

Reign of Terror

By

Frank Perry, author

Hampton Falls, New Hampshire

Books.by.frank@gmail.com

Synopsis

The third in this series with Army Major Peter Shields and Rachael Aston (after Recall to Arms and The Cobra Identity), finds the two ex-lovers trying to establish a basis for renewing their relationship. It will not be easy and may never happen given their differences, yet both love the other. They come from different backgrounds and don't share the same vision for the future. Both get involved with securing the southern border to stop drug trafficking. Violence is escalating rapidly along both sides. Each of them is involved in different capacities. Rachael has a diplomatic role tied to her CIA duties and Peter is in the National Guard assisting the Border Patrol. Both face danger through corrupt government officials and police. They need each other to survive against the most powerful drug cartel in the world.

Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to: books.by.frank@gmail.com.

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Acknowledgements

The author would like to acknowledge the contributions made to this book by: Sandy Blair, my valued author friend and advisor. Beverly Heinle provided invaluable proofreading, Ken Starr, LTC, USA (ret.) provided important Army insight. Richard Cesario gave a critical editorial review. My wife Janet tolerantly read the early drafts. The cover art and formatting was done by Brendan Perry.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.

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Other books by Frank:

  * Recall to Arms

  * The Cobra Identity

  * Reign of Terror

  * Letters From the Grave

  * Kingfish

  * Sibley's Secret

  * The Dolos Conspiracy

Author's note: I hope you will enjoy this book. If you would like to preview my other books, including the trilogy beginning with Recall to Arms, go to: smashwords.com Happy reading!
Prologue

The southwestern border into the United States has thousands of illegal immigrants crossing the desert each day avoiding legal Ports of Entry. Less than one third are captured by U.S. authorities. The terrain is classified as urban, rural and remote. The vast majority of the southern border is comprised of remote terrain consisting mostly of mountains and deserts. The topography is rugged raw desert, with deep gorges and ravines, scrub brush, and impassible rock formations. Much of the land is covered with tall brush and cactus. From most ground observation points along thousands of miles of remote terrain, humans are concealed from view over ninety eight percent of the time.

For most of the southern border, there are no roads, electricity or water. The land is harsh with extreme heat, natural predators and cutthroats. At least four hundred innocent people die each year trying to cross the deserts to find work, but the actual number is unknown. Beyond natural threats, outlaws kill innocent people for whatever meager money they might carry. The vast majority of aliens are harmless low-level workers that are filling ten million jobs that U.S. workers have refused. Illegals fill hotel domestic, landscape and harvesting jobs beneath American workers. The vast majority want to leave the U.S. and return to Mexico in less than a year.

Since the end of Prohibition in the 1933, the main function of the border patrol (USBP) has been to stop the inflow of alien workers into the United States. A typical group of aliens trekking through the deserts include families with women and children. When apprehended, they often suffer from exposure, hunger and disease. The USBP agents save lives that would otherwise perish. That role remains today, but is overshadowed by a deadly new mission.

Beginning in the mid 1990's the USBP mission has become increasingly more dangerous in response to Government pressure to stop illegal drugs entering the U.S. As the War on Drugs has continued over thirty years, the sea and air corridors initially used for transport have been successfully blockaded through astronomical expense and manpower dedicated to this purpose. As a result, the land channels through Mexico have become the dominant distribution route for drugs.

This has bred a new generation of murderous gangsters, more brutal even than during Prohibition. Mexican drug gangs have multiplied over the past decade. The resultant violence means thousands of people die each year to fill American demand for illicit drugs. Drugs in America are figuratively soaked in blood today. The violence along the border towns on both sides has reached epidemic proportions. Juarez and El Paso face each other across a spoiled depleted stream called the Rio Grande River. In 2011, there were more than 5000 gang murders in Juarez alone, and the violence is spreading north of the border. Across Northern Mexico, Drug related murders have been growing at least twenty percent per year since 2006. This is also true in many proximate U.S. cities such as El Paso, Tucson, Albuquerque, Phoenix and San Diego. On the front lines in the war, the USBP has the most dangerous job in American history. Supporting them are the National Guard, DEA and regional law enforcement agencies. America is not winning the war.

On February 8, 2012, the U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE,

Bureau of Consular Affairs, issued the following Travel Warning (in part): "The Department of State has issued this Travel Warning to inform U.S. citizens about the security situation in Mexico ... U.S. travelers should be aware that the Mexican government has been engaged in an extensive effort to counter Transnational Criminal Organizations (TCOs) which engage in narcotics trafficking and other unlawful activities throughout Mexico. The TCOs themselves are engaged in a violent struggle to control drug trafficking routes and other criminal activity. As a result, crime and violence are serious problems throughout the country and can occur anywhere. U.S. citizens have fallen victim to TCO activity, including homicide, gun battles, kidnapping, carjacking and highway robbery.

According to the most recent homicide figures published by the Mexican government, 47,515 people were killed in narcotics-related violence in Mexico between December 1, 2006 and September 30, 2011, with 12,903 narcotics-related homicides in the first nine months of 2011 alone. While most of those killed in narcotics-related violence have been members of TCOs, innocent persons have also been killed. The number of U.S. citizens reported to the Department of State as murdered in Mexico increased from 35 in 2007 to 120 in 2011 ..."

In March 2011 The Texas Department of Public Safety issued an advisory against travel into Mexico during Spring breaks. It said, in part... "While drug cartel violence is most severe in northern Mexico, it is prominent in other parts of the country as well," said DPS Director Steven C. McCraw. "Various crime problems also exist in many popular resort areas, such as Acapulco and Cancun, and crimes against U.S citizens often go unpunished.

"So far this year [March 2011], an ICE agent was killed and another injured in a suspected ambush near San Luis Potosi February 15. Two El Paso teens were gunned down February 5 in Ciudad Juarez. In January, a Texas missionary was shot in the head when she and her husband ran an illegal road block in northeastern Mexico.

"In addition to U.S citizens killed so far this year, preliminary figures show as many as 65 Americans were killed in Mexico in 2010. Kidnapping, sexual assault, robbery and carjacking also are threats in parts of Mexico. Suspects have not been prosecuted in many of the cases. Meanwhile, more than 30,000 Mexican citizens have died [40,000+ through 2011] in drug-related violence since 2006, and the violence shows no signs of abating ..."

Last Patrol

Border Patrol Agent Randy Firth was driving down a rugged dirt path in the Texas desert at midnight, patrolling a remote section of Wingo Reserve Road near the Rio Grande River, which was barely a stream separating El Paso from Juarez Mexico. His headlight beams illuminated the dirt road a short distance ahead, but the tall overgrowth on both sides cast eerie shadows disguising ruts and bumps, creating a generally creepy feeling. It wasn't really flat. There were gentle rises and depressions that limited illumination to no more than fifty feet at times. High beams were useless given the physical conditions and he didn't want to be broadcasting his position any more than necessary to anyone observing from the mountains a few miles away. Smugglers used spotters to alert them to border agent locations. This part of the border is the most dangerous drug smuggling route into the United States. The night was moonless with few stars visible through the late summer cloud cover. It was a typical cold night in the West Texas desert. The wind was blowing about fifteen miles per hour with gusts much higher. In general, the conditions for surveillance were about as bad as it could be with the darkness and wind noise obscuring people moving through the terrain.

Firth had joined the Border Patrol three years earlier after serving in Afghanistan as a Navy Corpsman with the Marines. He'd seen his share of bloodshed as a young man still in his twenties. As a Corpsman, he was frequently on patrol with small Marine teams searching for Taliban in the mountains close to the Pakistan border ready to provide medical assistance when needed. Since returning to civilian life in Texas, he'd been attending night school to become certified as an EMT and he'd recently gotten engaged.

The border environment in this part of Texas was similar to his experience in the military but more dangerous at night. The desert terrain was more rugged in most ways. To him, this was the only life he'd ever expected, growing up in an Army family. His parents settled near Ft. Bliss in El Paso. This was home.

This night, he was alone in an older government-owned Chevy Blazer. Like all Agency vehicles, it was white with green stripes and large letters, clearly identifying it as "United States Border Patrol." He stopped at his assigned outpost on a mesa, giving him a slightly elevated view across the border. It really wasn't much of a useful view with tall desert brush and ravines everywhere. He parked at the assigned spot and killed all lights. Then he sat motionless for more than a minute, allowing his eyes to adjust. He rolled the window down to listen for telltale sounds. It was silent except for a wind noise through the native brush and some occasional sounds of nature. It was unusually cold, so he wore his green uniform jacket, and he pulled his hat low to his ears when he exited the truck. It smelled like west Texas after a short rain with the scent of mesquite and sage pollen filling the swirling air.

This sector of the El Paso Regional Zone had been used for illegal trafficking since prohibition. It was Firth's turn in rotation for night surveillance. He hated the night patrols with the desolation anxiety that comes with loneliness in the desert at night looking for armed criminals. He'd been in the mountains of Afghanistan many nights with similar feelings. Walking to the back of his truck in the dark, he opened the tail gate to remove a tripod and night camera system used to scan the area. He could assemble most of the equipment by feel, helping to hide his location. The heavy-duty tripod could raise the infrared camera system almost fifteen feet in the air, giving some measure of surveillance. Still, humans were virtually undetectable if they stayed in low areas and remained quiet. With his portable radio, he called into base, "Ysleta Station this is Agent 4267 on location at Point Juliet, over"

The response came immediately from the dispatcher, "Copy 4267 on location, over."

"4267, out."

Having checked in, he set up the infrared (thermal) surveillance camera. The video screen was positioned on the edge of the truck bed by the tailgate and adjusted for minimum intensity. It didn't take much light to see the video clearly in the complete darkness of this moonless night. Firth adjusted the picture quality, then raised the camera to its maximum height. He panned the cameras left and right with a small motor, looking as far as he could see along the border. There was nothing to see but the brush wafting in the wind.

After setting up, he went to the front seat and grabbed his thermos of coffee and bag of snacks. He would be at this location for four hours and the only break from the boredom was food and coffee to stay awake. He thought about school and his new wife, and the plans they had for the future. They were looking for their first house now that real estate prices were so low. He would be finished with his EMT training in a few more weeks, then try to find something that paid as well, but less dangerous. He kept his mind active to distract from the danger. He was accustomed to the isolation, but didn't like it — none of the agents did.

Several minutes after settling into the routine for the night and returning to the video screen, he rotated the camera system slowly checking for thermal "hot spots" that could be people. This time, with nothing along the border, he continued panning the camera in a complete circle. He was alarmed to see several infrared hot spots behind him. Normally, the Mexicans approached from the south, but this group was behind him, coming from the north. Although unable to discern specific details in the infrared video, the characteristic motion was unmistakably human. It looked like several people were approaching his position. Moving away from the display toward the front of the truck, he crouched in darkness, partially protected. It had recently become common for Border Agents to be ambushed and killed by smugglers. For this reason, the Agency had changed procedures and used random positioning of Agents at field locations.

For part of the southern land border, surveillance was done by remotely operated cameras on towers, but most of the task still fell to Agents on the ground who could also detain illegals. Historically, most of the crossings were by people wanting jobs who posed no threat to anyone. Since the end of worker registration programs, such as California's Bracero Program, Mexican workers could only find work in America by sneaking across the border. But in recent years, drug smugglers have made it more dangerous for law enforcement because sea and air routes were successfully closed by the Federal Government. Also, since 2001, a small percentage of illegal crossings were by foreign terrorists.

Randy keyed his microphone, "Control this is Agent 4267. Code Blue, requesting immediate assistance, over."

The response came quickly, "Copy 4267, assistance en route, out."

Backup was on the way, but it could take more than ten minutes for support to arrive from the station, where eight agents were on alert. Randy pulled his gun from its holster and listened. He thought about moving into the brush, but almost immediately, there was another radio call, "This is Agent 1101 in proximity of Juliet, will provide assistance." Randy was relieved to hear Senior Agent Juan Morales' voice.

Morales was senior to Firth by four years, having joined the Border Patrol after graduating from San Diego State University. He was raised on the U.S. side of Nogales, New Mexico, and was culturally adept at handling immigrants. He'd been decorated many times for actions against drug smugglers and for apprehending other law breakers.

Randy was nervous, but thankful that Juan would be there quickly. Together, they would have a better chance if this was an ambush. He was unable to use the camera from his location at the front of the truck, but listened carefully. He could hear the sound of Juan's truck moving cautiously along the dirt road near him without using headlights.

The support team arrived ten minutes later. Eight Agents in two vehicles dispersed into the area near the two Patrol trucks parked close together. The camera monitor still glowed from one of them. Agents pushed through the brush cautiously, calling for Firth and Morales to respond. There was no answer.

After several minutes, the team regrouped near the surveillance truck using Firth's camera to scan the area, detecting one warm spot twenty yards away in the brush. With weapons drawn, several Agents approached through the growth, announcing "US Border Patrol" in English and Spanish. They found Randy Firth's mutilated body, still warm. Numerous large cuts soaked his dark green uniform, and he had been beheaded.

The murder investigation, led by the El Paso County Sheriff's Office, lasted for ten hours. Helicopters and dogs attempted to locate the killers and Morales. The greatest fear of an agent was being taken hostage, more than dying in the line of duty.

Routine

Major Peter Shields arrived at his office at the National Guard Bureau in Washington before seven in the morning. As a bachelor living alone, he didn't eat breakfast in his apartment. It was normal for him to be at work early, a habit retained from years of active duty. He generally brought one or two pieces of fruit from his apartment and made coffee in the office. He kept a loaf of bread for toast in the community refrigerator. There were rarely other people there this early.

He'd been at headquarters in Arlington, Virginia, for nine months. His military service had begun thirteen years earlier, right out of high school. It hadn't taken long for him to decide to be a career soldier. He excelled and became an Army Ranger, which kept him busy and often engaged in special operations against radical enemies. His shift to the Army National Guard resulted from a chain of circumstances, beginning when he lost a squad of men in a counter terror raid in Southern Syria. It wasn't his fault. They were ambushed and the Army commander of his relief force was too cowardly to help. His notion of camaraderie and mutual support was shattered by the incident and he resigned his commission.

Months later, working as an obscure laborer to clear his mind, the Army asked him to return to service against a terrorist, acting inside the United States. He accepted, and was reactivated in the Illinois National Guard. During this operation, he was nearly killed along with a Defense Department civilian he'd fallen in love with. They both survived and his engagement to Rachael Aston had lasted briefly after his move to Washington--until he carelessly risked his life on an operation inside Iran. She had broken it off because she didn't want to marry someone, living in constant fear because of his selfish unnecessary risks.

Now, most mornings, he thought about Rachael in her office a few miles away at the Department of Defense (DoD), G2 Directorate, where he knew she also arrived early. From a career perspective, Peter had everything going for him: top promotions, military honors, choice assignments, intelligence, good looks and highest-level recognition. He also had the scars to show for it, both physical and mental. From a personal standpoint, he was a disaster. He had only fallen in love once in his life, and only himself to blame for ending it.

He was in a new position at Headquarters as Deputy Director for Counter Terrorism. It was something created for him by the Director, a Lieutenant General. Peter had led the successful operation to stop a nuclear attack in Chicago and later stopped a treasonous conspiracy between a top official in the CIA and an Iranian. With national attention, he was appointed to help the Guard be prepared to support civilian authorities against terror attacks inside the US. It was a position he felt strongly about, but more of a desk job than he liked.

During his first months, he outlined a training program and curriculum for emergency responders in the State ARNG (Army Reserve/National Guard) that provides detection and logistics support against weapons of mass destruction (WMDs). Peter was an operator and didn't like office work, but he respected the function and excelled.

Rachael was never out of his thoughts. He'd only allowed himself to fall in love once in his life, and she dominated every thought. She'd broken their engagement after he'd volunteered for another special ops mission. She wasn't a camp follower -- and he was a career soldier.

They still communicated often and they'd seen each other socially for months after the breakup, but the passion was gone, at least for her. He would think about the brief time they'd spent living together at her townhouse in Georgetown when he first moved to Washington. He knew he made mistakes. Regret dominated most of his days and he was becoming mellow again when his cellphone rang. The display read "Rachael." He answered cautiously, "Hello."

Her voice melted him, "Hey, how about lunch today? I've got some news."

"Sure, where and when?"

"How about Morton's in Crystal City?"

He felt a knot form with fear that she might be leaving Washington. The Capitol region is a transient environment with constant changes in administration, military transfers, foreign delegates and the masses of people seeking to influence the processes of Government. Rachael was a lawyer from Connecticut. Her father was a well-to-do New York attorney who could influence many opportunities for her if she came back home. She had gone to Georgetown University for her law degree, and initially taken a local job with the Defense Department, without any plan to stay long. After working with Peter in Illinois, she was promoted, and her career was accelerating. But, Peter understood that Washington would never offer her the same chances that she would have back home. He feared, since breaking their engagement, that she would leave Government to lengthen the distance between them. He said, "Wow, this must be something big!"

"I won't tell you until I see you."

"Okay, what time?"

"Let's do 11:30, I want a good table and not to hurry."

"Great! See you there."

After hanging up, his apprehension deepened. Would he see her even less? Rachael was from different strata than Peter. She had had a privileged upbringing and a distinguished education at Georgetown, whereas he was a coalminer's son, educated in the Army. They couldn't have been more different in cultural background. The rest of the morning was wasted as he shuffled things around, nervous about her "big news." She was a favorite of the Administration and could set her star anywhere in Government, but she could also parlay her experience to greater value in civilian practice. He was destined to remain a product of the military, regardless of past exploits.

But then he had another sickening thought. Maybe she had a new man in her life. Peter hadn't dated anyone since their breakup, but every single man in Washington would be after Rachael. Maybe she was engaged. She wanted time to explain. What could be worse? Whatever simmering embers of hope that he still had for getting her back faded. Oh, Rachael, please, not that. I've never given up hope, please don't kill our chances.

When he arrived at the restaurant on time, she was already seated at an intimate table near a window overlooking Crystal Drive in the upscale steak house. He was almost too nervous to approach. She looked radiant in a designer business suit, while he was wearing his utility uniform. To anyone observing, they made a beautiful young "Washington" couple. Both were about the same age, tall and in perfect physical condition. People watching them assumed they were married or at least engaged. Only Peter could recognize the invisible wall between them.

She saw him coming and stood, "Hi, there."

Peter was perfectly poised to kiss her cheek, which she accepted. She always looked beautiful. They sat and were immediately besieged by a waiter asking to take their drink orders. Rachael had water with lemon and Peter ordered a Diet Coke, which he realized was out of character in this setting, but it was normal fare for him. He asked awkwardly, "Okay, I can't wait to hear what this is about?" He wasn't being completely honest as his leg muscles tensed.

She was animated, without recognizing his anticipation, "Well, my boss has recommended me for a job at an Associate Deputy Director level in the CIA. It's at least a two-step promotion! There's a reshuffling going on since the Will Lawrence incident. They want some new blood, and General Simmons recommended me. He wants me to move before he transfers to run NSA. I'm excited and apprehensive at the same time."

Peter let out a silent sigh of relief, and stared at her for a moment, trying to compose himself. This was actually good news. Will Lawrence had been the Director of the CIA and had disappeared after being implicated in an extortion scheme, involving more than a billion dollars. The treachery had begun over three decades earlier at Cal Berkeley where Lawrence befriended a wealthy Iranian student. That relationship had helped him professionally by providing intelligence information from Iran as his friend rose higher in the Iranian Government, but it had also led to a plot between them based on terrorizing Americans by destroying airliners in flight with shoulder-launched missiles smuggled into the states. Lawrence had been missing for months; the Agency had not recovered from his treachery. Congressional leaders wanted his head, but it was nowhere to be had. Beyond that, they wanted the "old guard" supplemented by personnel from outside the CIA. Rachael Aston had a pristine record in the Department of the Army, as an Intelligence Analyst. Through direct counter-terror action, where she met Peter, her credentials were golden at the highest levels in government. Like Peter, she had bled for her country.

The waiter arrived, took their orders, and then delivered small salads. Peter was relieved and excited for her. He was thrilled for her career, but even more excited that she had chosen to tell him in this special setting. "Rachael, this is outstanding! What will you be doing — if I can ask?"

"I don't know yet. I'm meeting with the new Acting Director tomorrow morning. Simmons pulled strings for this, and he says I'll get a regional oversight post, responsible for intel operations in the Americas, outside the U.S., of course."

"You know (he wanted to say 'sweetheart'), I'm so happy for you. Your star is the brightest in Washington. You're still a child by DC standards! I'm so proud of you."

They talked superficially about her new opportunity before the meal arrived. Neither knew enough about the Agency or her future role to discuss it further. At some point, Peter became subdued, partly as his anxiety drained away, but also feeling regret that he couldn't risk crossing the personal abyss toward the affection they had shared until recently. After lunch, they parted, both feeling a little awkward in their new relationship. From Peter's standpoint, lunch was a hopeful sign.

Earlier that morning, Rachael had just returned to her office in the Pentagon after a week's vacation in Connecticut, visiting her parents. She had not planned the trip ahead of time and spent most of it inside their home, trying to avoid people. She'd broken a relationship with the only man she'd ever really loved -- and still loved. After weeks, feeling isolated in Washington with her own emotions, she needed some time alone in the sanctuary of her parents home. Peter's profession, as an Army Green Beret, conflicted with the lifestyle she wanted. It was heartbreaking to leave him, but she couldn't deal with the uncertainty and risks of his profession.

She was intelligent, young, beautiful and respected in her role as the Director of Operations and Plans (DAMI-OP), under the Army's Deputy Chief of Staff, Army Intelligence. At thirty, she was far younger than her peers in Government, but she'd earned the position, nearly losing her life in the process. It was rewarding work, and she felt honored to do it.

Lt. General John Simmons, code G-2, was Rachael's boss. Simmons was an Air Force pilot, but assigned to an Army position, common for three-star officers. He had a daughter, nearly Rachael's age, and he exhibited occasional paternalism around her. He'd been in the Air Force for over thirty years, with most of that in the Intelligence (MI) field. After successfully recovering over a billion dollars in extortion funds heading towards Iran, with Peter's help, Simmons was in line to become the next Director of the NSA (National Security Agency), leading to his forth star. The NSA is under the DoD, responsible for analyzing foreign communications and also protecting U.S. Government communications and information systems through cryptography. Simmons was a proven operations leader, respected throughout Government.

The only person in the Directorate earlier than Rachael each morning was "The General." This morning, she had been following her morning routine, balancing her breakfast between her forearm and chin, green tea and a bagel, while unlocking her office door. She'd hardly had time to start her computer when Simmons walked in, "Good morning, Rachael, and, welcome back to our little dominion!" He was unusually expressive, appearing excited.

She smiled, feeling his genuine warmth, "Hi, General. It's good to be back."

He stepped inside her office and sat in one of her office side chairs after closing the door. She pushed her breakfast aside. This was uncommon behavior for him. He never came to her office to talk. She'd always gone to him.

"Rachael, I have something to ask you, which is important for you professionally. How would you like a promotion out of the Army and into the CIA?"

She stared at him quizzically for a few seconds, but he went on. "As you've probably heard, I'm being considered to run NSA."

"That's more than a consideration from what I hear, Sir."

Raising his hand he continued, "Well, it's not official, and I've learned the hard way on several occasions not to assume anything. Anyway, I was talking to some friends at CIA, and there's a nice SES (Senior Executive Service) slot open since Will Lawrence disappeared -- and they're interested in you joining them."

She spoke cautiously, "General, I'm not sure what to say. I'm honored, but I don't have the experience for Will's job, and I'm just getting settled in here."

"I understand, Rachael, but I want you to talk to them anyway. This place is going to change when I leave, and I'd like to see you better positioned to use your beautiful brain more productively. The CIA is at the top of the intel community, and you should be in it."

"I wouldn't want to let you down, Sir, but Will had thirty years of experience at Langley."

"Okay, Rachael. Here's the deal. You won't replace Will. They're gonna move someone else into his slot, creating a Deputy opening underneath. They're planning to shift the work around among the Deputies and assign you to handle the Americas, both south and north continents. So, what should I tell them?" He was looking at her intently, and she had a hard time gauging how much pressure he was exerting.

"Sir, why would they want me? There must be dozens of experienced CIA people who would be shocked if I came over." It was more of an exploratory question.

"Can't argue with you. You'll need to be watching your backside all the time. Let me give you some insight, Rachael. The 'Company' (CIA) got smeared real bad when Lawrence was found out to be a traitor. All eyes are on the institution, and there's even pressure to get rid of it."

He continued, "They won't break it up 'cause it's too valuable and effective, but some new blood from outside the org would take pressure down a notch. You are a recognizable national hero."

She blushed then responded, "So, this is window dressing?"

"Not at all. Some will see it that way, but so what? I know you, and I know you'll quickly impress everyone."

"Wow. I'm not sure what to say, General. This is kind of a lot to handle on Monday before breakfast."

He chuckled and stood to leave. "All right, Rachael, I think you know what's the right thing to do, so get back to me later today. I want to get you over there before I ship out of here."

He walked out leaving her door open. She stared through the opening trying to absorb what they had just discussed. She already knew her answer.

The next morning Rachael dressed in her nicest dress and jacket, looking like the most professional woman executive in Washington. To deal with her nervousness, she went to the Pentagon as usual, even though she needed to leave for the CIA at Langley only an hour later. It would have been harder to stay at home in anticipation of her interview.

At nine thirty, she went to the north entrance where a taxi was waiting. She normally took the metro train from Georgetown to work and hadn't found the need to own a car. Georgetown streets are old and narrow without good parking, so she'd lived without a car.

The ride north along the parkway took only fifteen minutes, but the security processes for "visitors" took longer than anticipated, even for an unclassified meeting. After signing in, she was photographed and biometrically printed, then she waited for an escort to the conference room where she would meet with the Acting Director and whomever else he elected to speak to her.

The new Director was a Congressman from the House Intelligence Committee awaiting confirmation to the permanent position. He didn't seem overly interested in Rachael's qualifications, and she got the impression that he was simply "rubber stamping" General Simmons' recommendation. The interview ended at noon with no offer of lunch. No other Agency managers met her, and she left uncertain about the outcome. The Director told her that she'd get a formal letter through Government channels. He didn't indicate if it was a positive affirmation of her appointment, and he never even bothered to describe the position.

Upon returning to her office, she was greeted by General Simmons. "Okay, Rachael, how did it go?"

"Frankly, Sir, I have no idea." She wasn't impressed that her credentials weren't really discussed, nor had any description of the job been offered.

"What did you think of Sandy Vitale (the Acting Director of the CIA)?

"I don't know, sir. He seemed preoccupied. I'm not even sure what he's looking for."

"Well. I think he's still learning his way around too, Rachael. I think you'll do fine and probably have a chance to craft the position."

"I don't know if he even wants me, sir."

Simmons replied, "You're in if you want it. The offer is on its way."

Orders

When Peter returned to his office in the early afternoon, his cellphone began vibrating in his pocket. He answered, "Shields."

A familiar voice responded, "Hey, Major. Stokes here."

"John! It's been a while. How are you and Carolyn and the kids?"

"All is fine, Striker (Peter's favorite call sign), although it's been quiet here since you left. Illinois will never be the same."

Peter felt flattered, but responded, "Let's hope we never break the tranquility again."

"Yeah. Ain't that the truth."

Both were Rangers who had served together on special operations (ops) missions and saved each other's lives. There was no closer bond between two humans.

Stokes continued, "Look, boss. I've got some news that I want to share before telling Carolyn. I know you've been down this road yourself."

"Okay, shoot. Don't tell me you're goin' tactical without me?"

"Yeah, well. You know the Pres has ordered the Guard to support the Border Patrol down south."

Peter hesitated, responding, "Yes." He had an idea where this was going.

"Well, I volunteered to go to El Paso, where that Agent was killed, and the other one kidnapped. It's still an O-3 (Captain) position, but I figure it's a step toward my oak leaves."

Peter spoke reflectively, "Look, pal, there are things more important than military ambition. I wouldn't want you to pay the price I've paid."

Stokes thought reflectively before answering, "How are things with you and Rachael?"

Peter realized that he hadn't talked to Stokes for months, "You know she broke off the engagement, right?"

"What? No. I didn't know. What happened, if you want to tell me? I shouldn't pry."

"No, it's okay, John. Basically, after our little trip to Tehran, she figured I was a suicidal jerk, and that was that."

"She left you because of the op?" There was a harsh edge in his voice.

"Don't get hostile, buddy. She was right. It's one of those complex emotional things where she linked her feelings to some notion that I would lead a normal life and it all took a hit when I volunteered to go in country without even talking to her first. She's right to hate me. Actually, she doesn't hate me. She just isn't going to tie her future to me."

Stokes asked, "Is it permanently broke?"

"I don't know, John, maybe." Without wishing to prolong this line of discussion, Peter ended with, "I wish I'd done things differently." He didn't want his friend making the same mistake.

"It's okay, pal. Look I'm not much good at these things either. Maybe Carolyn will feel the same way, ya think?" It was a rhetorical statement. "Look, if you ever want to talk to Carolyn about female thinking, be my guest. You know her well enough."

"Thanks, John. Look, so okay, tell me about Texas. Are you sure this is something you want to do? Rules down there are different, you know. People get sued for shooting bad guys inside the U.S. You've always gotten medals for doing it in the Army."

Stokes replied, "From what I hear, it's getting close to our rules of engagement."

"Well, in that case, maybe I should volunteer."

"Sure. Why not just shoot yourself to end your pain with Rachael? At least give her some peacetime attention, and maybe things will improve between you two."

"Thanks, Pal. I'll be watching the news and don't want to hear your name. God speed!"

John Stokes was a novelty in the Illinois Military Department in Springfield. He'd been with the State's Army National Guard for only four years and worked for the Director of Operations, a Brigadier General. He'd been promoted from O-1 to O-3 ahead of his peers, yet he'd only deployed briefly with them to the war zone in Iraq. Some of the other junior officers had gone on to serve in Afghanistan while John remained in the States. Normally, this would create animosity, but John's service record was uniquely different from any other in the department — including two dangerous counter-terror missions within the United States and a special operation inside Iran. In Chicago twelve months earlier, he had helped Peter defeat terrorists with nuclear weapons. In another mission, he parachuted at night, leading a team of Army Rangers against an unknown number of Islamic fundamentalists using shoulder-launched missiles to shoot down airliners. He was known as an intrepid officer without fear, who volunteered for high-risk assignments. Stokes was admired by everyone who knew him. All of his big missions had been with Peter Shields.

John grew up in the Midwest as a quiet farm boy, who joined the Army upon graduation from high school. After basic training and Advanced Individual Training, he returned to his parent's house in Peoria to marry his childhood sweetheart, Carolyn Gibbs, when he was still a Private First Class (E3). Together, they moved to Columbus, Georgia, where John was in paratrooper school at Ft. Benning. They had a daughter about a year later while stationed in Germany. He loved his family life apart from the Army, but also felt a duty to help against terrorists. When his European tour ended, he'd completed his first enlistment, and they both decided it was time to focus on raising their family. He left the Army and they moved back to Illinois, where John went to Northern Illinois State University using his GI Bill and also worked part time. He finished his degree in Computer Science in four years with some credit for Army schools. Carolyn also completed college and became a substitute teacher at elementary schools part time, but a second daughter also kept her busy at home.

Nearing the end of college, he convinced Carolyn that he missed the Army and would like to go back in as an officer. So, following graduation, he attended OCS and was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant. Several months later, Carolyn, with the two girls, followed him to Ft. Bragg where he was completing Ranger training. After graduation, he was transferred to Iraq during Operation "Enduring Freedom," where he was involved in some minor combat actions. The combination of separation from the family and the mental strain on Carolyn caused him to leave the active military again following the single tour.

Upon returning to Illinois to settle down, he returned to the National Guard as a "weekend warrior" and began a civilian career with a small manufacturing company as a Production Planner. He was still young and remained in top physical condition at a private gym. When the call came to the National Guard from the FBI in Chicago for military assistance and Ranger-qualified volunteers, John jumped at the assignment before either he or Carolyn had fully considered the implications. This is where he first met Peter and Rachael. Peter had been given tactical lead of the military support part of the FBI-led operation and had requested Guard personnel with Ranger training. Through the Posse Comitatus Act, military resources had to come from the National Guard, not active military. In the end, the action fell mostly on this military support component of the FBI's team.

Following the successful operation, with recognition, Stokes felt a real sense of achievement. When a second call came, requesting him specifically by Peter for assistance to the New York Governor, he didn't hesitate. This time, it was to capture some terrorists that were attacking airliners in the U.S. using shoulder-launched missiles. After several years of marriage, Carolyn understood his passion for action and was just thankful that he wasn't going overseas for long periods, even though he was engaging in dangerous missions.

First Day

Rachael's first day at Langley was mostly spent in processing and orientation briefings. It was much like the Pentagon, especially in the G2 Directorate of the Army. The difference was that the entire building complex was a secure facility, with various layers of compartmentalization. Her official letter of appointment stated her position would be Deputy Director for Regional Operations. She understood that her "region" would be in the western hemisphere, but nothing was formalized.

It wasn't until 1600 (4:00 PM) that she was escorted to the Director's office. Sandy Vitale was the Acting Director of the CIA, pending Senate ratification as his permanent appointment. The transition was a foregone conclusion and would be completed within a month. He'd been Chairman of the House Select Committee on Intelligence, but had no experience in the operational side of any intelligence agency.

Rachael sat in the office lobby for several minutes while Vitale concluded a meeting. She'd met him during their cursory interview, but didn't know him otherwise except for his reputation as a hard case and open philanderer. While waiting, she wondered if management of the agency would change his egotistical demeanor now that he was actually responsible for results and the integrity of the office. He would never have been in line for the position without operational experience until the treasonous breach of trust by Will Lawrence caused a reaction in Congress, demanding control from outside of the clandestine community.

Vitale's office door opened and several people emerged, unfamiliar to Rachael. Sandy came out to greet her with more energy than most would show late in the day. "Rachael, I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I know how tiring the first day is around here, but I wanted to spend a few minutes to welcome you aboard and discuss your role a bit."

"Thank you, Sir. It's been a good day, and I've learned a great deal."

Gesturing towards his office and closing the door he said, "Can I offer you something?" as he sat down, obviously not serious about his offer.

"No, Sir, I'm fine."

"Well, then, General Simmons was very convincing on your behalf, but I want you to know that I don't expect you to walk on water immediately. It takes time to get familiar with the routine here."

She interjected, "Sir, I'm really looking forward to being on your team and hope to be productive from the start."

"Perfect! Okay, there are some folks I want you to meet. They work for you. Most are your Country Analysts who handle the operations in your region. They manage our assets, including interface with our consulates at certain levels. You personally will be more involved in higher-level decision making and diplomatic issues, but these are your 'boots on the ground' so to speak."

Rachael was forming the impression that Vitale didn't know as much about agency functions as he professed, which wasn't surprising.

"I'm eager to meet them, Sir."

"Great. I'll have one of my Office Assistants escort you to your office on the third floor. Your staff is expecting you."

With this brief introduction, Rachael stood with Vitale as he led her to the door. "Look, I'll be setting up a staff schedule, probably meeting every Monday. In the meantime, please call or come to see me if I can help with anything."

Shaking hands, she said, "Thank you, sir," and turned to leave.

"Oh, hey. Call me Sandy. This 'Sir' stuff is not my style."

"Thanks again, Sir -- Sandy."

During the long walk and elevator ride to her office suite, Rachael felt a mild anxiety, knowing nothing about her new role. Vitale had been abrupt, probably through ignorance, so she hadn't asked anything about her role. She would learn from her team.

Hal Jenkins, Martha Riggs and Jamie Montes were all sitting in the department conference room waiting for their new boss. When Rachael entered, her first impression was that all three were much older than her, maybe even her father's age. Jenkins wore a bowtie and rimless glasses. With thin white hair and expanded beltline, he looked like an aging professor. Riggs had unnatural burnt-orange colored hair and wore thick glasses over a pudgy nose. She was around five three and overweight. Montes had short straight black hair, and he looked to be in exceptional condition for his age. He would be considered handsome by most people. He wore a loosely tied green and silver striped necktie and a white shirt with button-down collar.

They all stood and shook hands with her. The dress code inside the agency was still archaic with everyone wearing business suits, although coats were normally not worn by the men inside their offices. After introductions, Rachael sat on one side of the conference table, facing the others. "Well, I'm really excited to be here and looking forward to learning about each of you and your projects."

Hal responded first, "Miss Aston, we all had a briefing from the Director, and it's wonderful to have someone with your experience in charge."

She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. Any one of them would logically have been candidate for the DDO position after reshuffling the senior staff, and they would all know that she had much less experience in the Government, much less the CIA. She acknowledged his "welcoming" statement, "Thanks, Hal, I hope you'll all call me Rachael. I'm not comfortable with office formalities. It's not the way I work. I expect to be on first-name basis with you also."

She continued, as they all relaxed a little, maintaining eye contact. "I'm here through circumstances that none of us could have expected. I won't pretend to know much about your jobs having never done them, but I'll expect you to teach me. There's no shadow over any of you and like the professor says, 'As of today, you are all 'A' players in my mind."

Montes put his hands together and leaned forward with his forearms resting on the table. "Rachael, believe me when I say that I have no concerns about your being in the position. I spent over twenty years in the military and never wanted a commission. I'm what you should think of as a top sergeant, without any desire to deal with bureaucracy. So, let me put your mind at ease. If you support me with the brass, I'll do my best to support you."

The others nodded their heads in agreement, but she wasn't sure they were genuinely behind her, or just patronizing. Martha was particularly quiet. It would take time for her to gain their trust, and longer for respect. She said, "All right then. Tomorrow morning I want to start one-on-one meetings, so that each of you can familiarize me with your areas of responsibility."

After some further polite discussion, the meeting ended for the evening. It occurred to her that she didn't know which office was hers or even what the total size of her region would be.

That night, she got home after 8:30. She changed to sweat pants and a tank top before going to the kitchen, feeling mentally drained. She wasn't hungry, but poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa to relax. The day had been a jumble of disconnected events, and it was hard to organize a cogent impression about any of it. Around nine, she was feeling exhausted and wanted to be fresh in the morning, when her phone rang.

Peter had gone to the gym after work, then brought home takeout food from the local Asian store. His apartment in Arlington was dreary with basic television service and no amenities. After years of Army life, he didn't need much, but the isolation from Rachael often soured his mood. He thought about her starting a new job. Shortly before they'd met, he'd been borderline depressed with the Army, having resigning his commission and working as a groundsman at a country club near Chicago. Events that led to his re-activation to fight a terror plot in the city changed everything; his attitude and ambitions, and ultimately leading him to Washington, expecting to marry Rachael. She accepted his proposal shortly after he moved to the Capitol. Then, when she broke off their engagement, his world spun upside down, and his only outlet was work and exercise. This night, it wasn't enough. She had initiated a new line of dialogue and he couldn't resist the temptation to exploit it. He realized near bedtime that he needed to hear her voice and had an excuse to call about her first day at the "Company."

She saw his name on her phone's display. At first, she hesitated, but after several rings she answered.

Peter started, "Hi! So, are you too tired to talk about your first day?"

"Umm. Not really."

"So, how was it?"

"Oh, fine." He could hear the exhaustion in her voice as she continued, "It's like I would imagine working in a big corporation with huge buildings, lots of people in suits and high-level meetings all over the place."

"You don't sound so enthused."

"No. I am. It's just that it's now real and not just an opportunity. I have so much to learn, and I'm not sure people are really going to help me. Even the Director can't do much since he's got his own puzzles to piece together."

He wanted to be consoling. "Yeah, life is tough at the top in the majors."

"Is that all you can say?"

"Sorry to be trite. I've never been good in bureaucracies. I don't really know what to say. You're describing it exactly like I imagined it to be there."

"It's not the bureaucracy that's odd. It's the way everyone wants to play CYA (cover your ass) all the time."

He smiled. "There's probably some lessons to be learned. You're in the real spook world now, not just disseminating information to the troops. These folks are always teetering on the edge of the constitution."

"I'm not like that. We'll run a clean operation in my shop."

"I hope you're right, Rachael. Keep an eye out for alligators swimming around your island. From the little I know about the place, everyone keeps 'book' on each other. I couldn't work there in ten lifetimes."

"Gee, you're really encouraging."

"Ah, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it's not a great job for you. The agency could use some of your character. Who knows, maybe the place will evolve to your standards over time. Then it would be a real class act."

"Okay, Mr. Smooth. You sort of wiggled out, but I need to get some sleep."

They talked for a few more minutes, but the dialogue waned quickly. Neither one wanted to end the call, but Peter had to quit before becoming morose, "Look. Get a good night's sleep and hit them hard tomorrow. Okay?"

She sounded sleepy, "I'll sleep well."

As the call ended, Peter felt energized. It was the first time they had talked on a personal level since the breakup.

Rachael

From the time she was a little girl, Rachael Aston stood out in a crowd. She was five feet eleven inches tall in her early teens. She was introverted, and didn't mingle much with the other girls. With limited friendships, her passions revolved around riding her horse and playing the piano. Attending prep school in Connecticut, she studied hard and excelled in all subjects. She didn't date anyone seriously.

Her father was a partner in a New York City law practice, which influenced her career choice. When she graduated at the top of her class in high school, she had her pick of colleges, choosing Boston College. She enjoyed living away from her parents, and the city provided the intellectual stimulation to encourage her to begin asserting herself. It was okay to display her brains; she enjoyed opportunities to debate issues with students around the city.

With more than 300,000 university students in close proximity around Boston, her intellectual skills were tested constantly. She loved it and developed a different, confident, persona. Her parents were delighted with her transformation. She also "blossomed" as an engaging beauty.

After graduation from Georgetown University Law, she went to work with the Defense Department. Her legal education was initially useful, evaluating compliance with international arms treaties as they related to U.S. Foreign Military Sales (FMS). A couple years later, she found herself promoted to a position in the intelligence directorate. In this position, she coordinated with all of the other military intel people, NSA and CIA. She also worked with many allied military departments around the world. Each day, she prepared a composite intelligence report for the Chief of Staff of the Army, which sometimes went all the way to the President with his morning "Situational Briefing" by the National Security Advisor.

