,” Greyhill said.

“Why would you say that?” Myers asked.

“He’s a dangerous man. Not one to be trifled with.”

“What do you want me to do? Invade Mexico so that Diele’s feelings won’t be hurt?”

“There is some value to listening to the opinions of others. Especially ones with decades of experience in these matters.”

Myers wasn’t sure if Greyhill was referring to Diele or himself.

“I do listen, Robert. Carefully. And what I hear is a frustrated old man more worried about his reputation than his country.” Myers hoped Greyhill caught her double meaning.

He did.

35

Near the Snake River, Wyoming

It was late. Pearce was skyping with Tamar on a secure line. She was propped up in her hospital bed with her arm bound in a sling.

“I wanted you to know how it happened. Menachem just briefed me,” Tamar said.

“You should rest,” Pearce insisted.

“Mossad really had broken into the Quds Force mainframe all right, but Quds had planted a sentinel program at the portal. When we broke in, the Quds program was alerted, and the sentinel program followed our signal all the way back to our mainframe. The Iranians knew which file had been stolen and the contents of those files.”

“And they used that intel to set up the ambush,” Pearce concluded. “What was the name of the Iranian you and Udi were chasing?”

“Ali Abdi. Udi said you knew him?”

“Quds Force commander. A real shit bird. We ran into his outfit in Iraq a few times. Big on IEDs and ambushes. Last I heard he was in Syria.”

“Now he’s in Mexico. Or was. We have no idea what his current location is.” Tamar laid her head back, exhausted.

“I’ll find him, and I’ll kill him. You have my word on that.”

“I know. I just wish I could be there to help you when you do it.”

The President’s Private Quarters, the White House

It was after midnight when Myers received a call on her private number. She had passed out, exhausted from the frenetic pace of the last twenty-four hours. But she was a light sleeper and the phone woke her easily. It was Jeffers.

“It’s Pearce, on Skype. You want me to patch him through?”

“He wouldn’t call at this hour if it wasn’t important. Give me two minutes.”

Myers rose with a yawn and stretched and headed for the bathroom. She saw herself in the mirror and suddenly became self-conscious about the way she looked, but she wasn’t sure why. It was just Pearce, after all. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed out her hair just the same. Looked pretty darn good for having just rolled out of bed, even without makeup, which she hardly needed to use anyway.

After pulling on a pair of form-fitting track pants, a sports bra, and a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert T-shirt, she dashed back to her desk in her bedroom suite and fell into the chair, then woke up her laptop computer. It was already opened to Skype. She logged on.

Pearce was already online, his grim face weathered and rough like the rustic cabin wall behind him. Early had briefed Myers on the failed rescue attempt and Udi’s tragic death.

“Hello, Troy. What can I do for you?”

“I know who took out Udi and his team.” Pearce told her everything he knew about Ali Abdi, but that wasn’t much, and how Ali’s trail had gone cold, despite Ian’s best efforts. The Israelis didn’t have any luck, either. “This is getting to be a bad habit, but I need another favor.”

“That’s what friends are for. What do you need?”

“I need you to redeploy some assets for me. CIA and NSA, for starters.”

“All of our intelligence assets are pointed at the Bravo terrorists right now. As soon as that’s resolved—”

“Ali was working with Castillo. Now that he’s out of the picture, maybe Ali’s partnered with Bravo. Find Ali and you’ll find the Bravos, I’m sure of it.”

“I was thinking the other way around. Once we find the Bravos, maybe we’ll find your killer. So help us find them.”

“The Bravos aren’t my problem. I need to stay focused on hunting Ali.”

“You once told me that personal vendettas weren’t in your mission statement,” Myers reminded him.

“The mission statement got changed.”

“I need you to see the big picture here, Troy. If the Iranians are somehow involved in Mexico, it means we’re in a whole new strategic situation. I need your help.”

“To do what? Take out the Bravos? Then who comes after that? You can’t keep escalating this war tit-for-tat. It’s a losing game.”

“I have no intention of playing that kind of game. I’m going to overturn the whole damn board.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to change the government of Mexico.”

Pearce shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got a pair on you, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying. You don’t mess around, do you?”

“Not when it comes to the security of the United States.”

“Or anything else, I bet.”

She smiled, barely. “No, not really.”

She leaned in closer to the screen. “I can’t do this without your help.”

“I don’t see how you can pull it off.”