Peter

By contrast, Peter Shields grew up in a coal-mining community near Wilkes-Barre, PA. Life revolved around the high school, even though many of the residents had not graduated. The town had a one-screen movie house and a bowling alley, but no library. In the summers, kids would swim and play around the old mining pits filled with milky green semi-transparent water. The ground water was polluted by the sulfur byproducts of the mining process, which probably affected the mortality rate, except most men died young of respiratory diseases from mining before anything else could kill them.

Peter was a happy kid, but suffered from boredom that overshadowed life in the hills of Northeastern Pennsylvania. He liked school, but there was little incentive to go to college and no way for his parents to pay anyway. Like all teenage boys, his stature in the peer community was measured by athletic achievements. The population had a high percentage of overweight people due to high carbohydrate diets and lack of exercise. Peter was different. He was a thin kid though muscular and played wide receiver and safety on the football team. He played as a forward on the basketball team. He grew up as an avid hunter and fisherman, at home in the woods and waters. He learned to coexist with nature, to be a sure shot and careful with weapons.

Following graduation, his father planned to enroll him in the Union and get him into the mines, but Peter wanted to get away, so he joined the Army. The Army quickly taught a person to think on his own and take charge of his life. When he graduated from basic training and went home for the first time in uniform, he had an entirely different demeanor. He was a no longer a boy, except for his childish good looks. He was composed, poised and spoke with authority, yet had a soft reverence for his mother. His father was proud even though he'd scoffed at the idea when he enlisted. With the Army routine and three full meals each day, he'd added about twenty pounds of muscular weight in only ten weeks. He filled out the uniform nicely.

After thirty days of leave, he reported to Ft. Benning, Georgia, for Combat Infantryman Training. His placement test scores at basic training were exceptional, and he was selected to be an acting Company Sergeant in training. Further testing and evaluations gave him more choices of career fields in the army than the average enlistee, but he wanted to be an infantryman. Training at Benning appealed to Peter, and he was a top performer.

He went directly from infantry to airborne training, again at Ft. Benning. He thrived at jump school and excelled beyond others completing the qualification course in High Altitude Low Opening, HALO, parachute jumps. He also qualified for the Army Marksmanship badge. After completing the courses in minimum time, he was assigned as a weapons specialist to the 82nd Airborne Division at Ft. Bragg, NC. He'd attained the rank of Private first class, E3, out of training, so he entered his first duty assignment one rank higher than most others. Within six months, he agreed to extend his enlistment to attend Ranger school at Benning. Again, the regimen and the curriculum were perfect for Peter. He didn't enjoy every minute of it, but the bad moments were forgotten when he got his Ranger tab. He'd been in the army two and a half years and had extensive training, yet he wasn't even twenty-one years old. He loved the Army.

After another thirty-day leave period at home, showing even more muscles and self-assurance, he was mobilized with his division to Mogadishu, Somalia. They departed in January to provide famine relief and to ensure supplies would get to the people in need. Peter deployed as a corporal.

When the Army arrived in the country, the situation was more hostile than the Government had predicted. America's goodwill intentions created an opportunity for criminals to control vital food and medicine supplies, more valuable than gold. The Army found itself fighting factional battles with whichever warlord decided to confront them. The environment was antagonistic and unlike anywhere any of the young soldiers had ever been before. Instead of grateful citizens, they were facing armed thugs. It was truly foreign soil.

On an October evening, near the Olympic Hotel in Mogadishu, eighteen men from Peter's brigade were cutoff and massacred by overwhelming numbers of militants. Peter and his other squad members watched video of the fight relayed from unmanned drones. They saw their brothers-in-arms killed and their bodies mutilated. The politics and the bands of warring factions were too complex for anyone to comprehend, but the Rangers in Peter's Company felt a personal blow watching their brothers die horribly. The action had resulted from a gross miscalculation by the regimental staff, and from a policy dictated by the National Command Authority to minimize the amount of equipment and armor to be used in a civil action. The Rangers had been sent in alone, without support.

The following morning, before dawn, when the militias were still sleeping in drunken ignorance, Peter and eleven other volunteers jumped silently from a C130 Talon Gold aircraft fifteen thousand feet above the center of Mogadishu. Their mission wasn't retribution per se, although it was a motivating factor. They were going in ahead of a mobile column to reconnoiter the scene of the fighting, and to locate and protect the bodies of their comrades. They jumped into the night with only a few lights below showing in the war-torn streets. Their fear changed to exultation as they plunged downward. They knew the streets would be cluttered with massive debris as their comrades had fought for their lives, and they needed to carefully navigate their parachutes between buildings to achieve clean landings. The broken buildings and burned cars engendered pride, knowing the Rangers had not gone down easily.

The exact events that followed this raid were classified, but it is known that most of the American bodies were recovered, and all of the raiders escaped, some with injuries, but none fatal. Peter received his first Silver Star for gallantry in action. He also received his first Purple Heart for multiple wounds from rocket fragments and small arms fire. Most in his platoon were similarly wounded. He was in action again within six weeks. Before rotating back to Bragg, he'd also earned a Bronze Star with Combat V for valor.

He returned to the states for a well-earned leave at home. While his parents were dazzled by his medals, both were concerned that their son had been in such dangerous circumstances. He was only twenty-two. He found it hard to associate anymore with his high school buddies working in the mines like their fathers, so he stayed at home most of the time alone, or with family.

He wanted to get back to Bragg as quickly as possible, but also knew his parents missed him deeply and were concerned about his safety. He didn't tell them immediately that he had been accepted into the elite Special Forces, the "Green Berets." His next assignment was for more training under the Special Forces Weapons Sergeant program. The curriculum developed the most versatile and lethal soldiers in the world. It was also the most direct route to the most dangerous missions in the military. Peter occasionally reflected on his career choices, wondering if he had a death wish or was foolish. But he genuinely felt that he was serving his country and he was exceptional in his role.

Special Forces training, which combined elements of other services under their individual designations as SEALS, MARINE RECON, PARARESCUE, GREEN BERETS, provides extensive training in all military weapons and technology. To qualify, soldiers must have a rank of E5, Sergeant, and at least four years of obligated service after training. Peter, again, excelled and had decided to stay in the Army.

Following training at various military bases, he was assigned to Special Operations Command (SOCOM) with headquarters at MacDill AFB, Tampa, FL. SOCOM is a unified command comprised of combat specialists from all service branches with immense flexibility for small-unit combat missions in all environments and circumstances.

For the next six years, Peter took every opportunity and challenge the Army could provide. He continued to receive medals for valor, including the Distinguished Service Cross for "Extraordinary Heroism in connection with military operations against an opposing armed force." He also earned a Bachelor's degree from Florida Southern University by studying at nights and on weekends, getting some credits for his military training. As the only college graduate in his family, he engendered even more pride at home.

He was commissioned after attending Officer Candidate School and rose to the rank of Captain after assignment with an Infantry Battalion in the 82nd. Over the following two years, he continued to lead missions that could never be made public.

Beginning his twelfth year in uniform, he was selected as promotable to Major, ahead of his peer group. But in his most dangerous mission ever, something went horribly wrong in a covert counter-terror raid into Syria.

His team was captured and he saw his men executed while a senior American officer in charge of a supporting unit with overwhelming firepower refused to help. The experience had shaken him emotionally. He was ordered to be on medical "relief-from-duty" for unspecified reasons to keep his evaluations clean. Therapy and relaxation had not helped. Sometimes laying on the beach at MacDill, he found the sand repulsive and imagined it stained with the blood of his team. It was impossible to sleep when their ghosts reappeared. Nothing the Army could do had any effect.

After several months in rehabilitation, he met with his Battalion commander, a Lieutenant Colonel named Summers, "Well, Captain, are you ready to pin on the oak leaf?"

"Sir, I appreciate all that you've done for me, but I think I'll decline." He almost choked saying it.

Summers motioned for him to sit and relax. "Look, Peter, you've been through a lot, but I want you to get over it and enjoy your promotion."

Peter clasped his hands and reflected for a moment, "Thanks, Colonel, but I've decided to resign." The stark reality of his decision had fully registered until he said the words.

"Peter, you don't need to quit. Take some more time to get over this."

Colonel Summers was frustrated, and realized he was getting nowhere. "Peter, I know you well enough not to try to talk you out of this, but I would like to treat it as a request to accept the promotion and transfer to the inactive reserves."

"That would be fine, Sir." It was an emotional moment for Peter. He was feeling defeated all over again.

With that, he stood and saluted the Colonel, and they shook hands. "Take good care, Peter, and keep your head down. Just call me any time you want to reconsider. I won't rush to fill your billet."

Regular duty officers are not officially discharged until thirty years of service, both active and reserve duty. His commanding officer reluctantly agreed to Peter's transfer to inactive reserve status, hoping that he would ultimately resolve his problems and rejoin the active force, which both knew that was unlikely. Summers was familiar with post-traumatic stress and Peter was at least marginally affected.

A few days later, with his orders in hand, he loaded his Explorer and headed north out of Tampa with no plan or place to go. He knew that he couldn't go back to Pennsylvania. It would be impossible to explain things at home. Nor did he want to be in hot sandy locations. He needed to leave the demons behind. So he headed for Middle America, working at several menial jobs in Atlanta and Indiana, finally arriving at the Cary Country Club, in suburban Chicago, which had exactly the kind of isolation and quiet peace he needed.

The tranquility was soon upset when an Islamic Terrorist, aided by Russian mafia, succeeded in transporting a nuclear warhead with ten bombs into Illinois.

He became involved in a plot to bomb Chicago after witnessing a murder and providing information to the FBI. Curiosity led him to contact an Army friend in the Pentagon. After some private investigating, he learned it was the same Terrorist who had killed his men in Syria. He requested reactivation of his commission in Illinois' Military Department (National Guard) to help the FBI in the fight. When military action was needed, Peter was in charge and he met John Stokes as a newly-promoted Captain under his command. He also met Rachael when she was assigned as a DoD civilian Intelligence Analyst to the Government team in Chicago. Both Rachael and Peter were nearly killed. Rachael was critically hurt when one bomb was detonated downtown. John Stokes had taken heroic action to save Peter when he was badly wounded in a firefight with the terrorists, creating a bond that could never be broken.

The Texan

Stokes drove through the night in his green Tundra pickup, arriving in El Paso after twenty hours behind the wheel. His orders were to report to the Texas National Guard commander temporarily stationed at the large Border Patrol Station located on Gateway South Blvd. With transit time allowance, he was a day early, which gave him time to move into the BOQ (Bachelor Officer's Quarters) at Ft. Bliss and rest before reporting for duty. After checking in, he showered and tried to rest, but thoughts of Carolyn's parting anger kept him awake. They had both made the decision to leave the military and settle down for the sake of the family; yet he was quick to deploy again, not overseas this time, but just as dangerous. She would never understand why he craved the action.

While trying to force his eyes to remain closed he could only think about her bewildered and hurt expression when he drove away. He'd been totally inconsiderate of her feelings and his responsibilities at home. After several hours of staring at the ceiling, he took some Advil for a massive headache and dressed in fresh desert ACUs (Army Combat Uniform) for work. The drive from the base to sector headquarters took less than ten minutes.

When he entered the immense building, he started appreciating how large an effort it was to protect the borders. The El Paso Sector covered over two hundred miles of an imaginary line drawn through rugged unimproved border in the desert. For its part, the El Paso Border Patrol, under various preceding names, had a robust history spanning more than a hundred years.

Border policing started at the turn of the twentieth century with two agents on horseback armed only with old-west-style Colt .45 caliber six-shooters. The manpower and weapons had been growing ever since. Initially, their role was to control the influx of unregistered immigrants from Mexico. Ironically, the first big expansion of the Border Patrol was needed to control smuggling of liquor during the 1920's and 30's. After prohibition ended, the role reverted to helping immigration authorities control illegal crossings.

Now, almost eighty years after prohibition ended, the role was again focused on smuggling of illicit substances, with one added responsibility. It had become common for foreign terrorists to hire drug smugglers to help them cross the border. The combination of illicit drugs and terrorists made border enforcement incredibly dangerous. The U.S. Border Patrol agents were well trained and equipped, but badly outnumbered by forces that use automatic weapons indiscriminately. The National Guard was spread thin with deployments overseas, but stateside troops were still tools of the Governors and being requested by the President for assistance to the Border Patrol.

Stokes was impressed with the large modern single-story building. Upon entering, he went to the information desk, and the National Guard commander was called. LTC (Lieutenant Colonel) Marian Colson of the Texas Military Department didn't keep him waiting long. She met him, accompanied by Assistant Border Patrol Chief Mike Schmitt. After introductions were made, Stokes was invited to accompany both senior officers in Schmitt's office. The LTC was technically just a visiting component and Schmitt had the larger permanent office.

He was impressed with the professionalism displayed by all the Border Patrol personnel he observed. There were very few National Guard visible as they walked through the complex. After settling in the office, Stokes was asked to tell them a little about his experience, which was primarily in military Special Operations. He didn't feel particularly comfortable talking about himself, so kept the dialogue limited to general timeframes, duty stations, training and deployments, without elaborating. They asked some questions, and it was apparent that Colson had read his file.

The Colonel said, "John, it's great to have you aboard. Our mission on the border is primarily to provide surveillance and logistics support to the Border Agents. Our ARNG (Army Reserves and National Guard) team is spread along the sector, which is approximately a hundred miles either way from El Paso. Our biggest problem is right around Juarez, which is directly across from here. This is what we call 'urban terrain' with a major highway crossing and rail line. Outside the two cities, there's a little farm land, then mostly desert.

"The desert is really rough down here. It's hot and dry most of the time and floods when it rains. It's full of gullies and dry washes covered with yucca, cactus, sagebrush and chico brush, with lots of other nasty stuff that's taller than you. For the past hundred years or so, Mexicans have been trekking through the worst of it, trying to avoid being caught by us or bandits, just to come to the States for work. Many have died trying, and the Border Patrol spends a lot of resources helping the illegals with heat exhaustion and other medical problems. They catch hundreds each day in our sector, which ties up a lot of manpower.

"Catching these people is not why the Guard is here. We're after bad guys. Congress wants to stop immigrants, but our big threat is drug smuggling. You've heard about the violence raging at all of our border cities?"

Stokes responded, "It's in all the news these days."

"Yeah, well. It's getting worse almost every day. But, there's another threat. The agents have been finding more and more Arabic-speaking men, if you know what I mean, coming across with the dope mules (lines of smugglers with packs full of drugs)."

Stokes nodded, "Yeah, that's something I've heard also."

She continued, "Well, it's getting worse."

At that point, Chief Schmitt spoke, "Captain, my agents are not very well equipped to deal with murderers and druggies carrying automatic weapons. So it's vital that we get more equipment, people and technology down here. So, that's where the Guard can help."

Stokes got the picture, "All right, so when do I start?"

Colson replied, "Starting tonight. You'll have an over-sized platoon of Guardsmen under your command at the Ysleta station. You report to me, but I want you to work closely with the station commander. I expect this to grow to company strength as more soldiers arrive."

Schmitt interjected, "The Senior Agent in Charge at Ysleta is Matt Berkowitz. Matt's an old hand. I think you'll like him. You two will figure out how to use your combined assets. If you need anything, just ask."

As Stokes began to rise, Colson added, "Oh, one more thing. Remember that this is a border enforcement job, and the rules of engagement are somewhat different than the war zones. This is something you and Agent Berkowitz should discuss with your troops."

"Thanks, Colonel. I appreciate the background. So, if it's time, I'd like to get to the station."

CIA Procedures

In Washington, Rachael found that procedures at Langley were more formal than at her former G2 office. The Army had its protocols, but the CIA was a civilian agency, which relied of procedures with less legal authority and direct orders. It was her second day at CIA, and she wanted to schedule meetings with her people. She greeted her Administrative Assistant, "Hi Cybil. Could you ask Martha to come to my office?"

Cybil responded, "Sure. I'll schedule Ms. Riggs. When would you like to see her, and what is the subject?"

Rachael was taken aback. "Now. And she can guess at the subject."

Cybil answered in a condescending tone, "Ms. Aston, we keep a record of all meetings in our calendar system. It's protocol at the agency."

"Whose protocol? There was nothing in the briefing I was given coming aboard yesterday."

"Well, I realize you come from the Defense Department where things might be done differently. But, this is how we do it here." Her smugness irritated Rachael further, but she was accustomed to petulant behavior by lower level bureaucrats. "Look, Cybil. You and I will get along fine as long as you realize that I'm in charge. Now, get Martha Riggs in here." She kept a stern but calm face.

Cybil scowled and seemed to want to say something but picked up her phone instead. Rachael turned and walked to her office. Martha arrived moments later.

Riggs knocked on the doorframe, "Rachael, can I come in?"

Rachael rose, signaling Martha to sit and closed the door. "Hi. I hope I'm not disturbing you, I've just been lectured on office protocol."

Martha smirked, "Oh, you're getting to know Cybil."

"Yes. She informed me that we needed to plan our meetings in advance and get our schedules coordinated."

"Yeah, well. She's 'old school' and, unfortunately, the office has tended to allow people to barricade themselves. We're spooks you know."

Rachael chuckled, "Look, if I want to talk, I like to do it 'now,' but I'll understand if you have something urgent to do."

"Not at all, I'm all for dialogue. But, you'll probably find the others more difficult, especially Jamie. He likes to avoid talking to anyone."

"Thanks for the heads up. Now, why don't you tell me about you and what you do here?"

Rachael and Martha talked for almost three hours. Rachael enjoyed Martha who described her background and responsibilities for South America. Her primary concerns were counter-drug operations in Colombia, along with the constant threat of leftist activities in the remaining countries.

That afternoon, she met with Hal Jenkins regarding Central America. He was less cordial than Martha, but seemed to be forthcoming when asked specific questions. Rachael had worked with intelligence agents long enough to know that they were guarded in all communications.

Later, she asked Cybil, as kindly as she could, to schedule a meeting with Jamie Montes first thing in the morning to discuss Mexico, but was informed that "Mr. Montes is away on travel." Aside from Cybil's fresh attitude, Rachael didn't like someone under her area of responsibility traveling without informing her in advance, even if she was new to the department.

After arriving home, she opened a bottle of Pinot Noir and called Peter to complain outside the office. Somehow, their lunch at Morton's had rekindled more casual communications. She didn't have any close girlfriends. He answered, "Hi. Didn't think I'd hear from you again so soon with your new job. You must be exhausted."

"Hi. It's not so hard; it's just difficult managing some of the people."

He'd seen her manage high-level meetings with top agents in Chicago. It was hard to picture her frustrated. "Want to tell me?"

"Yeah. I guess I do."

He sat down on his new rented sofa, "All right, what's bugging you?"

"Most of it's good: what I expected. But, I've got this one guy who took off on a trip today without my approval, and he knew I planned to talk to him about his responsibilities. I just want to know what people are working on."

"So, how can I help?"

"Oh, just let me vent a little. I think I can handle him."

"What if you can't?"

"I wish I knew. Right now I just need to get on the same page with him."

"I think tonight you just need to sleep on it. You'll come up with something. If it was me, I'd just pull him by the collar into a small room and explain the rules -- if you know what I mean. But, that wouldn't be the smart way to do it at the Company and not your style anyway."

"Great. So your advice is to hit him with a bat?"

"Figuratively speaking, yes."

"Thanks. You've been a great help!"

He was hopeful that the conversation would continue, but the topic was done. He lingered a few seconds before saying, "Rachael, just watch yourself. Some of these spooks are pros at undermining people. So keep your guard up."

She let out a breath, "Thanks. I think I'll go to bed now, I'm more tired than I imagined."

After saying "goodnight," Peter sat with the disconnected phone for a minute, imagining living with her again.

Ysleta Station

It took about half an hour for Stokes to drive to Ysleta station from sector headquarters. Housed in a newer building, Ysleta was opened in 1991 to patrol sixteen miles of border along the Rio Grande River. It had a history of violent confrontations with dangerous criminals. There was a wall covered with placards showing the names and etched faces of agents killed since prohibition.

Matt Berkowitz met him in the front lobby and showed him into the 14,000 foot interior. There, he met six other National Guard troops and several Border Patrol agents. There were small numbers of civilians from other agencies and an El Paso Sheriff's Deputy at different desks in the open complex. The upper floor of the building was a detention facility.

After some quick introductions, Berkowitz led Stokes to a windowless conference room where they were joined by Leo Moritz who was introduced as the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) Supervisor for the sector. After being offered coffee and some pleasantries, Berkowitz wasted no time beginning Stokes' indoctrination. "John, we're really looking forward to your help here. These Guard boys have been a great help, but they need a unit leader, so they don't feel like they're being treated as deck hands by the rest of us."

He smiled at the notion. "Thanks, Matt. I'll be getting to know them quickly and find out what equipment and mission capability we have."

"That's great. You'll find out that we have a big challenge here. This afternoon, us three will take a helo ride along the river to give you a better idea of our situation. As you know, we had an agent killed recently and another one kidnapped. It's part of a changing tactical landscape that keeps us on our toes."

Leo spoke up, "Captain, we're in a war zone, to put it bluntly. My guys have been tracking drug traffickers all over Central and South America, but it's all moved up here now. These guys are dangerous. It wasn't so bad when they stayed at home, but now it's right on the border. It's even spilling over into the Border States. Tucson, Phoenix, Albuquerque, and El Paso are all seeing major violence. Here, we're facing Juarez across the river, which is the murder capital of the world. It averages about a dozen killings per day, almost all by drug gangs."

Stokes nodded, "I've been reading up on it. It looks pretty bad in the news."

Berkowitz added, "It's gotten a lot worse lately. You might have heard of the cartels that moved up north. They now live just below our borders in Tijuana, Nogales, Juarez and a few other towns, but the worst gang of all is the Alejandro Cardenas Cartel. Cardenas Senior was killed in a shootout with DEA and Federales (Policía Federal) about four months ago. He was called 'Loco Lobo' the 'Crazy Wolf.' He managed the territory by excessive violence which is now spreading into the U.S. He was noted for capturing his competitors alive, then slowly beheading them."

Stokes responded solemnly, "Seems like a really nasty guy."

Leo continued, "Yeah, a real sweetie. But now, we think it's getting worse, at least as far as your officers are concerned, the Guard and the BP. Your guys on the border need to be really careful now. It seems that the cartel is still strong and has a new leader, reportedly Cardenas' son at the helm, who is maybe even more sadistic and wants revenge. He blames us for killing his father. He also blames the Federales and is taking care of them in some creative ways. That's another thing to remember, don't ever trust the Mexican Government guys. They're either corrupted or so scared that they effectively work for the cartel. Lots of the killings you read about in Juarez are done by them under contracts or threats from the Cardenas Cartel.

"It's bad enough that even the other cartels are scared of Cardenas. In order for contraband to pass through Juarez to the U.S., they have to pay Cardenas twenty percent of load value. If they refuse, then they are either killed or we get tipped off about the shipments. Nothing gets through Cardenas."

Stokes asked, "Is there anything we can do to differently to stop them? I know we can't attack in Mexico, but can't we at least get some intelligence established inside?"

Berkowitz looked at Moritz, but avoided discussing DEA operations. Matt spoke up, "Don't think we haven't tried, John. Most of these people are illiterate street thugs, but Cardenas is pretty smart. At least whoever is in charge is smart. We don't know what has happened to people we've paid to get information, but they never seem to return, and it's scared anyone else who might like some cash. We've offered some serious money, but even the peasants won't work with us anymore.

"The details didn't all make the media, but our guy, Randy Firth, who got killed a couple months ago, was chopped up. He was shot first, so probably didn't suffer, but the body was all cut up. We think this is an attempt to terrorize our guys to keep them away from Cardenas' shipments."

Stokes responded, "So, what can be done to stop these guys? They seem to be winning."

Berkowitz answered, "Short of legalizing drugs, all we can do is try to outsmart and outgun them."

Stokes said, "You know, I've spent some time in the sand countries fighting terrorists, and I'm not sure we can ever really 'win' this kind of thing."

"Yeah, I know. In our case, we're really at war against the American people because someone, Nixon, I think, got the brilliant idea that we could win another unpopular war. It hasn't always been recognized, but this is a war fueled by America's demand for illegal drugs. Personally, I hate the thought of losing another agent trying to stand between the supplier and the buyer here at home. Let the fucking dope users get high as kites. Let them jump off buildings, I don't give a shit. We've got good people down here getting whacked because some pencil neck wearing a suit on Wall Street needs a buzz. Those are the real scum. They're killing our guys just like the Mexicans ... so much for my soapbox. This is what we get paid to do."

Stokes responded, "Yeah, I think most people realize that we can't win any more than we could stop booze in the 30's. But, what the hey, it keeps all of us off the welfare rolls!"

Cardenas

Alejandro Felix Gaitan Cardenas was the most notorious Mexican drug trafficker, with the alias "Loco Lobo," who commanded an army of killers known as the Cardenas Cartel. He controlled Mexican officials, killed uncooperative competitors and constantly found new ways to get drugs into the U.S. markets.

He was born in a small fishing community along Baja California's interior coast and spent his early life assisting his father and uncles moving large shipments of marijuana and cocaine up the outer coast to the United States. He had no formal education. He was raised in the drug trafficking profession. He preferred killing minor competing drug smugglers personally. The culture of violence surrounded him his whole life.

As his family was killed off in the business, he gradually assumed leadership of a small group of smugglers that grew over time. He was a pioneer in air trafficking, operating from a large hangar with several airplanes at Mexico City's largest airport and constructing tunnels beneath the border in several cities. As the air and sea lanes from Central and South America were shut down by the U.S., land transport across Mexico became the most viable smuggling route during the early 21st century. Cardenas was ideally situated to control the Mexican corridors. Initial efforts by cartels from the producing countries to bypass Cardenas were bloody disasters, leading to his virtual monopoly of drug distribution in the States.

He was frequently confronted by infighting and bloodshed within his own group, but killed anyone who crossed him. If the minor criminals wanted to fight over ever petty dispute, he didn't care, as long as it didn't threaten him. He was known to kill entire families in retribution, scaring anyone that dared to threaten his welfare of control of drug flow.

He was briefly imprisoned in Mexico in 1999 when the U.S. put pressure on the Government to do something about the drugs flooding America through his networks in the major cities, but it was a sham covered by high-ranking officials on his payroll. He was released in 2001, which was reported as an escape, and was living his luxurious lifestyle in open defiance to everyone. He had mansions in Mexico City, Acapulco and Juarez.

His opulent lifestyle ended abruptly with his death in a gun battle with U.S. authorities in a carefully orchestrated deception that brought him to the border one night. Although he had never married, he had several illegitimate children, one of whom was a devoted son, who would carry on his legacy and seek revenge.

Hector Cardenas was educated in the U.S. He spent time north of the border learning to understand the American lifestyle, preparing to replace his father in the cartel when the time was right. That time came when his father was killed.

Although he was shielded from some of the violent aspects of the "family business" growing up, as an educated man, he asked to be involved in his high school years. He soon learned to kill and understood how to control men through fear. He understood the dynamics that held the cartel together. Violence and fear were essential to maintaining loyalty and respect of his people and competitors. He was every bit as ruthless as his father now that he was in charge.

One of the new initiatives he defined was the "reino de terror" against U.S. security personnel on the borders. In order to appease lower gang members, he encouraged the capture of American personnel. The gang members would share in ransom paid for the safe return of hostages. If no ransom was paid, the hostage was killed on YouTube using professional-grade video equipment supplied by Cardenas. The killings were done by several men using machetes to slowly mutilate the victim, and then they were beheaded. The vision and screams were more horrific than anything in the movies and the head was passed around the circle of killers for everyone to see.

Cardenas believed this served two purposes: first, the gangs could make some ransom money beyond his payments to them; second, it caused the border security personnel to be cautious and less aggressive against his shipments.

Sandcastle

Rachael got to her office early, as usual. The red message light was blinking on her phone. She dialed her security code and retrieved the single message, which had been delivered during the middle of the night, "Ms. Aston, this is Jamie Montes. Sorry, I didn't check out with you when I left. This was an unexpected trip to Mexico City. If you need to reach me, Cybil has the contact information at the Embassy, and they'll know how to get me. Sorry for the confusion. Oh, yeah, I should be back in three or four days. I'll fill you in when I get back. Montes out."

She still didn't know anything about Montes, and he obviously underestimated her, feeling he could just placate her. Later, she planned to visit the personnel department and look at his record.

People started filtering into the department an hour later. Before Cybil arrived, Martha Riggs asked if she could have a few minutes to talk about a budget request.

Rachael invited her in and gestured toward one of the chairs. Rachael sat beside her, which Martha seemed to appreciate. "So, what's up?"

"Rachael, I wanted to review a project in Columbia that needs to get more funding right away. It's called 'Project Landlord' and is a program where we are using airplanes with night vision cameras, land surveys and informants to locate and keep track of cocaine factories. These things keep moving around, mostly in jungle locations. If we don't keep the program going constantly, we lose track of them and our assets. They're really hard to find after they move.

"Here's a brief on the program and the budget approved before you took over." She handed Rachael a file folder with a red and white candy striped cover which said "Secret" in large bold letters.

Rachael took a quick look at the one-page project description and the budget lines at the bottom. "Okay, Martha. This seems pretty straightforward. What's the problem?"

Martha responded, "Well, each year, the project gets re-approved and so does the budget after some haggling. But, then it goes to the accountants for funding, and I've been getting cut each year. This year, I don't have anything funded yet, and we could be in real trouble if someone wanted good intel on the drug factories."

Rachael said, "I know things have been a little tight in Appropriations, but this seems like relatively small change and important work."

She looked at Martha for a moment then continued, "Is there someone in the Comptroller's shop I should speak to? I don't know my way around yet, but this might be a good place to start asking questions."

Martha hesitated a moment then said, "Rachael, I don't want to sound like an office politician, but all my projects and Hal's, if you ask him, have been cut. Your department is fully funded, but it's not being used according to the composite plan we submit each year. Funds are being taken from most of our projects to fund Jamie's Operation in Mexico."

Rachael looked at Martha before responding, "I don't know anything about Jamie's projects."

"It may be hard to nail him down. He's been bouncing around here in different DDOs (Deputy Director Offices) for years." Martha was obviously uncomfortable.

"Well, if I'm responsible for results in this office, I damn well will know how money is being spent and what's going on."

Martha interjected, "I'm sorry if you feel affronted. It's just that we're all trying to do our jobs, and it's hard when our budgets are always cut."

Rachael put a hand on Martha's arm, "Martha, I'm not upset with anything you told me and appreciate your honesty. I'm going to talk to Hal also and won't say anything about our discussion."

"Okay, Rachael, I appreciate it. I'm not an office snitch, but this hurts us all and maybe the whole agency."

"Thanks, Martha, I'm a person who likes a lot of dialogue, so please come see me whenever you want. By the way, when I look through the department plan, what is the name of Jamie's pet project?"

Martha bristled, "See, that's another thing. He won't talk to any of us about it, including whomever his boss is at the time without someone threatening him ... but, he calls it 'Sandcastle'."

After meeting with Martha Riggs, Rachael asked Cybil to show her the department files. Cybil showed her a cabinet among many others with a typical class 1 combination lock. Cybil didn't immediately offer the combination, but wrote it on a paper for Rachael when she glared at her.

The files were nicely organized, but there were no "Project" files per se. All of the project information was in a drawer marked Budget Support, which was organized by Fiscal year. One of the ironies of the Federal Processes is that project funding must be incrementally approved by Congress each year, and there could be no assurance of continuity year after year. This was one of the failings of the CIAs effort to rout the Soviets from Afghanistan. As soon as their occupation ended, the funds were cut off, leaving the largely-illiterate population with modern weapons and no economy to emerge again under Islamic extremism.

In the current budget, there were fourteen projects authorized and budgeted across the department's region. Of these, none was particularly outstanding, but Project Sandcastle was omitted. As she investigated further there was a footnote associated with a miscellaneous discretionary account that said "Sandcastle continuance under Director approval." This meant nothing to her. Putting the file under her arm, she closed and locked the file and began walking toward the Comptroller's department, which was on the first floor when Cybil bleated, "Where are you going with that?"

Rachael almost ignored her, but she stopped and replied, "I beg your pardon?"

"You can't walk out of here with a classified document. Don't you know what that Black and White striped jacket means?"

Rachael looked straight at Cybil, "Look Cybil, I've been a registered courier for Top Secret documents for over five years. Don't presume to lecture me."

Cybil slowly removed her glasses and said in a low monotone, "You may have courier privileges with the DoD, but CIA is different." Her facial muscles were tightened and her lips pursed.

"Look. I don't know what's got your panties in a twist, but if your attitude doesn't change, I'll have you transferred to the cafeteria so you can lecture the beets and carrots."

"You can't walk out with that ..." Before she could finish, Rachael turned and walked out the glass door into the corridor for the elevator. She smiled to herself. She'd learned long ago in the Pentagon that initiative trumped procedure in most cases. The CIA building was one large vault, and she wasn't going to pass into any unsecured areas. As far as handling of the classified material was concerned, she was within regulations for safeguarding materials. Cybil wasn't as knowledgeable as she needed to be.

Using the elevator, she exited on the second floor and walked down the long corridor adorned with dramatic photos, posters and paintings of events that would never be public. She only had a vague recollection of the location of the Finance department from her orientation tour. She guessed right and found the double glass doors marked "Controller's Department" at the end of the hall. Inside, she was greeted almost immediately by a balding overweight man in his late forties, "May I help you?"

She responded, "Yes, I'm Rachael Aston, DDO for ..."

He interrupted, "Yes, Ms. Aston. I know who you are, welcome aboard." He extended his hand and tried to impress her with his crushing strength. She grabbed it quickly and he backed off, fearing she could overpower him. He looked up at her, smiling with his face slightly tilted, "I received a call from your Department Assistant that you were coming to see us. I'm Frederick Pounds. I'm the Chief Bean-Counter around here. How can I help you?"

She extended her hand, "Hello, Frederick. Call me Rachael."

"Well, thanks er ... Rachael. Call me Freddy."

She continued, "Freddy, I'd like your help understanding something in my department budget." She started to open the file in her hand when Freddy placed a hand on her elbow and motioned toward his office.

"Why don't we step in here to discuss this?"

She reluctantly followed him. Once inside, he closed the door and offered her a chair, then stood slightly to one side behind her, bending uncomfortably close, saying, "Now, how can I help?"

She opened the file, "You see this note? What does it mean?"

He adjusted his reading glasses, looking over her shoulder, suspiciously close to her face and touching her shoulder. "Well, I don't know. It seems to say that the Director has the information." He then cocked his face within inches of hers. She could smell the Kimchee he had for lunch.

Rachael stood up abruptly, several inches taller than Freddy, saying, "That would have been Director Lawrence, I presume?"

He backed away saying, "I can't imagine Director Vitale is up to speed on all this, but you could ask him."

"Thanks, I'll get the information somewhere else."

"Sorry that I couldn't help, but I'm just the numbers guy."

As she left the department, she thought about how simple it must be to crunch numbers all day long with no idea what they signify. Obviously, it was a lie. She could never work in accounting.

When she returned to the office, Cybil was re-reading a memo, trying to look busy when Rachael tossed the file on her desk, "File that." She kept walking without looking back. It felt good to demean the bitch.

The Border

Stokes met Matt Berkowitz at the USBP (Border Patrol) heliport at the nearby airstrip. He wore his body armor and Kevlar helmet, as instructed. The helicopter they would be using was a Bell 412 equipped to move agents and provide all-weather surveillance from the air. They would be flying within rifle range of the border to give Stokes a full view of the station's challenge. Most of the terrain was urban where Juarez and El Paso faced each other, with only a canal and a couple roads separating the two countries. There were several bridges crossing the border.

Matt spoke loudly to overcome the wind and engine noise from the open side door. "You see those bridges? They're the main drug channels along this part of the border. Sometimes whole semi-truck loads come across."

Stokes shouted, "That seems risky. A truck load must be worth millions."

"Right. Usually a bunch of millions. They don't do the big loads often, and we don't catch many."

"Why's that?"

"Well, there are hundreds of trucks each day, and we only inspect about five percent. If we catch one, it's usually because someone tipped us off. Also, these drug guys are good with paperwork, but the bottom line is that there's got to be some corruption involved on both sides. Sometimes the ones we catch are because of fights between smugglers. The Cardenas Cartel supposedly gets a percentage of a load's value, or you risk them identifying the truck. It's kind of an unholy alliance between the top drug lord and us, if the other druggies don't pay tribute."

The pilot continued past the town outskirts, and Matt pointed to several deep washed-out ravines, "You see those gullies all across the border with the high brush on top?"

Stokes nodded.

"That's where the human trafficking comes through." The brush on the U.S. side was cut to ground level in a strip about a hundred yards across, as far as they could see from the air. Matt continued, "We're supposed to get fencing along here soon, but it's expensive to maintain, and the Mexicans just keep going farther out into the desert. In some ways, we want to keep them close to home because it just stretches our supply lines and slows down our response if backup is needed."

Stokes said, "Must be tough getting people and equipment out here if you need them in a hurry. There's no good roads. Is this where most of the action is happening?"

"It's about fifty/fifty. We get gun battles in town as much as in the bush."

The pilot interrupted, "Chief, there's a radio call for you. Use the headset on the bulkhead."

With that, Berkowitz removed his helmet and put on the Mickey Mouse headset, pressing the microphone. "This is Chief B. What's the message?"

Stokes saw the Chief nod a couple times then responded, "Copy. We're on our way."

He hung up the headset and spoke to the pilot, "Head to point Zebra-1." Then he replaced his helmet and spoke to Stokes, "We've had an incident, so we're going out into the desert a-ways."

"What kind of incident?"

Berkowitz was somber, "Looks like we've had another man captured."

The white USBP truck was visible in the distance as the helicopter raced to get there. There were several other vehicles parked on the dusty trail nearby. The Sheriff and others in unidentified trucks had also responded to the scene. The helicopter touched down about fifty yards west of the parked vehicles to avoid too much dust and the tall brush in the area. Stokes and Berkowitz jumped out as the rotors began to slow down.

Matt jogged ahead, and Stokes followed.

As they approached, the County Sherriff met them. "Matt, it looks like they got one of yours."

He responded, "Any idea what went down here?"

The Deputy Sheriff was a big man in his mid-thirties wearing cowboy boots, belt and Stetson hat typical in Southwest Texas. He also appeared to Stokes to be wearing a replica Colt Peacemaker .45 revolver, reminiscent of the Old West. "Don't know. We all got a call about forty-five minutes ago that Agent so-and-so had a bunch of illegals cornered out here at Zebra-1 and needed assistance, sounded pretty routine. When we got here, there wasn't no one around, but we found a small blood patch over by your guy's truck.

"As nearly as I can figure it, a bunch of them illegals spread like quail in all directions. Not so uncommon when you only got one guy here and forty of them. Some of my guys are out scouting them out now. Sure could use your chopper to help."

More Border Patrol trucks had arrived and half a dozen agents were at the scene. Matt called one of them over, "Take the helo and circle around. Look for Billy first, then round up all the Mex's you can find. Don't hurt anyone unless you get threatened. The Agent acknowledged and took two other Agents with him to the helo. Border Agents are trained to track people in the desert.

Stokes asked, "Who was the Agent here at the scene?"

Matt answered, "Billy Ware. Old hand--Good guy."

The helicopter circled in increasingly wide circles, stopping occasionally to herd aliens back toward the other officers. After fifteen minutes, nine unarmed Mexican males and a few women were sitting on the ground nearby. None looked particularly dangerous to Stokes.

After the helicopter landed, some of the Agents offered them bottled water and began talking to them in Spanish. It didn't take long to figure out what had happened.

Most of the illegals were related coming across the border looking for work. They were led by a paid guide, called a "Coyote" who had assembled a group of about twenty people on the outskirts of Juarez over a three-day period. The captured people didn't know the others in their group who were described as "bad-looking" men.

When they were climbing from one of the deep ravines, Agent Ware was waiting and told them to come out in the open. The Coyote immediately ran back into the brushy concealment around the gorge, while the workers stood still, unsure what to do. They followed Billy's instructions. He didn't draw his weapon, but, when they were all in the open, a separate group of armed men rushed from several places in the brush, overwhelming Billy, who got off one or two shots. The workers all ran and didn't see what had happened to Billy. It was possible that he was shot.

Matt signaled Stokes to follow, as he jogged toward the helicopter. "We're going up to see where they are."

They traveled on a southwest course along the Rio Grande at about five hundred feet. It was a dangerous altitude with guns involved. Berkowitz yelled, "We have to be low in order to see under some of this brush. Damn, we're too close to the river. That's Mexico, and we can't go too deep inside. They can't have gone too far on foot. They must be here somewhere. Look hard."

They traversed up and down the river several times. Foot prints were everywhere in the mud, but there was no way to track Billy or the countless other people that crossed. After the fifth pass, the pilot announced, "Chief, we gotta go, I'm outta gas."

"All right, Steve, take us home."

During the flight back and the return to the station, Matt was silent, and Stokes could feel the loss he felt. He had never met Billy Ware, but it could have been any one of the Agents assigned to the station. He was the second Agent captured from the station this year, and it tore into each person. The feeling wasn't unfamiliar to Stokes, and he knew that it would have the same impact on him, once he worked with these people.

That night in the BOQ, he called Carolyn. When she answered, he couldn't speak. It had seemed easy to leave her and his daughters behind in Illinois, but now he just wanted to be back with them. At some point in the discussion, she asked him what was wrong. He replied, "Hmm ... you know me too well. We lost a guy today."

"Oh, no, John! Someone got killed. One of the Guard?"

"No. He was a Border Agent in our section. He wasn't killed, we don't think. He's probably captured, which could be worse."

"Can you get him back? Some kind of prisoner exchange?"

"No. They might ask for ransom. We just don't know."

They talked for about five more minutes, but his mind wouldn't clear, and all he could do was reaffirm over and over how much he loved his family. They ended on that note.

Rescate

Hector Cardenas was at the controls of his private jet climbing through twelve thousand feet to his normal cruising altitude of twenty-four thousand. He didn't use many radio transmissions and had not filed a flight plan. The Mexican air traffic controllers recognized his transponder and left him alone, vectoring other traffic away. He was enjoying his beer and the beautiful, dusky sunset. His business had been good, but he wanted to get to Juarez, as soon as possible. His men had captured a Border Patrol Agent, who was still alive. This would be the first test of his new campaign.

He landed at Juarez International Airport and taxied to his private hangar. Exiting with his exotic traveling companion, he remained out of view, moving to a private limousine with a police escort. Men would bring the prisoner to a desert warehouse in a compound southeast of the city.

When he arrived at the location thirty minutes later, five tough-looking men were gathered inside the open door of the dilapidated warehouse. The huge sliding door had blown off into the brush years earlier and the half-century-old corrugated steel was entirely rust covered. There were no interior lights and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.

The Border Agent was slumped on the dirt floor in a back corner with a burlap sack over his head. He was stripped to the waist, showing dried blood on his torso. The men said he had been stabbed in the shoulders and gut but was alive. Billy didn't move. The inside of the old building smelled like oil or gasoline. Billy could feel the dust fill his lungs with each breath. Sound echoed, and although he was not close to the men, he could catch some of the dialogue. He was unable to see anything. His body throbbed in several places and itched from insects, feasting on the untended wounds.

The kidnappers bragged about who had actually captured him and seemed to be arguing about the next step. When one man spoke, all the others were silent. Billy couldn't hear everything, but the word "rescate" (ransom) was used several times.

Discussion with Montes

After several rigorous days getting oriented, Rachael was asked to attend Director Vitale's first staff meeting on Monday morning. There was a cursory agenda, but nothing she needed to prepare.

The room was large but windowless, with simulated outdoor scenery. A huge walnut table was surrounded by luxurious arm chairs. The setting would rival anything she had seen in Government. She was on time and introduced to six other DDOs and assorted support staff. The room was void of any visible surveillance or recording devices.

Rachael was much younger than the other people, who were all males. The meeting began with Vitale, outlining the general format he intended to follow in subsequent meetings, which included a briefing by each DDO (Deputy Director of Operations) regarding their major regional projects, particularly any problems encountered each week. Twice a year, there would be comprehensive presentations of the regional challenges and opportunities, along with updated budgets. The annual budgeting process for the Agency would be done separately.

Vitale then went around the room asking if anyone had any burning issues to present, which all declined. Rachael was new and had little knowledge of her region, but got the impression that the other Deputies were not interested in being talkative.

The meeting adjourned after a short time and she returned to her office and was surprised to find Jamie Montes sitting with a classified folder in his hand. He rose and greeted her with a smile and handshake, as she walked past him to her chair saying, "Well, hi, I wasn't sure when you were coming back." She suspected that Cybil had been advising him.

He grinned. "Well, yes. I got into a little mess in Mexico and had to spend a few days getting people re-educated, if you know what I mean."

"No, but I'm hopeful that you'll tell me a bit about what you're working on down there."

He sat upright stating, "It's all pretty complicated, and I don't want you getting too overwhelmed too quickly. We should probably set some time up where I can give a full briefing."

"How many projects do you have going?" She knew he had only one on record, with no description in the file.

He answered, "Oh, a few. Most are pretty small, then one bigger one."

"So tell me about Sandcastle."

He placed both forearms on his chair arms and rocked slightly to one side, then back again. He was looking alternately at the ceiling and floor then side to side, obviously not wanting to discuss it. "Oh, it's a clandestine operation approved directly by the Director without much documentation."

"You mean there's no Project Description and Budget Justification forms? All activities in the Agency have them."

"No. I'm not saying that. It's just that the Director didn't want everyone knowing about it."

It was true that certain projects had little visibly for political or security reasons.

Rachael looked at him and spoke in slow cadence, "Jamie, I am running this department and will understand everything that is going on. If you want to go down to the new Director's office with me for clarification, let's go right now."

He answered, "Aw, well. It's not that easy to get on the Director's calendar with short notice, and I need to get back to Mexico soon."

"Let me be clear on this. There will be no travel in this department without my prior approval. That will be issued today in writing to everyone."

He retorted, "Well, it's obviously a good thing, but I was given instruction by the Director that I could travel wherever and whenever my project needed."

"You're not listening. Your so-called deals with the Director don't exist anymore. I'm pretty sure Director Vitale will agree. Now, do you want to tell me about Sandcastle, or do we need to go to the first floor?"

He looked at her dubiously, but reluctantly opened the file sitting in his lap.

Jamie Montes was the son of Mexican aliens allowed into California under the "Bracero" program in 1956. The program was a series of Government acts that brought Mexican laborers into the United States for temporary periods, beginning in World War II when manual labor was scarce. The acts were reauthorized each year with varying quotas until 1967.

Montes was born in Oxnard, California, and was technically a U.S. citizen by birth, although he maintained dual citizenship as a Mexican National under laws in effect at the time. In 1973, he had been living with his parents in Baja California, but crossed the border into the United States legally and joined the Marine Corps during the waning Vietnam era. He was seventeen, which required his parent's approval, but both were dead, and he was granted an exception based on personal guardianship rules.

When his enlistment was over in 1977, Montes transferred to the Army with the rank of Corporal, E4, where he spent the next twenty-two years, retiring as an E-8, First Sergeant. He never married and always lived on Army posts. His military occupation was in the Quartermasters, heavily involved in logistics support, often in foreign locations.

His military service was undistinguished, but he was never in trouble either. He earned an "Honorable Discharge" and was still a relatively young man who wanted a second career. He only looked for federal jobs and was hired by the Central Intelligence Agency as a logistics coordinator. He was recruited because of his Army experience and was bilingual. This took him into Central and South America supplying materials and equipment for covert projects, often requiring indigenous suppliers. He learned to deal with native bureaucracy, which often meant overcoming corrupt officials. Through his effectiveness, he gained the recognition of the case managers and was promoted into project management.

With the War on Terror announced by President Bush September 20, 2001, closing the land corridors through the southern borders took on heightened urgency. Through a series of opportunistic moves, aided by Montes' native heritage, he was elevated to manage all intelligence programs in Mexico.

He remained an enigmatic figure in the Agency since he wasn't Ivy League, and didn't even have a college degree, as required. Whether real or imagined, he felt demeaned by his coworkers, creating an elusive persona. Nevertheless, he was promoted through merit. His secretive veil had worked well in the Agency.

Ransom Demand

Stokes called an early morning meeting with the Guard troops assigned to the Ysleta station. There was one First Lieutenant, Rick Gorman, a Sergeant First Class, Mike Dias, and other soldiers of lower ranks. All were from Texas or New Mexico, and about half were native Spanish speaking.

They sat comfortably in the squad briefing room, overlooking the parking lot and airfield beyond. Stokes began by telling them his background and their mission assigned by LTC Colson. Basically, they were to provide surveillance and logistical support to the U.S. Border Patrol. He then asked about the MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) and background of each soldier. Sergeant Diaz had prepared an impressive list of equipment and supplies furnished by their home units. There was ample material support.

Stokes would be issuing deployment schedules that would be coordinated with the Border Patrol. He was aware that the DEA would be providing intelligence, regarding drug movements but would not be engaged in the seizure missions. Stokes would also be going into the field.

The Guard members began deploying with the Border Patrol that same day. Bulky marihuana shipments usually happened during the daylight hours by truck carriers through the highway checkpoints, when commercial traffic was heaviest. Seizures usually resulted from advanced DEA information and were not expected to be particularly dangerous operations.

The largest volume of high-value drug smuggling, however, came from human pack trains of 10 to 15 people carrying around fifty pounds of cocaine or heroin on their backs at night. They were usually accompanied by four or five men with automatic weapons, and two or three scouts, using night vision goggles. These pack trains were the most dangerous to the U.S. Agents.

The Border Agents knew the terrain and most common routes taken by the smugglers. In the field, they had tactical command and arrest authority. Most of the alien groups intercepted were migrant workers, but criminals now accounted for about 25% of the encounters. There were people caught every night, crossing the Ysleta sector, and the ratio of violent actions was increasing each month as counter-drug efforts on both sides of the border in other regions pushed the traffic toward Juarez. Another alarming trend was the increasing numbers of Islamic men who came up through South America. This mix increased the time needed by Agents to interrogate each person, effectively reducing manpower available for other captures.

The Guard soldiers provided armed "boots-on-the-ground" at each intercept with heavy firepower, trucks, aircraft, and night surveillance equipment. Over ninety percent of all border crossings, hostile or not, occurred at night.

Stokes and Lt. Gorman issued schedules and began nightly deployments with their troops. One serious problem was that military radios didn't work with the Border Patrol's. During the first night under Stokes' command, all of the soldiers were involved in intercepts that were not violent. The following day, he attended the sector briefing with Gorman at the Station building.

Senior Agent Berkowitz provided intelligence information from various sources, including unmanned aircraft video. Assignments were made and people began to disperse when Matt B asked the Senior Agents and Guard officers to stay behind with him and Leo Moritz. When the door was closed, he took on a stressed look saying, "This morning we received a ransom note for Billy Ware. It was written by some illiterate piece of shit who said they wanted a million bucks to return Billy or he would get a 'grewsum killing'."

"They also said he was infected by wounds and needed medical help immediately."

He put the note down and paused for a second, "We weren't given any instructions about how or where the payment should occur, so we couldn't do it, if we wanted to. I've passed this onto Washington."

One of the Agents asked, "What do you think, Chief, any chance of getting Billy back?"

"I don't know. Leo here thinks we can find out how to pay the ransom if the head shed wants to pay, but I don't think it's policy. They think it's not good to start paying for our Agents. It only makes the Mex's go after more of our guys."

The Agent continued, "What about Billy's family?"

"We contacted his wife, but no one in his family has any money, and we can't encourage it anyway."

Stokes and Gorman sat passively without anything to say.

Matt continued, "You need to tell all your troops to be extremely careful. Officially, this should be limited information, but it will get out soon enough, and I don't want to lose another person."

The meeting ended without much more said, although the Agents who knew Billy were visibly mad. Stokes didn't want his troops implicated in unlawful shootings and advised Gorman to be careful about how information was conveyed. Gorman was also a New Mexico State Trooper, so he understood the distinction between military and civil lethal actions. He had friends lose their livelihood and families after years of litigation, following legitimate shootings. He didn't want that happening here.

There were two interceptions of drug carriers over the next two nights, but no weapons were fired. Tension was high, so Stokes and Gorman had to move around all their locations, cautioning the Guard troops about using their weapons unless it was to protect life. Things began to settle down after a night without deadly confrontation, but it didn't last for long.

At the briefing the following day, some of the Agents nearly revolted when Matt B began his normal routine. Neither Stokes nor Gorman knew what was agitating everyone. These guys had been facing danger over their whole careers, but were losing composure before the meeting began. One said, "What about the video, Chief?"

Another added, "Yeah, let everyone see it."

Stokes and Gorman looked at each other quizzically. In most military briefings, it was punishable to interrupt a senior officer. Matt stood at the podium momentarily then stepped aside toward the center of the room in front of the projection screen. He looked down collecting his thoughts then nodded saying, "You're right. I should let everyone know that there was a video on YouTube last night. It showed a bunch of men killing Billy Ware. I got the call around midnight from an Agent whose kid saw it. I started getting calls from the press this morning, and it'll be all over the news today. I could only watch part of it and wouldn't ask any of you to see it either."

He took a deep breath and held his chin up obviously waiting for comments. One of the Agents said, "Are you sure it's Billy? Are we sure he's dead?"

All Matt could say was, "Yes and yes."

The room was silent for a moment before someone said, "Do you have it here to see?"

"I have it in the projector, but I would suggest that we let it be. Parts will show on the news, and you can all check it on line if you want. Personally, I'd rather not."

He looked around the room, and no one indicated a desire to see it.

Stokes didn't want to see it, accepting the Chief's judgment that there wasn't anything they could do. He thought of Carolyn and what he would say to her when she called. She would be panicky.

It wasn't long after the briefing that Stokes felt his cellphone vibrating. He excused himself from a small group and started walking toward the entrance to be alone. He answered as he passed through the large glass door, "Hello, Sweetheart."

Her voice was elevated, "John, I just got home from school and saw the news!" Carolyn was a second-grade teacher.

"Yeah, we just got briefed here."

"John, they chopped him up with big knives then hacked off his head! I'm just glad the girls weren't home."

"They showed the video on television?"

"No, they couldn't. But the broadcaster had seen it and described it. She could hardly talk!"

He waited a moment then spoke, "We got briefed today. It's pretty grim here. I've got to keep my guys from overreacting."

"Overreacting! How can anyone overreact to this? These Mexicans are animals!"

"Yeah, well, they're as ignorant and ruthless as the al Queda maniacs. Most of the ones we see are harmless migrant workers, but the bad are really bad."

"Are they anywhere near you?"

He hesitated answering, "Ah. The guy killed came from our station."

"Oh my God!"

He could visualize her hand over her mouth then said, "This is a real hot zone." He regretted saying it immediately.

"I want you to come home."

"I know, babe. So do I, but I've got a bunch of people down here to take care of. I'm sure we'll get reinforced soon, and the druggies will move away. In the meantime, my head is down."

"Johnny please ... I know you can't leave, but we need you back here in one piece. Don't you forget it!"

She was losing composure, "Carolyn, I love you and the girls so much. I won't take any chances and will be home as soon as I can."

They ended the call without saying any more about the killing. He promised to call again that night.

Reino de Terror

The murder of Billy Ware served its purpose. The cutthroats working for Cardenas lingered briefly under the illusion that they would be rich from ransom, then had some fun cutting up the "gringo" officer. It was hard to tell which outcome was more enjoyable to them, but Cardenas was pleased. He knew enough about the American system to know that they would not pay extortion money, but his ignorant thugs would believe they were going to get wealthy and would keep trying to get more Agents alive. He had promised the captors they could split the money, which would be like a bonus.

Ware had been near death from infections and neglect, so waiting longer for the ransom would only mean a missed opportunity to shock Americans and scare the border patrol. He was pleased with the video.

He hired a professional crew to set up the audio and video equipment in the warehouse for the execution and told them to return the next day. He wanted the killing filmed late at night, and he played it on the social networks immediately. He brought six new machetes.

When Billy was brought before the camera, he could hardly stand. Still stripped to the waist, his head was uncovered. His eyes squinted involuntarily at the studio lights, but he was otherwise nonresponsive until the first man was instructed to cut him. It was a deep slice across Ware's back, which caused him to jump and scream. The circle of killers stayed in place as Ware tried to scramble free, but each movement was met with a blow from a long knife. They followed Cardenas' order and were careful to avoid a killing blow. After dozens of severe cuts to his upper body and legs, Billy fell to his hands and knees, pleading.

Cardenas increased the recording volume to be sure his sobs and words could be heard. He was also narrating portions in English, adding to the gruesomeness. After about five minutes of torture, Ware was lying on the ground with blood everywhere. He was sobbing weakly, which was about the only sign that he was still alive when Cardenas signaled one of the men to cut off his head. This evoked one final scream before a gurgling sound escaped from his severed windpipe. The man stood over Billy's body pulling upward on his hair as he began hacking at the back of the neck to cut the spinal bones. It took about a minute before the head was brought up to the camera, so close that the light was blocked out momentarily. All the Mexicans were soaked by blood spatters as the head was tossed around.

The American people were outraged. Border agents had been killed in the line of duty before, but none had been tortured over the internet. Every news service in the country converged on El Paso, and it was virtually impossible to avoid hearing the story over and over again.

The Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) was given no peace for days, following the killing. Americans wanted revenge. Not since September 11, 2001, had they been so united. Blood of the Mexican warlords was the only solution in most minds. Unfortunately, the country was already engaged in foreign wars, and the "War on Drugs" had been raging for over thirty years. Like most emotional outbursts, time would ultimately douse the flames of passion.

The news of Ware's obscene death caused Washington to explode with emotion. DHS had been outraged about their unfunded plight on the borders long before his death, but the rest of Government, particularly the Congress, had been unconcerned. When the President's budget was submitted each year, the Congressmen and Senators basically ignored the requests for more resources. The Secure Border Initiative (SBI) program that initially supplied billions of dollars for border security had been cancelled by the President. Not only that, funding for equipment and manpower outside SBI was cut. Adding insult to injury, the language from Congress, in the annual Appropriations Bill, put increasing pressure to stop illicit human and drug traffic. The DHS had no choice but to ignore the platitudes and ranting by members of Congress. They were simply trying to survive in an increasingly dangerous environment. They couldn't stop the flow of drugs as long as Americans demanded them. They couldn't stop the influx of Mexican workers who filled ten million jobs that Americans refused to do.

Hypocrisy was no more evident than in the Appropriations Sub-Committees that dispensed funding for pet projects to buy local votes at the expense of national needs. Congressmen had stopped representing their constituents and become professional politicians decades ago. The Congressional committees dispersed tax revenue for personal political gains, not the needs of the nation. Ironically, it was drug use and the laziness of the American people, their constituents, who created the killing fields along the Southern Border. The American population was publically outraged, but also responsible.

So, when the House Committee on Homeland Security demanded action by the Executive Branch, and DHS specifically, it was laughable because it offered none of the budget authority to enforce the laws. The President's reaction was to throw the National Guard into the breach at the same time they were exhausting manpower and equipment as part of the military in the "War on Terror." There was no consideration given to the amount of sacrifice that the state military and federal paramilitary personnel (Border Patrol and DEA) were expected to provide.

When Billy Ware was murdered in a public forum, the rage was vented on the Border Patrol. Indirectly, this also affected the National Guard soldiers in the trenches with them. It was outrageous to chastise the very soldiers, risking everything for unenforceable laws and, at the same time, criticize their agencies for failing to protect them in a hyper-hostile environment.

John Stokes was tempted to send an open letter to the New York Times inviting anyone critical to join them on the border. He went to bed midday, composing the words in his mind.

Chief Schmitt in El Paso Border Patrol Sector HQ took the brunt of the blame with the press, but was more worried about the reaction of his agents than his own career. He'd been with the Border Patrol for over twenty-five years and could wait out the public and the Congress. On the other hand, most of his young agents had fewer than five years in uniform. He remembered how strong emotions are at their age. He was more worried about the future than the past. One shot fired against the Mexicans could ruin someone's future.

Leo Moritz was resting in his apartment when his cellphone began chiming.

"Hello."

The man making the call said, "Hi, Leo." He recognized the voice and knew the man would not speak long, fearing being overheard.

"Yes, how are you?"

"Fine, look, I can't talk long so start writing."

He needed to get something to write on, "Hold on while I get a pen," putting the phone down momentarily.

He got back on line, wedging the small phone between his head and shoulder. "Shoot."

"Tomorrow ten thousand kilos of uncut cocaine by 'Freight Go!!' truck will be crossing the Puente Río Bravo Bridge." Two trucks, so watch the Mexican license numbers (he gave the numbers). The first is a decoy, so let it pass or the other will not come across."

"What time?"

"Don't know, but watch for escort cars with guards. This is a big shipment, and they'll shoot."

"Got it, but ... " the phone line went dead before he could say more.

Battle Zone

Peter watched the news and caught bits of dialogue and briefings at headquarters about the rising violence in Texas. After the torture and murder of Billy Ware, he became worried about Stokes.

Using his desk phone, he called John.

"Hey, buddy, what's going on?"

"Peter! It's good to hear from you."

"Yeah, well I was thinking about you with all the press coverage in your area."

"Right. It's pretty sporty down here. Are you jealous?"

"Who me? I'm just a bureaucrat now. So, seriously, how is it down there?"

"Major, it's a lot more hostile than we expected. This guy Hector Cardenas is one sick son of a bitch. He's not passively sneaking across. He's unleashed his dogs for full assault and doesn't end it at the border. We've got drug gang shootings north of the border in Tucson, Phoenix, Albuquerque and here."

"How did they get the Agent anyway?"

"He was trapped, deliberately. They used some migrants for concealment and had Cardenas' men overpower him at one of the desert outposts. It's got the troops pretty scared right now, so we're doubling up at most locations."

"Is that going to help?"

"I don't know. It's pretty lonely out there. The Mex's have spotters up in the mountains, using telescopes and radios to pinpoint our guys when they move around at night. In reality, two or three guys aren't a whole lot better than one, if the druggies are prepared. There's some intel at the Sector HQ that there's a bounty on our guys taken alive. It's got everyone jumpy."

"Why would the cartel risk getting us pissed and sending more troops?"

"I don't know. Maybe this guy Cardenas knows the American resources are tapped out and thinks our guys down here will back off."

Peter nodded in silent agreement, "Yeah, it's a strategy. This guy seems pretty savvy about our situation."

"He's new. His daddy was a monster with street smarts, but this new guy has taken brutality to a new level that seems to have a strategy behind it. He might be a lot smarter than we think."

"Look, John. I'm not in line to help you much, but let me know if you want me to talk to the staff when you think it's too hostile down there."

"Thanks, Peter. I know you've got my back as usual, so I'll keep it in mind. Would you do me a favor?"

"Sure, anything."

"Call Carolyn once in a while and let her think Washington is supporting us. She needs some hand holding."

"I'll do it, gladly."

"And, Peter ... if anything happens, please help her through it."

"Of course, John."

"Okay, then. Look I've got to get out there. So, thanks man. It's good to know you're there."

"You got it, pal. Keep your head down and eyes open!"

"Bye."

It was obvious to Peter that Stokes was affected by the treatment of Billy Ware. They all were. Peter was an operator all of his career, and it was hard to be in Washington without any connection to the troops in the field.

Hector Cardenas was delighted with the media reaction to his strategy with Billy Ware. He knew the Border Patrol would be scared and probably back off. He was so pleased that he offered a bounty for any American Border Patrol Agent or soldier brought to him alive.

Juarez was teaming with rival gang elements all trying to gain control of the drug trade. These battles were Cardenas' primary concern, even more than the Americans; but he had the help of the Mexican police and military keeping things under control. Paying so many people was expensive, but it was just the cost of doing business. By offering a bounty, some of the gangs would stop trying to steal his drug empire and go after the Americans. He offered $1,000 per head for any live agent brought to his people.

He smiled at the thought. In the meantime, his people were preparing for the largest drug shipment in history.

The Seizure

Mike Schmitt was taking personal control of the night's operation. Capturing ten thousand kilos of cocaine wasn't the largest shipment on record, but it was the largest shipment over land he knew about.

The DEA warned about the decoy truck and armed escort. During most of the day, traffic across the Bridges of America, a.k.a. Puente Río Bravo, was backed up for miles at the checkpoint, so cars and trucks with thousands of people would be stuck within range of gunfire. It took careful planning to avoid collateral damage.

Over one hundred personnel from Border, Customs, DEA, and El Paso Sheriffs, would be needed to carry out the seizure operation. The U.S. Customs Checkpoint has several northbound lanes where Mexico Highway 45 converges into U.S. I-110 about a quarter mile north of the border. They were not sure when the shipment would be made, so everyone needed to be on alert from midnight to midnight. This doubled the manpower assigned in twelve-hour shifts to avoid excessive fatigue.

Also, because the checkpoint was above the border, the spacing between the decoy and the real Freight Go!! Shipment would be at least a quarter mile behind, in Mexico. On a typical day, there were about six Freight Go!! trucks carrying produce and manufactured items crossing the border at this checkpoint. Part of the plan included Mexican spotters watching the spacing of the trucks.

There would be only a small number of remote desert outposts manned because so many agents were assigned to the seizure. Stokes was asked by Colson, after discussions with Schmitt, to assign only one troop to each Agent in two-man teams. He didn't like the idea of only two men at the outposts, but it was the only option. Some Border Agents would be alone otherwise.

At the Guard briefing, he told Gorman and the others, "Men, we're going to be spread thin tonight. A shit load of the Agents have been pulled away, and we're going to be in two man teams. Lt. Gorman, Sgt. Diaz and I will be mobile between your stations to give backup if you need it. I don't want you taking any chances out there. If you see anything suspicious call it in immediately, and we'll come. I don't care if it turns out to be a stray goat, don't take any chances."

There were some quiet acknowledgements, and the unit dispersed. John knew that they were all scared; they should be. He didn't like it, but this was just one night out of the year and he hoped it would pass peacefully.

With the men available, the Border Agents were only planning on six outposts over the sixteen-mile sector. The terrain was rough, with poor dirt roads, so three miles between posts was difficult to support. Gear was issued, and the soldiers departed at dusk teamed up with their Agent counterparts for their outposts. Stokes and the rest of the support team were mobile in a HMMWV, which could cover rough terrain better than any of the Border Patrol trucks. It was going to be a long night with shifts lasting eight hours, twice the normal duration.

As evening fell, Schmitt was tired and knew how all of the team must feel. A few Freight Go!! Trucks had checked through during the day, but they were spaced too far or too close to be the targets. The second team was just relieving the first when a cell call came to Schmitt.

"Talk to me."

In Spanish, the caller spoke in a hushed tone with the phone cupped near his mouth. There was a Freight Go!! truck crossing the bridge and another was approaching at about the right separation distance. The call ended quickly.

The Mexicans had scanners that listened to all law enforcement frequencies. They would be listening carefully when the drug carrier neared the border. Instead of radios, the plan was based on a phone-tree concept, using mobile phones to alert the Seizure team. They were set when the first truck could be seen at the middle of the bridge, creeping slowly with the traffic toward the U.S. checkpoint.

After calls began, Schmitt moved out of a building half a mile north of the checkpoint into his unmarked pickup truck to oversee the operation. No Government vehicles were parked within sight of the Seizure Zone. About thirty minutes later, he received an SMS message that the first truck had cleared into the U.S. He could see it through binoculars behind a long line of cars and trucks. It was beginning to accelerate and passed his location in less than a minute.

Tension grew as the responders braced for the second truck. Everyone was nervous. Mike wished they could have open communications so that he could give periodic radio checks and pep talks. It would be almost thirty minutes before the second truck exited the checkpoint. Everyone was counting the minutes; some were watching the seconds.

Traffic continued moving past, as they waited. With his binoculars, he saw the truck enter the U.S. Customs check gate with the crossing bar down. The Agents were briefed to ask routine questions, but not to detain the truck for any reason. The crossing bar stayed down about fifteen seconds longer than the surrounding lanes. When it raised, the truck began moving forward, and a few cars emerged from parallel gates before the bars were fixed in the down position as the plan went into motion.

The truck driver didn't notice the gap forming behind him as the last cars accelerated past him. It would take the truck over a minute to reach freeway speed. As he shifted through fifth gear, the road ahead was void of cars, and there were none coming from behind either. He continued to accelerate while looking in his mirrors. All the gates remained closed, including the car behind him with four compañeros. Through his binoculars, Mike could see the driver animatedly talking to his co-driver as the truck reached about thirty miles per hour.

Several trucks had been in the inspection line parallel to the crossing gates that started rolling immediately after the Freight Go!! truck cleared. They were all empty and could accelerate at twice the rate. Within five hundred yards of the gates, the trucks converged abreast behind the smuggler, forming a rolling blockade. At the same time, trucks ahead began slowing, forming a solid rolling blockade ahead.

Mike now used the radio to alert other team members simultaneously, as the blocking trucks narrowed the gaps and began slowing the procession. The Freight Go!! truck began billowing smoke as the driver began downshifting wildly, trying to find an opening but having to slow down quickly to avoid a collision. He could see a point ahead where dozens of law enforcement vehicles and SWAT were waiting.

Mike got an urgent call on the open radio channel that shots had been fired at the Customs gates and that a vehicle had crashed through the crossing bar. As the convoy passed slowly, he saw a Chevy van through his binoculars with Mexican license plates, coming fast. He made another radio call, and the rear doors of the trailing blockade trucks flung open with a dozen officers in full battle dress aiming M16s from behind sand bags.

Realizing, too late, that they had been ambushed, the driver turned the steering wheel sharply, flipping the van onto its side, tossing some of the occupants onto the street at high speed. It skidded into the medium with a loud crash, throwing the driver half way through the windshield. The blocking trucks had stopped, and armed SWAT officers jumped from the backs.

With the convoy completely stopped, the rear doors of all lead blocking trucks opened, showing the same SWAT force numbers as the rear trucks. The Mexican truck drivers raised their hands quickly, facing more than a dozen assault weapons.

Mike and several officers went to the back of the Freight Go!!, cutting the lock. The doors were opened carefully with several guns pointed inside. There were no guards inside the trailer.

A short time later in the desert, Stokes and all of the Border Agents received a radio call that the seizure was successful. All understood the significance. The publicity around the largest land seizure in history would help to dull the memory of Billy Ware. But the mood changed abruptly several minutes later when one of the outposts radioed that it was under attack. Diaz was driving the HMMWV and changed course to reach their men six miles away on the unimproved road. Two minutes later, the team under attack made a second call, and then a third call came from a different outpost.

Stokes got on the radio to Ysleta station, but the radio operator said they had no backup, everyone was at the truck stop. The operator called El Paso Sector station and got the same response. There was no time for anyone at the truck stop to get to the border outposts. Stokes, Gorman and Diaz were the only support anyone would get. He immediately called three outposts to abandon their locations and assist. All acknowledged, but it would be ten minutes, at least, before most would arrived.

At the truck stop, Schmitt's triumphant mood shifted when he learned they were being attacked at the outposts. He called the air operations desk and ordered the helicopter to his location ASAP. He would fly with three other agents to help.

Even as the HMMWV scrambled at dangerous speed along the edge of the canal toward the outpost, they could hear gunfire above their own vehicle noise. Stokes told Diaz to blast the horn, letting them know they were coming. It seemed to work as they got close to their men, gunfire ceased, and he could see two men, a soldier and the Border Officer in dark green. Both were sitting on the ground against the front tire of the white truck with guns beside them. Gorman and Stokes jumped from the truck before it stopped.

They ran to their men who were both wounded. Gorman had grabbed the first aid kit from the truck while Stokes and Diaz moved to the brush boundary. One dead barefoot Mexican was face down ten feet into the brush. It was dark, but Diaz signaled that he was going farther in to check in the direction of some moaning. Stokes covered, as Diaz disappeared in tall brush. In a moment, there was a distinctive M4 gun burst and Stokes charged, meeting Diaz coming out. The sergeant grinned, saying, "Poor soul, he still had his weapon in his hand."

Stokes walked out behind him toward the truck. "Did you ask him to drop it?"

Diaz showed a wry smile. "Of course I did. Poor guy, I don't think he understood English."

Stokes chuckled. As the injured men were stabilized, gunfire sounded about a mile away. Stokes told Gorman to wait for the helicopter and signaled Diaz toward the HMMWV.

They found the white USBP truck three minutes later. A Border Agent was dead, and the Guardsman was missing. Hundreds of 5.62mm (U.S. military M16 ammunition) shell casings littered the ground, but no one answered their calls. They received a radio call from the third hot zone. Two Americans were dead along with several dead Mexicans. He called all troops to rally at Gorman's location.

Hector Cardenas was at his mansion on the coast about to enter a Jacuzzi by his pool, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He had his cellphone to his ear and a glass of Champagne in the other. He was naked, as was the beauty waiting for him. He was so excited on the phone that his erection failed. He let out two loud hoots that distressed the house staff. This had been a perfect day!

He sat on the edge of the bubbling pool while his "friend" beckoned him in. She didn't speak English, and he gestured with his finger saying, "Uno momento, mi amante," while dialing a U.S. number. "Amigo, you are a wealthy man. Si, si." The dialogue ended, and he tossed the phone on a chaise and refilled his glass. He let out two more hoots before eagerly joining his bathing beauty.

Things couldn't have gone better. The Solidero Cartel had paid a dear price for defying his control of drugs passing through Juarez. Not only that, his shipment was even larger and had been allowed to pass freely through the checkpoint in the lead truck. The U.S. officials were also celebrating. The irony amused him. While the U.S. put all of its officers at the truck seizure, he also smuggled the largest shipment of uncut heroin in history by human pack train across open desert. Two shipments that equaled everything else during the year! As a side benefit, he also had a new U.S. soldier to use in his Reino de Terror.

He savored the moment and felt invincible.

Vitale

Rachael was still getting used to the routine of driving to work up the George Washington Parkway instead of using the Metro from Foggy Bottom station to the Pentagon. Her new Toyota Solara convertible had leather seats with that fresh new-car smell. She thought of her friend Hale Warner at NSA who had died on a beautiful Saturday like this morning on the GWP. There was no way to accept his death as an accident on the pristine scenic drive along the Potomac. Hale worked at NSA and was investigating Will Lawrence. There was also an attempt on her life at the same time that was probably arranged by Lawrence, but he was gone and now nothing could be proven. Peter was living with her at the time and had saved her life.

It was before seven in the morning, and a pale amber dawn formed a silhouette of the National Cathedral on the hilltop across the Potomac. On impulse, she turned into one of the vista lots for a few minutes. She would still be one of the earliest Deputy Directors at work.

She pointed the hood of her car toward the sunrise and stopped the engine. There were no others around this early. She had her morning tea in the console. Sipping it on the way to work was a calming ritual, something that helped with all her new responsibilities. Her staff was secretive and non-communicative.

As she sat sipping her Earl Grey, she felt something else. What was it? Then she recalled that this was the same turnout where she and Peter had strolled along the river several times months earlier. She thought often about him lately since their jobs no longer converged in defense matters. She missed him. She had once told him that she would always love him. Then she had broken their engagement.

Sipping more, she remembered the morning on the Eastern Shore when he proposed. She had arranged the weekend together, and he was so awkward asking her. She had fallen in love with him almost before they met. He had a special job in the Army that meant his personal records were kept in a security vault under her control. When she was first asked about him by an FBI investigator, she was amazed by the things he'd done in the Special Forces. He was a genuine hero many times over and still the nicest, most caring, person she had ever known. Men had chased her since college, but Peter wasn't like any of them. He was shy. She had had to get his attention before he would even speak to her on a personal level.

He hadn't had a girlfriend since high school and was completely involved with his career in the Army. She was the only person that he let enter his shell, and it had been the most profound experience for her. He would talk to her without any seductive motive, yet he was passionate at the right times. They were both in love, and it had crushed her to break off the engagement. None of the men she ever dated had connected with her like Peter. If she were to diagram their cognitive stockpiles of experiences, education, political upbringing and social agendas, they were polar opposites. To her, this also made them a perfect pair.

She had a good reason to break up with him. His last exploit happened with a total disregard for her. He could partition his life in two pieces: the Army and the life they shared together. At least, it had seemed that way at the time. Had she been unfair? She loved him, but couldn't risk being heartbroken if he was killed in some faraway place, never to be reported – another training accident. The worst of it was that he had volunteered to go into Iran on a covert mission to kill a state official to stop transfer of money embezzled in a plot developed by Will Lawrence. Her boss, General Simmons, had recruited Peter, who then volunteered, without ever discussing it with her. He was nearly killed and the terror of it caused her to break their engagement after he returned. Sipping her cup dry, she drove on to the Agency.

In the office, she opened an email from Jamie Montes stating, "Rachael, I got an emergency call re. SC project and went back in country. I know you'll understand. This is the way we do things in operations. See you in a few/JR"

Jamie knew her cellphone number yet hadn't called her. The coward had decided to jump ship again and was obviously avoiding her. Did he really expect to outlast her in the Department? She remembered General Simmons' caution. Maybe the weasel was clever enough to pull off a shell game and get her dismissed or reassigned. He had been in the Agency longer than most of the senior staff and was an Army-trained bartering artist.

The Sandcastle meeting had been a farce. The file was either purged or deliberately void of useful facts. All she really learned was that the CIA was paying off a lot of informants to track people heading to America through Central America and Mexico. There was a hint of a terror camp developing somewhere in Southern Mexico, but he didn't provide any details, only that it was touchy, balancing relations with drug merchants. He didn't identify who received payments or what intelligence was gained. The "War on Terror" rationale was adequate explanation from his point of view. After two hours of circuitous dialogue without answers, she'd been planning to corner him with specific questions today, but he'd slipped away over the weekend.

She called the Director's office and asked for a meeting about Project Sandcastle. To her surprise, Vitale agreed to meet with her right away.

When she arrived on the first floor, he invited her inside immediately. In a chipper mood, he said, "Good morning, Rachael. What a fine day! Can I get you anything?"

She started to speak when he interrupted, "Did you hear on the news that the President asked the Senate for a voice vote on my ratification?" He was animated.

"No, Sir, I hadn't heard it, but I'm sure it's a forgone conclusion."

"Rachael, call me Sandy. I want you to think of me as a friend as well as your boss."

Sandy Vitale was a colossal figure on Capitol Hill. He was known for earmarking every bill under his control and he traded funds quid pro quo with other house members like it was a Turkish bazaar. He also had a reputation as a philanderer. Fortunately, Rachael had been pursued by every type of male animal in existence and was an expert at repelling unwanted affections.

She crossed her legs under her skirt, catching his attention. "Sure, Sandy. I'd like to know your take on the Sandcastle Project."

"Well, sure. I've been watching it since the beginning on the Hill. Had to fund the damn thing, you know."

"Yes, that's why I'm here. The department files don't say much, and I'm trying to understand it."

"Is Jamie giving you a hard time?"

"Yes, he is. Do you know him?"

"Not from my time here, but he always came with my predecessor to the Hill when we marked up the Appropriations Bill. He's kind of slippery, but I was able to nail him down pretty good when I held the checkbook." He had an unbreakable smile and was only paying partial attention. He seemed to enjoy watching her legs more than anything she was saying.

Rachael shifted posture and reversed her legs, keeping Sandy's attention, "So, how much intelligence value comes from paying tribute to drug lords in Mazatlan?"

"Well, let me think about that. Hmm, as I recall, he gets a record of who's coming and going across Central America, but he also has the 'native' folks geared up to squash these guys when we're ready. It seems the drug lords don't pay as well as we do."

"So for now, the cartels get paid by both sides?"

"Well, sort of. We pay them money, sure, but we sometimes help open the borders a bit now and then to cross without harassment, just enough to keep them happy -- nothing serious, just enough to keep the natives happy." He was smiling, but not looking at her face.

She stared at him for a moment, "You mean we're helping smuggle drugs?"

"Oh, now, don't look at it that way. We're saving taxpayers money 'cause the payoffs are lower."

"So let me understand. We pay the drug traffickers and also help their smuggling trade. I didn't get that from JM."

"Well, he's not going to be so forthcoming. He doesn't trust anyone, you know. Just hands out the cash and provides a little help, crossing the border. He only gives one drug lord that kind of help."

"Can I ask who that is?"

"Look, like I said. Jamie M doesn't trust any of us, so we can't tell anyone outside of you and me. This is the CIA, and we both signed oaths. Can't betray the trust."

"So, who are we helping?"

"Like I said, it's only one guy at one location."

"Who is it?" She was being insistent.

"His name is Cardenas. That's all I know. We don't even have a picture of him."

Nothing more was accomplished that day. She left shortly after the last person in her office walked out. On the way home, before sundown, she stopped at the vista overlook again. She needed to think alone. There were two other cars in the lot, but no one was visible. She decided to walk down the path to the bench she had shared with Peter.

At the same time, Peter was showering at the Gym when she called. After dressing, he put his gear in the bag and saw the red light blinking on his cellphone. Rachael had left a message. They hadn't talked for more than a week, and his heart picked up a beat. He called her immediately.

When she answered, he said, "Hi, I see that you tried calling me?"

She had just gotten home, "Yeah. I just stopped to take in the view from our perch along the Potomac -- the one across from the Cathedral. I just felt like talking to you while I was there."

"Oh, ah, sorry. I was finishing my workout."

"Hmm, so you're all cleaned up?"

"Ah, yep."

There was a pause, and he let out a deep breath waiting for her response.

"You want to come over for dinner?" Her voice seemed a little hesitant.

He couldn't believe she said it. Neither could she, almost wondering if she'd regret it.

He tried to control his excitement, "Sure, ah, what can I bring -- correction, let me bring some steaks."

"Sounds good. Come quickly. I'm starving."

He sprinted out of the Gym, nearly running through the glass door. She put a bottle of white wine in the ice drawer and opened a bottle of red to let it breathe. She decided not to put on any music. She wasn't sure if this was a good idea, or if it sent a signal they would both regret.

The Best and Worst

It took all day to collect evidence and clean up the mess on the border. The helicopter searched for the missing man, and two Mexican bodies were seen from the air. They were wounded and left by comrades in the desert for the animals.

During the cleanup operation, Stokes stood near Mike Schmitt who said, "You know, John, this has been my best day and worst day in uniform after twenty years. Go figure."

"I know what you mean, Mike. I get to write a couple letters to families, too."

"Yeah, something's going on though. Taking your man doesn't do any good and my guys just want to kill someone."

"Yeah. Well, my troops are war vets, and they know how to kill first and sort out the good guys afterward. We could have even bigger problems if this becomes a shooting war."

Schmitt shook his head. Throughout his career, most of the work had been about saving lives. Workers trying to get across into America were always taking chances against exposure, animals, starvation, or bandits, just to make enough money to support their families. Most of the Border Agents were humanitarians. He was also worried that innocent people would now die in large numbers.

He asked the leaders from every agency to meet back at Headquarters for debriefing. Stokes, Gorman, Diaz and one of the surviving Guardsmen drove back in the HMMWV without talking. They had lost two men that day. Stokes was determined to get one back alive. The day ended by recounting events that everyone already knew. It was a solemn meeting.

Late in the afternoon of the following day, everyone convened in the briefing room as their normal routine before going on patrol. Schmitt came in ten minutes late carrying a copy of an email. He moved to the podium and just stared at everyone. He looked down a second time and slowly shook his head. After another moment he began, "Unbelievable, unbelievable. This is a note ... " He couldn't speak immediately and had to pause.

"This is another message from Cardenas. It says they're gonna kill someone as another spectacle. If you want to read what this sick bastard says, I'll leave it up here." Mike looked withered, but remained strong in front of the officers. "I'm going to talk to Washington. This has got to stop!"