She gave Pearce the big-picture summary. He asked probing questions. Myers was impressed with the depth and breadth of Pearce’s grasp of Mexican politics and the geopolitical landscape.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Myers asked. “You think this will work?”

“On paper, sure. In reality? I’d say it’s a definite maybe at best. Who else is backing you on this?”

“My cabinet, mostly.”

“Is Greyhill still out of the loop?” Pearce asked.

“Yes.”

“What about congressional support?”

“We’ve put out a few feelers, but we can’t afford to tip our hand just yet. It’s better to hand Congress a fait accompli. If I open it up to debate, nothing will get done and the opportunity we have right now will be lost. But I’m still missing the most important piece of the puzzle.”

“What’s that?” Pearce asked.

“You. I still need your services to pull off the strike piece.”

“You’re in charge of the world’s largest killing machine. Use it.”

“Nothing’s changed on our end,” Myers said. “I still can’t put boots on the ground.”

“I can’t help you, either. My operations aren’t big enough to carry out the unmanned part of the mission. You need more assets.”

“Like the Pentagon?”

“For what you want to accomplish in the time frame you’re talking about? No. Check that. Make that hell, no. Not the way things are currently organized.”

“What do you mean?” Myers asked.

“Once you open the Pentagon door, you’re begging for trouble. First of all, you have army, navy, Marine, and air force units that all operate various drone and robotics systems. Many of those systems aren’t compatible and they certainly don’t all coordinate or communicate with one another, with the limited exception of the JCE, and that’s just the army and the air force and that’s just for UAVs. And then you have all of the command and control problems that come with the jurisdictional bullshit. But that’s just the beginning of your woes. Once you activate the U.S. military, they’re going to draw on other national intelligence assets like the NSA and all of the DoD resources. Once you’ve done that, you’ve triggered congressional oversight and micromanagement. There are over one hundred congressional committees that have jurisdiction on homeland security alone. Add in subcommittees on intelligence, defense, Latin America—you’re just warming up the big brass tubas for a gigantic Hungarian cluster dance.”

Myers laughed.

Pearce had never heard her laugh before. He was charmed.

“I’m not much of a dancer, Hungarian or otherwise, so what would you propose?”

“Like many other areas of modern life, you should imitate the Germans. Go find your best war fighter and form a separate operational structure under him. Call it ‘Robotics Command’ or ‘Drone Command.’ Let him pick and choose the best weapons systems and the best operators wherever you find them. If they’re military, pull them out of their respective service hierarchies, at least temporarily, the way NASA does for their astronaut cadre. Keep everything lean and nimble. This can’t be about medals or pulling rank or promotions. It’s about getting the job done fast and efficiently.”

“How about you? You’d be perfect for the job.”

“No, thanks. Desks and paperwork make me itch.”

“Then whom?”

“Have Early contact Dr. T. J. Ashley. She’s the current assistant director of National Intelligence for Acquisition, Technology, and Facilities. She’s former navy with combat experience and has the technical chops for the job.”

“How do you know her?” Myers asked.

“In 2007, Early was going to run an op in the Persian Gulf near Iranian waters and he’d requested one of the new UAV support teams for an intel assist, but the local commander turned him down.”

“But Dr. Ashley stepped in?” Myers asked.

“It was a good thing she did. Her drone disabled an Iranian patrol boat and saved the lives of Early and his team, but it nearly earned her a court-martial. She told Early she didn’t care because she thought she had done the Lord’s work. That makes her good people in Early’s book.”

“Mine, too,” Myers said.

“Early pulled a few strings and got her off the hook. In fact, he even got her promoted. But she resigned her commission right after that and took a research position with the University of Texas. That’s when I tried to hire her into my firm, but she turned me down. She’s a dyed-in-the-wool patriot and wanted to get back into government service.”

“Sounds like she’s the one,” Myers said.

“She won’t say no to Early.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing. Please tell me that Jackson didn’t turn off DAS.”

“You’d have to speak with him about that.”

“He needs to get Stellar Wind rolling, too, if it isn’t already. And we can’t keep pointing both of them in just one direction, if you catch my drift.”

“Stellar Wind?” She wasn’t expecting that. The libertarian in her struggled with the idea of using warrantless antiterror search technology on her fellow citizens, even the rotten ones.

“Dillinger said he robbed banks because that’s where the money was. A lot of the bad guys you’ll be hunting are running around up here.”

“You’re right. Still…”

“Something else bothering you?” Pearce asked.

“It’s ‘Big Brother’ technology. I just hate the idea of the government knowing everything there is to know about everybody.”

“You’ll hate not knowing where your targets are even more.”

“I’ll tell Mike I’m authorizing Stellar Wind. Thanks again for your help. Your country owes you a great debt.”

“Yeah, it does. Early still hasn’t cut me a check for the last job. So, how about that favor?”

Myers was caught between a rock and a hard place. She wanted to help her friend, but the nation came first. “How about a compromise? I can’t redeploy any of our intelligence assets away from our search, but I can give your people full access to everything we generate in the data stream. Will that work for now?”

“I’ll take what I can get. Thanks.”

“But it’ll cost you,” Myers said.

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I need you to talk to somebody for me.”

Myers posted Cruzalta’s name and address to Pearce.

Pearce read it. “In person, I take it?”

“I’ve found that face-to-face is always more effective.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

She smiled coyly. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

Pearce remembered his first meeting with Myers with a grin. “Apparently.”

She turned serious. “Just be sure you realize that without him, we can’t move forward.”

Pearce’s grin faded. “Yes, I believe I do.”

“Good. Because we’re totally FUBAR if you drop the ball on this.”

36

Boca de Tomatlán, Mexico

Just a quarter mile north of the sleepy little bay village was an open-air bar called El Pirata Libre. It perched on a collection of steps on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, its various palm-frond roofs jutting up at sharp angles. The place felt more Polynesian than Mexican despite the stone floors and round tiled tables. It was a favorite haunt of Canadian snowbirds and retired Americans who crowded the place every sunset to say good-bye to the great golden disc as it plunged into the sea. Cruzalta liked it because the booze was cheap and strong, and the endless tracks of Jimmy Buffett music were loud enough to drown out the mindless conversations taking place all around him. A perfect place for a middle-aged man to hide in plain sight.

Cruzalta wore the same gaudy tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops that every other güero in the bar was wearing. It was the natural camouflage for the terrain. The only difference was that Cruzalta wasn’t cramming a beer-barrel gut beneath his Tommy Bahama shirt and his calves were sculpted like diamonds from his daily five-mile run.

Cruzalta stood at the far rail on the lowest level of the bar nearest the ocean, drink in hand, staring out at the purpling sky, the setting sun half submerged on the far horizon.

“Colonel Cruzalta, a word, please,” whispered in his ear.

Cruzalta’s first instinct was to reach for the pistol in his concealed holster, but the voice in his ear was distinctly American and he felt neither the point of a blade nor the blunt edge of a pistol barrel in his back.

“Why not?” Cruzalta said.

Cruzalta turned around. He didn’t recognize the fortysomething-year-old man standing in front of him, but he had the poise of a fighter in repose, completely relaxed and yet able to strike at the blink of an eye. There was a fierce, welcoming intelligence behind the man’s clear blue eyes as well.

“You must be Pearce,” Cruzalta said. “You travel fast. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“My pilot has a lead foot,” Pearce said. He was referring to Judy Hopper, of course. She’d flown Pearce down in the company HondaJet and was getting the plane refueled at that very moment. “What’s good to drink here?”

Cruzalta held up his whiskey glass. “Anything without an umbrella. Follow me.”

Cruzalta slipped into the gray-haired crowd, brushing past the wide asses and veiny legs peeking out of too-short shorts. They made their way to the bar at the top level and ordered a couple of Johnnie Walker Blacks.

“Cheers,” Cruzalta said as he clinked glasses with Pearce. They both tossed back their drinks.

“Another round,” Cruzalta barked in Spanish to the barkeep. Two more were set up. Two more tossed down.

“You’re the man who took out our friend Castillo, aren’t you?” Cruzalta asked.

“Me and my team.”

“Impressive. You did more in one day against Castillo than I was able to do in twenty years. I just wish you’d done it earlier.” Cruzalta picked up a third whiskey and knocked it back. Pearce didn’t touch his.

“You tired of feeling sorry for yourself, Colonel?”

Cruzalta’s face hardened. “How would you feel if it was your soldiers who were burned to death?”

“For what it’s worth, I think you ran the operation as well as could have been expected, given your orders.”

“I did what I was told to do. That was my error. A good commander takes initiative. I should have disobeyed my orders. Taken more precautions.”

“Soldiers are supposed to obey orders. Your reward was to be treated dishonorably. But then again, what else should one expect from a dishonorable man like Barraza?”