He walked away from the podium, signaling that the meeting was over before it began. LTC Colson talked to the Guard officers while the group was dispersing. "I'm going to ask for more manpower, but I don't think the Guard has any more to give. We can probably get some pressure on the DoD to give us some troops from Bliss, but it isn't a long-term solution. We lost a couple of ours yesterday, at least one is dead. How can we keep our guys safe?"

No one had any answers. Gorman spoke first, "Look, Colonel, this is bullshit, if you'll excuse my language. Our guys are getting killed and possibly tortured by Mexican bastards. The U.S. has got to respond. We did it before, and we ought to do it again."

In 1917 General "Black Jack" Pershing had led the "Mexican Expedition" against Pancho Villa after attacks by the bandit's gang into Texas and New Mexico.

She responded, "Look, Lieutenant, I'm as upset as anyone, but Mexico is a sovereign country and diplomats have to work it out. I'm certainly not declaring war on Mexico."

Gorman persisted, "We went into Laos and Pakistan and other places when our troops were threatened without permission from the Governments. Let's go into Juarez and kick some ass."

She came back, "Rick, I'm as upset as you are. I'll work the Government channels and see what I can do. In the meantime, you men are ordered to stand down."

Stokes hadn't said anything, but felt exactly as Gorman -- they all did.

They broke up, and Stokes agreed to meet Gorman at the Officer's Club at Ft. Bliss later that evening.

Dinner

Peter arrived about an hour after Rachael's call. She was dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, and he was dressed the same.

He'd lived with her for several months when he transferred to Washington from Illinois. It felt awkward returning as a visitor after their separation, and he waited to be invited in. She glanced into his eyes momentarily, then gestured him into the kitchen. Both felt strange in their new relationship. He hadn't been there in months, yet it was all familiar. Peter was guarded about presuming much. She helped his uneasiness saying, "Everything is where it always was, so go to work. I'm starving."

"Sure. Is there charcoal for the grill?"

"I haven't used it for a few months, so there should be."
He placed the groceries on the counter and went out the back.

Through the open window she said, "I'll make the salad, do you want to grill potatoes?"

"Yep. I brought some along with a large yellow onion to grill."

"Wow, really planning ahead, soldier!" She was finding it difficult to moderate the dialogue.

She started pulling vegetables from the refrigerator, enjoying having him there again.

Rachael joined him on the small porch with two glasses of Pinot Grigio, as he lit the coals. She knew he would prefer beer, but wine fit her mood.

He took the glass, smiled and looked into her eyes, but she deflected quickly. He resisted the urge to put his arms around her. Their prior relationship wasn't built on impulse. If they were ever to regain any intimacy, there were still tough issues. She clinked glasses saying, "Here's looking at you, kid." The old Bogie line had just the right amount of neutrality to warm the moment, but not tip over the edge.

The rest of the evening went by quietly. It wasn't a first date, but it had signs of a new relationship: at least, he hoped so. Around ten, it was time to go. He sensed, or hoped, that she wanted him to stay longer. As he started to rise, she wanted to talk. He sat back saying, "Rachael, this was wonderful." He looked away for a moment, and when she didn't respond, he added, "Hon, is there something you want to tell me?"

Like their lunch a few weeks earlier, apprehension overtook him. She seemed to understand. "Peter, I just wanted to be with you tonight. That's all."

Taking her hand, he said, "I don't want to get melancholy, but I hope we can do this again."

She kissed his cheek, then rose to signal time was up. Leading him to the door, she'd decided not to burden him with her office problems. The night had been a more than she expected, maybe a new beginning.

He gripped her hand and said goodnight.

Border Violence

The killing of Billy Ware infuriated the American public. Around Washington, meetings between U.S. and Mexican officials were happening throughout the week. In Mexico City, the Ambassador called on the President of the country. Some U.S. Government people, mostly Congressmen, made threats of possible invasion if it was necessary to stop the violence along the border.

In response, Mexican officials were furious. They blamed the violence north and south of the border on American drug demand. The cartels had moved into all of the border towns and major cities across Mexico. More than five thousand people had been killed in Juarez this year alone, and the number was growing twenty percent annually. The sole reason in the minds of the Mexicans was America's righteous hypocrisy. The only reason the violence existed was American drug laws, which conflicted with the underlying demand of the population. The violence affected Mexicans more than "Norte Americanos."

Four thousand Federal Police and the Mexican Army's 3rd Brigade of Military Police were attempting to resist the bloodthirsty syndicates along the border. At least the Mexican Government was making the case. The government was corrupt at the highest levels, and there was little anyone could do against the powerful cartels. America spent hundreds of billions of dollars trying to keep the lawlessness below the border, while Mexican officials fought the outlaws from the south. At the same time, American citizens continued spending billions for recreational drugs, no matter how blood soaked. The result was an explosive environment that left the Northern Mexican towns as battle zones with both sides pointing to the other for solutions.

Mexico pleaded with the American Government to legalize and control drug use, or do something to curb demand. Repeal of the prohibition laws eventually stopped the violence in the 1920s and '30s when booze smuggling created the same conditions. In the early days of Prohibition, the Americans used the Border Patrol mostly for illegal immigration control, so violence against Agents had been largely avoided. Violence on the Mexican side between warring booze smugglers, however, was similar to the current situation.

The bottom line was that the Mexican government could do nothing more to stop the flow, while trying to protect its citizens. Most public officials in Mexico were either benefiting monetarily from the drug trade or were dead trying to stop it.

Agency Ambush

Shortly after arriving at work, Cybil received a message that Director Vitale was calling a staff meeting. She told Rachael that she'd been summoned. When she arrived down stairs, Jamie Montes was sitting by the table. She hadn't seen him for a week.

Vitale was agitated and didn't engage in any of his usual friendly foreplay speaking to his staff. "Okay, you all heard the news about the border agent killed on the Internet. Don't tell me any of you smart intelligence people didn't."

He'd obviously been accosted by someone in authority.

Addressing Rachael first, "Well Ms. DDO of Mexico, et al, tell me what went wrong that got an American butchered on YouTube!"

She wanted to come across the table and grab his necktie but responded instead with restraint, "Sir, what do you think we had to do with it?"

He shot back, "We pay millions a year to the cartel boss in Juarez, and you don't see! You're trying my patience, Ms. Aston. If you don't see it, I'll damn well find someone who does!"

Jamie Montes had a serious scowl on his face, staring directly at Rachael without saying a word. Several of the people in the room were looking down at the table, but Vitale's vitriol remained directed at her. He had not been confirmed in his new position yet. He still had enemies in the Senate.

She retorted, "Director Vitale, you and I have discussed this. You know that I've been sidestepped since my arrival (looking at Montes momentarily), so I'm not going to accept the responsibility for what goes on under Project Sandcastle."

Vitale shot back, "Don't mention specific classified projects here. We aren't set up for that this morning."

She continued, "Fine, so let's talk about the only project in Mexico that has millions of dollars going to Hector Cardenas."

"Ms. Aston, you have been warned. We will not discuss it here!"

"Mr. Director, we sure as hell will. You threw it in my face with your opening remarks, so it's on the table."

Montes remained silent, but was looking less smug as Rachael held her ground. Men commonly misjudged her.

Vitale turned red and started to pound his fist on the table but checked it, looking at Montes, "So what have you got to say about this!"

Montes looked less self-assured when confronted by the Director instead of his boss.

"Well, Sir. As you know, I've been in the field meeting with individuals one would logically connect with these acts. On the other hand, my dialogue with them involves fighting the War on Terror, and I've never claimed that our efforts were aimed anywhere else."

Rachael interjected, "You mean that your dealings with these cutthroats are one dimensional? We're the United States, and these people are getting blood money from us. How can you say it's not our business?"

Montes looked at her, "Simple. My project is fighting the War on Terror in Mexico. Drugs are not our business."

She responded in terse language, "Look, you actually help these guys sneak drugs into the U.S. as part of their payment. Don't you get the moral connection?"

He responded in a relaxed tone, "Why, Rachael. This isn't me. Don't personalize it. It's the CIA. I will not demean the organization by responding to your innuendo."

She looked back at Vitale saying, "There's your answer, sir. The CIA is playing a balancing act, aiding the drug trade in exchange for help with the War on Terror."

He started to speak as she continued, "Frankly, Sir, we, us, seem to be balancing a moral and legal imperative against an illusion of threat of terrorists in Mexico. I, for one, would like to have a complete re-appraisal of our mission objectives under the un-named project."

Vitale responded, "Uh, this is a fine breakfast discussion, but it's off the mark. I want to know what we could've done, and where the dike cracked."

Exasperated, Rachael answered, "The CIA does not seem to have appropriate intelligence in Mexico. It's not our mission, apparently."

Vitale shot back, "Well, I can't say that. I'm going to call it a flaw in our management, and something we will correct. That will be all, Ms. Aston."

She started to speak but Vitale rushed from the room. She planned to talk to Montes in her office, but he quickly exited down a different corridor and disappeared.

Meanwhile, in his office with the door closed, Sandy Vitale made a call from his cellphone to a familiar number. When answered, he said, "We seem to have it under control ... yes, have a pigeon, if we need one." The call ended with no more dialogue.

Carolyn

Peter was awash with conflicting emotions in the office. On the one hand, he wanted to continue savoring the memory of the night with Rachael. He thought he had a fighting chance to win her back, but it would take time and no more heroics on his part. On the other hand, the border situation for John Stokes was getting worse. He needed to talk to him, but it would be several more hours before he would normally wake up for night duty. He busied himself in the office for a few hours, then his phone rang. He answered, "Major Shields."

Her voice was weak. "Peter, please don't tell John I called."

"Carolyn?"

"I just needed to talk to someone."

He sat down and turned away from the door, "Sure, anytime, what's up?"

"Peter, that agent that was cut up on the net, he's from John's region. They got attacked night before last night, and some of John's men were shot. One was taken away. I'm so scared."

He felt almost as close to Carolyn as John. "What's he been telling you, Carolyn?"

"Oh, you know. Don't worry. I'm careful. That kind of stuff. Peter, it's worse than we thought when he went down there. What can I do?"

He wished there was an answer, "Look, Carolyn. I talk to John pretty often, and it is dangerous down there, but he's trained and equipped to handle it." He wished this was enough of an answer, but knew the situation was getting worse.

"Is the Government doing anything to help them?"

"Yes, of course. Everyone in Washington saw the news, too. If John needs anything, he can request it through channels, and you know I'll do everything within my power to help."

She was sobbing quietly. "I know. I just feel so helpless. I don't want the girls growing up without him."

"Neither do I. I won't let that happen!" He regretted his outburst, as quickly as he said it but couldn't get it back. He had just guaranteed his friend's safety -- something no soldier could do.

"Thank you, Peter. I needed to talk to someone, and you're the best person I know."

They ended the call, and he stared at the wall, worried about John but also thinking about the promise he'd made to his friend to watch out for Carolyn if anything happened to him. Between his broken love life and impossible promises, he was digging deep -- again.

The O-Club

Gorman was waiting at the Bar when Stokes arrived. Both wore civilian clothes. He sat down beside his Lieutenant and ordered a beer.

After some short quips about life on post, Stokes asked, "Tell me, Rick, what's it like in your real job?"

He chuckled. "About like this. I'm a State Trooper detailed in southern New Mexico. Do a lot of traffic stops of Mexicans who turn out to be illegals or drug smugglers." He took a quick swig from his beer.

"Any hostiles?"

"Yeah, once in a while. I've been at it about three years out of the Corps and probably drawn my weapon about eight to ten times."

"Ever use it?"

"Not yet. I don't usually get near anything suspicious without backup. Most of the people I catch are harmless. Sometimes they're high or drunk and just want to be macho. If they show a weapon or get aggressive, they usually drop it pretty quick with our lights and loud voices. Sometimes we have takedowns."

"So what do you think? Are these people here on the border the same guys you catch on the Interstates?"

"Most of these are okay, just looking for jobs. But the bad Mexicans are extremely violent \-- sadists. I don't get how humans can be like these guys.

"Yeah, they're real animals."

Both officers were drinking quickly, so they decided to go to a table for dinner. Neither one wanted to get drunk in front of the other.

They talked a little about their families. Stokes was older with two girls, and Gorman had only been married for less than a year. They wanted kids, but nothing, yet.

As dinner arrived, Stokes said, "Look, Rick, what can we do to get our guys back?"

Rick asked, "Do you think Washington will help?"

Cutting into his rare steak, Stokes replied, "I don't know what they can do. There's no more manpower. We've tapped out the military and money for homeland protection. The economy is in the dumper, and an election is coming up. I don't think anyone's got a secret stash of people and cash that will help. I expect that we'll hear about such-and-such meeting with so-and-so and a lot of demands and fingers being pointed across the border, but nothing will happen, and the news will drop it pretty fast until another guy gets sliced and diced."

Rick put down his fork. "What if we volunteered to work with the Federales in Juarez? You know, sort of a good will effort, only we'll make the beaners actually do something. I bet some of the Mex military know where our guys are. Maybe they're even bad guys in off hours."

"Hmm, you don't seem to respect their Government much."

"Experience, man, experience."

Stokes wasn't anxious to go into Mexico, but agreed to a point with Gorman. He offered, "I can talk to the Colonel, but I don't think she'll want us going across the border. It's worth a try though."

They finished dinner and had another beer before returning to quarters for an a few hours of rest.

Avoiding Rachael

After the meeting with Vitale, Montes went to visit a friend in the basement archives, avoiding Rachael. He called Cybil to check Rachael's schedule and went back to his office during the times when she was in meetings. He disappeared just before lunch then came back when she was busy again. He could say he was in his office most of the day. This game went on all day until she left for the evening. And then he spent the night cleaning out his desk and files, putting most in marked boxes for security inspection. CIA procedures made it impossible to take boxes out of the building without clearance.

He had successfully hidden his scheme from others for several years when Will Lawrence was Director. There had been some earlier reports generated after Sept. 11, 2001 about the threat of Al-Qaeda setting up camps in Mexico and Central America.

While it was true that several splinter groups were funneling people through South American airports and finding transport to the Mexican border towns, there were actually no large camps. At most, two or three companions would stay together while migrating north, but there were no permanent locations or training activities.

Jamie had been able to build the façade following antiquated intelligence models going back to the First World War. At the beginning of the twentieth century, there was still a popular belief in Mexico that property ceded to the Americans during their invasion of 1848 could be repatriated. The Germans actually sent envoys and arms to raise a diversionary army to invade Texas in order to reclaim the land. The plan wasn't successful before the war ended, but the intelligence reports that followed scared many Government officials. Through this legacy, the CIA maintained close vigil over Mexico. Montes had inherited the responsibility at an opportune time, based on world hysteria over Islamic radicals invading our continent.

It had been a simple matter to re-invent the threat model once created by the Germans. It was entirely plausible. Montes had developed the program plan then managed to control all information (intelligence) from the region. Based on his preference to manage from the field, he spent most of his time away from headquarters, filing reports via email, including pictures and names of fictitious people. As the only "spy" on the ground, in charge of managing his own program at Langley, he had the perfect scheme.

He could retire in comfort on the coast of Baja California where he had family roots and owned property. But with Rachael Aston snooping around, it was only a matter of time before she discovered incriminating evidence against him. After Vitale's lashing, she would be diving deep into his business.

Integrity

Sandy Vitale had much larger responsibilities than Rachael Aston's "Americas" region. The CIA had projects all over the globe and spent billions of dollars in the war zones: Yemen, Somalia, Iran and dozens of other countries. He regretted slamming her about Mexico, but he needed a scapegoat. He'd been in Washington all of his career and understood survival techniques better than anyone.

Mexico represented a unique problem. Someone interested in damaging his career could make it appear that he had conflicting interests with the country. With over twenty years in Congress, he had taken advantage of lucrative honorariums and other perks, like his peers, but that was behind him now. He had also made enemies. The largest problem hanging over him was his property in La Paz, where he planned to retire someday. He wished he had never taken the gifts from Montes.

It was an innocent land deal that anyone else in his position would have taken. Montes had a huge tract of prime coastal property that was becoming popular with wealthy Americans looking for ocean-front property at cheap prices. Building was booming and land prices were climbing at triple-digit rates. Montes had made him aware of his property and his desire to sell part of it, following one of the lengthy meetings they had when he first introduced the "Sandcastle" project to the Intelligence Committee that Vitale chaired. Vitale got five acres of beach front property deeded to him after funding Montes' project. Montes had risen fast in the Agency, and Vitale wanted to encourage him in his new position. In the years after that, deeds to more acres came to him in the mail, following each Project Sandcastle renewal. Now, looking at it from one of the most prestigious positions in Washington, he should never have accepted the first gift. At the time, it had cost Montes almost nothing, Vitale rationalized, considering the paper-gains made each year on Montes's remaining estate, which far exceeded the cost of the little land gifted to him.

Vitale had always rationalized that he didn't approve any funding because of the gift. The project was worthy on its own merits. He knew Montes was trying to gain favor, but he rationalized to himself that you couldn't buy his signature on the committee report. He had too much integrity, which was the reason the President, his friend and former colleague, appointed him to the CIA.

But the real prize of his relationship was the introduction to Hector Cardenas before he inherited his father's empire. Vitale had questioned Montes severely in the House Intelligence Committee when funds were getting unusually tight. During the meeting, Montes reluctantly disclosed that he was developing a source within the Cardenas Cartel that would someday be important. Montes refused to name his contact, but Cardenas agreed to meet with the powerful Congressman anyway, if it could be done privately. He was flown to Washington by the CIA for a secret meeting that only Vitale and Montes attended with Cardenas.

Nobody, at that time, knew how fast Alejandro Cardenas would secure power by killing off his rivals, or that the overland distribution under his control would become the primary smuggling channel into the States, bringing billions into his hidden bank accounts. The money and drugs were not important. The main thing was that smuggling of any sort, including Islamic men, would all fall under this man. It seemed ironic that Cardenas senior would be killed in an ambush set up by the DEA, and the man Vitale had met was now head of the most powerful gang in Mexico. He was more powerful than Mexico's President. That connection, the ability for Vitale to call Hector at any moment, made all the funds channeled through Montes worth it to the United States. Someday, that connection would be important. Vitale was convinced it was all true.

Still, it bothered him that people could get the wrong impression about the land, and he couldn't risk an investigation while still waiting for Senate confirmation. He needed to remain above suspicion. If the Mexican situation blew up, Rachael was tee'd up and ready to be fired! He had the recording of the meeting.

Retirement Plan

Cardenas was at his mansion in the mountains overlooking Mexico City. Like most hot days, air pollution formed a sea of gray-brown muck below his vista, with occasional snowy mountain peaks piercing the surface. At his hacienda built above eight thousand feet, the air was clear although quite thin. He was accustomed to it.

He was on the veranda when his senior body guard brought him a phone. The guard knew to remain out of earshot, or risk death, so he immediately left while Cardenas waited to press the talk button, "Hello."

The conversation remained in English, partly to confuse the illiterate staff working for him. "Yes, mi amigo especial, I was thinking that it is time for us both to retire. We have played every deception possible to confuse the American DEA forces, but I do not think it is healthy, or necessary, to go further. I am wealthy many times over and can retire in luxury. You are also well-to-do."

After listening a bit, "Yes, we will continue with the plan, and you will get the final reward."

Listening further, he said, "I do realize that none of this was possible without you, so rest assured that our bargain will be fulfilled. Our last grand shipment will pass into the states soon."

"Yes, yes, for sure. Hasta la vista."

It was always their custom to talk for less than one minute to avoid interception of their conversations. He smiled at how little contact two people could have, yet accomplish so much. He would miss his associate, yet he knew when to leave the business. He would eventually be killed like his father if he lingered too long. There were no old drug lords. His father had outlived all of his contemporaries, but Hector would not attempt to beat the odds. He was wealthier and smarter than any drug smuggler in Mexico, which was enough.

Suspicion

By mid-afternoon, Rachael had been seething long enough, and it was clear that Montes was avoiding her. She walked out of her office, and Cybil asked where she was going, in her typical warden voice. Rachael ignored her, suspecting that she would call ahead to warn that she was coming.

She found Vitale alone in his office on the first floor. "Sir, may I talk to you."

He removed his reading glasses and shoved a memo aside as though perturbed, "What is it, Rachael?"

"Sir, I'd like to talk to you about this morning and particularly about Mr. Montes."

"Look, Rachael, I've known Jamie Montes for many years, ever since this program got started, when I was in Congress. He and I spent a lot of time together, and you need to get your facts straight."

She stepped closer, "See, that's the problem. You keep diverting attention away from him making me feel foolish. I don't get it? You know I haven't been read on to the project."

"Well, that's your problem. As for me, I think Jamie is doing a fine job."

At that point, she noticed a picture on his credenza behind him. It was captioned "La Paz."

"All right, maybe I'm just frustrated. I'll give it some more effort. Say, is that the Gulf of Mexico?" She was pointing at the picture.

"Ah, yes. I bought a piece of land there a few years back. Now, if that's all Rachael, I'm planning a trip and need to get things prepared here."

When she got back to her office, Cybil announced that Montes had come and gone, taking pleasure in the cat and mouse game between them. Rachael was certain that Cybil was advising Montes. She ignored her again.

She left the office early and called Peter from her car. "Hi, can you meet me at the Parkway overlook?"

He said he would be there in thirty minutes.

Her car was near the center of the parking lot when he parked his Ford Explorer beside it. The small lot was only fifty yards off of the parkway, but the heavy forest around made it impossible to see inside while driving past. She was waiting a short distance away along the pathway above the Potomac. He was still in his Army uniform.

They said "hi," then she took his hand and started leading down the path toward "their" bench. He didn't say anything. When they sat for a moment, she stared at the scenery, then glanced at him before taking a deep breath and looking downward. He remained silent until she said, "Look, Peter, this is all wrong on many levels. I could go to prison for even talking to you."

He looked at her obliquely and said, "Rachael, you didn't invite me here because you distrust me. Something's wrong, so spit it out."

"You know who Sandy Vitale is, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"I think he's got something going on in Mexico."

"Something like what?"

"I think he might be involved with this guy in my department, siphoning money out of one of my projects. They might even be working with the drug smugglers."

He looked out over the river and sighed, "This is serious stuff, Rachael, what makes you think so?"

"Just a lot of inferences based on behavior -- secret agendas -- that kind of stuff. They're both single and don't have any family anymore, at least in the States. I don't know who my guy might have in Mexico."

"Is he Mexican? I know Vitale isn't."

"He was born to Mexican nationals in the U.S. He served in the Army for a full career then went into the Company about eight years ago."

"You think they're gay?"

"No way. Vitale lifts every skirt he comes near."

He looked straight ahead for a moment, trying to figure out how he could help her. She was reaching out to him for the first time since their breakup.

"Look, honey, do you want me to check into the Army guy? I can probably get at his records." He used the term of endearment accidentally and looked away.

She didn't respond negatively saying, "Maybe that would help. It's a little hard for me. I think they watch everything I do, and my admin girl is a Nazi."

"Okay, tell me his name and anything else you know about him."

Via Con Dios John

Stokes had a difficult time sleeping after talking to Gorman at the club. Rising before five, he abbreviated his morning run and was on his way to El Paso Headquarters by seven after a quick breakfast at a local doughnut shop. He wanted to meet with LTC Colson first thing. When she wasn't at the office yet, he sat in her cubicle, feeling conspicuous. She arrived about eight-thirty.

He stood at attention when she entered, but she signaled him to relax immediately. "Good morning, Captain, you either got up awfully early for someone on the night shift, or you worked late."

"Hello, Ma'am. I wanted to talk to you and couldn't sleep."

She pressed the button to start her computer, probably sensing it was going to be a tough discussion. "Okay, so tell me."

"Ma'am, I was wondering if we could talk privately."

"Yeah, sure, Captain. Let's go find an empty room." She led the way.

He followed her down the nearest corridor to a small unfurnished office that only had a couple chairs. Closing the door after he entered, she asked, "Okay, now tell me what's so important?" She knew all the troops were edgy.

"Ma'am, I want to do something to find the missing men."

She looked at him sternly before answering. "And what would that be?"

"I don't know exactly. Gorman and I were talking, and we want to go into Mexico and see if we can find them, maybe working with the Federales."

"You and Gorman, my only two JO's (Junior Officers)? What are you thinking? We have an assigned mission here, and it's damn hard to do. I'm losing soldiers and need you running the ops!"

"Ma'am, if not with Gorman, let me go alone. Gorman will handle the men. I want to go after our guys." John had responded on impulse, forgetting Carolyn and the girls.

"Look, Captain. I understand how you feel, but you have a wife and kids to think about. There's no way to protect you once you cross the border. We don't even trust the Federales. Money talks down there, and most of the people you would work with could be getting paid by the cartels. Have you talked to your wife about this?"

"Ma'am, I understand the risks, and no, I won't talk to my wife because it would only upset her and won't change my mind."

Her stern gaze remained fixed on him for several moments before she said, "All right. I'll check with DEA and some other folks to see if it can be arranged."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

He left feeling apprehensive. Was this the dumbest thing he had ever volunteered for? He couldn't help reflecting on his time as an enlisted man way down the totem pole. The men taken by the Mexicans would be wondering if anyone was doing anything to save them. They knew what was in store. He couldn't live with himself thinking that he didn't even try to save them. He dreaded telling Gorman that he was out. He dreaded telling Carolyn even more.

Several hours later, Colson called the Ysleta Station and instructed Stokes to come back to sector headquarters. When he got there, he met first with her. "Look, John, we're going to have a meeting with a Commander from the Mexican Federal Police and Leo Moritz (DEA Supervisor). Leo coordinated your request. The Federales will have some specific instructions, but I wanted to advise you not to say anything to them about our operations. This officer might be totally legit, but the less known about our side the better. Is that clear?"

He was eager to move out, "Yes, Ma'am."

After that explanation, he followed her to the main conference room where he was introduced to Commandante Gilberto Sanchez. After polite introductions, all were seated at the table. Sanchez didn't seem eager to be there.

LTC Colson opened the meeting by characterizing Stokes' request, embellished slightly by giving it her endorsement. Leo said, "Captain, Commandante Sanchez has accepted your kind offer to provide assistance to their search for our people, but there are several restrictions that must be imposed. I personally want to advise you that you will not be protected in any way by American forces, and that, as a self-volunteered action, you'll have minimal diplomatic support. You cannot carry arms and must dress in civilian clothes only. You will follow the orders of Commandante Sanchez or his delegates at all times. You have no jurisdiction. Is all of this clear?"

The Commandante sat stern-faced, staring at Stokes but without saying a word. It wasn't clear how well he understood English. Leo spoke to him in Spanish, and the Mexican nodded once emphatically, "Si."

Stokes sat with his hands clasped on the table as Leo continued, "You will cover your own expenses in Mexico. The Commandante has graciously agreed to allow you to have limited access to their station houses as a 'guest' and will allow you to accompany his men on patrol if you choose to go." Stokes nodded but didn't speak. "I think that's about it. Commandante?" Leo looked at the officer who replied in Spanish. Then Leo ended saying, "That's about it. You will be expected at the Juarez immigration crossing at 1100 today, and someone will meet you."

At this point, Stokes looked at Moritz and Sanchez saying, "Mr. Moritz and Commandante Sanchez, I understand your instructions and appreciate your consideration. I hope that I can be of some assistance recovering our men."

Commandante Sanchez quickly nodded his head once. Stokes left to go pack. He dreaded the phone call he would make to Carolyn before leaving for the border. On short notice, he wouldn't have time to explain his action to Gorman who was still sleeping at Bliss.

On his way back to the BOQ for his travel bag, he called Shields before calling Carolyn. Shortly after answering, Peter yelled, "Are you nuts? John, Juarez is a big city, and you don't have a chance in hell of finding the guys. What are you thinking?"

"I don't know, Peter. I thought that it made sense and still do. It would be worse for me if I didn't do anything at all."

Peter yelled, "I can understand what you feel man, but this is insane! What about your men on this side? What about Carolyn?"

"What would you do, Peter? Just stay safe and let those guys get butchered on the tube again?"

There was a brief pause before Peter answered more calmly, "Look, John, I don't have your responsibilities." He reflected on his promise to Carolyn.

"You're not makin' this any easier."

"I don't want this to be easy. What did you think I would say?"

"Peter, you have to help me with Carolyn if she calls you."

"John, of course, I'll do whatever I can." He said it, but dreaded it at the same time.

"Okay, Thanks. I've got to call her now."

Several hours later, Stokes arrived at the border. The call to Carolyn had not gone well, but he tried not to think about it.

The bottom line from Carolyn through her hysterics and sobbing was something like, "John, You've got to stop being a cowboy and realize that you have a family. Don't we mean anything to you? Soldiers take risks, like your man. You can't risk your life in heroics. If you do this, you might as well stay in Texas."

The conversation ended when he said, "Goodbye -- I love you," and she couldn't respond in her emotional state (or chose not to respond). It seemed to Stokes that Gorman was the only one who understood why he needed to go south.

Peter almost threw the receiver at the phone cradle. He thought, "What the hell are you thinking, John?" After simmering for a few moments, he realized John was right, but he was also wrong in some ways. Peter was mostly mad that John was going alone. They had gone together with Peter leading on prior missions. It wasn't unusual to be isolated in hostile territory in their profession, but at least John had always had Peter nearby in the past. He sat at his desk safe in Washington with fists clenched in front of him. He knew Carolyn would call him, and he didn't know what to say.

After long contemplation, his cell phone vibrated, and he reluctantly looked at the display. He was surprised to see Rachael's name. "Hello."

"Peter, I just got a call from Carolyn Stokes!" They had met when Rachael and Peter were both hospitalized in Illinois, following John's first counter-terror mission with Peter. Carolyn and John had frequently talked about the love match between Peter and Rachael, and she didn't know their engagement had ended.

He spoke reluctantly, "Let me guess, she was upset about John's volunteering to go into Mexico."

"Hell, yes, she's upset! Did you know about this?"

"He called me half an hour ago -- I told him it was nuts." He held the receiver away from his ear, expecting the next blast.

"You macho SOBs! He's got kids, Peter! What are you guys thinking?"

"Rachael, I had nothing to do with this. I told him not to do it. I told him all about his responsibilities. Hell, I promised Carolyn that he'd be safe, and then he pulled this stunt."

"You guys will say anything, Peter, just to avoid serious discussions. She's scared to death. Can't you understand!" He held the phone away again.

"Rachael, I thought so, but I probably made things worse when I promised her. I honestly never thought John would be reckless."

"Peter, this goes beyond reckless, he's suicidal. It's not his fault that men were lost. He's just adding himself to the casualties. Can you imagine what will happen to her, you, us, if he ends up on YouTube!"

He sucked in a deep breath, "I don't know what else I can do."

She screamed in his ear, "Call him and end this!"

He didn't want to yell at her, "I can't do that. I already tried."

"Then try again, and tell him that Carolyn doesn't deserve this. Call his C.O. and get him to cancel this. I don't care how you do it, just stop this!"

She hung up.

Peter just looked at the phone and wanted to break it in half. She had included "us" in the mix. He was just on the verge of hoping that there was an "us" again in his future. This was beyond unfair. His friendship with John Stokes was crushing every relationship Peter had. Rachael was mad at him, Carolyn was mad at both men. Damn you, John!

He also knew Rachael was right. He had to end this, not just because his relationship with Carolyn and probably Rachael was in the balance, but because he cared more for John Stokes than any man alive. He would not talk to the C.O. or to John again until John called him. He would, however, start gathering all the information he needed to help John -- if there was anything. But first, he knew that he had to talk to Carolyn, even though he had no idea what to say.

In Country

Stokes reported at the border crossing when instructed. He wore blue jeans and a Phish tee shirt, carrying a large new duffle bag. He had $500 in his wallet from visiting the ATM at the base credit union and wore a red Chicago Bull's ball cap. He looked similar to the hundreds of soldiers from Bliss that crossed into Juarez each night for the cheap bars and girls.

The Mexican Guard sat in the hot booth, looking about as excited as a TSA inspector. He handed Stokes' military ID back and signaled him to pass by with a hand motion. When John said he was supposed to meet someone, "a Federale," the Guard stared at him as though he didn't speak English. "Como?"

"Someone is supposed to meet me."

Once again, the guard flailed a hand, indicating that he wanted John to move on. In frustration, John walked about five paces past the booth, dropped his bag on the dusty sidewalk and stood waiting. After almost an hour, he was getting angry when an old dirty blue Chevy sedan with a vague symbol on the door pulled across traffic. The driver signaled for John to get in, saying something in Spanish. He opened the back door and tossed in his travel bag before climbing in. Once inside, he realized that he had thrown it onto an upset passenger on the other side. "Oh, sorry."

The driver made an abrupt U-turn with horns blaring around him as he headed into the city. John looked at the passenger, who was in a rumpled tan uniform, "Look, I said I was sorry. Do you speak English?"

The man glared back, "Yes."

"So, where are we going?"

"We go to policia station."

The car crept through congested streets for another half hour in silence. Horns blared and people yelled after every movement. The police obviously were given no priority. John's fellow passenger remained silent, maintaining a constant stare out of the side window. Judging by the number of AK assault rifles carried openly on the sidewalks, the police were seriously out gunned with their handguns.

The car finally stopped at a dark building with archways along the front and a faded "Hotel" sign that pigeons used for target practice. The man in back gestured, saying, "You stay here."

"What about the police station?"

"Not now. Later."

John tried to protest further when the man continued, "We come tonight. Now is your time to be out."

John grabbed his bag and said nothing to either officer before they drove off, leaving him on the curb. He wasn't familiar with the city and decided it was better to follow directions than wander around. He walked quickly inside.

At the front desk, two young American men with telltale short haircuts and a couple local girls were bartering for a single room "for a few hours." When John stood behind them in line, the discussion ended, and the two men split the room cost in cash. He waited for them to be out of earshot before transacting for his own room.

The pleasant woman at the counter said, "How long you will stay, Señor?"

"I'm not sure, maybe three nights." He actually had no idea and was packed for a week. She rotated the oversized ledger book on the counter and asked him to write his name. She then entered a room number. After getting a key, he went to the room, overlooking a busy street. He had asked for a room away from the "by-the-hour playrooms," unsure if the clerk understood. His room was basic, with a small sink and running water. The toilet and shower were shared down the hall. The windows were opened when he entered and provided the only air circulation. There was no air conditioning, fan, or heat, and there were no screens on the windows. The windows had a filmy appearance with a thick coating of dust on the frames. Exhaust smell was strong with a faint odor of untreated sewage carried by the slight breeze. Overall, it was exactly how he pictured Juarez, and it also gave him a preview of what the Mexican officials thought of his assistance.

He lay on the single bed, listening to the street noise and thought about his call with Carolyn. It hadn't gone well, but was no worse than he expected. She felt powerless to change his mind. She feared for his safety and for the future if she had to raise the girls alone. He had mentioned the military life insurance if something happened, but it had only angered her. Instinctively, he checked his mobile phone for signal strength. It was weak but enough to make a call, if necessary. He hoped the electrical power in the room would work with his charger.

He had not slept well for days and managed to doze on the bed until late afternoon. His watch said 4:45 PM when he decided to go downstairs, anxious to meet his escorts. His expectations were not great that they would be coming any time soon. They weren't. At about 5:30, a dirty car similar to the one earlier in the day pulled up to the curb. The driver didn't leave the car, so Stokes went to the back, assuming it was for him. After seating himself on the cracked vinyl, the car lurched forward into traffic as his door was closing. There were no seatbelts.

The ride to the "Estación de Policia" took about twenty minutes. The driver said nothing but glanced in his rearview mirror often, either curious about his passenger or suspicious. Stokes was dressed as he was earlier and felt conspicuous when he stepped out of the vehicle in front of the station. Several Mexicans in tan police uniforms were lounging on old wooden chairs on the sidewalk. They all looked at him but made no effort to address him. He walked inside hoping to see someone familiar. As he looked around, a man in a wrinkled dark suit stood up and came to him extending his hand. "Good day, Señor. Buenos noches."

John extended his hand and was pleased that someone had finally shown some courtesy, if not enthusiasm. The man was shorter than John, less than six feet, and appeared to be in sound physical condition. Most of the other policia would have been considered portly by U.S. standards. He also spoke fluent English.

"My name is Juan Padilla. I am a Major in the Policia Federale. I have been instructed by our Government to work with you, as you may wish."

"Thank you, Major, I appreciate your help. I'm here to assist in locating some Americans that are missing from our border police and military, who were involved in a shootout with Mexicans."

"Yes, I was instructed in this. How do you propose to help?"

Stokes didn't have a good answer. It had seemed so obvious when he and Gorman discussed it, but now here in this strange environment, it wasn't as clear. "I'm not sure. Maybe my connection back to the U.S. military can be helpful."

"As I was instructed, you are here as a courtesy. I do not want to be rude, but you may just be in the way."

"Well, I hope that's not the case. If you'll allow me to work with the officers, searching for our men, I'm sure that I can be of help."

"Of course, we are doing everything possible to locate the American border police." Stokes doubted that.

"Look, Major Padilla, I have no doubt that you are doing everything possible, but I would like to add my assistance as one additional person on it."

"Capitan Stokes, is that correct?"

"Yes, my rank is Captain."

"Correct, then you will understand that our Government has its own procedures, and they are different from yours."

"Major, I understand and respect that. I don't plan to be a nuisance in any way, but my Government is expecting me to report progress in the effort to find our men." He was stretching the truth to add some measure of personal safety.

"All right then. Would you like to sit? Use any unoccupied desk." Padilla gestured to one of the antique wood desks with nothing on top.

"Actually, Major, I'd like to meet with your people making the search."

"Yes, well that will take some time as they are 'out in the field,' so to speak."

John didn't like the run around. If no one was trying to find them, his presence was even more important, "Can I join them?"

"Impossible. They are 'under cover,' as you would say. It is very dangerous work. I will have you meet with them as quickly as possible." He gestured to an old wooden desk with no phone. "Please be comfortable."

Stokes reluctantly sat down as Padilla walked away down a corridor to avoid further dialogue. Stokes would just sit there, observing Mexican law enforcement at work around him. The lack of activity and anyone to speak with showed signs of turning into a complete waste of his time.

DEA Meeting

Leo Moritz was in the El Paso DEA field office near the Airport. Agency operations and personnel were secretive and couldn't be co-located with any other enforcement groups. The office was actually a large motorhome, specially constructed with communications, office equipment and meeting space. There were no windows except in the Driver's compartment and no exterior markings. Even the license plate was a general Texas "RV" registration. There were no U.S. Government markings. Power was supplied by a large unmarked FEMA generator with a propane tank filled each week by a contractor.

Moritz was meeting with two DEA agents when there was a knock on the forward door. He excused himself and walked forward to look through the small security window. Pressing a button, he told the person to wait for a moment then instructed the Agents to depart from the rear door before he let someone enter.

Opening the door, he greeted Jamie Montes with a warm handshake. The men had first met when Leo was a field agent, and Jamie was a courier in Central America. "Jamie, this is a surprise. I didn't know you were coming."

"I'm sorry, Leo. I wanted to keep this between us. The new people in the Company are screwing with me, and I have some important intel for you."

"Sure, come in, and let's talk." Leo gestured rearward as he opened a door.

Jamie was accustomed to looking around when entering any enclosed area. "Are you alone? Can you talk?"

"Jamie, it's nice to see you in the flesh. It's been too long my friend. Come in – we are quite alone."

The two men talked for less than half an hour. Leo had received numerous tips from Jamie about drug shipments over the years that had always proven accurate. Usually, they only talked briefly on the phone. Leo didn't know where Jamie got the information but was grateful nevertheless. He owed his promotion to Supervisor to Jamie.

When they were through, Jamie asked to leave as the Agents had left. Leo was still stunned by the information and simply motioned him through and shook his hand. It occurred to him immediately that Jamie had just set the stage for his next promotion, and he had not, could not, thank him adequately. But now, he had to start planning.

Stokes Alone

John got more frustrated as the sun set, and everyone ignored him at the station. Padilla had disappeared hours earlier and might have left the building. It was hot, and the open doors and windows only added fumes from the cars passing outside. The top of the desk was sticky and gritty, and he had nothing to occupy his time. The Federales were ignoring him and he considered walking out and taking a taxi to the hotel. He was hungry and thirsty and could only think about Carolyn and the girls.

In Washington, Peter's call to Carolyn couldn't have gone worse. She had just talked to John before he crossed the border. She had pleaded with him not to go, and he basically told her that he had no choice, which both knew was untrue. Carolyn wasn't only upset that John chose to go despite her pleading; she wasn't supporting him. He would need all his composure focused on survival, and she had only added to his worries. When Peter called, she could hardly speak. To his amazement, she wasn't upset with him, but he could do nothing to lessen her concerns. She was a tough woman who had suffered through John's prior escapades. Peter feared John was overdue for failure but couldn't say that to Carolyn. All he could offer was to be available any time she wanted to talk.

His relationship with Rachael was trickier, but she had asked him to check the background on Montes, and he needed to talk to her. When she answered her cellphone, he said, "Ah, hi. I talked to Carolyn."

She was calm, responding, "How is she?"

"Oh, she's upset. I don't think I helped much. There isn't much I can say."

"Maybe it's enough just to talk."

"Yeah, well. I really wish I could do more."

"There isn't anything you can do, Peter."

She was obviously more composed than the last time they had talked.

Shifting subjects, Peter said, "I have some information about an old Army buddy I'd like to share with you."

"Oh, good. I'd like to hear."

"Want to talk now or when?"

She was guarded in responding, "Ah, not now. I'm pretty busy. How about after work?"

He was excited just thinking about seeing her, "Sure."

"Okay, around six."

He knew the location.

On impulse he asked, "How about dinner at my place?"

After a pause she answered. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Rachael, please let me try. I --- I don't know what to say or do anymore. Can't we just talk at my place? I'll stay on subject, and you can leave early."

"All right."

His heart skipped, "Around six then?"

"Okay, I'll be there."

He didn't know if he should be excited or deflated, but left the office early to prepare for her.

She knocked on the door at six-twenty. When he opened it, she entered and laid her purse on a chair without looking at him or making any physical contact. "I'm sorry for being late. DC traffic in this direction is worse than into Georgetown."

He helped her remove her coat, "Yeah, it gets worse each year, and too many road construction projects are making it even more difficult."

They chatted a bit before he went into the kitchen to finish a salad. "Can I offer you a glass of wine?"

She hesitated for a moment, "Sure, red please."

He was prepared, having opened a bottle earlier. He had prepared Chicken Marsala with asparagus and whipped sweet potatoes. He had never done any adventurous cooking before, but he'd followed suggestions on the web. He invited her to the table.

She was quieter than usual, so he got down to business before eating anything. "Rachael, I was able to use a contact in the Pentagon to get a look at Montes' personnel jacket."

Before he could continue, she raised her hand slightly saying, "Peter, first I want to apologize for screaming at you about John."

He looked down and took a breath, "You weren't wrong. I've kicked myself a hundred times for not trying harder to stop him."

"I don't think you could have done anything."

"I should've tried."

"What did you tell Carolyn?"

"Oh, you know, that I would always be there if she needed me. Then I told her about John's training. Look, he's smart and tough. I've seen him handle himself well in bad situations. At this point, we need to trust his instincts and skills. He's not going to forget his family."

She took his hand saying, "Peter, I know you want to be with him. You only came to Washington because of me. If you'd stayed in Illinois, you'd probably be right there with John in Mexico now."

He looked obliquely at her, then pursed his lips, "Yeah, well, moving's not something I'll ever regret." He squeezed her hand gently then resumed eating. Their relationship had cooled, and he hated it. Dinner was on the table and they were sitting across from each other. He had candles, but they remained un-lit.

She continued, "So, what about Montes?"

Sitting up straighter, he said, "Your man had a pretty vanilla time in the Army. All routine stuff. No combat time, as a supply guy. No exceptional promotions or duty assignments. He just seemed like a lot of guys who drift through their careers thinking about retirement way too soon."

"So, you didn't find anything interesting?"

"Possibly. He was born to Mexican farm laborers in California in the mid '50s."

"Yeah, I knew that, and his parents died in Mexico before he came back to the States and joined the Marines."

"Right. That's right."

She looked at him, "So, what's possibly interesting?"

He looked serious and pushed his food around on his plate. "I did some deeper digging about his parents, not sure why, it just seemed curious that he left Mexico, and that his parents died young."

"Was that in his file?"

"No, just that his parents were dead."

She tasted her salad then asked, "So, he was an American citizen by birth and came to the States after his parents died."

"Yeah, seems that way. But I asked a friend in intel, who asked another friend and got some interesting stuff on Montes."

She didn't say anything, just looked at him.

He went on, "They lived on the Gulf of Baja California. His father was suspected of being a small-time smuggler up the coast to San Diego and might have been killed, his wife too, because of it."

She was curious, "Okay, so how does it affect our boy?"

"It might not, but here's the punch line. His mother's maiden name is Cardenas."

She was alert. "It's not an unusual name."

"Yeah, but the information I got says she could be related to Alejandro Cardenas, either his sister or cousin. He's the leader of the Cardenas Cartel smuggling dope through Mexico. At least he was until some months ago when the DEA got him."

She sipped her wine, "Wow. So, Jamie might be related to the cartel boss."

He shook his head slowly, "Seems like it."

"So, how does that relate to Vitale?"

"I don't know. Intel is your business, so maybe you can find out."

"I don't think it's correct protocol for me to check out the CIA Director." She snickered.

He smiled gently, "Yeah. That would not go well with most bosses."

He was smiling at her when his mobile phone began vibrating. He intended to end the call, but the display said "Stokes." He answered, "John, what's up, buddy?"

Rachael continued eating and could only hear one side of the discussion as Peter stood and faced away from her. "Okay, pal, listen. Is there anyone inside the station?" After a pause, "Look, can you see how many cars and men?"

Rachael lowered her glass and sat upright.

"Yeah, okay. Look, you probably don't have much time."

"Understood. Uh huh."

"All right, John. Yes of course I'll ..., but you gotta be smart now. Being tough and proving you're a hero isn't going to work. John, put the phone in the desk drawer and leave it on without ending our call. I'll get a trace going. If they haven't taken you in ten minutes, put it back in your pocket, keeping the call active."

Peter was emphasizing every word with hand motions, "Yeah. I know, but you've got to let them take you! It's your only chance at these odds. Think of Carolyn and the girls!"

"Okay, pal. I hear you. John, I'm coming. Hang tough. You won't be alone for long." Peter listened for several more seconds without speaking. Leaving his phone on, he set it on the table and walked into the bedroom to use the landline.

Rachael felt sick listening as Peter called someone unknown about tracing the call through "Ft. Huachuca" in Arizona. Huachuca is the home of the 111th Military Intelligence Brigade with worldwide signal intelligence capability.

He gave some instructions and phone numbers before returning to Rachael. She saw the distress on his face saying, "What happened?"

He let out a deep breath and walked slowly past, not looking at her. "They got him." He didn't say that he'd heard gunfire.

As she stood up beside him, his head lowered. "The Mexican Federal Police, some 'Commandante Padilla' set him up. When he called, he knew what was coming down. It's night, and the police all disappeared when some cars arrived outside the station. He wanted me to know and to tell Carolyn ... you know."

He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. Rachael put her arm through his and pulled next to him. He could feel the warmth of her body from ankle to shoulder as she leaned her head against his. It was a feeling he had missed every minute of every day for months.

"Rachael. I, I don't know what to do."

"Yes, you do. You knew as soon as you told him to keep the signal going."

He lifted his chin and momentarily pursed his lips, "It's not that easy."

"Why?"

He didn't answer immediately then turned to face her only inches away saying, "I'll never give up hope of being with you again — forever. I've tried to become the guy you could love."

She pushed away slightly, looking into his eyes. "Peter, I know you feel conflicted because this time it's John. So, let me help you." She stepped further away continuing, "This time is different. You need to help John. I want you to help John and Carolyn."

He stared at her for a moment, "Rachael. He's, he's my brother. I don't have any choice." His eyes were watering slightly.

"I want you to know something, Peter. I'm still a little confused, but I've got to say it." She paused for a second then took his hand saying, "I've never stopped loving you. I don't think I ever could. It's the life you lead, or led, that I'm conflicted about. That's still it for now, but I know you've been trying."

He looked down into her eyes, but didn't speak. She continued, "This time isn't the same. This isn't some mission to save the world. This is John. You need to do whatever you can. If it means going into Mexico to get him, you're the best person on earth to do it."

He took a slow breath saying, "Rachael, I don't know what to say."

"I do. Say 'I love you'." She moved forward and they embraced. It was neither an impassioned kiss nor a peck; it was a moment that sealed his approval to go for John without further damage to their relationship.

She released him and went for her coat while he stood, looking at her. She passed by him, retrieving her purse and opening the door. She turned, "I'll call Carolyn, and you get moving."

The call to Headquarters DDO (Deputy Director Operations) went to voicemail, "This is a message to Colonel Giles. Sir, this is Major Shields, requesting orders to support unit El Paso. I've received a call from one of our Illinois ARNG officers as he was being captured in Mexico. I plan to arrive in El Paso, as quickly as possible, and have requested a GPS location on his phone via Huachuca. I plan to assist in rescue ops. I don't know the command structure there, but will assume you will clear the way. Sorry, cannot wait for confirmation. I'll be available via text or cell en route. I'll call for MAC flights or take commercial, whichever is quicker, even if it's at my expense."

After that, he made a second call to the TAG (Commanding General) office at the Illinois Military Department, "This is Major Shields from Headquarters National Guard, Washington, let me talk to the DCS-ops (Deputy Chief of Staff-operations) ASAP."

He had the phone propped to his ear while packing his travel gear. A few seconds went by then, "Peter! This is Len Brody (Brigadier General). It's good to hear from you. How can I help you?"

"Hello, General. It's always good to talk to fellow trench diggers. I need to inform and then ask for your help."

"Go ahead, Major. You know we always help our local heroes."

"Sir, Captain Stokes has been captured in Mexico, and he may be wounded."

"Peter, I'm sorry to hear it. You two are quite a team."

"Yes, Sir. He called me less than an hour ago when it was going down."

"Okay, Peter, I'll call his wife as soon as we get confirmation from the Texas TAG office."

"Yes, Sir. I'll inform them when we break. I think I'm the only one that knows at this point."

"Right. How can I help, Peter?"

"Sir, would you work the channels at the El Paso CBP Sector and Guard support unit to get me cleared to attempt a rescue op?"

"You know we will, Major. Do you want any of our guys or equipment?"

"Thanks, no sir. Also, I left a message with HQ here, so there may be some redundant communications. Doesn't matter to me. I just need clearance to go in country when I land."

"When's that, Peter?"

"Don't know, Sir, under twelve hours, I don't have a TDY authority yet."

Brody knew that with or without orders, Peter Shields was going after Stokes. "Good luck, Peter. Bring back our boy and watch six!"

"Will do, Sir, and thanks."

Brigadier General Brody had been the primary logistics supplier during the counter-terror mission in Chicago more than a year earlier and was totally reliable.

The closest military airlift base was Andrews Air Force Base, which Peter called as he threw his bag into his truck. There were no MAC flights to Texas from Andrews scheduled, so he drove toward Dulles. En route, his phone rang, "Shields."

"Major, this is Giles. I got your message."

"Yes, Sir, thanks for returning my call. I hope you understand the urgency and my request for TDY assignment to the Texas ARNG?"

"Sure do, Major. I'll have TDY orders cut in the morning and send a message tonight to the TAG that you're coming. Anything else?"

"Sir, I contacted MAC and need to fly commercial. I'm on my way to Dulles to try to find a flight."

"Sure thing, Major, TDY Commercial Air will be covered. I'll contact our travel office right now and see what they can book for you. They'll call you back."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Good luck, Major, let's get our boy back safe."

"HUA, Sir."

The call ended as Peter turned north on I-395 toward Rt. 66. Minutes later, the travel office confirmed his flight leaving Dulles at 2315 (11:15PM EDT), arriving in Dallas with transfer to El Paso. He would arrive in the early morning and needed to break the speed limit to get to the airport in time, so he called Rachael for more help.

When she answered he said "Hi, Rachael. Could you give me some logistics help?"

"Sure, Peter. What do you need?"

"I'm tied up driving and flying for the next five or six hours. Can you please set up my POC (point of contact) in El Paso so they know I'm coming, and who I'm supposed to see? I've got all the military alerts going out, but I just need to know who to contact when I get there around one in the morning."

"Sure. Do you want me to find a hotel?"

"No, I'll stay at Bliss if I stay anywhere. I want to get across the border as soon as I can, so hope they'll have it all set up when I get there."

"Okay. I'll send you a text. Check when you get there."

"Thanks, babe, out." He realized his "babe" slip and felt embarrassed. She had opened the door tonight but hadn't leapt across the threshold yet.

In her townhouse, Rachael didn't miss the endearment. She relaxed on her sofa and thought about Peter and John. Then she thought about Carolyn. They had all met in Chicago. Rachael had been near death in a coma at a suburban hospital after a nuclear blast destroyed the Federal building, only a few blocks from ground zero. She'd awakened after the bombers had been stopped. Peter was in another hospital with gunshot wounds from the action.

She met John when visiting Peter in the hospital. Carolyn was with John several times when they came, and they became friends over the weeks recuperating together. John had saved Peter's life, so she understood the bond. She also felt close to Carolyn and tried to imagine the dread and hopelessness she must feel. She understood why Peter had to try for John's rescue. She made some calls and sent a text message to Peter's phone.

He exited the commuter plane in El Paso around 0130, stepping down the narrow stairway to get his bag and then walking to the terminal. The text message read:

See LTC Marian Colson at El Paso Section HQ. She's sending a car to get you. Love, R

He saw "love" before anything else registered. Shaking his head he said to himself, Man, you're really grasping. It had been late when she wrote it. Maybe she just slipped up. It didn't matter. He would savor every morsel of affection from her, real or perceived.

As he walked through the gate, an enlisted man was waiting with a sign that read "Major Shields."

Peter was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, so didn't salute. Without breaking stride, he said, "Hi soldier, I'm Shields."

The soldier tried to take Peter's bag, but was waved off. "Sir, if you'll follow me."

"Sure, Specialist, what unit are you with?"

"I'm with the 36th Infantry Division, Sir, we just got back from Iraq."

He threw his bags into the back of the HMMWV saying, "Must feel good to be home. You married?"

"Oh, no, Sir. I'd like to be, and to have kids too, but haven't found Mrs. Right yet.

"How about you, Sir?"

He reflected, looking out the open side of the Hummer, "Yeah, well. I did find Mrs. Right, but we didn't get married."

For the next fifteen minutes, they talked little, and always about military subjects.

When they arrived, it was cool and dark, nearing 0200. "The Colonel said she would be waiting for you in her office, Sir. It's through the glass doors and three doors down on the right."

"Thanks, soldier." Peter grabbed his own bag even though the young man tried to help.

Inside, half the lights were off, but there was radio dispatch dialogue and voices of unseen men congregating in some of the cubicles. He went to the third cubicle and found LTC Marian Colson intensely pounding her computer keyboard, which stopped immediately when he arrived. She wore desert camo fatigues and had a man's haircut, probably from the base barber at Ft. Bliss. She was short, dishwater blond and broad, and looked like she worked out with free weights. She stood and shook his hand with a strong grip, "Hello, Major, how was your trip?"

"It was fine, Ma'am."

"Good, now sit down and tell me what you know about Captain Stokes. Oh, and we have coffee brewing around the clock here. Can I offer you some?"

"That would be nice, Colonel."

"Okay, let's walk and talk. I want to know what you know about Stokes."

Peter explained the phone call from Stokes, but omitted the information about Padilla and the GPS trace he assumed was completed. They were joined by others, whom the Colonel introduced, "This is Leo Moritz, DEA supervisor, and this is Mike Schmitt, El Paso Sector Assistant Chief."

Shaking hands, Peter acknowledged, "Gentlemen."

The Colonel led the discussion, "Now, Major Shields believes that Captain Stokes has been kidnapped or murdered, based on a phone call he received from Stokes."

Schmitt was sitting in a folding chair with his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands and looking at Shields, "We haven't heard anything here."

Peter asked, "Well, how would you hear it unless someone told you?"

Schmitt responded. "We would be officially notified through our embassy by the Federal police, the Federales."

Peter was too tired to be polite, "Well, I can say without a doubt that John Stokes has been taken. I was talking to him in real time when armed men, between eight and twelve, stormed a police station where Stokes was sitting alone. I heard it all happen."

Moritz remained silent as did the Colonel. Schmitt continued, "Look Major, I don't know what you think you heard, but until we get informed through channels, it didn't happen."

Colson spoke up, "Now, Mike. Stokes is technically under my command, so I want to know if he's in trouble."

He responded, "Colonel, I have to keep the peace here on the border. It's like balancing teacups on a tightrope down here. We rely on the Federales more than our own Agents to stop bad guys. I can't go questioning 'em just because an American might be missing. We need proof."

Peter was getting upset, "Well, what the hell do you think I'm doing here."

Schmitt lifted a finger and pointed at Peter, "Look, hotshot. Just because you flew out here overnight from Washington doesn't put you in charge. The Border Patrol and DEA know how to control things down here. You Guard guys come down here thinking it's a regular shooting war. Well, it ain't, and we're careful about doing things right, diplomatically. Hell, we can't even send these wetbacks back across without an official invite. It takes three weeks to process someone for extradition. So, you know what? We don't even try. They just get a ninety-day notice to appear in court and off to Chicago they go. So, don't come down here expecting to be in charge. No way. We do things by the book."

Peter looked straight into Schmitt's eyes as Moritz and the Colonel looked away. "Look, Chief. John Stokes went after your guy too. That took guts, and I doubt that you would do it!"

"So give him a medal, or send it to his wife. We tried to keep him over on this side, but the commando wouldn't listen. I'll be damned if I'll lose any sleep over it."

Peter sat back and looked at him. "Look, I'm not asking you to do anything. I'll go after Stokes myself, and the other guy too."

Schmitt smirked, "Hah, fat chance. We used up some credits getting Stokes in there. We can't help you, too."

Colonel Colson called a timeout, "Gentlemen, can we step back a bit? Look, Major. The Chief is right. We can't cross the border without approval of the Mexican government. So, why don't you go get a good night's sleep, and we'll see what can be done when we're all rested."

Peter responded, still looking at Schmitt, "Respectfully, Ma'am, our guys are not getting a good night's sleep. That means our Guardsman and your Agent, Morales, unless they've already done 'em."

She continued, "Even so, we're done here tonight. I suggest we re-convene at 1000."

Peter shrugged and was slow to rise as the others filed out. He voiced his objections to the Colonel before leaving, but it didn't change anything.

Exiting through the double glass doors, the desert heat and smell of sage pollen was totally new to him. In the blackness, a white USBP truck sped away, probably the Chief. Peter realized that he didn't have a ride or reservation anywhere at almost three in the morning when the DEA supervisor approached him in the dark parking lot. Leo Moritz had been silent until then, saying, "Major, can we talk?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm sorry if that was harsh."

"Hey, no problem. I understand completely, so, let me read your mind for a moment."

Peter looked at him quizzically, as Leo continued, "You're a Ranger and don't leave comrades in the field. As a matter of fact, we have the same credo in the DEA, but we're a dark organization without publicizing much."

Peter shook his head. "Yeah, some of my buddies have worked with you guys in the drug lands. It's a dirty business when your guys go to bed with them."

"Yeah, well. It's what we sign up to do. So, I figure you're planning to head down to the nearest checkpoint and cross over, as a tourist. Am I right?"

Peter looked at him, saying, "Hadn't quite figured it all out, but that sounds about right."

"Okay, I'm not going to tell you to do it or even tell you it's the right thing to do, but you'll need some logistics help."

Peter looked at Moritz but didn't say anything as Leo continued, handing Peter a note "Here's a phone number in Juarez that you should call when you get across. Ask for 'Guy,' it's short for a longer name. He's one of us, not a field operative, but a good driver and general logistician. He can be called any time, day or night. I'll let him know in advance. After you memorize the number, destroy the note."

Peter responded, "This is very helpful."

"You're going to have a tough time over there. It isn't a place any of us would go. So, if you want to get going, I'll drive you to the Mexican station."

"Sure, let's go!"

At her home in Washington, Rachael couldn't sleep thinking about Peter flying to Texas overnight, probably going into harm's way again. She had broken their engagement and basically destroyed any hope Peter might have of rejoining her. So, why was this different? When he went on that suicidal mission in Iran, he'd gambled with her feelings or assumed they didn't matter. She'd been emotionally destroyed while watching him nearly get killed on infrared video from DoD satellite cameras. She wasn't going to be in that circumstance again and she had said so when he returned.

Now, he was going after John, which should have cancelled any hope for their future, but it was different this time. Why? Mexico or Iran, it didn't matter. Both were equally dangerous. The thoughts of Peter were conflicted. She feared for him one moment, and then loved him the next. She had hidden the feeling for months. John and Carolyn kept appearing in her dreams also. That was the difference.

She awoke before dawn and dressed quickly without breakfast. The Langley cafeteria had bagels and tea. At seven, she was in the office momentarily checking messages, but couldn't concentrate. She headed down toward Vitale's office. She was actually surprised to find him behind his desk reading something on his terminal.

"Excuse me, Sir."

"Well, good morning, Rachael. It's really early for you."

"Yes, Sir, I couldn't sleep."

He responded, "Yeah. I have a lot of nights like that."

"Sir, I wanted to talk to you about something, about Jamie Montes."

"Sure, Rachael. Ah, but first, let me apologize for coming down on you in our last meeting. I was under pressure and, regrettably, took some of it out on you." [and I have it all on tape]."

"It's all right, Sir. I can't even imagine the load on you."

"Yes, well. What about Montes?"

She sat in the chair opposite his desk, "Sir, I haven't seen him since your meeting. He'd avoided me for days. Now he's just gone."

"What do you mean -- gone?"

"I warned him about travelling without my approval, and I started asking questions about his project, which he avoided. Now his desk looks completely cleared, and I can't find anyone who knows where he is."

Vitale sat back and steepled his hands staring at her, "What do you think he's done, Rachael?"

"I don't know, Sir. He's just been overly secretive and now seems to have disappeared."

"Call me Sandy. We can't stand another scandal here, Rachael."

"Yes, Sandy. I know it, but I needed to tell someone. I needed to tell you."

"Look, Rachael, I know this place still mystifies you. Hell, it mystifies me, and I've been dealing with spooks for twenty years. One thing, though, that's worse than scandal is a cover-up. If we find Montes is in the shit, he's going to be swimming alone."

"Sandy, I don't know enough to accuse him of anything, but I'd like your permission to begin an internal investigation."

"Rachael, our business is based partially on instinct and supposition. If you sense something wrong, then I want you to pursue it. An investigation is warranted, but I want you to keep me informed all the way. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir, it is."

She thanked him and left feeling a little happier. It was the first time he had actually empowered her to do anything at the Agency, and it felt good.

She thought to herself, So Mr. Montes, what's your story?

In Country

Crossing the border was easier than Peter had expected. The Mexicans seemed less concerned about foreign visitors coming south than the American Immigration Officers in the opposite direction. It was remarkable how quickly the scenery changed from El Paso to Juarez. He walked down the dirty sidewalk avoiding pits and cracks. The faded storefronts had once been brightly colored to attract tourists, but most were now dingy and unappealing. He walked about one block in darkness passing occasional groups of American soldiers hurrying to get back across to Ft. Bliss before morning reveille.

At the first corner, he hid in a darkened doorway and dialed the number Moritz had given him. When a man answered speaking Spanish, Peter said in English, "I need to speak to Guy."

"This is Guy."

"Guy, I am a friend of Leo Moritz, do you know him?"

"Yes, I know."

"He said you could help me during my stay in Mexico."

"How long is your stay, Señor?"

"I'm not sure. Not long. I'm just looking for a lost friend."

"All right, if Mr. Leo say okay, I can help you. Where are you now?"

"I'm one block south of the All Americas Bridge checkpoint ... "

Before he could say more, Guy responded, "Stay there, I will be there in one half hour, maybe little bit more."

The line went dead before Peter could tell him how to recognize him. Then he realized that he was the only North American on the street, so he stepped deeper into the door well.

It was almost seven o'clock in DC, so he called the Pentagon, using an extension he knew by heart. Someone answered "Army Intelligence, please identify."

"Hello, this is Major Shields. Is Top Sergeant Blomstein there?"

"Yes, Sir, hold one."

After a short pause a voice answered, "Blomstein."

"Hey, Josh."

"Peter, how are you? Where are you?"

"I'm standing in a shadow south of the border."

"All right, I hate to ask why you would be doing that before dawn."

"It's related to that phone call I asked you to trace."

"You must be in Juarez, because that's where the signal was from."

Peter took a long breath, "Thank God, I was afraid we'd lose it."

"What's going on, Major?"

Peter and Josh had gone through Ranger training together and had been Sergeants in the 82nd before Peter was commissioned. His special relation with Sergeant Blomstein had been forged in deserts of the Middle East and Africa. Josh was Peter's primary contact for intelligence information when planning special operation missions.

Josh Blomstein grew up in upstate New York and joined the Army after graduating from Utica High School. He'd served in the 82nd Airborne Division and was chosen to join the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, "Delta Force." He'd married his life-long sweetheart, Sarah Hart, and they had two young boys together.

Peter told him, "Josh, they got him."

"Got who?"

"John Stokes."

"Oh, man, Stokes was captured by the Druggies?"

"I think so."

"All right, Peter. Let me give you the Lat/Long of the last signal."

"Send me a text, I don't have anything to write with."

"You got it. And, Peter, watch six and keep your head down."

"Roger. Out."

Cardenas Scores

The Franklin Mountains run north and south across the border near El Paso, commonly referred to as Paso del Norte, leading from Mexico into the U.S. For centuries, Native Americans, smugglers, and entrepreneurs used the dirt paths through the mountains for trade, hideouts and raiding. Although they are protected as a state park above the border, they provide crude roads and smuggler lookout points into Texas from Mexico. These trails are seldom used because easier land routes and even interstate highways make truck transportation less treacherous and faster. Large shipments of drugs didn't usually go through the highest pass called "Smugglers".

Using more than a dozen SUVs in a caravan had not been tried before, but Cardenas had quietly prepared the route, improving dirt roads to the highway for his grand finale.

The shipment had been cueing for weeks in his main warehouse southeast of Juarez, down a deserted dirt road.

Throughout the day, Cardenas supervised the preparation personally. He was inside an old open warehouse, out of direct sunlight, when a lookout shouted that a car was driving down the road toward them. It was a single vehicle, which presented no threat to the dozens of heavily armed men positioned around the compound.

When it arrived, Cardenas walked out to meet the man who had made his father rich and him even richer. Embracing him enthusiastically, Cardenas said, "Mi Compadre!" Jamie Montes was smiling like a billionaire, which he was about to become.

Cardenas offered, "Come my friend and see what is happening. The Americans will have their cocaine and heroin for months with this shipment."

Montes looked at the vast array of vehicles and dozens of pallets stacked high ready to load into the reinforced trucks. Each truck would carry a thousand kilos (2,200 Lbs) of the highest value un-cut drugs ever attempted across the border.

Montes said, "Most impressive, my friend -- most impressive, indeed."

"Yes, and it is my salvation. My wealth will be secure in the American banks with this shipment. And you, my friend, will inherit my business and my houses in Mexico. That is a fair bargain, no?"

"Hector, you have been most kind."

"Not at all. You have been my partner in all successes since my father died, and him before me, so you have earned it all. It is hard work and dirty, but I expect to read good things about you in the newspapers."

Montes responded, "I do envy you. No more danger from other gangs. No more brutality to maintain order. You must be looking forward to it; living in a nice warm climate somewhere along a beach."

Cardenas gave a wry smile, "Yes, it will be nice, but no one, not even you my friend, will know where, or who, I am. It is all arranged."

"Believe me, I am not asking to know. But do not be surprised if we are neighbors in the future."

"Yes, if you sell my property and have some money in the bank already, you will be very rich also. It is a matter of timing. If the Americans legalize drugs, all the cartels will cease."

Montes responded, "The American politicians will never let their "War of Drugs" end. It keeps them in office! I'm more worried about being assassinated."

"Yes, well. Keep all my men, your men, under close observation. They will betray you when given the chance. You can only communicate to them through fear. You must make them fear you at all times."

"I have never killed anyone before."

"It is not easy the first time, but it becomes easy. To kill freely is to rule the illiterate masses. They only respect violence and an occasional girl for reward."

Shaking his head, Montes responded, "Hmm, it's a simple model. When will you depart?"

Cardenas knew the plan Montes had falsely set in motion with the DEA. They had agreed on the details and timing together. "At nightfall, we will begin our drive into the mountains. We should be over the pass at nine o'clock when my semi-trucks drives across the river in El Paso."

Montez nodded his head approvingly. "Do not delay when the time comes."

"To be sure my friend. Tonight I achieve my destiny."

Josh

With a green light from the Director, Rachael began searching databases containing any information regarding Montes. As the search continued, she planned to contact the Mexican intelligence services in an official capacity to research his parents.

Around mid-day her mobile phone chirped. She answered, "Hello."

"Rachael?"

"Yes."

"Hi, Rachael, it's Josh Blomstein."

She had met Josh at the secret awards ceremony that followed the raid into Iran by Peter, John Stokes and Josh. She became apprehensive, "Hi, Josh, how are you? Are you enjoying those metals and accolades that none of us can talk about?"

"You're right, Rachael. Fame and fortune didn't follow, but some of us will have bragging rights in very small groups when we grow old. I don't know if Peter told you, but I was offered a commission."

"No. Congratulations!"

"Yeah, I turned it down. I'm up for E-9 and just plan to live out my career as a grunt. Officers need more charm than me and spend too much time kissing ass."

She grinned to herself. "So what's up?"

"Well, I wanted to talk to you. I know you and Mr. Action Hero split after our last adventure, but I wanted to see if you could tell me what's going on in Mexico."

She paused for a moment, not wanting to share her private thoughts with Peter's friend. "Josh, I was meeting with him yesterday when he got a phone call from John Stokes. It wasn't good. Peter thinks he was captured by drug gangs in Juarez. Peter left last night to help rescue him. I haven't heard from him since then."

"Okay, that's pretty much what I expected. Is he under orders? Is the op approved?"

"Actually, Josh, I worry about that. John went across the border alone and unarmed. I don't think Peter will have a much different experience."

"You know, Rachael, Peter is good, but even the Lone Ranger had Tonto."

"Josh, you're not making me feel any better."

"Oh, I thought you two weren't 'an item' anymore?"

"That's not the point, Josh. I saw you two on wide screen in the DoD Ops Center fighting the whole Iranian Army. You got shot, but we couldn't tell who it was with the satellite video. I didn't know if it was him or you, and I didn't want you hurt either ... look, I don't want to talk about it."

"Sorry, Rachael. I didn't mean to open up old wounds, no pun intended. Your feelings for Peter are private and not why I called. Does Peter need my help?"

"I wish I knew, Josh. I really do."

Down Town

Guy wasn't what Peter expected. His old Ford Falcon would have been scrapped in the U.S. years ago. He was probably sixty years old, short with a pot belly and salt and pepper hair. His skin showed the signs of decades of outdoor work without any sun protection. On the positive side, he found Peter immediately.

He stepped out of the doorway and quickly entered the car. Guy said "Buenos Noches."

Peter extended his hand across his body, "Hello, Guy, I'm Peter Shields."

In surprisingly clear English, Guy responded, "Welcome to Mexico, Señor. I hear from Mr. Leo that you may need my assistance?"

"Yes. I don't know Juarez and need you to show me."

Putting the car into gear, Guy steered into the dark street with no competing traffic. In the distance ahead, they could see a dog scavenging through a trash can, but no other life as the predawn color became barely visible over the mountains to the east.

Guy asked, "Where do you go?"

Looking down at his smartphone, Peter responded, "I'm putting the coordinates in now and should have a street map soon." About a minute later, he handed the phone to Guy saying, "Can you take me to this address?"

Without reading glasses, Guy held the phone away and squinted. "Yes, it is in the southern part, a bad area."

"I need to go there."

"As you wish." To Peter, it sounded like he wanted to add, "It's your funeral."

Without traffic, the drive took about twenty minutes. When they arrived at the address, it was the only lighted building on the street. It also had an old neon sign reading "Policia."

There were no vehicles or people in view, so Peter asked Guy if he could park at the front while he went inside.

Guy pulled to a stop in front, but warned, "Mr. Peter, you should not go here."

"It's okay Guy, I'll be careful."

He exited the car. The first noticeable feature of the single-story adobe building was that the station windows were either filthy or painted to be opaque. Peter walked along the broken sidewalk and entered the door-less front where a single rumpled officer was slumped at a desk. Stopping about ten feet away, Peter made a noise, awakening the cop who immediately looked behind to see if there were any other officers around, but none were there. "Como Señor?"

"I'm looking for someone."

The man answered in broken English, "There is no one, Señor."

"I want to speak to Commandante Padilla."

At the mention of the name, the officer sat upright and looked around again nervously. He said, "The Commandante is no here."

"When will he return?"

"Is not known. He comes sometimes."

The officer started to use the phone when Peter responded, "I'll come back later today." He walked to Guy's car while the officer was dialing frantically.

Guy started the car immediately when he saw Peter. After climbing into the front seat he said, "Drive down the block, I want to see who shows up."

"Si, Señor."

In less than thirty minutes, two cars arrived. The first contained four men with long guns. The second car was driven by a stocky man who buttoned a suit coat while walking briskly into the building. Within ten minutes two of the gunmen departed, but the rest remained. Peter and Guy parked undetected in an alley several hundred yards away. He then asked, "Guy, do you know a hotel that is safe around here?"

"Señor Peter, no hotel is safe, but I take you to the best."

It wasn't far away from the station and Peter was able to awaken the clerk and secure a room. Guy agreed to return at 1300. Peter had his pick of the rooms in the two-story structure and selected one with a clear landing area on a dirt alley if he had to jump. He needed rest and also to get some information.

He dialed her number and she answered immediately, "Peter!"

He felt renewed energy hearing her voice. "Hi."

"Did everything go all right? Are the Texas people helping?"

"It's about what I expected." He told her about meeting with the three bureaucratic musketeers. Then he told her about being in Mexico.

"Oh, Peter. Why is it always you alone?"

"Rachael, I'm tired and have a headache. I need you to use your CIA connections."

"Anything, Peter."

"Okay, I need to know what you can find out about a 'Commandante Padilla' with the Mexican Federal Police in Juarez."

"Okay, what should I try to find out?"

"I don't know, but I think he's on top of John's disappearance. Find out where he lives if you can."

Commandante Padilla was born in the eastern town of Panuco and had joined the Mexican Army to get out of town, then later transferred to the Federal Police. As a Federale, he progressed rapidly with help from drug smugglers and participation in kidnappings, killings and extortion.

He was stationed in Ciudad Juarez through the influence of Alejandro Cardenas. In addition to detaining, torturing and killing rival gang members, Padilla made additional money through extortion of minor smugglers by planting drugs on them, then demanding bribes to avoid prison.

At about 12:30 El Paso time, Rachael called Peter. He had rested but hadn't slept, thinking about John. Seeing her name in the display, he said, "Hi."

"Hi, yourself. You sound sleepy."

"Oh, not really. My body says sleep, and my mind won't let me."

"Hey, I've got something for you."

Sitting up with a notepad, "Okay. Shoot."

"First of all. This guy Padilla is one of the worst in a country littered with corruption. He's a remorseless killer. Nothing unusual there, many of the Federales are hired killers in their spare time. The U.S. FBI demanded his investigation after concerns that Padilla accepted bribes to allow terrorists and shipments through Juarez without police interference. He also frequently gives bribes to U.S. Customs Agents and Deputy Sheriffs. Only in Mexico would he still be in a position of Authority."

Peter rubbed his temples, "This is actually good news. I don't think there's any way he's not involved with John."

She agreed, "Yeah, it sure seems that way."

"Do you know where he lives?"

She hesitated for a moment, "Peter, this is really dangerous. He doesn't travel alone much and always has guards at his house. He lives in a small hacienda outside of Juarez, on the South side."

"Rachael, you know I'll be careful."

She reluctantly gave him Padilla's address.

He thanked her and was going to say goodbye, when she said, "Peter."

"Yes, Rachael?"

"Be careful. I ... just be very careful."

He savored the sound of her voice. "I will, and thanks."

He pressed the "end" button reluctantly, then got ready to meet Guy downstairs.

A few minutes later, with his bag in hand, he started down the main stairway, but noticed two tan-uniformed officers talking to the clerk. He stepped quietly back up the stairs and went to the back staircase, which exited on the side street. The empty police car was parked nearby. He called Guy to meet him around the corner. They left without being seen.

Artillery

Driving out of the central sector of Juarez, Peter received a call from his oldest Army buddy. "Josh, what's up man?"

"Looks like you better call me 'Sergeant,' Major."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, some fool let you go into the Bad Lands unarmed with no backup. You've done this before, Major."

"Josh, this isn't the time for rhetoric. What's up?"

"I thought you could use some help. So I'm in El Paso."

"Josh, this isn't a frontal assault, not yet. I don't think we should be risking another casualty."

"What if I'm carrying the tools of the trade?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I called a Top Sergeant friend at Bliss and did a little walk through the armory, how about a Barrett with night scope?"

The semi-automatic Barrett M82 was introduced to the military in the early 1980's. It's the most powerful military rifle ever developed, firing .50 caliber ammunition. Some international treaties have attempted to ban the weapon.

"That would be awesome, but you can't walk across the border with it."

"Wait, it gets better. How about a couple M4s and an M21 with scope?"

"Okay, now I'm salivating, but you still can't get to me."

"Surprise, buddy, I've got some connections. It seems like a Lt. Gormam knows where to cross the border at night heading in your direction. Seems that the patrols only look for northerly traffic. No one's trying to smuggle back into Mexico."

"You guys will get your asses handed to you!"

"No we won't. If we come back with Captain Stokes and more, we'll get medals. Hell, there's no one in Mexican politics with enough balls to complain about our little adventure. Hell, we go into Pakistan and Yeman, why not Mexico?"

"Man, you're unbelievable. So's Gorman!"

"Okay, before we get all blubbery, where should we meet?"

Padilla

Padilla lived in a comfortable ranch house at the farthest southern fringe of Ciudad Juárez with a clear view of the mountains to the east. Technically, he only owned a small amount of land, but isolation made it appear larger. Through fearful officials, the land around him would never be occupied. He had a few hours until dark before he would escort a line of trucks for Hector Cardenas, so he planned to enjoy a meal at home and admire the sunset.

His car was driven by a uniformed Federale with another plain-clothed officer in the front. Approaching the house, the officer exited first and circled around the house, peering inside. The guards were not allowed indoors. After two minutes, the officer waved them into the courtyard. Padilla waited for the rear car door to be opened then passed by both men without a word, as he walked to the entry door to unlock and disarm the security system. He lived alone in his sanctuary except for an occasional paid female house guest.

Laying his coat and soiled tie across a chair, he went to the refrigerator for a beer. His guards took chairs in front and behind the house. Padilla sat on a couch and turned on the television to watch the end of his favorite program, Mr. Ed. The beer was cold and refreshing, lasting only five minutes. When the program ended, he pressed the controller "off" then went down the hall to his bedroom to change clothes.

Partway through dressing, he was standing in front of his closet mirror admiring his image. He didn't look fat if he sucked in his gut. Fortunately, he still had most of his flowing black hair. He tried a couple different perspectives, never taking his eyes from the reflection when a head blow jolted his whole body. He fell awkwardly to the floor, gripping the bedspread. Then a second blow to his temple paralyzed him. He blacked out.

When he woke, he was tied into one of his kitchen chairs. His head pounded and his vision was blurred. Stars seemed to float in circles. A Caucasian man in military desert fatigues sat opposite him. Padilla struggled against layers of tape binding him to a chair.

"Who, who are you? Do you know who I am!" He screamed for his guards.

There was a calm reply, "It's not important."

Padilla screamed, "I have the highest friends in Mexico that will burn you alive after removing your skin!"

Peter reached into his pocket for wire cutters and a folding knife, laying them on the end table beside him. "I'm sure of that, but I'll tell you what really matters, and you should pay very close attention. There is a small chance that you will live if you cooperate and are completely honest."

Padilla screamed again for his guards.

Peter let him scream until Padilla whimpered.

"Your guards won't be aiding you tonight. You should realize that I am either your savior, or your worst nightmare. So let me explain what will happen next, because at some point you will be praying for death, after you have given me important information."

Padilla tried to exhibit a brave front, built on years of torturing people when roles were reversed, "Are you insane! My people will kill you before the night is over!"

Peter grinned quickly, then resumed a dark appearance, "Not likely. You're a small thug with no value to anyone except the badge you wear. If you die, someone will just take your place. There are others in Juarez who can easily replace you. So, at this moment, I want you to think of me as your only friend. I can save your life and keep you from experiencing extreme pain."

Padilla was sweating in rivulets as his eyes bulged watching Peter fondle the cutters. "Who are you? I have money!"

"Actually, I'm not interested in money and no one is paying me. My name is unimportant. What is important is that you speak quickly and honestly, answering each question I ask you. We're going to play a little game I call 'Jeopardy'"

Padilla was crying as Peter went on, "I am going to cut off one finger each time you refuse to answer a question, or two fingers if I think you're lying. I know it's not fair since it's only my opinion if you are lying, but I get to make the rules. Once fingers and toes are gone, I'll start on your facial extremities, and so on, and so on. Do you get the picture?"

In one last act of defiance, Padilla spit at Peter who responded, "And I should also mention the tongue and eyes. In the final phase of the game, I may be kind and kill you. Otherwise, I'll leave you as a vegetable. Gosh. I wonder how your 'friends' will treat you then."

Padilla screamed again as Peter roughly gripped the man's hand and grasped his right index finger and fastened the cutters around it. "Wait! Wait! You haven't asked a question!" Padilla's pulse and respiration were skyrocketing.

Peter appeared detached, "Oh, yes! I don't want to forget that part." He paused then continued, "I have a friend who recently visited you at the Police station. He's an American. Do you know who I mean? Be careful, this is a two-finger opportunity for you."

Padilla was hyperventilating and gasping, but said nothing until Peter gripped two fingers between the blades. "Wait. Yes! I know about him!"

"Good, now we're making progress. Do you remember his name?"

"Mister John Stokes!"

"That's right! Now, isn't this fun?"

Padilla just glared and hissed through clenched teeth as Peter continued, "Now. Let's try another two-finger question. Do you know who has him?

Padilla didn't answer quickly until he felt the cold steel edges of the cutter surround his fingers, then blurted "Yes, yes!"

"Is he alive?"

"I don't know. He was wounded. I, I saw blood at the station, but not him!"

"Okay, we're now getting to the final Jeopardy questions, double or nothing -- four finger questions!"

Padilla was panicking. There was no doubt the man opposite him was serious. Peter asked, "Do you know where he is?"

"No! No I do not. Please, Señor, do not hurt me, I beg!"

"Well Armando -- I hope you don't mind my calling you Armando? Anyway, I don't think I explained all the rules. You see, if you answer honestly, but still negative, I'll douse your legs with lighter fluid and burn you alive." Peter reached to his side for a can of charcoal lighter fluid.

"Wait. No. I tell the truth." He screamed through tears as Peter soaked Padilla's pants. "Please! Please! I beg you!"

"Did begging ever help your victims?"

"Please! Maybe I can help. Please do not burn me!

"How can you help? Did you lie to me?"

"No! No, not that. I know a place, a warehouse where Señor Cardenas takes prisoners for torture and killing. It is the only place. Please, it is my honest answer!" Odor proved Padilla was losing control of bodily functions.