Cruzalta cursed. “Politicians. They’re all the same, no?”

“I used to think they were. But I’ve recently learned that a few are capable of doing the right thing for the right reasons.”

The Marine snorted. “Like your Myers? She’s just another gringa with a gun pointed at our heads.”

“No, she’s not. In fact, that’s why I’m here. She wants me to ask you a question.”

Cruzalta blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Ask me a question? What question?”

“Is there somewhere else we can talk?”

“My brother’s place, up on the hill.”

“Does he have a satellite dish?”

Cruzalta pulled a couple of cold Tecates out of the fridge.

Pearce was on his cell phone as he flipped through several satellite television channels until he found an unused station.

Cruzalta set Pearce’s beer on the table and fell onto the couch. He popped open his bottle and took a swig.

Pearce thanked whoever was on the other end of the call and clicked off. He picked up his beer and opened it.

“So your president wanted you to come down here to show me movies, Señor Pearce?”

“Not exactly. Cheers.” He took a sip.

The TV channel acquired a signal. An empty chair appeared on-screen. A portrait of Winston Churchill hung on a wall behind the chair. A moment later, Myers stepped into the frame and sat down.

Cruzalta instinctively stood up.

“Colonel Cruzalta. Thank you so much for meeting with me. Please, have a seat.”

Cruzalta glanced at Pearce, confused.

Pearce grinned. “We’re pretty casual north of the border. Relax.”

Cruzalta sat down. He realized he still had the beer in his hand and set it down on the table.

“Colonel, let me speak directly. We need your help. We have reason to believe that the Iranians have partnered with one or more of the drug cartels and that this alliance poses a strategic threat to both the United States and Mexico.”

Cruzalta shook his head. “There have always been such rumors. Where is the evidence?”

Pearce clicked a button on a remote. A new image appeared. It had the point of view of a hidden handheld video camera. It was tracking Cruzalta’s doomed convoy heading for the tunnel on the way to pick up the Castillo boys. As the vehicles raced down the highway, the image came in and out of focus as the automatic focus feature engaged.

The blood drained out of Cruzalta’s face.

The camera swung up into the air to catch Cruzalta’s helicopter. One of the camera operators chattered in Farsi.

Pearce translated. “He just said, ‘Keep the camera on the convoy. It’s coming to the tunnel.’”

“An Iranian?” Cruzalta asked.

Pearce nodded.

The camera swung back down shakily just in time to catch the convoy dash into the tunnel. The Iranian voice whispered loudly.

Pearce translated again. “He’s saying, ‘Wait for it… wait for it…’”

BOOM! An explosion in the tunnel. Napalm-fueled fire jetted out of the tunnel entrance.

The two Iranian camera operators roared with laughter. No translation was needed.

“Turn it off,” Cruzalta demanded.
Pearce did.

Myers reappeared. “I’m sorry to have upset you, Colonel. But you asked for evidence. We now suspect that the Iranians may be working with the Bravos.”

“Why? What would the Iranians get from an alliance with Victor Bravo?”

“The Iranians have weapons and training. The Bravos have smuggling routes and safe houses throughout North America.”

“Perhaps the Iranians were always working with the Bravos,” Cruzalta suggested.

“Why would you say that?” Pearce asked.

“Bravo and Castillo have been trying to wipe each other out for years—a true ‘Mexican standoff.’ Neither could prevail. And yet, one did—arguably the weaker one. How?”

“We took out the Castillos,” Myers said.

“Yes, of course. But why?”

“Because of the cross-border violence,” Myers said. “Including my own son.”

“But what changed? Why would the Castillos attack El Paso?”

“Stupidity? Accident? Misjudgment?” Myers offered.

“Perhaps. But look at the result. Now the Bravos and the Iranians are in control. The attack could have been made by accident or stupidity—”

“Or by design,” Pearce concluded.

“That seems more reasonable to me,” Cruzalta said.

“If true, that means the Iranians have been playing a very sophisticated game,” Myers said. “And playing me like a banjo.”

“We must inform my government immediately,” Cruzalta said.

“Unfortunately, there’s more to our story,” Myers said.

Pearce pulled out a digital recorder and played an intercepted call between Victor Bravo and Hernán Barraza in which Bravo assures Hernán that he had nothing to do with the Houston attack and Hernán, in turn, assures Victor that their alliance is still intact.