Peter looked at him and took a deep breath, "All right. That's almost the answer I was seeking. So, as I consider what to do with you, you will tell me precisely where this warehouse is."

Shaking and sobbing, Padilla answered, "Yes! Yes I will!"

After recording the information needed to find the warehouse, Peter gave Padilla another set of instructions. "Now Armando, you must believe me that I'll return if this information is incorrect. Also, no one knows that I have visited you tonight, but they will be informed if anyone tries to interfere with me. I have friends, just like me, who could visit you in the future if anything should happen to me. So, you just let me disappear and say nothing, and everything will be all right. Do you understand?

Padilla was physically and mentally drained. All he could do was nod without lifting his head.

Peter left Padilla taped to the chair and walked out of the front of the house and up the road toward Guy, who was parked in the brush nearby. The guards were unconscious, but alive. He could imagine what Padilla would do to them. It wasn't his concern.

The Trap

The trap was set. Montes had always provided reliable information. The Texas DEA's greatest busts were mostly because of his information. They were positioned tonight for the biggest catch ever and expecting a fight. Almost all sector DEA, Border Patrol, sheriff and Guard people were being used. Only a small skeleton crew remained at the checkpoints, and there were no roving patrols.

Tension at the roadblock on Puente Río Bravo and up the interstate was at the highest level ever. Agents were told what was coming. There had been ample time to prepare the trap. The highway crossing station supervisors moved from booth to booth keeping everyone calm. They couldn't have any mistakes before the trap was sprung. Cutoff trucks and snipers were in position.

As dusk settled over the Franklin Mountains, Cardenas' convoy started to roll. Lookouts along the trail reported no Americans were in sight. The heavily laden SUVs passed Cardenas and Montes as they rolled out of the warehouse. Ahead and behind the SUVs were trucks with dozens of armed men with automatic weapons and rocket-propelled-grenades. All vehicles were to maintain radio contact with Cardenas.

As the last vehicle drove slowly out of the warehouse, Cardenas turned to Montes, clasping one hand on his shoulder and shaking his right hand, "Jamie, my friend, you have been a good amigo, and I shall miss you. I must leave you now to manage this operation. You shall not see me again." Earlier that day, Cardenas had met with all of his gang leaders in the warehouse to explain that Montes would be in charge after tonight's shipment.

Cardenas departed quickly in a parade of cars, mostly consisting of armed guards. Montes remained with several men who were not known to him, but were now his subordinates. Looking at the murderous criminals gave him a lonely feeling.

Several miles away, the dirty Ford Falcon pulled to a stop momentarily in a brushy cluster, hidden from view. Within seconds, it was pulling back onto the dirt road, motoring back toward town. A lone stealth figure had exited and was moving through the brush toward a large dilapidated storage building. The ancient corrugated-steel structure had no windows, electricity and a dirt floor. The rusted walls touched the uneven ground in several locations, and weeds grew all along the sides. Animals, scorpions, spiders, flies and snakes moved freely under the walls.

About a dozen men waited in the dark by the front of the building for Cardenas to contact them about the prisoners. The leader took two of the gunmen inside with him to a dark back corner where two Americans were lying in the dirt. One wore uniform trousers and the other was dressed like a civilian. Neither had reacted when he kicked them. They were bound with rope around their ankles and their wrists were tied behind their backs. There was also rope looped tightly through their elbows, dislocating their shoulders. Their arm and foot bindings were pulled together, curling their legs upward so their elbows and ankles almost touched. Both had been wounded. Their faces were wrapped in duct tape covering their mouths and eyes. They had been given Gatorade periodically when Cardenas wanted them alive, but now there was no instruction to keep them alive. The big Mexican spoke to his two other guards in Spanish, "We wait then kill them."

One of the guards objected, "Señor Cardenas said we could bargain with the Americans for them!"

"The Americans won't pay any more for them alive than dead."

Some additional bickering went on, but the bigger man made the decisions. They walked away, leaving John Stokes and Corporal Stephan Tilman of the Texas National Guard to whatever creatures were crawling around. Stokes was near death and Tilman had not moved for hours, or days, Stokes had no time reference. His thoughts were of Carolyn and never seeing his girls again. As infection worsened in his stomach wound, he hallucinated about their graduations, proms, families and the grand-children he would never play with. His mind was no longer rationale. At least the pangs of hunger and thirst had gone away. Most sounds didn't register, and he could no longer feel his arms or legs. Insects were inside his ears and nose. Then, there seemed to be a beam of light and a whispering voice next to his ear... "John. John. It's Peter. Can you hear me?"

Stokes could vaguely sense someone pressing his shoulder, but it felt dreamlike ... "John!"

Peter had burrowed under the back wall of the metal building and crawled in the dirt through the darkness, through debris littering the floor. He had been only feet away when the Mexicans inspected their prisoners. Silhouettes of the two fallen men were barely visible from the single set of headlights in front of the building. His only weapon was the folding knife he had purchased with Guy en route to Padilla's house. He kept his voice down, whispering into John's ear, "John Stokes, you've got to hear me!"

Something registered and Stokes shuddered upon recognizing Peter's voice. "John, if you can understand me, nod." Peter kept his eyes on opening at the front opening of the building as Stokes nodded weakly.

"John, I'm going to get you out, get you home. Don't leave me." Another nod.

"Look. I'm going to check out the other man, but I'm here. Just hang tough, pal."

Peter slid over to Tilman. Touching him gently, the body was hot, "Soldier, can you hear me? Nod if you can." The man appeared to be alive but not responsive. He went back to John.

"John, listen to me. I've got to get some help, so be strong buddy. I'll be back for you. Think of Carolyn and the kids. Don't leave us. I promise to get you out." Peter made another promise he didn't want to regret.

A car started outside the warehouse and drove away on the single road leading back toward town. At this point, Stokes and Tilman were left to the guards for their pleasure.

### Smuggler's Pass

Cardenas' convoy made slow progress along the trail until reaching the Transmountain Highway where the group reformed, then drove north toward the crest, above 5000 feet altitude. Unseen and unheard above, a "Predator" unmanned aircraft was tracking them. The Aircraft was on loan from the U.S. Air Force, controlled from Holloman Field in New Mexico. Normally, it was unarmed along the border, but this mission carried Hellfire missiles in case they were needed. They could lock onto the infrared signature of a vehicle and obliterate it with pinpoint accuracy.

As the convoy neared the U.S. border at Smuggler's Pass, it passed a turnout where large trucks were parked. The spotters had not paid attention as trucks frequently stopped to cool their brakes before crossing over the Pass and heading downhill into Texas. Everyone in the line of SUVs was nervous. Roadblocks were common along this route.

At his house, Padilla was shaken, but recovering from his ordeal. He rolled the chair on its side and slowly wiggled out of his bindings, leaving bits of his shirt behind. His guards were still comatose, so he cleaned up and dressed, then drove himself to the police station. He didn't say anything about his visitor, and began forming the police guard that would escort the five large trucks to the border crossing in a procession.

The trucks were already aligned along Boulevard Gomez Morin. Padilla rode in the lead police car and a second car trailed at the back as they escorted the big rigs with lights and sirens. The drivers of the trucks were being paid extremely well, knowing that they would spend time in American jails. It wasn't something new for them, and the Americans treated prisoners better than some of the hotels in Juarez. As the police cars aligned with the trucks, they began to roll faster, gradually reaching sixty kilometers per hour heading toward Interstate 45 north through the heart of Juarez, aiming for U.S. I-110 and the Cordova Port of Entry Bridge to cross into the United States. The Mexican highway patrol put a roadblock south of the I-45 intersection to block any traffic between the truck line and the U.S. Customs inspection station. As they merged north onto I-110, they accelerated to 100KPH (60MPH) and the police cars dropped away.

In the mountains, Cardenas' lead driver was maintaining about 60KPH nervously watching his mirrors to be sure all SUVs were together. The dark fissure in the mountain crest ahead, leading to a hilltop pass created an ominous silhouette against the night sky as he envisioned a classic ambush in an old black and white cowboy movie. As the highway climbed higher into the pass, it crested, then turned slightly right, with a caution sign indicating a tight turn and rapid descent with a speed limit of 35MPH. He ignored it, continuing the turn at speed with others following.

Elsewhere, at the crossing in El Paso, new encrypted radios came alive, "Alert, Alert! Convoy trucks approaching Cordova Bridge."

"Roger that," came several responses.

The semi-truck line passed the Juarez checkpoint at the entrance to the Cordova Bridge going 120KPH. The lead driver focused every ounce of attention on the American checkpoint gates about half a mile ahead. His arms were ridged as he tensed to break through the barrier. Instinctively, he pressed the accelerator to the floor in defiance of authorities ahead. As the gates grew larger, he saw that the bars were up and the booths empty. He panicked. If he touched the brakes, his rig would veer into the abutments, so he drove through the gate at full speed.

At the pass, the convoy passed by a sign welcoming them into the United States. The lead driver pressed the accelerator harder on the downhill turn trying to clear the gorge quickly, when suddenly an enormous semi-trailer filled his vision. Even with anti-lock brakes, the overloaded SUVs were too heavy to control in the short stopping distance. He tried to swerve left and tipped the truck, flipping several times. The entire procession collided in a herringbone tangle of steel.

As gunmen struggled from the wreckage, Helicopters screamed overhead. Then high-power spotlights blinded the smugglers. Armed Blackhawk gunships were hovering above the roadblock. The steep sides of the pass completed the trap. Some foolish gunmen fired in the direction of the helicopters, but were in turn shot by snipers positioned along the mountain ridge. The convoy, its cargo, and all the smugglers were captured in less than ten minutes without a single American casualty.

There were no Mexican heroes at the Cordova Bridge either. A few miles north of the gates, the line of trucks was pinched between truck blockades without a shot fired. The trailers were empty.

The Cavalry

Outside the old warehouse, kneeling in a shallow brush-rimmed crevasse, Peter made a phone call, "Josh, where are you?"

"We're close, boss, started across two hours ago and hit the main roads half an hour ago. We're sitting in Lt. Gormam's pickup, near your dirt road."

"All right. Walk in with the weaps and stay covered if any traffic is on the road. I'm about ten minutes in. Double-time."

"Roger that."

Without waiting, he began jogging toward them to help with the weapons, meeting in less than five minutes.

They were behind cover as he approached. "I'm glad you guys didn't shoot me in the dark!"

He was pleased that one of Gorman's men had joined the expedition. Introductions were made all around. Only Peter and Josh knew each other, but soldiers bond very quickly.

Peter said, "All right, men, here's the layout," as he began sketching in the dirt.

Several minutes later, Peter and Josh were back under the warehouse wall, lying next to Stokes. This time, Peter gently pulled the tape covering John's mouth, but he didn't respond. "John." He shook him lightly, seeing him grimace. He whispered, "John, it's Peter. I've got Josh Blomstein with me."

With more clarity than expected, Stokes mumbled, "Oh, Peter, I thought I was dreaming."

Still whispering, "It's okay, buddy. We're going to start cutting you both free, it'll take a while."

In a choked voice, John answered, "Okay, Peter, I'm not going anywhere."

"John, do you think you can walk?

"No. They tied me good. I lost feeling everywhere."

"Okay, pal. Just stay cool. We'll get you out of here."

Josh was working on releasing Tilman, who wasn't moving or responding to his quiet voice. They kept low profiles behind the soldiers. There was a lot of rope and tape to remove. Thankfully, neither Tilman nor Stokes could cry out as the tape stripped away.

Once the ropes were cut, it was horrifying to see the two men retain their twisted positions. They had been tied too long and too tightly.

As Peter's anger swelled, the volume of dialogue outside the front of the warehouse increased. Something had happened to anger the Mexicans. He didn't understand Spanish, and both Americans needed treatment quickly.

Peter and Josh looked at each other blowing dirt from their M4 receivers. Peter said in a soft voice, "Okay, brother, let's do it."

They rose slowly and moved along the darkest wall of the warehouse to the front, which was almost entirely open. Peering out, Peter gestured that about twelve men were congregated out front.

He keyed his headset, "Stinger 1 and 2, are you in position?"

"Stinger 1, roger."

"Stinger 2, roger."

With that, Peter stood, cocked his weapon and walked out toward the gunmen with Josh at his side. At first, none of the Mexicans paid any attention, and then the entire group stood upright aiming their weapons, a mix of AKs and AR15s. Peter kept his weapon lowered and raised his hand to talk. Several Mexicans yelled in Spanish and made threatening gestures as the Americans in Army combat uniforms walked closer. "Do any of you speak English? Who's in charge here?"

"We all speak. What is it, Gringo? Tell before we kill!"

"We are American soldiers here to take our men home. We don't want trouble."

"You got balls, man! You know we could kill you!"

Peter responded looking at the spokesman, "It's not so easy, you know. Why not just let us take our men? No trouble, no pain."

The Mexicans didn't seem to comprehend what was going on. The de facto leader stepped toward them, "Are you crazy? You gonna die, man. It's only how slowly."

Peter looked at him saying, "It's not that easy, Amigo. We have you surrounded and give you this chance to let us leave peacefully."

"You got us surrounded?" The big man snickered. He said something in Spanish that made the Mexicans laugh. As they did so, one gunman began moving to the left of the pack to the side of Peter and Josh.

Peter had been speaking with an open microphone, heard by all his team. He quietly said, Stinger 1, chop 1, my ten o'clock."

The reply was, "HUA, Six."

A split second later, the upper half of the flanker exploded in red mist when the Barrett fired. An arm with most of his right chest and organs ripped from his torso. It was the most violent gunshot any of the Mexicans had ever seen, and over in a millisecond. The huge 50 caliber bullet is the most violent sniper weapon used by the U.S. military.

All the Mexicans recoiled. Peter and Josh raised their weapons. Peter sighted the spokesman while Josh panned the group. None raised their weapons. "Are there any more questions!"

Hysterical, the leader screamed, flailing his arms, "Hey, man! Hey, Man! What was that? Who did that? That was mi compadre!"

Peter sighted down his weapon, speaking loudly, "So are the rest of these idiots. Now, here's the situation. There's a gun like that pointed at each of you. On my command, there won't be enough of you left to put in an open coffin. You can drop your weapons, and do as we say, or you die. I hate killing, but you've seen us do it."

Initially, the Mexicans were confused. The Americans patrolling the border never shot anyone in cold blood. Peter moved closer to the talker, pointing at his face and yelling, "Are you next? How many do I kill?"

The big Mexican dropped his weapon in the dirt and held up his hands. The others followed.

Within twenty minutes, the Americans were headed north in Gorman's truck with their wounded men and a pile of weapons.

Nearing the border, Gorman used his CB radio, tuned to the Guard Channel, "Sergeant First Class Dias, this is Gorman, over."

Several moments passed then, "This is Diaz, Lieutenant, over."

"Jimmy, we're headed north across the bad lands toward checkpoint Oscar with wounded men, do you copy, over."

"Copy, L-T, please state ETA, over."

"Ah, I don't know, Sergeant, its rough terrain, figure 20 to 30, over.

"Roger that, L-T, I'll manage the checkpoint, do you need special assistance, over??

"Yes, we need medevac and Corpsman when we arrive. Two down."

"Okay, Sir. We may have to use ground ambulance. Our H60's (Blackhawks) got called into a major bust tonight, over."

"Just make sure they have critical care EMTs, our guys are bad, over."

"HUA, Sir, out."

An hour later Peter was on the phone. "Carolyn, it's Peter."

She choked momentarily, "Oh God, Peter! Is he dead?" She could hardly speak.

"No, honey, we got him. He's in the Emergency Room and going into surgery in a few minutes."

"Oh, God! Oh, my God, he's alive!"

He didn't speak for several moments, letting her compose herself, "Look, Carolyn, you should get a flight to El Paso as soon as possible."

"Oh God! Oh no! Peter, is he ... is he going to be okay?"

"Sweetheart, I don't know. He was shot and hog tied for a long time before we got to him. I just don't know. You could help him by being here."

"Okay, okay. I'm on my way, Peter. I'll arrange for the kids and get to the airport. Let John know I'm coming."

"I will Carolyn, I will."

Then he called Rachael. "Hi" was all he could muster.

"Peter! Is it over? Did you get John? Are you all right? Is John all right? Oh, Peter, I was so worried. I want you home."

"Ah, yes, yes, yes and no." He didn't know what else to say.

"So John isn't okay?"

"He's in bad shape. A gunshot to the lower abdomen was untreated. His shoulders were dislocated and without circulation to his arms. His legs were tied behind his back without full circulation for the whole time. These were some cruel guys."

She hesitated for a few moments. "Is he ... will he be okay?"

"Rachael, it's too early. He's going into surgery. Carolyn is on her way."

She remained quiet for several seconds. "Peter, are you okay?"

"Sure, I didn't get hurt."

"As long as you're not in a hospital bed!"

"Rachael, I'm fine. Thank you for caring."

"Peter, you know I'll always care."

"It's just nice talking to you. I ... " He wasn't sure what else to say. He shifted subjects, "Josh came out and really saved all of us."

"Give him a long hug for me!"

He was exhausted and afraid of what he might say next, so ended, "Rachael, I should go. I need to check on the guys and get some rest."

She was quiet for a moment, seeming reluctant to end the call, "Okay, Peter. I understand."

A few minutes later, LTC Colson found Peter sitting in the waiting room with his head back and eyes closed. She sat by him trying not to wake him.

Peter stirred. "Oh. Hello, Colonel." He started to stand.

With her hand on his forearm, "Sit. Sit, Major. I'm sorry to disturb you."

"It's okay, Ma'am, I haven't had much rest for a couple days."

"I know, you just rest. I wanted to be here with our boys along with you. I called Stokes's wife and she said you had talked to her. I guess you guys are all pretty close?"

"We've been through a lot together, Ma'am. John and Carolyn mean a lot to me. He has two little girls, you know."

"Yes, that's what she told me. She should be here in a few hours."

Peter asked, "How's the other man? I don't know him, but he's got a family too."

"Yes. Corporal Tilman's wife and folks live in Abilene. They're driving here now."

"How is he?"

"I don't know. He's also in surgery, but may be worse than Stokes. He was wounded a couple days before the Captain and infection may be too far gone."

"I wish we could have been here sooner."

"Look, don't blame yourself. The entire U.S. Government couldn't help him. You got him out while on vacation! It was a vacation you were on. Am I right?"

"Oh, yes, Ma'am. Vacation." Peter smiled for the first time in days.

"Good. And I understand you had some friends along on an elk hunt. Is that right?"

"Ah, yes, Ma'am."

"Good!" She patted his knee as she stood up. "Now, get some rest if you can. I'd like to see you at my office in 24 hours to debrief. It's been a big time in El Paso the past couple days, so get some rest, and we'll catch up." With that, she sat quietly beside him, leaving him to his solitude. Carolyn was coming.

It was several hours later, and the sun was shining when he awoke from sleeping in his chair. He heard Carolyn's gentle voice and thought he was dreaming until she repeated his name.

Sitting upright, she was leaning across the arm of his chair close to his face. "Peter."

He stood and they embraced as she sobbed, "Peter, I just got here. They won't tell me anything."

He held her against his chest, "He's in surgery, Hon. They don't know anything more right now."

She quivered and didn't look up as he said, "Come on. Let's go find some coffee."

The Cafeteria was downstairs. After getting coffee to go, both were anxious to get back up to wait for the doctor's report. Entering the waiting area, a young woman was sitting with an older couple.

Carolyn followed as Peter approached them, "Mr. and Mrs. Tilman?"

The older woman said, "Yes."

"Hi, I'm Peter Shields and this is Carolyn Stokes. I'm so sorry about your son." He was still in his desert fatigues, dirty and unshaven.

Their eyes were red and tired looking. Mrs. Tilman said, "This is our daughter-in-law, Steve's wife, Hilary. Are you one of the men who got Steve out of Mexico?"

"Yes, Ma'am. We got him here as quickly as we could. He's in surgery along with Carolyn's husband."

"Oh dear, was he shot too?"

Carolyn answered weakly, "Yes," and the women all hugged.

Mr. Tilman asked about the events and how his son looked when they found him, which Peter described as gently as he could.

Some hours later, a surgeon came through the double doors asking for the Tilmans. Peter and Carolyn were seated across the room, and could hear the doctor explain how they were unable to save Steve's wounded arm, and were concerned about the spread of gangrene around his body. They would not know about damage to his other limbs for a while. Mr. Tilman asked about his chances of survival, and the doctor wasn't encouraging. He would be in a controlled coma for some days. Depending on his outcome (if he lived), there could be more surgeries and a physical therapy program. He was sorry.

After the Tilmans left, an hour passed before a second surgeon came out and approached them, "Mrs. Stokes?"

Carolyn stood rigidly as he approached. "We think all the bullet fragments are out. The bullet probably ricocheted before hitting him because there was other debris in the wound. Fragments perforated his bowels and did some damage to his stomach and liver. When we x-rayed, it looks like we got it all. Our concern now is organ function and infection."

Peter asked, "So what does that mean for his recovery?"

"It's never easy to know, but he'll be in ICU under heavy meds for several days."

"What about his arms and legs?"

"Well, that's another matter. We had an Orthopedist relocate his shoulders and checked blood flow. There could be tissue damage from oxygen starvation. We just don't know at this point."

Following the meeting with the doctor, they were allowed to see John in the ICU briefly but were told he would not be conscious for at least twelve hours.

Peter suggested that they find a nearby hotel for Carolyn to rest and call the kids. She had rented a car, so they drove less than a mile and rented two rooms at a cheap hotel. Josh brought Peter some new clothes and domestic articles.

He collapsed on his bed immediately after showering and slept for several hours. It was past nightfall when a knock on the door woke him. Still groggy and wearing only boxer shorts, he opened the door. "Rachael!"

Stepping through, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

"Am I dreaming? What ... why ... ?"

"I couldn't be away from you, Peter. I was worried about you. I was sick when you left. John's hurt, and I knew I should be with you. Are you disappointed?"

"What! How could I be disappointed? I ... I, I don't know what to say."

"How about, 'I love you'?"

He choked and stepped back. He paused, staring at her, "Of course, I love you, but I thought, I don't know, you didn't love me anymore."

She took his hand and sat on the bed, which was the only furniture in the room. "Peter, I told you that I would always love you. I had to work out some issues, that's all. It all made sense when you were gone."

He placed his hand gentle behind her neck, feeling her soft hair, smelling her freshness, "Rachael, I love you with all my heart. These months have been hell for me. I could never stop thinking about you."

"Look, Peter, I'm still not happy with some of the things you do, but it makes more sense to me now. You came here for John. It wasn't some stupid macho thing. I understood it this time, and it changed the way I want our relation to go in the future."

He looked into her eyes, "I only ever wanted a future with you."

She smiled gently, "Me, too. Josh told me what you guys did down there. It's amazing. What's more amazing is that I wasn't scared when he told it."

"It's what I do best, Rachael."

"I know that now. Now, let's get some rest."

It was still before dawn when the phone rang and Peter answered. Her voice was amazingly calm, "Peter, John's awake."

"Carolyn, go to him, and I'll be right there."

He felt incredibly rested, turning to Rachael who was looking at him. He kissed her gently, and they both got out of bed, following Carolyn to the hospital several minutes later.

When they arrived, only one person could visit John in the ICU, and Carolyn was standing beside his bed holding his hand. She turned and signaled Peter through the glass doors to come in and passed him, leaving the two men alone.

Peter had never seen John pale and gaunt before. "Hey, buddy, how's it going?"

John was too weak to turn his head completely, "Peter, I feel like shit, but they keep me too doped up to complain. I'm just glad to be alive. I don't remember much except your voice telling me to hang in there and think of Carolyn. Thanks, pal." He was gripping Peter's hand weakly.

"You're the hero here, pal. You made us get Corporal Tilman also."

"How's he doing?"

"I don't know, I thought he'd be in here with you."

"I was the only one in the ICU when I woke up."

"Well, we got him out alive, that's all I know, John. Now rest, and I'll let Carolyn back in here."

Stokes held on to his hand for another moment, "Peter, don't let Carolyn suffer too much if I don't make it."

"I won't, buddy, but you're gonna be all right." Peter tried to shield his distressful feeling about his friend.

He walked away from as Rachael was hugging Carolyn before she went back to be with John. As she passed by Peter, she stopped and kissed him on the cheek, "Thank you for giving him back to me."

He just nodded, not able to talk, shielding his damp eyes from her, then walked briskly to Rachael, "It's breakfast time, and I'm starving. Let's go find some Texas Huevos Rancheros."

She smiled and they drove away watching the sun rise over the mountains. He called Josh to join them. During breakfast, Josh talked about more details of their raid than Peter wanted, but Rachael seemed okay with it. Josh had a noon flight and left them alone after an hour together. They all agreed to get together in Washington. Alone again, sipping coffee with Rachael, he said, "There goes the real hero."

She smiled at him, "Yeah. Well, you two share a mutual admiration. I don't know about you and your guy friends. I don't have any girl friends that share the love as much as you all do."

"Yeah, it's kinda weird, I guess -- hard to explain."

"No, it's not."

Hi smiled and looked down at his warm mug, "Yeah, well. It's time to go meet the Colonel"

He paid the bill, and Rachael drove to the office. He invited her to join him in their meeting. As a director-level person from CIA, she would be indirectly involved anyway. It was unlikely that Colson knew about Jamie Montes, who only communicated with the DEA, Leo Moritz.

LTC Colson was in her office working on reports when they arrived. Peter introduced Rachael as his "friend" from the CIA, explaining that her presence was as a friend to the Stokes' family.

After welcoming them and exchanging pleasantries, she said, "Major, if you worked for me, I'd first reprimand you, and then recommend a medal. But you don't work for me, and I'll still recommend you."

Peter smiled, "Thanks ma'am. I've got medals. I'm just happy that we got our guys out without any kind of international incident. I've created a couple of those before, but this was only bad guys, and they won't be complaining too loudly."

"So, did you hear about the giant bust that went down while you were engaged in heroics?"

"No, I've been out of touch."

Rachael had been traveling and also missed the news.

Colson went on, "Well, our guys snatched a couple billion worth of heavy drugs in the mountains. The guy who owned them is Hector Cardenas. We gave him a really bad day."

Rachael asked, "Was Cardenas caught?" She recognized the name from the Sandcastle file.

Colson pursed her lips. "That would be icing on the cake. In fact, it would be glacial. The fact is that we don't know. The DEA and Immigration guys are sorting through all the illegals, but most are undocumented. Unfortunately, there are no pictures of Cardenas, so we might have him in lockup. We just don't know.

"It was a pretty clever gig overall. They sent an empty decoy convoy breaking through our border gates in El Paso at exactly the same time the bust was made in the mountains. We were ready for both of them."

Peter looked at both women. "Sounds like a well-planned smuggling op, and an even better plan to catch them."

"Yeah. The DEA gets full credit." Colson admitted.

She continued looking at Rachael. "I think they had some help from your guys."

She was in the middle of investigating Montes and had no knowledge of Jamie's involvement, if there was any. "We've had pretty good intelligence in Mexico, but I can't really comment."

Peter and Colson both nodded.

Colson looked at Peter. "To keep piling on the good news, we got all our hostages back."

He retorted, "We're still missing a Border Agent taken weeks ago. Do you think he's dead?"

"No, he's alive and well. We found Juan Morales stumbling into one of the desert crossings last night. He escaped during the confusion with the big shipment. DEA and USBP are talking to him now. He'll probably be back on patrol soon, after some leave."

Washington

Rachael flew back to Washington later that day, content that she and Peter were moving in the right direction. He stayed behind to be with John during his recovery. She still had concern about his career choice, but the last few days had caused her to reevaluate things. Resting on the plane gave her the first chance to reflect on the events over the past two days. Something didn't add up!

When she landed, she pressed 1 on speed dial. He answered, "Hi, beautiful. I already miss you!"

"Hi, yourself, lover (his prospects were definitely improving). I was thinking on the plane."

"Yeah?"

She asked, "Was Agent Morales caught by the same guys who had John?"

"I think so. Wasn't there some kind of ransom demand for him and Corporal Tilman?... oh, Tilman died by the way."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Peter. You did your best to save him. So did John."

"Yeah, well, he has a wife... poor girl."

She reflected, "At least she was with him at the end."

"I guess that's something. Anyway, I think there were threats against both of them."

"Does that mean anything? Morales got loose on his own and didn't help Tilman or John?"

"Maybe he was somewhere else."

"Yeah, some place that treated him better."

"I don't see where you're going with this, Rachael."

"I don't know, it just seems odd."

"Now you're sounding like a spook."

"Okay. Like I said, it was just a thought on the plane."

They talked briefly then she drove to Langley. It was a peaceful afternoon. Peter was safe, and John was getting medical treatment.

When she arrived at her office, the first words out of Cybil's mouth were, "You should have told me you were leaving for two days!"

"Cybil, since when have you kept track of anyone in this office? I don't know where any of my people are!"

"They're all here but Jamie."

"And where is he?"

"I don't know."

"You see; my point exactly."

"Look, Ms. Aston, I've worked here since you were in grade school. You can at least be polite."

This was the opportunity Rachael had been seeking ever since moving over from DoD weeks earlier, "Polite? Where in the CIA employee handbook does it say I have to be polite? Especially since you've been rude from the first time we met."

"I have not!"

"Yes, you have! I've been here a few weeks and you haven't helped me at all getting settled in here. You may be a civil servant, but I expect more from an assistant. I want you to work with me, not against me."

Cybil started to say something, but Rachael turned away and walked into her office and logged into the secure server. In it was a message from Vitale: urgent that we meet re: Montes.

Recovering

John Stokes was recovering in the ICU after his third surgery to remove infection and repair damage from a festered gunshot wound in his abdomen. Surgeons had removed his gall bladder and part of his liver earlier. The latest surgery repaired a perforation in his intestines. Carolyn was by his side during the recovery when Peter arrived. He smiled, taking John's hand. "Hey, soldier, I understand you're gonna live."

"Thanks, partner. Josh told me what you did to save me. It's funny. I don't remember any of it."

Peter smiled at Carolyn who was holding John's other hand to her heart. "Well, let's hope this doesn't happen again."

John was groggy but said, "They said the soldier, Tilman, died."

"Yes. He was lying in the dirt too long. It's not your fault John. He lost a lot of blood, and you tried to get to him. He had maggots inside before you got there -- Sorry, Carolyn." She winced, but smiled gently.

Peter went on, "Anyway, the docs say you'll live. Could be a year of therapy before the arms and legs work completely, but I think you'll surprise them."

Squeezing John's hand, he said, "So, I've got to get back to my day job."

John smiled, "Tell Rachael to give you a long lingering kiss for me -- then you kiss her back!"

"I'll try, pal. It's one day at a time for now."

Carolyn came around the bed and gave Peter a trembling hug. She buried her head in his chest. "Thank you, Peter. You gave him back to us."

Gripping her shoulders, he looked at her, "Sweetheart, you've got one brave SOB for a husband. Don't let him do anything stupid again -- at least not without me."

She and John both smiled as he said, "Adios."

He left the hospital in his newly-rented car, heading for Bliss to collect his gear and make return flight reservations. En route, he decided to stop at sector headquarters to make sure everything was under control with the Guard unit and to get a better picture of John's new working environment, assuming he would ever return to the job. His meeting with Mike Schmitt had not gone well the first time and he wanted to be sure he left on good terms. The Border Patrol lived with the threat of capture every day.

Peter had not met the rescued Border Agent, Juan Morales. Schmitt introduced them when Peter came to say goodbye. Peter shook Morales' hand, commenting, "Well, Agent, you fared much better than your fellow captives." Morales was fit from all appearances.

Morales responded, "It's good to meet Major Shields, the hero. Thanks for rescuing our guys."

"Yes, well, heroics are for fools. I'm impressed that you were able to escape on your own. You sure look better than our guard boys in the shed."

"They treated me differently. I'm a Mexican and was able to reason with them."

"From what I saw, they didn't seem to care much for anyone, including Mexicans. They kill dozens every day in Juarez."

"Well, I don't know. They weren't that bad to me." He didn't offer any other explanation.

Peter reflected on Rachael's earlier comments, "Were you near the two soldiers?"

Morales stammered before answering, "Ah, they kept us apart. I wasn't near them."

"Okay, you're a lucky man."

Peter said goodbye to everyone in the office and left for the airport in a taxi.

En route, he dialed Rachael's mobile phone, which went to voicemail, "Hi, Rachael, it's Peter. I'm on my way home. Call me if you can." And then he added, "I love you."

He slept in a window seat most of the flight home.

Meeting

Rachael knocked on Vitale's open door. "Sandy, did you want to see me?"

He always seemed to be focused down at his desk. "Yes, Rachael, please close the door."

He gestured her to a chair saying, "Something odd has happened. Jamie Montes wants to talk to me, urgently. Do you know what this is about?"

"No, Sir. Jamie has been missing for almost two weeks and cleared out his desk."

"How's your investigation going?"

"It's really not started yet. I just got back from Texas."

"Okay, so what do you suggest? Should I call him back?"

"I would, but be careful. We still don't know what he's up to."

"All right, Rachael. I'll call him and brief you afterward."

"Thank you, Sir. I appreciate it."

The meeting lasted less than two minutes. Vitale didn't seem interested in details about her quick trip to El Paso. After returning to her office, the first thing she did was to use the CIA directory of cooperative agencies to find her counterpart in Mexico at the Centro de Investigación y Seguridad Nacional (CISEN), which she called on the secure telephone. She closed her office door while the phone was ringing,.

She heard "Hola" followed by something in Spanish she didn't understand. There was a pause, so she said, "Hello. Do you speak English?"

"Yes. Sure. I speak the English."

Rachael gave her name and explained her position in the CIA, then asked to speak to a senior agent. She was put on hold then heard the phone transfer. A man with remarkably fluent English answered, "Hello, Ms. Aston. I am Chief of Intelligence, Homero Salas. Can I be of assistance?"

"Hello, Chief Salas. I was hopeful that you could help the CIA investigate an American who once lived in Mexico."

"We are always anxious to cooperate with the United States, Ms. Aston."

"Please call me Rachael. We are seeking any information you may have about a man and his family."

"It is my pleasure, Rachael, call me Sal. Who is the man, and what else do you know about him?"

"His name is Jamie Montes. He was born in California to Mexican parents and lived in La Paz until he was seventeen." She provided his birthdate and the date of his enlistment into the Marines. She also provided his U.S. passport information.

They discussed more about the kind of information she wanted, then Salas concluded by promising to find out what he could. He told Rachael that records were not good in Mexico generally and even worse from the 50's and 60's when Montes was growing up.

"I'm sure you will do the best you can, Sal, and I can't ask for more."

"Si, Señorita. You have my assurance of that."

After hanging up, there was a gentle tap on the door and Rachael said, "Yes?"

The door opened and Cybil entered, more demure than any time Rachael had seen her before. "Rachael, can we talk?"

Rachael stiffened, "Ah, sure, Cybil."

She sat down across from Rachael looking down at her hands in her lap. "Rachael, I've made a bad impression and want to apologize."

Rachael didn't say anything as Cybil continued, "It's just – well, we had a nice department here for a long time then all sorts of changes got thrown on us after Mr. Lawrence. I never understood it. I knew him for my whole time here, twenty years, and he was a good man. At least he was good to everyone working here. Then you came along to fix us. It didn't seem fair. We're all good loyal hard-working Americans. We believe in what we do. Now we're scum and need supervisors who don't come from the CIA. I don't get it, and maybe I shouldn't."

Rachael contemplated before speaking, "Cybil, I had no idea how you felt. I thought it was just me. Look, I'm not going to apologize for being here. It's just something that happened and was an opportunity I took."

Cybil responded, "It's not you, Rachael. I think I could like working for you, but, you know, it's just been hard to swallow after all these years."

"Look, for what it's worth, I don't see this as a broken Agency. I wouldn't join a loser. I want to do a good job and would really like to have you with me." She wasn't sure about the last part.

"Okay. I'd like to try."

"Me too."

Cybil nodded her head and started to rise when Rachael asked her to stay.

"Cybil, you can help me."

"With what?"

"Well, tell me about Jamie Montes."

Their meeting lasted another ten minutes. Later that day, Rachael remembered that she had turned her mobile phone "off" while meeting with Vitale. The message from Peter was several hours old when she listened and called him back. He answered, "Hello."

"Hi, I just got your message. Sorry, I had a meeting and forgot about the phone being off."

"That's okay. Look, I just landed at Dulles and am waiting for my stuff." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Ah. I wondered if we could get together \-- for dinner or something."

She answered slowly, "Ah, sure. What time and where?"

"How 'bout Louie's in Arlington around seven?"

"Okay. I'll see you there."

The call ended without any signal from her that relations had permanently changed.

He got home with enough time to shower and change, and then drove to the restaurant, arriving early.

He was sitting in a booth when she arrived fifteen minutes late saying, "I'm sorry about the time. I got involved in some stuff at work and wanted to rush home first." She looked remarkably refreshed, coming straight from work.

"You look fabulous."

"Gee, thanks. You too."

He exhaled and smiled, "I saw John and Carolyn this morning. He's going to be all right. It'll take time, but Carolyn will get him in shape."

"You and Josh. I shiver thinking about what you did."

"Just some more childish heroics!" He hated it as soon as he said it. Their relationship was still too fragile for sarcasm.

She took the heat off, "So, what shall we order."

"Rachael, I, I want to talk about us."

At that moment the waiter arrived, inquiring about drink orders. Peter's annoyance with the interruption showed on his face. The waiter offered to return later, but Rachael said, "I think we should have a bottle of wine. What do you think, dear?" He was momentarily speechless.

She ordered, "Ah, do you have a good Pinot Noir?"

The night was special. Rachael kept him off balance throughout dinner, without ever acknowledging his overtures, but tormenting him with words of affection injected at unexpected moments. Just to keep him repentant longer, she hugged him when the evening ended, but didn't offer a kiss. She drove away with a smile on her face, watching his bewildered stare in her mirror.

Midday the following day, she received a call from Mexico. When it ended, Cybil told her that Mr. Vitale needed to see her immediately. She took her notebook and departed for the first floor. Walking directly into his office, "Did you want to see me, Sandy?"

"Yes, Rachael. Come in and shut the door."

She did as instructed as he began, "I talked to Jamie Montes."

Rachael sat up rigidly as he continued, "He was calling from 'his' hacienda in Mexico City. It was a really strange call. I got the impression that he was trying to keep someone from listening."

"What did he call about?"

"Well, that's the strange part. He wasn't completely clear, but I think he wants to meet and explain something."

"Hmm. I guess he wouldn't call if he was happy as a disenfranchised spy."

"Nicely put. Anyway, how would you feel about going to Mexico City?"

"Me? Alone?"

"Rachael, you're in a field operation now, and this is what we do."

"Yes, I know, but do you really think it's that important?"

He stared at her like a stern schoolmaster. "Rachael, I'm the Director of the CIA, and you're my Deputy. We can't afford to play games." He let out a breath, "Yes, I want you to go."

Taken aback, she responded, "Yesser. I'll go right now."

"Look Rachael, I want you to make sensible plans. I'll have the Embassy meet you. You'll meet with Montes in some out-of-the-way place. He'll tell you where. The embassy will be in charge of your safety."

"All right, Sir. When should I leave?"

"Tonight."

She felt uneasy about the trip and meeting with Montes, but didn't really have an alternative. On the way to pack, she called Peter to tell him she was leaving. He asked where she was going and she could only say, "Company business."

The travel office coordinated her trip beautifully, and she was airborne within minutes of arriving at Dulles. The flight changed in Dallas, and she arrived late at night in Mexico City.

Rachael had no idea what to expect in Mexico other than thin air and pollution. She'd seen press interviews with illegal immigrants who had made it seem like everyone was dying of starvation, living in a police state, with corruption a way of life. When the plane landed and she cleared passport control, she was relieved to see a nicely-dressed young woman standing in the baggage-claim area holding a sign with her name on it.

Her Latina chauffer seemed to sense it was her before she introduced herself, "Hello, I'm Rachael Aston."

"Hello, Ms. Aston. I am Rochelle from the U.S. embassy and will take you there after we claim your luggage."

Within ten minutes, they were driving in a nice air-conditioned American car through streets that would have been impassible a few hours earlier, during rush hour. Rachael sat in the front seat at the request of the driver, "to look less conspicuous as an American executive." Kidnappings were frequent near the airport. She also said, "This car has half-inch Lexan windows and armor all around, so you're safe."

"Gee, it's comforting to know that."

"Yeah, I know that it is sometimes a bit scary for newcomers. For us who live here, you get used to it. You just take some precautions. It's different than in the States, not worse, just different. In many ways, people here live more carefree lives because they don't expect very much. There is always mañana."

Rachael responded, "I guess it's no different in DC. There're a lot of areas you don't drive in, day or night."

The embassy was a five-story building about twenty minutes downtown from the airport, when there was no traffic. They drove through an arched entry after the Marine guards opened the massive iron gates. She felt secure again inside the American enclave.

When the car stopped, she was met by Steve Harris, Assistant Trade Attaché. "Hello, Ms. Aston. Welcome to our little piece of paradise."

Within less than a minute, it was "Steve" and "Rachael." He almost stumbled several times trying to open doors for her. "Steve, I'm a modern girl. You don't need to keep opening doors."

"Okay, Rachael. It's just something my mother taught me. Always open doors for a lady."

"Look, just treat me like another spook. I know you're not really a trade attaché."

"Touché. By the way, we made reservations for you at the Marriott down the street. It's safe and we'll handle all ground transportation."

"Thanks, Steve. I don't know where or when I'll be meeting with someone."

"No problem, Rachael, our Marines provide protective services. They dress in civies outside the Embassy."

"Great. Now I'd like to make a phone call."

Jamie Montes didn't want to wait until morning. He said he would meet her in the Hotel bar around midnight. For Rachael, it was almost two in the morning body clock time, but she agreed. She asked Steve if a Marine could be in the bar also, which he arranged.

After checking into the hotel, it was nearly midnight, so she went to the first-floor lounge immediately after dropping her bag in her room. The bar was enormous with several fountains and a raised gazebo bandstand, which was empty. Tropical plants added to the privacy of numerous darkened booths with recorded bird calls in the background for white noise. It was about half full with dozens of table conversations going on and booze flowing freely. Some man was speaking in a booming American voice, freely lubricated, about some kind of deal he worked out with a Mexican shop owner. She first looked around for the Marine, who acknowledged her from the bar. Even in civilian clothing, his haircut was obvious. She smiled, then walked further inside, around a water fountain, looking for Montes.

She was sitting in a chair facing the entrance when he arrived promptly on time. Walking up to her, they shook hands quickly and he said, "We need a booth, something out of sight." They settled in one of the rear booths farthest from the bar, and farthest from the other patrons. She noticed the Marine shift positions to keep her in view.

Jamie was nervous and impatient. "I thought Vitale would come!"

"Sorry, Jamie. I'm what you get."

"Look, Rachael, I'm sorry, but you're way out of your league here."

"So, what's so important that only the Director can hear it?"

Montes stared at her for several moments, "Maybe this was a mistake. I should have done this differently."

He was sweating, and she almost felt sorry for him — almost.

"Look, Rachael, it's dangerous being around me, and dangerous for me to even talk to you."

"Jamie, I came a long way because my boss ordered it. I'm tired and would just as soon go to my room and sleep before flying out in the morning. So, if you want to talk, you better stop babbling and get on with it."

"You don't like me, do you?" He was just reciting the obvious.

She shrugged. "It doesn't make any difference if I like you. I'm here on business, nothing more. This isn't a friendly visit."

"What do you think you know about me?"

"You've done everything possible to hide yourself, so what could I know."

"I'm not a bad man, Rachael."

"I didn't say you were."

"No, really, I'm on your side."

"Which side is that, Jamie?"

He shrugged and looked down at his hands that were sticking to the table from perspiration. Before he could speak, a waitress took their drink orders. He ordered Dos Equis beer, and she ordered mineral water. After the waitress was far enough away, he started, "Okay. What I'm going to tell you will put us both in a lot of danger, me more than you."

She folded her hands together on the table, "So, what's so mysterious that I could be in danger?"

"I'm going to tell you things about people here in Mexico, the most powerful people."

She didn't say anything as he continued, "I'm a spy."

She grinned and looked upward before looking directly at him, "Of course, you're a spy! Is that what you wanted to tell me? My God, man, you work for me."

He exhaled and looked around before speaking, "No, I'm the deepest kind of spy you'll ever meet. Only the prior Director, Will Lawrence, knew my real mission."

She showed a wry smile, "Oh, come on. This is too rich. Have you been hallucinating?"

"No, it's true."

"Look, Jamie. I did some checking. You didn't cover your tracks escaping to Mexico as well as you thought."

He looked at her questioningly as she continued, "You want to tell me about thousands of acres of land in La Paz? The land given to you by the Cardenas Cartel. By Alejandro Cardenas?"

His face was ashen, "What do you know about that?"

"They keep records in Mexico, too, you know. If you look deep enough, you can find it."

He sat back slowly and looked at her. "You're better than I thought."

"Why, because I could find a two-bit counter-spy in the wood shed? How many people have died as a result of your treachery? How many?"

He stared at his hands clasped together on the table, "A lot."

"You admit it like it's trivial! How can you do that and expect me to trust you?"

"Because, Rachael, what you will learn, if you stop pre-judging me long enough, is that this all makes my case."

"Oh. This better be good."

He waited a moment, "All right. Here are my bona fides. When you go to Washington, I want you to write a memo to the Clerk of Records in the vault, where all super sensitive information is stored deep below Langley. Have Vitale sign it because you can't get in otherwise, or you fake his signature if you don't trust him. He doesn't know anything about this, only Lawrence knew. In the memo, state that you are to be given complete access to the Sandcastle files logged under my name. You'll need to read them in the vault, and they should never see the light of day."

Rachael had a curious expression, "What should I be looking for?"

"Oh, I think you'll find all kinds of stuff, but for starters, look for an Affidavit signed by me and Lawrence titled, 'Transfer of land title'. It says that title to all of the land given to me by the cartel is transferred to the Agency. The Mexican land deeds are attached, signed by me. There's another one that gives all my ill-gotten money to the Agency."

"That seems too bizarre to be true."

He slumped and said softly, "I don't care -- it's the truth. What do I have to do to get you to listen?"

She was getting slightly unnerved. Counter espionage was way beyond her experience level. Jamie was right about that. She asked, "Okay, suppose the memo exists. What else will I find?"

In a subdued voice he replied, "I don't know, probably my birth certificate, my will, my parent's birth and death certificates, military records, old pay stubs, program authorizations, bribes to congressmen — the usual. You'll even find out my real name."

She shook her head slowly trying to clear her mind after such a long confusing day. "All right Jamie, why tell me this?"

"Because you're what I've got, Rachael."

Their drinks arrived and tensions eased as she realized that they might both be on the same team. He seemed somber when she asked, "Okay Jamie, tell me what's going on."

Over the next half hour, he explained how his role with the CIA had actually begun in the Army when he was embedded with military and CIA covert operators in Central America, destroying drug trade routes. Jamie handled logistics. Like their Latin counterparts, the American operators were occasionally offered bribes to "look the other way." For the most part, the Americans were not as intimidated by threats as the native troops because the cartels feared reprisal from U.S. forces.

Jamie had been approached several times about providing operation plans to Cardenas, when he ran a small-time criminal gang. Montes shared the information with the CIA and was recruited to "play along" with Cardenas. It was a very dangerous game and Jamie found himself frequently reminded of this when rival drug smugglers were executed by Cardenas, sometimes in front of him. After retirement from the Army, he had already accepted a position with the CIA to expand his clandestine work in Mexico. Over time, he became so integrated with Cardenas that he became key to the cartel's success by using his CIA credentials to divert DEA operations, usually against competing cartels. Oddly, his information led to some of the largest drug captures in history. With these seeming successes north of the border, Jamie's DEA trust grew along with their success, capturing large drug shipments. At the same time, Cardenas used the diversions to ship large quantities along different routes. It took almost ten years, but Cardenas finally trusted Jamie enough to use him as his chief advisor. This ultimately led to the senior Cardenas' death.

Rachael was curious, "Jamie, why do this? You have your military retirement, and could have a desk job in CIA, DEA or any other organization needing knowledge of the land corridors for drugs."

"Rachael, it's personal for me."

She looked at him strangely without speaking, so he went on, "Look, my real name is Jairo Navarro Claudio Montez. When I was seventeen, Alejandro Cardenas killed my father and mother, his own sister. He probably brought along his little son for amusement to see how it was done."

She looked at him, speechless. She had no idea how he must have felt, and obviously still felt. She couldn't imagine experiencing something so horrible as a child. After a moment, she said, in a sympathetic voice, "Okay, so Cardenas is dead. Why not end this?"

"His empire is not dead, neither is Junior."

"This isn't sounding good."

"I wish it were more positive. I got myself in too deep. It should have been enough to kill the old man, but now I'm wrapped up even deeper in the cartel because of Hector."

"Okay, all op plans have an objective -- an exit -- what's yours?"

He was caressing the empty beer bottle, "I want the son. Then I think the cartel will be eliminated by the mean SOBs trying to take over. There's no end to it down here, Rachael. They're all animals. They grow horns and tails at birth just to keep feeding drugs to American idiots. Sorry to get so melancholy."

"So, is there some strategy? How do we get you out of the firing line?"

"Oh, I've been under threat so long down here that it doesn't seem so bad any more. I guess if we can get the son, I'll be finished. They can kill me if they want then. I don't care."

"Jamie, that's not acceptable. Let's work on this like professionals and get you home safe."

"Rachael, this is my home. If you mean retire, I can go back to my parent's farm and live on my Army pension like a land baron. That would make me happy."

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. So, what will it take?"

"Kill Hector Cardenas."

"How? Where?"

"I thought we'd get him at Smuggler's Pass. He was leading the pack when they left Juarez."

"Where's he now?"

He showed a sardonic grin, "I dunno."

"If he shows up, will he find out about you?"

"Rachael, the sadistic monster left me in control of his property and the cartel. He told me his whole plan days before that night. He was supposed to retire in the States with the billions from the shipment, and I set him up to be captured. He's not stupid – he'll figure it out. He wasn't captured, so he's gonna show up here again -- soon."

"What happens to you?"

"I don't know. He could blame me for not diverting the DEA. Worse, he could figure out I set up the whole thing, which is the truth. If he gets that information, I'm dead. No way to avoid it. In fact, I'd be much happier blowing my own brains out than suffer under his amusement."

"Jamie, I believe you. What can we do?"

"Rachael, I just want to know that you're on my side, and that you know I'm one of the good guys. If you can help me when the time comes, fine. Cardenas will come fast."

"Jamie, I'll clear up any problems at the Company, but I want you to think hard about this. Hector Cardenas can be gotten other ways, over time."

"Rachael, it's my hope that the Company will let me deal with him. It's personal, and I think I've earned the right to do this. Time is too valuable. Cardenas kills people every day; we don't have the luxury of waiting for him to make a mistake."

The meeting ended when Jamie became uneasy about spending more time taking to her. He was also worried that Rachael would be identified with him. So he excused himself and left quickly, leaving money for both drinks.

As a young man, Jairo Montez was raised on a poor goat farm near La Paz. His parents were loving people who allowed him to enjoy sports and friendships with his childhood friends in the town. His labor was needed to help make a poverty living for the family, but his parents insisted that he use his days to attend public school instead. Both of his parents were illiterate, and their boy was going to have more in life than they could provide.

Every year, during the American citrus harvest season, his father, and often his mother, would go north to California to live in the Bracero camps, picking fruit to make enough money to live the rest of the year in Mexico. They were hardworking, honest people. As Montez grew to high school age, his parents sent him to parochial school at Santa Maria Catholic Seminary in La Paz. By Jamie's senior year, expenses were greater than the family could afford, even with the Bracero income.

Without telling his mother or him, Jamie's father started carrying small amounts of illegal drugs into California. He wasn't a major trafficker and only received a small amount of money for taking such a risk.

At Jamie's graduation, he celebrated with his parents, then stayed in town with his friends for the night. The future was uncertain for him, but at least he had one last night without the burdens at home.

Returning to the farm the next morning, he found his mother hacked to death and his father missing. He rode his bicycle to town for the police, who did nothing to console him. Within a few days, after his mother's burial, the police advised him that he was in danger. A rising criminal drug smuggler was bragging that he had eliminated his competition and all their families as a warning to others. Jamie was advised to leave town, and that his father was probably dead.

The one remaining gift from his parents was a U.S. birth certificate, so he fled north across the border. He found a home in the military. Years later, using the internet, he was able to research his parent's murders. That was when he learned the name of the man responsible: "Cardenas."

Leo Moritz

Leo Moritz was a twenty-year veteran of the Drug Enforcement Agency. Before that, he had been a career Army noncom (non-commissioned officer), having served twenty years directly from high school. That was something he and Jamie Montes had in common, although Leo was several years senior. He liked the soldier's life and when he retired in his late 30's, he looked for similar jobs that valued his military experience and would allow him to continue to work in the field, not in an office. The DEA was hiring ex-soldiers because they required very little training in most aspects of the job.

Leo was ideally suited for field work, managing younger and more adventurous agents. Many of the field agents thrived on immersion into the drug channels, living a dangerous false life. Their official credentials were sealed from the moment of employment and their identities were never disclosed in public. Ten years earlier, Leo had been responsible for the capture of a drug lord who was on a vacation trip inside the U.S. He was required to testify without disguise in open court, which meant that he could never work directly in the field again. All of his future work would be done inside the States. It ended his field leadership role, but elevated him to a higher supervisory level. He was happy with the highest rank he'd ever wanted to achieve--but he still missed the field work.

He first met Jamie Montes during Army operations in South and Central America. Their common background helped bond their relationship. When Jamie parlayed his Army background into the CIA, his friendship with Leo grew stronger. In their business, this relationship was paramount. Together, they had accounted for some of the largest drug seizures and criminal captures along the southern border.

He didn't completely understand Jamie's passion for fighting drug traffickers, but he had learned to trust him completely. The trap for Alejandro Cardenas was text-book. It had taken years of cultivation to gain his trust, which ultimately placed Cardenas himself in their sights. Jamie once said that it had been his recommendation to Cardenas to carry a gun on the trip across the border that ultimately led to the shootout when Cardenas resisted arrest. The old man didn't realize how much speed and accuracy with a gun he'd lost through years of a rich, inactive lifestyle. Leo would have preferred to take Cardenas alive, but had no regrets watching him die. Now Jamie was playing with dynamite, stepping in to lead the cartel to destruction.

Bragging

Agent Juan Morales was assigned desk duties at the El Paso Sector headquarters. No one expected him to go back on patrol for a while after his harrowing experience. He was a celebrity, having escaped the fate of Billy Ware. People in the HQ wanted to know all about his ordeal, repeating his story for days. The local and national media hounded him for interviews.

Leo Moritz was also intrigued, not only from the adventure aspect, but also for any information the DEA could use. One night he brought Morales a cup of coffee saying, "It's a quiet night, Juan."

"Yeah, I think the druggies are all scared after Smuggler's Ridge. You deserve a lot of praise for that bust. So, when are you getting promoted and moving to Washington?"

Leo smiled to himself, "Huh, that'll be the day! No, this kind of stuff is in the job description for us supervisors. I don't think anything will change." His private thoughts were otherwise.

"No, really. Haven't they offered you anything?"

"A couple congratulatory phone calls. That's all."

"Doesn't that piss you off?"

"Naw, not really. I like it here, and I'm getting close to retirement. Why go to Washington and deal with politicians?"

"Yeah, I hear you. I like it here in the bush too."

"Even after capture by the bad guys?"

"Well, I'll stay indoors for a while if they let me, but eventually, I want to get back out with the action."

"It's too bad you didn't get to see Smugglers Pass from our side. Man, that was beautiful. They just drove right into the trap, and Bam! We got 'em."

"You put the whole thing together, right."

"Yep. Well, there was a lot of help."

"How'd you do it?"

Leo was in a bragging mood, "Well, I can't talk about all of it, but we had some solid intel on this one. We got a spook friend, giving us stuff from the inside. He's actually leading the damned cartel now, but that needs to stay secret."

"Sure, I understand."

Rachael

Rachael landed at Dulles at one o'clock, skipping lunch to get back to the office as quickly as she could. Cybil actually smiled and welcomed her back as Rachael sped past saying, "Hi Cybil, can you call the Director's office, and see if I can come right down?"

"Oh, Rachael. Mr. Vitale is out of the country."

All she could say was, "Damn. Do you know when he's coming back?"

"His office sent a message that he would return on Monday."

"All right." Rachael tried another tact, "Cybil, maybe you can help me."

"Sure, Rachael. What do you need?"

"Can you get me everything on Hector Cardenas, please? He's a Mexican drug cartel leader. The cartel is named for his father, Alejandro Cardenas. They're some bad people."

After a couple hours, Cybil sent Rachael an email with dozens of links about the Cardenas family and a biography on Hector from CIA internal files. All the links were to internal files that were only accessible inside the agency. There were volumes of information about the father, but almost nothing about the son. Hector was believed to have been educated outside Mexico, but there were no details or recent pictures. Feeling desperate to do something to help Jamie survive, Rachael called Peter, "Hi, how about dinner at my place tonight?"

He was surprised and excited, "Sure, yeah, what can I bring?"

"Bring your brain, it's business."

"Oh, gee, how romantic!" He wasn't entirely let down. At least, he would be near her.

"Good. Come at six. I'm starving and tired."

"Okay. See you at your place at six!"

He could hardly contain his excitement. They had seen each other at least every other day for two weeks.

When he arrived, she was dressed in slacks with a Georgetown tee-shirt. Her hair was down and loose, and he could smell a mild perfume. He was dressed casually in jeans and a sport shirt, which accented his muscled frame. He had also showered and shaved, with a touch of cologne. It felt like a date.

She met him with a smile, but no hug, "Come on in. I bought some salmon that's marinating. How about starting the grill?"

There was no business discussion for the next hour as they enjoyed dinner and a bottle of Chardonnay. At the conclusion, he offered to help clean up, but she wanted to talk about Jamie and told him to leave everything on the table.

They sat in the front room with a folder she brought, which remained closed at first. "You know that guy I had you check out in the Army?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Montes."

"Right. Well, I met with him in Mexico last night."

"Okay, so you went to Mexico."

"Yeah, and it wasn't what I expected."

She told him the main details of her meeting with Montes.

She elaborated, "He managed to get inside the most dangerous cartel in Mexico and set up the leader with the DEA. He's been living this life for over eight years."

"You should give him a medal."

"Peter, he wants to stay on until the son is gone and the cartel disintegrates. He's the guy that set up the big bust while you were there."

"Rachael, the guy's either insane or insanely brave."

She nodded, "Probably some of both, but I'm his boss, technically, and he wants me to stand by in case he needs help."

"Hmm, if he needs help, it will be too late.

"That's my point. It's frustrating."

"So, order him out. Cut off his funds. Force him to get out."

"I can't do that." She paused then continued, "He deserves the chance to finish this."

"Rachael, what you tell me sounds like macho bullshit."

"It's not that. He's not trying to prove anything. See, there's something I didn't tell you. This is personal with him. The father and son killed his family."

"How did he get involved then?"

"He started in the Army then worked it into a CIA case."

"Are you supporting him in this?"

"Peter, he's behind several of the largest drug seizures ever. He's behind the lines in the 'War on Drugs.' He has risked more than anyone because he has an agenda, but the results are the same. Now, how can the CIA help him?"

It seemed obvious to him. "You've got to get the son."

"Here's the file." She opened the red-striped folder marked "SECRET" and spread some documents on the coffee table. "Meet Hector Cardenas."

Peter read some of the headlines, and there was an abundance of written materials but no pictures. "What does Hector look like?"

"That's part of the problem. There are no recent pictures. The only thing is a high school class picture that's more than sixteen years old. He's in his early thirties now."

Peter held the picture then walked into the kitchen for better lighting. "Rachael, I think I've seen this guy. I'm not sure, but his face looks familiar." He squinted harder.

She asked "Where? Was he there when you rescued John?"

"No. no, I don't think so. I've seen him somewhere else. I need to think about this."

Hacienda

Jamie sat quietly on the patio, overlooking Mexico City. Throughout the day, Mexican mobsters came by to pay their respects and to test the resolve of their new leader. He wasn't comfortable in any kind of a dictator role, but he had to hold the cartel together until Hector appeared. He didn't have a plan once that happened, but he knew it was coming. His cellphone rang.

"Hello, Jamie." Leo Moritz' voice was unmistakable.

"Hola, Amigo."

"I hope all is well with you. How are things going?"

"Oh, you know. It's a little lonely at the top. Did you have any luck locating our boy in the jailhouse?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Are you thinking of visiting home (El Paso) any time soon?" None of the criminals captured at Smuggler's Ridge was Cardenas.

"No, not right now, I want to see what happens here first."

"That could be suicidal my friend."

There wasn't any immediate response, so Leo continued, "Okay, well look, if I can be of any help, please call me day or night, I've got a lot of friends in your area."

"I will, cuz. Thanks for thinking of me."

"Hey. I owe you big!"

"Thanks, man, adios."

Montes smiled to himself; Leo was worried about him. This was good, in case he needed help quickly. The DEA had undercover operatives all over Mexico. For now, Jamie wanted to continue meeting with Cardenas' leaders. He knew most of them, and most were greeting him with respect. They were also cutthroats and backstabbers, so he could never trust any of them. He called his driver to take him to the airport. He was tempted to fly to El Paso but would not leave until Hector was captured or killed, even if it meant using himself as the bait.

In Washington, Peter had returned to his apartment before nine, following dinner with Rachael. Then it hit him. He looked through business cards from El Paso and called Mike Schmitt who answered quickly.

"Hello, Mike, it's Peter Shields."

"Hi, Peter. Do you miss us already?"

"Yeah, I had such a good time, I was thinking about another vacation in El Paso."

"Heh, well. You've got an open door. I hear your buddy Stokes is gonna live."

"Yeah, seems like. Say, I've got a question for you."

"Shoot."

"This is really sensitive, okay?"

"Okay, Peter, you've got my attention."

"Please keep this really quiet, but do you have one of those nice biographical pictures of your agents in their personnel files?"

"We should, yes."

"Look, don't read anything into this, but I'd like you to fax one to me."

"Is this an official request?"

"It is if it has to be."

"It does. Who do you want?"

"I want the picture of the border agent that escaped back to you -- Morales."

"Hmm ... "

"Is that a problem?"

"No, just a curiosity, he didn't report in tonight. He's on duty all this week, the graveyard shift as dispatcher. But, he didn't come in tonight. Didn't call. Nothing."

Peter responded, "Look, this might be nothing at all, but I'd like his picture."

"All right, Peter, I'll fax it to you. What's your fax number?"

Peter had been prepared for bed, but changed into civilian clothes and drove back to the office. A security guard was on duty, but the building was otherwise empty. The fax machine was located in a far dark corner room. The fax from El Paso was waiting.

"Holy shit," escaped under his breath as he looked at the picture. He dialed the number 1 speed dial on his cellphone.

She answered sleepily after several rings, "Ahh, hello."

"Rachael, get dressed. I'm coming over."

"What? Peter, what time is it?"

"Don't worry about it. Put on some coffee."

Finding a parking space in Georgetown on a weeknight after bedtime was nearly impossible. Peter parked in a red zone a block away and hurried to her townhouse.

She answered the door, wearing her PJs and a robe. The smell of coffee brewing and the sound of a tea kettle boiling completed the scene. He passed her, walking to the living room where they had looked at the folder earlier.

She was wide awake, "So, why the fire drill?"

He led her to the couch where they had reviewed Hector's file, but it was no longer around, "Get the Cardenas file."

She went to her bedroom upstairs and brought down her backpack, laying the file on the coffee table. For a moment, he remembered climbing those stairs with her when he had first moved to Washington. The memory passed quickly.

He opened the manila folder to the high school picture, and pulled the fax from his jacket pocket, "Here, let's take a look."

She turned on more light, but after staring for several seconds. "I don't know, Peter. I guess it could be him."

"Rachael, I met this guy. He was in the office with Schmitt when I was leaving. I shook his hand. He looks more like the high school picture than this file picture. I'm sure it's him. He's older and heavier, but check the eyes, mouth and ears. The ears are dead nuts on!"

She looked again more closely at the details. "I can't argue with you. He sure could be the same guy."

"Trust me, sweetheart. This is him!"

She placed a hand on his shoulder, "Do you realize that's the first time you've called me that in months!"

He blinked several times without speaking, then started to stammer, when she stepped in front and kissed him on the lips, quick, but purposeful.

She said, "Okay, now that that's settled, let's look at the pictures again."

"Ah. Rachael, what just happened?"

She was amused, staring at the pictures. "You're forgiven, stupid."

It wasn't nearly as late in El Paso when Mike Schmitt's phone rang. "Schmitt."

"Chief, it's Peter Shields, and I've got Rachael Aston here with me."

"Well, congratulations, Peter!"

"Huh, oh yeah, funny Chief. Look, we've got something for you."

"Go ahead, Peter. Sorry for pulling your chain."

"No problem, Chief. Look, the guy you introduced me to, Morales, did he ever come into the office tonight?"

"No, like I said before, we haven't seen him, and I'm trying to track him down now."

"All right, be careful, we think he's really Hector Cardenas."

"What?" Schmitt was genuinely shocked.

"Look, we're ninety-nine percent sure. You need to find him, but be very careful."

"Look, Peter. I need something official on this."

After a pause, Peter answered, "Okay, look. There will be a secure message sent from the CIA, from Rachael, advising of the suspicions."

"All right, but this could blow up big time if you're wrong. The guy's been in all the media. He's practically a hero."

"I can't help it. Just do it!"

Juan Morales

Hector Cardenas grew up immersed in violence as his father took control of drug trafficking through Mexico. As a child, Hector never went anywhere without body guards. At first, they had lived in slums and drove old cars, but as time passed and wealth accumulated, his conditions had improved throughout his school years, but he had never enjoyed the freedoms of ordinary children.

His first introduction to the cruelty of the family business occurred off the coast of Baja California near Ensenada, cruising north on a fishing boat headed to Oceanside, above San Diego. The boat's hold was full of marijuana and three petty drug smugglers. Around midnight, the ragged smugglers were made to stand on the stern of the boat where Hector's father, Alejandro, sat with an old bolt-action Springfield 1903, .30-06 caliber military rifle. Alejandro wanted Hector to witness the execution of the peasants to understand how power was achieved in the drug trade. Without ceremony or emotion, he shot the first man in the stomach, who fell crumpled on the deck. Two crewmen lifted him onto the back rail and threw him overboard. The man probably didn't swim well and would die by drowning or eaten by sharks if he lived long enough. The two other men cried and pleaded, but Cardenas shot the next one in the head, knocking him over the stern. He then cycled the bolt on the gun and told Hector to take it. While Alejandro supported the gun for Hector, he ordered the child to shoot the last man who was holding his hands out defensively while pleading. Hector cried uncontrollably and couldn't look along the gun toward the man. He was only nine years old and refused to touch the gun, but his father forced his men to push the boy forward, nearly touching the man, and made him shoot. With his eyes closed, the recoil sent Hector to the deck of the boat. The shot missed, but the panicky victim stumbled and fell off the boat anyway, more than fifty miles from shore. The Cardenas gang laughed at Hector on the deck and continued north. The victim would have been better off if killed quickly, rather than the death he now faced.

After that, killing and torture got easier. He was a conflicted youth. He grew to be a sadistic killer, but also well educated. At eighteen, he enrolled at San Diego State University in California under the name Juan Morales. Following graduation, he joined the U.S. Border Patrol and requested the southern border. With his help at remote crossing points, the Cardenas' Cartel flourished. Hector was silently accumulating a fortune over the years serving with the USBP, aiding his father and destroying the competition.

When his father was killed, Hector killed Agent Randy Firth and faked his own kidnapping. He took over control of his father's cartel in Mexico. As an educated man, he had no illusions about life expectancy in the trade, so he'd planned one last mega-shipment of drugs that would triple his hidden wealth. His ally, Jamie Montes, had befriended his father years earlier and received large land parcels as compensation for his services. As seen by both Cardenas men, Jamie Montes used his connections with the DEA to manipulate conditions, allowing their shipments to slip through the borders, while targeting other smugglers and anyone trying to lead terrorists north. It had been an unholy alliance that Hector continued. Cardenas had never had a shipment captured until now.

Hector had begun planning his move back to the States as soon as he'd secured control of the cartel. There had been some minor attempts by other Cardenas gang members to take control, but they were painfully exterminated as an example to others interested in taking his legacy. His father taught him well.

His exit strategy was simply to gather a huge drug shipment, then use Montes to create a diversion so he could get it to his northern distributors. The payments would flow to his secret bank accounts, and he would "escape" back across the border and resume his U.S. identity. He would find the border patrol too stressful after his capture and would resign and fade into obscurity. For compensation, Montes would receive all of the physical assets Hector left behind in Mexico. The plan was brilliant--until it failed.

El Jefe

The Cardenas air-express plane touched down at Juarez Airport after midnight. Jamie had called ahead, and a car with driver was waiting at the airport. It was a tiring four-hour flight even without the security delays of a commercial airliner. The air over the mountains had been turbulent, and he had been strapped in tightly for hours. Small executive jets were great for convenience and prestige, but not always for comfort. His back ached from crouching inside, and the booze was too tempting. He was unstable, stepping down with help from the flight crew. He silently vowed never to drink again on "his" airplane.

The car pulled up immediately, and a large, surprisingly well-dressed man got out of the front passenger seat and opened his door. So far, his role as drug czar was great. He ordered them to drive to his estate, putting his head back to sleep, turning his cellphone off for the hour-long drive to the foothills. It was a clear night, and he enjoyed looking at the stars between dozing off. When they arrived, the house was alight, inside and out, and there were two uniformed police standing in front. Cardenas senior had used the police for security. When the car drove onto the circular driveway in front of the entrance, Jamie waited again for the door to be opened.

Stepping from the car, he buttoned his suit coat and walked as ceremoniously as possible past the guards, who didn't stand at attention. He made a mental note of the insult and continued walking to the door, which was partially opened.

Something seemed abnormal. Cardenas had people falling all over themselves to assist him in everything — or they were buried in the desert behind the house. He was experiencing the same respect.

Stepping inside, he heard, "Well, hello, Señor Montes."

Jamie acknowledged the shorter man, "Major Padilla! What a surprise!" He immediately recognized the trap he was in, but was able to mask his anxiety after years of emersion in the violent cartel subculture. There was nowhere to run.

"Indeed, Señor. We have been waiting for you for several hours."

"Well, I'm grateful for your concern Major, but you should not feel the necessity in the future."

"Oh, it is not a great matter, Señor. Actually, I am here officially tonight." Jamie looked at him curiously as Padilla continued, "Yes, we have a new Judge in town who instructed the police to detain you in Juarez."

"What? Is he insane?"

"Oh, I imagine he is quite insane. The Americans, you know. They want more forceful conformance with the laws. Poor judge, I fear shortly he will be out of office permanently. But alas, I must ask you to come with me to the station tonight, and then you can call one of your expensive lawyers, and we will release you."

Montes sensed the two uniforms standing behind him. To protest would be useless. He had been with Cardenas several times before for the same excursion. "Oh, well, then. I'll go peacefully." He thrust out his wrists in mock submission. "Do you plan to shackle me?"

"Of course not. We are all gentlemen here." Montes knew of at least one police Captain buried out back who had been less accommodating.

Padilla put his hand on Jamie's elbow turning him gently toward the door, signaling with his hand, "Shall we go."

Jamie bowed his head slightly, "By all means."

In the car, one of the uniforms sat in the back with Jamie, while Padilla rode in front with the driver.

Jamie asked, "Do you mind if I make a phone call to one of my lawyers?"

"No, by all means."

"Thank you." He used the phone number programmed as number 3. Only one side of the conversation could be heard by others in the car. She was sleeping lightly in her townhome in Washington when her mobile phone range. There was no privacy as he spoke, "Oh, Margaretta. I am so sorry to wake you. Will you please wake Paulo and tell him that I have been arrested."

After a short pause, "Yes, tell Paulo that I am going to the Police station in Juarez with Major Padilla... yes, he knows where the station is located... Oh, I'm disappointed that he cannot come tonight, but please have him come as soon as possible... Yes, yes, have him come tomorrow, as early as possible, please... Thank you... Yes, I will, buenas noches."

He thanked Padilla for allowing the call, who replied, "No pasa nada, Señor."

The ride to the station was eerily quiet for the next thirty minutes. Jamie stared out of the window. It was pointless to engage in any small talk with Padilla. He knew this was leading to a much worse ending than appeasing some judge. The car passed by the entrance to the station, rounding a corner, heading for the rear of the building. It pulled into the back of the station and both uniformed police escorted Jamie through the back door. It led down a narrow painted adobe hallway with barred interior windows. The walls were freshly painted, as usual, to hide blood spatters and other indications of torture and murder. The cells were empty this night. At the end, they turned through down a hall leading to four isolated cells.

As they turned into the end cellblock, Jamie's heart stopped momentarily ... "Hector! How good to see you! I was worried sick when I heard of the capture of your shipment. I am pleased that you escaped." His knees shook and he could barely remain standing.

"I didn't escape, Tio. I wasn't on the trucks."

"What good fortune! I was so worried about you."

"Yes, but you need not worry further. I am back for a time. But what about you, Jamie? Are you truly glad to see me?" Cardenas placed a gently hand on Jamie's shoulder as he spoke.

"Of course I am, Hector."

"Hmm, let me tell you about my discussion with Leo Moritz. I think you will find it amusing. I know I did."

Trouble

The phone rang repeatedly with no answer. When it went to voice mail, she quit and dialed again. He answered, "Hallo."

"Peter, wake up! We need to talk."

"Gee, Rachael. Shunned for months and now we talk every day practically."

"Oh, be quiet. Listen, Jamie's in trouble. He called and said he was arrested. A station named Padilla or something."

He sat up straight and alert, "Padilla? Is that what he said?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Rachael, that's the guy that did John."

"Oh my God!"

"Look, we don't have much time. I'm on my way to Dulles. Call the airport and get me on a plane to El Paso. Then call El Paso and explain what's going on."

He was en route to the airport in ten minutes, having thrown everything in a bag and run. He was certain that the Feds in El Paso could not take action, just as they would have let Stokes die. Rachael called him with a reservation leaving Dulles in two hours through Houston. There were no earlier flights.

Peter parked in the short-term lot nearest to the terminal and hurried to the ticket counter, then through security. The airport was livelier than he expected after midnight, but it was hard for him to be patient, waiting for the flight. Once the plane was airborne, the flight attendants dimmed the lights, and he tried to sleep for a few hours. He'd never met Jamie Montes, but empathize with his circumstances after reviewing his record and talking with Rachael. This was a guy who had been surrounded by death. In the military, there were brief periods of deadly intensity, but Montes lived it every day when he was in Mexico. He admired the man's courage.

It was after dawn when Peter arrived at the sector headquarters. All three of the supervisors were still on duty, several hours after their shifts had ended. Rachael had alerted them. As he came through the front door, LTC Colson approached, "Major, I'm surprised to see you back here so soon, is this an official visit?"

"No, Ma'am, but I can make it official in a heartbeat if you want me to call the Director in Washington."

She shrank away as Chief Schmitt began, "Now look here, Major. You pulled some stunts here a few weeks back and I'm still taking heat." Peter was close to decking the SOB who had hired the most dangerous drug kingpin in Mexico and gotten a lot of people murdered because of it.

"Look, Chief, and the rest of you, I'm here to help an American in trouble again. You can give me all the bureaucratic bullshit you can shovel, but when done, you and I know that you can't lift a finger to help, officially, so let me do this as a civilian. As they say, I'll be 'disavowed'."

There was some disgruntlement, but before anyone could object further, Leo spoke up, "Peter, let's take a ride."

Exiting out the front doors, both men looked at each other but didn't say anything until they were inside Leo's car when he said, "This is about Jamie Montes isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What do you need, Peter?"

"I think I'll need a weapon this time, Leo."

The drive took ten minutes to the border crossing point. Leo was feeling immense guilt, having put Jamie in danger through a stupid admission to Morales/Cardenas. Schmitt had explained the suspicions about Morales to Colson and to him. Leo responded while dodging early morning traffic, "Do you still have Guy's number?"

"It's still logged in my phone."

"Good. He can take you to a special building we use for storage in West Juarez. He knows where it is, and I'll call him to be ready to pick you up and take you there. I can have one of my men meet you and work with you if you want."

"I think I'd rather go alone, Leo, if your guy can just get me outfitted."

"Sure thing, Peter." He shook his hand as they approached the drop off point on the U.S. side. Peter took his travel bag and left Leo dialing his phone.

The temperature was already oppressive in the early dawn as the sun began rising above the horizon. Cats were rummaging through debris near the Mexican station, and the Rio Grande River was nearly dry with a putrid smell. Crossing the walking bridge at the border, there was a turnstile barricade and a hostile-looking officer behind bulletproof glass who said nothing. Peter showed him his military ID and was waived through like the other soldiers looking for fun.

Traffic was queued up as far as he could see with trucks and cars planning to enter the U.S. Horns were already blaring and people yelling, but nothing seemed to move. A few disheveled servicemen were shuffling along the sidewalk heading north after a sinful night, probably late for morning muster at Bliss.

Peter kept his head down, hiding from any surveillance cameras. He was wearing Levis and a blue t-shirt. The only things in his travel bags were clothes and shaving gear. He walked along the street and stopped at the first corner, under an awning where Guy would know to meet him. Americans were common this close to the border where they came for bargain shopping or nightlife. He was alone and conspicuous.

Guy pulled to the curb a few minutes later and Peter casually got into the passenger seat. They shook hands and Guy said, "Hola, mi amigo, Buenas Dias."

"Hello, Guy, I was hoping not to see you again this soon."

"Si, but Mister Leo said you are here again to help your friends. You have so many friends in Mexico!"

"Only one at a time compadre. They just seem to get into trouble."

"Yes, we always have some of the soldiers in our jails. The police make money when friends and their family come for them."

"I hope it's that simple."

Guy looked at him briefly, "I think not."

They drove for almost an hour in traffic to the western outskirts of town. The building was located in a barrio consisting of single-story adobe houses under rusted tin roofs with dogs and chickens roaming the streets. In an area of garages and small shops, Guy stopped in front of a courtyard with tall chain-link fencing, surrounding a flat-roofed building with bars on the windows and an old "garaje" sign on the front. It wasn't open for business, and the gate was locked.

Guy sat patiently, "Like all things in Mexico, we wait now."

A short time later, a dirty pickup truck came down the street from the opposite direction and pulled up nose to nose with Guy's car. The driver stepped out in a dusty cloud, walking toward the gate. He was a tall thin Mexican wearing a crumpled cowboy hat and a short-sleeved western-style shirt with jeans and working boots.

Guy said, "That's Arturo. He is a friend."

Peter exited the car as Arturo unlocked the rusted steel chain. Arturo looked at him saying, "Are you Mr. Shields?" His English was recognizable as Southwestern American.

Peter didn't extend his hand, following the native courtesies he had observed, "Yes, thanks for coming out here."

"Yeah, let's get inside. I don't like coming here in the daylight."

He swung the gate open then drove into the courtyard as Guy followed. The gate was locked again before they entered the building. Inside, as their eyes adjusted, the only thing immediately visible was open space and a decayed concrete floor. The rear of the building remained dark. Arturo locked the door behind them. Two large overhead doors didn't look like they had been raised in decades.

He led them to the rear of the building where a barred door protected a second steel door, probably a tool bin or parts storage area. Arturo opened the padlock and entered the opened doorway ahead of Peter. It was black inside until Auturo pulled a string for a single incandescent light bulb above them. Peter was amazed at the weapon cache stored there.

Sweeping his hand, Arturo said, "Mr. Moritz said to give you whatever you want. So, please help yourself." The shelves contained an amazing inventory of weapons, night vision equipment, electronics, battle uniforms, vests, helmets--everything needed for a small army and covert surveillance.

Peter walked up to one shelf and took a Beretta and three additional magazines and two boxes of 9mm ammunition. "This is all I need, unless you have some kind of vest I can use to carry this stuff without being too obvious."

Autoro smiled, signaling him to follow to the far end of the storage room. "You mean this?" He handed him a western-looking vest with numerous inside pockets, like a reversed fishing vest.

"Amazing. You guys have some serious gadgets here."

"We try, Sir. We mostly use the surveillance stuff, but sometimes we need the firepower."

They shook hands inside the garage as all departed, and Arturo locked everything securely.

Inside the Ford, Guy asked Peter where he wanted to go next. "I'm not sure, but let's try Padilla's house first. I'd like to chat with him again."

It was approaching mid-day when they parked along the narrow road near tall scrub trees. Peter said, "I'm going to see if Padilla is at home. You find a place to park away from here, and I'll call to be picked up."

"Si, Señor."

Peter disappeared behind desert brush.

In Washington that same morning, Rachael had come into the office earlier than usual. She called Leo Moritz a few hours later. She had no idea when he slept. He answered, sounding alert.

Rachael asked, "Leo, did you see Peter this morning?"

"Yes, Rachael. He got here at daybreak and's already in Mexico."

"Did you learn anything more about Jamie? Has anyone had contact with him?"

"No, Rachael, Sorry. Jamie means a lot to us here and to me personally." Moritz didn't plan to confess his discussion with Morales to anyone. It was the kind of mistake they warned rookies to avoid.

"Okay. Look, if you hear anything, please call me."

"Will do, Rachael."

After the call, Leo understood her concern for Peter. After Stokes, no one in the sector wanted to be inside Mexico. The Agents and National Guard troops were all familiar with the new dangers. Leo's feeling of despair went more to Jamie. Talking to Morales had been innocent. He was hiding in open sight for years in the sector. But in the final judgment, an old mantra of the military nagged at him. He had talked too freely about the most sensitive of all covert channels. If Peter couldn't save Jamie, Leo was to blame.

Guy's car rolled to a stop in the same location where Peter had left him a few minutes earlier. The trailing dust cloud from the dirt road carried into the car as Peter jumped in. The tires had been still for only only seconds before they were rolling again.

"He's not there, Guy."

"Si, but you had to know."

"Yeah. So let's go downtown to his station."

"Señor, Peter. That is very dangerous!"

"I know that. Let's stop and buy me a hat."

Peter was unshaven. His clothes were rumpled and dirty from travel and skulking through the hot desert. He hoped his appearance would fool people.

As they drove for an hour through stop-and-go traffic, including one accident between a mule cart and a bus, Peter had visions of Stokes and Tilman lying in their own filth on the dirt floor in the warehouse. Jamie would be treated worse.

Guy stopped by a small store that looked like a jail with bars on the windows buy a ball cap. Outside, Peter stepped on it in the gutter before fitting it to his head. Little was said between them before arriving near the station.

Leaving the car, Peter said, "This is as far as we go together, Guy. Please stay nearby but someplace safe."

Guy shook his head, "Vaya con Dios, compadre."

The car disappeared into a stream, bobbing along the broken road as Peter walked to the corner and turned toward the police station. He tried to appear disinterested and relaxed, casually walking down the street. There were other people, walking slowly in the midday heat or sitting at the doors of shops along the street. The sidewalk was narrow and broken in several places. The blazing desert sun caused everything man-made to deteriorate, and Juarez was too poor to maintain things. The gun was tucked in back, under his belt; his shirt falling loosely over it. It wasn't completely hidden, but it was common for people to carry them.

The police station was in the middle of the block on the opposite side of the street. Peter crossed between cars. His heart rate increase as he got closer. There were two old empty wooden chairs on the curb by the entrance, which had no doors.