“How did you get this?” Cruzalta asked, incredulous.

“Once the Bravos were identified in the Houston attack, we turned our attention to Victor Bravo. Exactly how we intercepted the call I’m not at liberty to discuss,” Myers said.

Cruzalta shook his head in disbelief. “This means the Bravos will be able to create the first true narcostate in the Western Hemisphere in cooperation with the Barrazas.”

Pearce took another sip of beer. “And the Iranians would have a government friendly to their cause and a base of operations that gives them a two-thousand-mile contiguous border with the Great Satan. What the Soviets could only dream of with communist Cuba, the Iranians would actually have with Hernán Barraza’s Narco-Mexico.”

“Are the Barrazas working with the Iranians as well? Or just Bravo?”

“All we know for sure is that Hernán and Victor Bravo have been talking. It would be smart for Bravo to keep his relationship with the Iranians hidden from the Barrazas. Otherwise, it might appear to be a threat to them, especially if we found out about it,” Pearce said.

“And now we have,” Myers said.

Cruzalta stood back up and began pacing, trying to process the massive data dump.

“Why have you told me all of these things? I’m a retired soldier. There’s nothing I can do.”

Myers smiled. “I have told you all of these things because I know that you are a patriot and love your country as much as I love mine. You have fought bravely against your nation’s enemies, and your reputation is beyond reproach.” Myers let that sink in for a moment then added, “That’s why I want you to be the next president of Mexico.”

Cruzalta laughed.

“And how would you accomplish that? An invasion? A CIA coup? No, thank you. The last thing Latin America needs is another government installed by the U.S. security services.”

“It’s not possible to change a country from the outside. Mexico itself must change. It needs new leadership that will create a real democracy.”

“Do you think this is your original idea? There are many of us in Mexico who have dreamed of such a thing. But the ruling parties have a stranglehold on power.”

“And that power has been based on the narcotraficantes for the last twenty years. If I help you eliminate them, then legitimate power can rule again. Under your leadership.”

“No. I am not the man. But I know the one who is. And a dozen governors who would back him if they knew that a Bravo sicario wouldn’t blow their heads off the next day.”

“The fact that you don’t want to be president makes you the perfect candidate, Colonel Cruzalta,” Myers lamented. “But you know yourself better than anyone else does. And we need your guidance on this matter. I have no desire to do any nation building or remake Mexico in our image. I just want a free, prosperous, and democratic Mexico that no longer poses a strategic threat to my country.”

“Then you would find many willing hands to help you, I assure you,” Cruzalta said.

“We’ve already begun preparation for an operation to eliminate the Bravos. How long before you can contact your candidate and work out some sort of a schedule?” Pearce asked.

Cruzalta shook his head, incredulous. “You are presuming I am agreeing with this madness. As attractive as it sounds, I hope you will both understand that I have a hard time believing any of it is true. Americans always do what is best for Americans. ‘¡Pobre México! ¡Tan lejos de Dios y tan cerca de los Estados Unidos!’”

“I cannot undo the past. Our countries have a shared history and not all of it is good. But together we can create a new future. But I also understand that trust must be earned, so let me propose this: we have located the Castillo killers responsible for the deaths of your men in the tunnel. They are currently residing in California. You are free to choose a team of your best men and take them down.”

“Arrest them? Or kill them?”

“Whichever you prefer. Mr. Pearce?”

Pearce pulled a paper out of his pocket and handed it to Cruzalta.

Myers continued. “That is my executive order declaring the Castillo killers listed as enemy combatants and terrorists. I have the legal authority to name them as such. They are on American soil. I am now deputizing you to carry out the order to eliminate them as a threat. Mr. Pearce is a witness.”

Cruzalta stared at the paper. He couldn’t believe his eyes. “If I were to release this to the newspapers, it would destroy your presidency.”

“Yes, it would. My fate is in your hands. But so is the fate of Mexico. So here is my proposal. Coordinate your efforts with Mr. Pearce. Any equipment you might need, transportation, whatever it takes, he will make available to you. After you have had your vengeance, then decide if my offer is real. If you think it is, we can move ahead with our plans.”

“And if I still refuse?”

“I would understand completely. If I were in your shoes, I would be skeptical, too. I will do everything in my power to see Mexico become the prosperous and democratic nation I think it could be. But make no mistake. I will protect my country at whatever cost, with or without Mexico’s help.”

Cruzalta folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He looked at Pearce. “When can we leave?”