He walked past the entrance looking inside, but his eyes couldn't adjust to the interior darkness. He continued to the corner. He paused for a minute at the corner, then turned back to the station. As he entered through the large opening, he covered his eyes, trying to visualize the interior. He detected one person along the right side wall behind an old oak desk. He tried to imagine John sitting behind one of them just a few weeks before. He moved inside, as his eyes adjusted, seeing a single corridor ahead.

The desk officer said something in Spanish, and Peter shrugged while walking toward the man. The officer inquired again, and Peter said, "Ah, no comprendo. Do you speak English?"

The officer was large with an officious bearing and obviously perturbed or confused about why an American was there. The man stood upright but said nothing. It was hard to tell if he was nervous, since the furnace-like heat made everyone perspire. Peter was about to say something more when a sickening sound came down the hall. He looked in that direction, hearing something like high-pitched sobbing, followed by a second long muffled scream. It sounded like it was stifled through a pillow. A slight acrid smell filled the station. Peter had smelled burned flesh before.

His attention snapped back to the desk officer who was reaching for his sidearm. Without time for his own weapon, Peter hefted the desk into the Mexican, pinning him against the wall, as the man struggled for his weapon. Peter pulled the officer over the desk, onto the linoleum floor, then dropped to a knee, rolling the man and smashing his sternum with a hard fist. The Mexican's eyes bulged as Peter slammed his elbow upward under his chin, and his neck snapped back, leaving him unconsciousness.

Peter ran down the hallway while reaching for his gun, expecting other police. The back door slammed as he rounded the corner into the cell block. The dreadful smell was intense.

He chambered the a round, and fingered the safety off. Moving cautiously toward the back, caution turned to rage at the last cell.

He couldn't be sure it was Jamie Montes. His face was too contorted and swollen, and it was all that distinguished him as a human. Strapped to a backboard on the floor, the man tried to lift his arm from under the bindings. Old car batteries were stacked in the corner near the victim, and a hot caldron held melted lead. The molten metal had been poured over his feet up to his abdomen, leaving mounds of steaming metal, in human form. It was cooling to form a grotesque statue. Most of the lower part of his body by his feet was covered. Discolored fluids boiled out underneath.

Peter moved closer to the man's face, removing the tape. "Jamie, can you hear me?"

There was a gurgling sound as the man tried to talk. He should have died already, but the torture was done slowly from the bottom up to keep him alive as long as possible. Peter unstrapped an arm, which jerked involuntarily upward, nearly hitting him. There was nothing Peter could do for him. Jamie's lower body was gone and his organs were boiled.

Jamie grasped Peter's sleeve. "Jamie, I can't help you. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." Peter's eyes were watering. He hadn't known Jamie personally, but nobody should be suffering this way.

Jamie's face contorted as he tried to turn his head to look at Peter and tried to talk. His hand fell toward Peter's gun hand.

"I understand, Jamie. I'll help you."

Peter hurried back out front to the fallen officer and took his gun, rushing back to Jamie. Lifting his hand as gently as possible, he said, "Here it is Jamie, cocked and loaded."

Unable to move his head, Jamie's stare was fixed upward. Fresh tears formed in the slits of his swollen eyes. Peter wrapped Jamie's fingers around the grip and placed the muzzle against his ear. He stood saying, "Your father and mother are waiting for their son," then he rose slowly, watching to be sure Jamie could control the gun before turning toward the back door. The gun fired before he got to it.

Requiem

Dread flowed through her as she answered her cellphone.

"Rachael, I didn't get to him in time." She could hear the sadness in his voice.

"On God. Look, Peter, you tried. You're the only one who tried."

"Yeah, well, they weren't kind."

"Don't tell me. If he's dead, then it's over."

"There's more I need to do."

"Peter! You need to come home. You can't save Jamie, now save yourself."

"Rachael, the people who did this to Jamie are killing people every day. The police and military won't stop them -- hell, they're on the payroll!"

She yelled more from fear than anger, "It's not your fight!"

"Yeah, it is. These are the same bastards that nearly killed John, and they did kill Tilman and Jamie. If I don't go after them, it'll just continue."

"Peter, I want you back!"

"I know that my love, and I want to be with you more than I'll ever be able to say. But, I need to do this. I'm here and need to finish what Jamie started."

"Come home first."

He thought about the fissure that had just narrowed between them and agreed reluctantly. "All right, sweetheart. I just need to get out of Dodge in one piece then stop in El Paso for a report."

"Why? Jamie was CIA, his only family is here."

"Yeah, well, Leo Moritz will take this hard. He and Jamie have been friends for a long time. I'll at least call him from the airport when I get back across."

"Look, Peter. I want you home safe, so keep out of sight and get here." She paused, "I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Then get out of there!"

After she hung up, Rachael sat quietly at her desk trying to understand her feelings. Had she done everything possible to get Jamie to come in? Was he just being overly brave for her benefit? Oh, what difference did it make? She covered her face with her hands, sitting with elbows on the desk. Then there was a light tap on the door. Cybil was standing silently while Rachael rubbed tears away.

"Can I get you something Rachael -- some tea?"

She nodded slowly, "That would be nice, Cybil."

When Cybil returned, Rachael asked her to stay. "Cybil, I have some terrible news." Cybil just stared, "Jamie is dead."

"Oh no!" Cybil's eyes started to water. "How? When?" Her reaction was more intense than Rachael expected.

She pushed a box of Kleenex closer to the edge of the desk. "Today. In Mexico. He was a brave man and a true patriot. I'm only glad that I got to realize it in time."

"Rachael, I've known Jamie ever since he came to the Company. He's always been nice."

Rachael told Cybil about her trip to Mexico City. She ended, "I don't think I've ever misunderstood anyone so much in my life. I hope it doesn't happen again."

Both women were teary, trying to remain upbeat about someone Rachael had lately learned to respect, and someone Cybil might have had different feelings for. Rachael came around the desk and they hugged. She vowed silently never to prejudge anyone again.

Peter couldn't be absolutely sure who tortured Jamie, but he had a good idea. Padilla had to be involved. He ended his call to Rachael, standing in an alley close to the police station, waiting for Guy to find him. When the call ended, he started thinking about his vulnerability alone in the streets of Juarez. Fortunately, Guy showed up quickly.

"Where to, Señor?"

"Take me to the border, amigo."

"Si, Señor."

If Padilla had helped Cardenas kill Jamie and wanted to stop Peter from crossing back into the states, he was slow to react. Within an hour, Peter was back on U.S. soil, crossing over the bridge. Flagging a taxi for the airport.

He called Leo Moritz. "Leo, Jamie's dead."

Leo was silent for several seconds. Peter heard him take a deep breath. "Morales?"

"I think so. I found him in Padilla's precinct house. It wasn't pretty."

Leo spoke so softly, he could hardly be heard, "I'll see what we can do to get the body back through diplomatic channels."

"Don't count on it. It's not pretty, and the Mexicans will probably deny ever hearing of Jamie Montes."

"I have to try, Peter, but you're right, of course."

"Look, Leo. Don't blame yourself. From what Rachael told me after she met with him, he basically had a death wish. There was no way he could have survived, playing the lead role in the Cardenas Cartel, even if junior wasn't coming back. I think he knew where this was leading."

Peter would never know... no one would ever know, the depth of guilt Moritz would feel for the rest of his life. "Well. Thanks for that, Peter. I think I'll go get drunk and have a few for Jamie. Travel safe, my friend."

"Yeah, so long."

Peter got a flight a few hours later back to DC. He had sponged off in a men's room at the airport and changed to clean clothes. He needed sleep, but Jamie's vision haunted him. After changing planes in Atlanta and a short trip north to Dulles, he called Rachael immediately. "Hi, beautiful. I'm back."

"You sound tired."

He had rarely failed in a mission before and depression was setting in after so many hours to think about Jamie. "Yeah. It's probably fatigue mingled with frustration."

"I understand, Peter. Look, go home, and sleep. I want you to come to Langley tomorrow to help me with the report."

"Will do, babe. Gotta go."

Rachael was surprised to find Cybil in the office at seven o'clock when she arrived the next morning. She normally came in almost two hours later. They exchanged greetings, and Rachael asked Cybil to arrange a visitor's pass for Peter.

After settling into her morning routine, Cybil stood in her doorway, "Rachael, can we talk for a minute?"

"Sure, Cybil, come in." She entered and closed the door. It was obvious that she had been crying and she didn't look as if she'd slept. Rachael moved from behind her desk and sat beside Cybil in one of the office chairs.

Cybil had a small red velvet bag clutched in her hand and was fighting back tears. "I, I wanted to show you something very special to me." She pulled a ring box from the bag and handed it to Rachel. Inside was a wedding ring. "Nobody knows this because of the work he did. Jamie and I were going to retire this year and live together on his farm in Mexico ... " She had a pleading look in her eyes.

Rachael felt a sinking feeling in her chest, "You don't have any other family, do you?"

Cybil sniffled, "No, just Jamie."

She put an arm around her. "Oh, honey. I don't know what to say. I hope you'll let me be your friend. What can I do?"

She sniffled again, and Rachael gave her a tissue. "Nothing. I just want him back. Is it possible?"

"I don't know if we can get the body. I just don't know."

"It's okay, Rachael. I just wanted to talk — to someone. I'm so lonely."

"I know, honey. I'll do what I can, but I can't promise you much. His work was complex, and he had some powerful enemies. It's probably not possible, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you, Rachael."

Rachael's office phone rang and the lobby station said Peter had arrived. Cybil said she would escort him up, but Rachael insisted on going down herself.

"Cybil, if you want some time off, take it."

"No. No, it's worse at home. This is better for me."

Several minutes later, Rachael brought Peter to her office. He was impressive looking in his green Class A uniform, and she invited Cybil in to the office to meet him. "I want you to meet someone. Cybil, this is Major Peter Shields." Cybil had learned enough overhearing office phone discussions that Peter was someone special to Rachael. They shook hands and Rachael continued, "Peter was with Jamie when he died. He went into Mexico to help him, but it was too late."

Peter added, "He was very courageous, Ma'am. He fought for what he believed in, and I wish I could have saved him."

Cybil wiped her eyes, "Thank you, Major. He was a great man, and I'll miss him. Was he alive when you were there? Did you talk to him? Did he mention me?"

He felt her pain. "His last thoughts were for you. He wanted to retire with you in La Paz." He improvised from Rachael's information.

She offered him her hand, but he wrapped a powerful arm around the older woman. She whimpered, saying, "Thank you."

He was momentarily speechless, recalling Jamie in the Juarez jail cell. His eyes watered. "I wish I could've done more, Cybil."

She left quietly, unable to say more.

Rachael looked at him. "Let's go to the cafeteria."

"Sounds good to me."

Walking down the stairs instead of using the elevator, she said, "Thank you for that."

He looked upward without speaking for a moment. "Rachael, I couldn't do anything for him. God, I wish I could have gotten there faster."

She held his hand. "You'll can't blame yourself. I'm just glad you made it back safely."

The rest of the morning, he sketched the details to her about Jamie's death, leaving out the most gruesome parts and his part in ending Jamie's suffering.

Lonely

Hector Cardenas felt oddly lonely at his Juarez estate. He missed Jamie Montes. Even though the man had been a traitor and needed to die painfully, he had always been Hector's private counselor. The truth was that his position in the cartel was always dangerous. No one could be trusted. They were all butchers who would cut off his testicles if given any opportunity. He couldn't let down his guard for even one second.

Word was already spreading about how he had dealt with Montes. He smiled to himself thinking about the affect it was having throughout the drug world. If he could murder his closest ally in such a way, it served as a warning to any others wanting to take over. Unfortunately, his empire was depleted. He had risked all of his capital on the Smuggler's Pass convoy. Now he would have to rebuild his fortune carefully. He couldn't let anyone know that he was desperate.

Padilla wanted to be his next confidant, but he was just a pawn, a tool to be used when needed. He was more valuable where he was. Hector's and his father's success had been based on deception at the border. Most of the crossings had been arranged by Jamie Montes distracting the DEA. How could he rebuild from scratch without Montes? This was a problem. Without clear passage across the border, he was no better than any other smuggler. At this point, he only had his brain and his reputation. That would have to be enough.

Recuperation

John Stokes was at his home in Illinois when Peter called, "John, how are you man?"

"Hi, Peter. You know, it's one day at a time." He was smiling, hearing Peter's voice.

"So, how's the healing going?"

"Pretty good. The docs say I'm good-to-go medically. All systems are working. I start physical therapy tomorrow. Carolyn will be driving me until my arms work better."

"How are your arms?"

I'm damn lucky to have them, Peter. The docs weren't too sure for a couple weeks. Something about frozen joints and dead tissue. Blood was shut off pretty much."

"So, what are they telling you?"

"Ah, what do they really know? I'm gonna be back to normal in a couple months. I don't think they really have a clue. I'm getting feeling in my fingers and can move my shoulders when lying in bed. It's better every day, but slow going."

"We want you back, John."

"I know boss, and I want to be back. I miss the guys in El Paso. They're actually fighting an enemy."

"Well, don't be too eager, and make sure Carolyn is on your side."

"Yeah, well. I'll need to do some tall talkin' to convince her, but my heroic days are over — for good."

"All right, buddy, you take care and hug Carolyn and the girls for me."

"Thanks, Peter. Every time I hug them, it's for you — or because of you."

Peter smiled after ending the call. He loved John like a brother. A few hours later, Carolyn called. "Hi, Peter."

"Hi, lady. How are you?"

"We're good, Peter. John's in therapy right now, and I wanted to call you to thank you for talking to him."

"He's pretty special to me too, Carolyn."

"Yes, I know, but he feels disconnected now. He loves the military, and he feels left out, so your calls help his spirits a lot."

"I think he's done some reflecting on his priorities, Carolyn, and he may turn out to be a different guy after this."

"I know, but I'm not sure that's what I want either."

Call to Action

Peter and Rachael began seeing each other again after months of uncertainty. For two weeks, they saw each other almost every day and talked on the phone even more often. He was settling back into his routine and she was becoming more familiar with the "Sandcastle" double-agent story.

Sandy Vitale was getting more anxious by the day as reports of violence on the Texas border continued escalating. Congress would not tolerate it for long, and they had no intelligence assets on the ground without Jamie. He continued to pressure Rachael to find a solution--and to make her his scapegoat.

After inviting Peter to spend the night for the first time in almost six months, she felt her life was back on track. She was settling into a new position at the CIA, although not completely comfortable yet. It was cold and rainy as a late fall low-pressure cell remained stationary over Northern Virginia. Rachael and Cybil had bonded. Entering her office, Cybil said, "Rachael, Mr. Vitale would like to see you, pronto."

She said "Thanks," then grabbed a notepad and went back downstairs to his office. "Did you want to see me, boss?"

Vitale had finally been confirmed by the Senate. "Yes, Rachael. There's a meeting at ten o'clock over at Homeland Security. It's about what they're calling the 'Crisis in El Paso'.

"I want you to attend since it's in your region."

"Sure, Sandy, where's it at?"

"Somewhere in the Reagan Building. Check with the fifth floor when you get there."

She didn't bother saying more. He was acting perturbed, which she recognized was his normal demeanor toward subordinates. He'd spent too much time on the Hill.

Two hours later at DHS headquarters, she found the conference room filled with several dozen people. She recognized Leo Moritz, Marian Colson and Mike Schmitt from El Paso. There were also senior executives from different Agencies around Washington: FBI, DEA, ICE, National Guard, etc. There were also some congressional staffers.

The meeting began promptly and stragglers sat in the back. It was a large meeting, even by Washington standards. Rebecca Weir, a Director at DHS, started the meeting, "Thank you all for coming. As you all know, the border situation with Mexico has become increasingly violent and dangerous, spilling over into our cities nearby. The worst areas are in the Tucson and El Paso sectors, although by no means is it that simple. The rate of crime has accelerated in El Paso the fastest. We've had people killed there in the past year, and the situation is deteriorating.

"We need to do something proactive. Our pressure on the Mexican government has tapped out without success. With us today are representatives from our military and civil law agencies in Washington and from the El Paso sector."

For the next two hours, several people gave presentations about statistics, successes and failures. A common theme was the increasing crime rates. Each of the people Rachael had met in Texas spoke to the assembly. Jamie Montes wasn't mentioned, although Leo Moritz alluded to him.

After the presentations, Rebecca asked for suggestions. It was obvious from the first comments that more people and equipment were needed in El Paso. Several people were skeptical, feeling that it would just push the problem elsewhere, but there was little doubt about the general consensus.

Someone said, "How about rolling out the National Guard?"

LTC Gates, Peter's immediate boss, stood saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, I know you think the National Guard is an endless pool of minutemen that can be mobilized overnight. While it's true, it's also a myth. We've been deployed overseas as part of the 'War on Terror' for more than ten years. Our equipment is mostly in-theater and worn out. Our soldiers and airmen are exhausted. If we mobilize more troops on the border, we won't have anyone for civil disaster relief."

There was debate about adding Border Patrol forces and infrastructure changes, but it would cost billions and enlarge Government during an election year. Rebecca made it clear that it was not an option.

Rachael introduced herself, "I'm with the CIA. From what we know, the main cartel controlling the drug trafficking near El Paso is in disarray after the DEA bust at Smuggler's Pass. The cartel controls the Mexican gangs. It's been hurt, and, if it weakens further, the gangs will rebel and probably destroy each other. This will increase violence and force the Mexican government to increase their fight, if we can push the violence south again. I think we should cut off the head of the snake."

Jamie had said hundreds of small-time gangs were controlled by fear of the Cardenas Cartel and would attack each other like frenzied sharks if the cartel disappeared. Violence below the border would escalate, forcing the Mexican government to real action. Rachael knew the CIA had often made wrong predictions about the effect of internal disarray in other global conflicts and Rachael was risking creditability.

After some discussion, she continued, "We can concentrate border security resources on El Paso to keep violence south of the U.S. for a short time, but eventually, resources will need to return to normal levels and violence will return on our side. The Mexicans aren't committed because it's not their problem. It's our problem. Partly it's the fighting between Mexicans to control trafficking into the states, and partly, it's our blockade. The way to cut down on the attacks on our people is to shift the war south. It won't stop them from trying to cross the border in El Paso, but it will cause the Mexican government to step in if the violence gets bad enough on their side."

Someone asked, "Ms. Aston, what about the Mexican police and the military. Aren't they just helping the cartels?"

"Yes, that's a big problem, but, if the cartel wasn't in charge, none of the small gangs could control enough graft to call the shots, so infighting would increase between the small factions and the Mexican forces might actually return to doing their jobs."

The El Paso people remained silent, but were nodding in agreement. Finally, Mike Schmitt spoke up, "Ms. Aston ... Rachael, are you saying that if we get Hector Cardenas out of the way, gang warfare will escalate south of us, and this will solve our problem? That sounds like the same strategy for getting Saddam Hussein out of office, and the population will rise up, and we can go home in six months -- pretty naïve."

"Not exactly, Mike. It's our opinion that the Federales will actually start doing their job if people in Mexico get fed up. There will be less organized attacks on our people and more law enforcement in Mexico."

Mike continued, "Look I'm all for getting Cardenas out of there, you know I am, but it's not enough!"

"It's a start Mike, and I'd be happy to listen to other ideas. This is just one pole in the tent, but it gives something tangible to go after."

Rebecca took back control, "I like the idea, Rachael, but we can't sell it. We can't go to the American people and tell them that we have a new 'most wanted' strategy, for drug control."

Rachael responded, "Why not? We did it in the War on Terror. We offered a bounty for al-Qaeda leaders. Rebecca, it's not a total strategy and we can't exactly advertise why we're doing it."

The meeting ended at noon without a specific agreement. On the way out of the meeting, LTC Gates walked past Rachael and whispered, "I know just the guy to get him."

He was gone before she could react.

Washington Post

The following day, the Washington Post had a front page article entitled "Secretary Howell (DHS) Proposes Border Plan to the President." The article distilled down to several elements focused on reinforcements along the southern borders and attacking the cartels directly. On the morning news, several notable officials raised alarm about targeting foreign nationals. The DHS spokesperson said the legal and diplomatic aspects were being reviewed, and the department felt comfortable that there is precedent for such actions.

Rachael had conflicting thoughts after the meeting and was unnerved by Gates' comment. She was doubly upset, learning that someone in the DHS had publicized her suggestion.

In the office the next morning, as the news reports were airing, she passed by Cybil, who said, "Rachael, is something wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Cybil, Good morning. I had a restless night and didn't sleep well."

"Can I get you some tea?"

"That would be sweet of you."

She was reflecting on Cybil's kindness and enjoying the hot brew when her phone rang, and Peter said, "Hi. I didn't hear from you yesterday. Is anything wrong?"

"No. You know. You could call me, too!"

"Ouch. Yeah, I'm just kidding around. You sound tense. Anything to do with yesterday's meeting?"

"What do you know about that?"

"Only that you were a star again."

"More like a target. What else did that idiot Gates tell you?"

"Not much. Just that you defined a strategy to get mixed up in Mexico with the drug cartel."

Rachael didn't know if he was telling the whole truth, "Any details?"

"No. He just said you had a plan. You gonna share it with me?"

"No. It's Company business on a need to know, and you don't need to know."

"Wow! Testy!"

"Look, Peter. I'm not feeling really talkative right now. Can we talk later?"

"Sure, hon. I'll call this afternoon."

"Thanks, I love you." She thought, that's the problem, I really do love him!

Cartel Reaction

"Let them come!" Hector Cardenas watched the morning CNN broadcast in Mexico City. "Let them come! If the Americans have no stomach for the violence -- just wait. In six months they will see so much blood that their President will be assassinated!" He was yelling at the air. He yelled for a servant, "Have my plane ready to fly to Juarez in thirty minutes, jackass!"

"Si, Jefe," The man hurried from the room.

He then called Juan Padilla and instructed him to meet at his Juarez estate.

"Those Americans. Who do they think I am? They cannot threaten me!"

Hector Cardenas, aka Juan Morales, had lived in the United States long enough to know how public sentiment translates into political action.

Three days later, Leo Moritz received a phone call from the El Paso Sherriff's office to come to the El Paso Meat Co. immediately.

When he arrived, there were official cars from dozens of state and local agencies parked near the loading dock and more than a hundred people milling outside the yellow tape, including workers and news reporters. Police officers were recording names and other statements. Leo approached one of them asking for the Sherriff and was directed onto the loading dock after showing identification.

He walked up the end of the dock then toward the middle where a refrigeration truck from Mexico was backed to one of the open doors into the packing plant. As he walked toward a group of people, Rusty Baker, the Sherriff, came to meet him extending his hand. He looked like he wasn't feeling well, "Leo, thanks for coming. I'm not sure, but we found a body marked 'DEA,' and so I called you."

Leo took a deep breath, "Well, let's take a look." DEA operatives were always at risk. It went with the job. In almost every case, their deaths were cruel and symbolic in some way. Leo took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

Baker put a hand on Leo's forearm, "Look, it's the most awful thing I've ever seen. So, I just wanted you to know."

Leo paused. "It's okay, Rusty. Let's get this over with."

They walked to the open rear of the trailer and cold air hit them like a block of ice. The rear of the truck near them was empty, except for overhead meat hooks. It took a few moments for eyes to adjust to the dark interior. Baker said, "This haul came in from Mexico this morning."

Several whole beef carcasses hung stripped of their skin and headless. Baker spoke softly, "follow me."

They stepped between two of the front beef carcasses, and in the second row Leo saw it. He nearly vomited and rushed to the open door breathing deeply. He gasped to the Sheriff, "Rusty, how? How can anyone do that to another human?"

"I don't know, Leo. I don't know. Look, I know this is hard, but do you recognize him?"

"Yes. Yes, he's one of mine. His name is Arturo Navarro."

The following day, Leo received an email:

Dear Leo,

I hope you enjoyed the little present I sent you in the truck yesterday. Nothing like a good steak! If you value your other agents, you better stop this war on my business. I know who your people are! Also, tell Mike Schmitt all about how I treat prisoners. If the United States wants war, they will get it — by my rules! You tell them.

With warm regards,

Hector Cardenas

His fist hit the desk hard.

Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores

Meetings between the Mexican Ambassador and the State Department began immediately after the President's announcement. U.S. delegates also went to Mexico for meetings with their counterparts. The meetings were cordial with promises that the Mexican government would find and arrest Hector Cardenas and his lieutenants, but nothing happened after several weeks. Violence on both sides of the border increased. Several Mexican government officials, judges, police and military leaders were killed.

The U.S. Border Patrol and National Guard went to all surveillance outposts in teams. There were no longer single surveillance missions in the El Paso Sector. In response, the Cardenas Cartel began ambushing U.S. Agents. Tensions grew extreme, and it was unsafe for anyone to be in the desert within miles of the border, day or night. Local vigilante groups started "patrolling" border farmland on the U.S. side, increasing the danger to everyone, as untrained lunatics took up arms.

The Air Force began constant air surveillance, and National Guard air patrols were maintained around the clock. American soldiers were forbidden to cross into Juarez and civilians were discouraged.

After several months of enormous manpower and equipment expense, the danger to security personnel remained constant. The number of attacks subsided with the increased vigilance, but Cardenas could still pick his fights, and win. He knew the American operating procedures and tactics.

Pressure was placed on the CIA to resolve the problem from the Mexican side. Rachael was unable to find a suitable agent to replace Jamie with enough connections or familiarity to survive. She was finally compelled to travel to Mexico City under the condition that the embassy provided extra security.

The unmarked plane left Andrews AFB around three in the morning on a direct flight path, landing just as the sun was rising over Mexico City. It touched down smoothly after a straight-in approach. As it taxied to the international visitor terminal, there were three black SUVs aligned near the parking ramp. When the door of the plane was opened and its ladder dropped, two Secret Service officers guided her quickly down the stairs. She was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Two other plain-clothed security officers met them at the bottom, with all four encircling as they moved rapidly to the convoy. Once inside the lead car, they began driving immediately. It would be another bright sunny hot day.

Steve Harris was in the backseat of the lead car with her. "Hello, again, Ms. Aston. I hope you had a smooth ride."

"Hi, Steve. Remember to call me Rachael. I don't usually like small jets, but this one was okay."

"Great. We'll be in the car for a while with early rush hour traffic."

"Why three cars?"

"Oh, we can't rely on the police for security escorts. We didn't even tell them you're coming. The rest of us are what you get."

"Wow, I'm honored with all the attention."

"Listen, Rachael. We don't want any Government officials assassinated. I don't mean to scare you, but we need to be cautious. You don't get much privacy from now on. You'll be staying in one of the VIP suites inside the embassy with a lot of Marines around."

"Sounds secure. Did you coordinate my agenda?"

"Partly. Tonight we're having dinner with Carmen Peña. She's chief of Mexican Central Intelligence."

"What about their Attorney General, or whatever it's called here?"

"Let's start with the spooks. They aren't in the mainstream of corruption aimed at the police and military, so there's a slightly better chance of an honest dialogue."

"Hmm, not much confidence in the government, is there?"

He loosened his collar and slumped slightly, folding his hands in his lap, "Nope, it's part of the survival training down here. Hopefully, we'll get some real help with the Cardenas problem."

"You really think so?"

"Well, we can only hope. This is a poor country, and the druggies can buy a lot of immunity. Hell, they say Cardenas has better protection than the President."

"So what are the chances that he'll be arrested and extradited to the U.S.?"

He looked grim. "Actually \-- none."

"So what can we accomplish?"

"Maybe we can get some intelligence support that can help us eliminate the drug gangs."

"You mean the only option is to kill Cardenas, not to capture him?"

"probably, it's the Latin way."

Back Home

In Washington, Peter remained unhappy. He could accept personal danger, but not for Rachael. His day was tedious and he was distracted, imagining her working in a different time zone in a dangerous location. It was late at his apartment when she called. "Hey, d'ya miss me?"

He smiled to himself. "Yeah, you know I do. What's going on down there?"

"You know I can't talk about it much, except it's 'interesting'."

"Interesting? Like good interesting or bad interesting?"

"Just interesting."

"So, when are you coming home?"

"Probably tomorrow. I'm meeting some of my bureaucrat counterparts, so need to try to be cordial. Things work a little slower here."

"Maybe they're just slow-rolling you."

"Yeah, well, there's some patronizing, that's for sure. At least there are some female officials, so we're getting something done."

"Um, so men aren't efficient?"

"Let's just say that these men spend too much time flirting and less on business."

"So, do I need to be jealous?"

"Not a chance, big boy."

"So, when do I get to hold that gorgeous body again?"

"Like I said. Maybe tomorrow night. It all depends on how it goes down here."

He became serious. "The news isn't good on the border. We're getting whacked every week. Americans are getting more pissed."

"Yeah, I know. Some of us are paid to try to stop it. It's kinda tough when the Mexican police don't do much."

"I guess we can't treat Mexico like other countries."

She responded, "You wouldn't think catching one cutthroat who operates openly would be difficult, but my spook buddy here says it's the way things go. Our 'Mexican Problem' controls the government."

"So, come home tonight!"

"Wish I could. I have to open every door possible, even if it leads to a dead end -- pun intended.

"Yeah. I guess you're in the 'bigs' now, so you have to go through the motions."

"Well, gotta go. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know when I'll be home."

They exchanged loving messages before ending the call.

He should have ignored her before and gone after Cardenas when he was close. There was no chance of surprise now.

The Surprise

"You worry too much, amigo." Cardenas was feeling good.

Padilla stood rather than sit, watching the evening sunset. "With all respect, Jefe, it is imprudent not to be careful. I am getting much criticism for not finding you and bringing you to jail."

"Criticism from whom! Tell me, and I'll have him eliminated."

"It's bigger than that, Señor. The American Government is pressuring everyone."

"Are you not happy with your new position, 'Jefe de Policía'!"

"Oh, si, Señor, but many people are suspicious. We should not kill so many. I am not trusted."

"There are none to be trusted in government. You are not unusual."

"I am alive after so many are not."

"That can be changed, hah!"

"Jefe, you know what I mean."

Si, my friend, but as long as I pay you, you will do as you are told! Now, I am preparing a little surprise for the Norte Americanos."

### Illinois

Stokes began a remarkable recovery. After returning home with Carolyn under military disability, he began physical therapy at a VA hospital, going every day for several weeks to restore the strength and motion in his arms and legs. He was able to walk normally after a couple weeks and even did some short jogging along the street by their home. He attended school functions for his daughters and generally enjoyed the time with his family. His arms were a larger problem.

After the VA, he continued therapy on his arms and shoulders weekly at a local hospital. He regained about eighty percent of his shoulder rotation and was able to begin light weight training after two months.

One night after a brisk walk and dinner with the family, Peter called. "Hey, buddy, ready to go a few rounds with Rocky?"

"Hi, Peter. How's it going?"

"Oh, I'm lonely in DC while my girl is away on business. I just thought I'd call to check up on you."

Stokes went into another room, "Yeah, well. I'm doing great. Lots of pain killers for the shoulders, but it's getting less all the time. I'm starting to work on the weight machine and fast-walking. Bet I could out walk you now!"

"Hey, don't press it. Take advantage of the time off."

"I am, buddy. But, I wanted to talk to you anyway. I think I'm ready to get back on duty — go back to Texas."

"John, are you nuts? Correction, you're nuts! You dodged the big one and don't need to press your luck."

Stokes was speaking softly. "Peter, I did something stupid and almost paid the stupid price. I'm not going to do it again. But, I didn't do my duty either. I want to help out. The guys are fighting a war down there."

"Have you talked to Carolyn?"

"No. I don't know what to say to her."

"John, listen to yourself. You have everything a guy could want. Don't blow it!"

"I don't want to, Peter, but you know how boring life is, sitting around and exercising all day."

"Get a job."

"I've been a green-suiter my whole life. It doesn't really translate into anything on the civilian side. I tried before."

"I hear you, brother, but I've also learned the hard way that there are more important things."

The chat ended a short time later. Peter knew that it was only a matter of time before Stokes would return to Texas and suffer the consequences at home. Peter had wrecked his engagement with Rachael once and vowed never to take the chance again.

Hell Gate

The trip to Mexico was wasted time. Rachael met with dozens of ineffective diplomats and police authorities at the national and state levels. All promised to take actions to stop the brutality by the Cardenas Cartel, but she didn't expect anything to change. She was packing her laptop and papers from the guest office she used, which also doubled as a bedroom, when Steve Harris knocked.

Rachael had learned that he was an egotistical creep with bad breath, small man syndrome, and an over-active sex drive. He never took his eyes off her and made oblique sexual references.

"Well, Rachael, I hope your visit wasn't a total waste of time." He pressed a forearm against her doorframe.

She kept packing, fearing he would ask her out after being sequestered in the embassy for two days. She responded, "I don't get it, Steve. I didn't feel like anyone down here takes this seriously. Are all the Mexicans on Cardenas' payroll?"

He dropped his arm and strolled to a chair at the edge of the table to get a better look at her legs. "It's hard to tell, Rachael. A lot of them are. Most of the good cops and military leaders have been killed, so the rest are scared."

She tried to ignore his stare. "Well, I'm going to recommend some changes in relations when I get home, this patronizing bullshit doesn't cut it with me."

"Whoa, lady, take it easy on the natives. We get along okay down here, and Mexico is our neighbor."

"Good neighbors don't try to burn down the house next door."

"This thing will blow over. It's only a matter of time before things settle down and return to normal."

"And what is normal, Steve? We've got people getting killed on our side of the border, and that's not acceptable."

"Neither are broken diplomatic relations. So, how about we go out tonight and celebrate? I know a great little restaurant that serves big steaks and great Paella."

"Sorry, can't. I've got some reporting and packing to do. I'm eating-in tonight."

"Great, I'll get something delivered up here. Do you like red wine? Mexico has some of the best reds that get re-bottled in California."

"No, Steve. I need to be alone. You've been very kind, but I need to be alone now."

He looked at her in disbelief then rose from his chair saying, "All right. I know a brush-off when I see it."

I doubt it!

He continued, "Maybe next visit, or I'll call you when I get back to DC in a few months."

"I don't think my fiancé would approve and aren't you married?"

"Hey, it's only professional. I wasn't suggesting anything more."

"Okay, sorry if I mistook your intentions. How about we say goodnight for now, and I'll see you in the morning when I leave for the airport?"

He backed out of her office, still savoring the view, "Sure, I'll be riding with you along with the rest of the security detail."

She said "goodbye" and tried to imagine how he could be of any help to the security team.

The embassy is located on the Paseo de la Reforma in the center of the city, about seven miles from the airport. Rachael had arranged for a Company flight leaving at ten o'clock in the morning. She called Peter and they talked for several minutes. He told her about his discussion with Stokes, and she vented some of her frustration with the Mexicans and the Embassy. They agreed to have dinner when she returned. She went to bed early and dreamed about being with him again. She didn't mention calling him her fiancé, but they would have that discussion -- soon.

She was well rested in the morning and dressed in a comfortable blue pants-suit for the trip to Washington. Her hair was in a ponytail and she looked forward to washing it at home. She met Steve at nine for the trip to the airport. She wore flats for comfort, and was still taller than him. One of the Marines in civilian clothes opened the back door to the center black SUV, then took a position next to the driver. Steve sat by Rachael.

The three-vehicle caravan departed the embassy, heading south on a narrow one-way street. Steve explained, "We like to take different routes to the airport. We'll be on the Chapultepec highway in about ten minutes and then straight to the airport."

Rachael just nodded and looked out the window. She appreciated the security measures, but the precautions just made it more unnerving.

"Well, I won't say I'll miss it. It's certainly no fun visiting a foreign city and spending the whole time under a security blanket."

"Yeah, it's what happens when you're a Government official. Neither the Mexicans nor the Americans want any problems."

"Are three carloads of guards really necessary? It attracts attention."

"Better to be safe in numbers."

He was smiling at her discomfort.

Apprehension

In Washington a short while later, Peter was eating lunch at his desk when his cellphone rang showing an unknown number. "Hello."

A woman's voice said, "Peter? Is this Major Shields?"

"That depends."

"Ah, Peter, this is Cybil in Rachael's office."

He sat upright. "Yes, Cybil, what's going on?"

"Oh, Peter, it's terrible. I don't know what to say."

"Calm down, Cybil, what's going on? Is Rachael okay?"

"Peter, we don't know. There was an attack on her car. Have you seen the news?"

"No, I'm at work. Tell me, Cybil!"

"Oh, Peter, it's terrible. They were driving to the airport this morning from the embassy."

He took a deep breath. "Cybil, tell me what you know."

"That's just it, Peter. We don't know anything yet. It just happened."

"All right, Cybil. I'll find out what I can. Please let me know if you learn more."

"I'll ... Oh, Peter. She left an envelope for you if there was any trouble."

He trembled with the thought of a last letter from Rachael. How could the CIA not know more? If they don't know, then who would know? He rushed to the conference room to watch news reports.

A few moments passed before his phone rang again. This time it was Stokes. "Peter, I just saw a flash on CNN. Some embassy cars got attacked in Mexico City. They say it was a group going to the airport. I hope Rachael wasn't aboard."

"John, her office just called. It was her security detail."

"Oh, God! How is she?"

"Don't know. Nobody seems to know."

"Look, Peter. I don't want to alarm you, but a bunch of security personnel were killed. From the amateur video, I didn't see any females."

"John, I gotta go. I'll call later."

Peter hung up and tried to decide what to do next. He needed to get more information and called the Pentagon Operations Intelligence office, asking for Master Sergeant Blomstein. Placed on hold, several seconds passed before someone answered, "Blomstein."

Peter Responded, "Hey, Josh, it's Shields. I've got a problem."

"Okay, Peter, you sound upset. Tell me what's going on? You're a desk jock, remember."

"Yeah, I know. Something happened, and I need your eyes into the news feeds."

"What's going on?"

"Josh, a security detail was taking Rachael to the airport in Mexico City. It looks like they got ambushed."

"Geez, Peter. We just started getting some stuff. If Rachael was aboard, I'll dig deep."

"Thanks, Josh. I just want to know if she's alive, and where she is."

"Understand, buddy. And, Peter — I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well. Thanks, pal."

After hanging up, he went down the hall to LTC Gates office. "Sir, I've got a situation."

Gates removed his tiny reading glasses that didn't fit his bulbous head. "What is it, Major?"

"Sir, there's been an attack on a U.S. security detail from the embassy in Mexico."

"Okay, so now we got one more catastrophe cuz of the Drug War."

"Sir, Rachael Aston was being driven to the airport."

Gates stood, saying, "Sorry, Peter. I didn't understand."

"Sir, I want to get involved."

"Peter, what can you do? This is not in our job description."

"I don't know, Colonel, but I can't just sit around."

"All right, get productive. Find out what you can, and who's doing anything about it."

"Roger that." Peter left abruptly.

On a private jet, heading for Juarez from Mexico City, Hector Cardenas sat in a comfortable seat facing toward the tail, staring at Rachael. Two body guards sat nearby. They had removed her restraints when she was thrown aboard immediately before takeoff. Her knees were bleeding through torn pant legs from the brutal way she'd been dragged from the car. Most of the blood covering her was from Steve Harris, when they pulled her across his body.

The ambush had worked perfectly, with both the lead and following cars destroyed by rocket propelled grenades, trapping the center car. A dozen gunmen surrounded Rachael's car and the guards surrendered when explosives were shoved beneath. There was no time to radio the embassy for more Marines. When the doors opened, everyone except Rachael was murdered.

Cardenas smiled at her, "Please, Ms. Aston, make yourself comfortable. You're not going anywhere at this altitude. Would you like a drink?"

She was hurt but mostly scared and mad as hell. She had never seen people shot in cold blood before. "What do you think you're doing?"

He smiled calmly, "Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah, you're that scumbag, Cardenas."

"Oh, please, be polite. I wouldn't want to treat you like our mutual friend Jamie Montes."

"Polite has nothing to do with it. You're a dead man. I'm just waiting around for the celebration."

"Oh, you and I are going to have our own celebration."

He signaled his men who wrestled with her to tape her arms behind her back and tied a heavy canvas bag over her head. She fought and could hardly breathe as they threw her into the baggage compartment.

On the Move

He tried calling the embassy, but the commercial phone lines were overloaded. He needed to do something — anything to help, so he called Cybil to pick up the envelope. En route, Josh called him, "Okay, boss, here's all we know right now. There were three vans and a total of 10 guards, an embassy guy named Harris and Rachael. We think she was in the middle van when the two end vans were blown up, probably by RPGs. The guards in the two end vans were wounded, some dead. The middle van wasn't destroyed. The two guards and Harris in the middle van were all killed by automatic gunfire. Rachael wasn't there when police and embassy troops arrived."

Peter interrupted, "Did anyone see her? Was she taken away, was she wounded, was she hurt?"

"We don't know, Peter, but she wasn't there."

"It sounds like they went specifically after her."

"Yeah, it does."

"Okay. Thanks, Josh. I'll be in touch."

"Peter, I'll keep watching for anything new through the intel channels."

"Roger that. Thanks."

He arrived at the street corner opposite the Roslyn Metro station where Cybil asked to meet. It was easier than trying to get Peter through CIA security. She was standing by the curb, wearing a tan wool coat against the cold wind blowing from the east. He signaled for her to get into his Explorer.

She climbed in, handing him an envelope and fastening her seat belt. "Oh, Peter, I'm so sorry."

"Thanks, Cybil. I'll take you back to Langley."

"It's okay, Peter. I parked my car at the Metro parking lot around the corner."

He laid the unopened envelope beside him and drove to the lot entrance, just a block away.

"Thanks, Cybil. I know Rachael would also be grateful."

"She's a nice person, Peter. We all want her back."

"Yeah. Well, just keep me up to speed if any more is learned."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to sit around and do nothing."

"Good! Look, if I can do anything at all, call me."

He wrote her private cellphone number on the envelope. As she began to pull the door handle, he looked at her and said, "Cybil, Rachael told me about you and Jamie. I'm so sorry. I wish I could have helped."

She patted his arm as tears welled in her eyes. "Peter, you tried. You tried. I loved him and miss him every day. I don't want you to feel this way. Get her back!" She quickly left his car, unable to say more.

He then drove down to Roosevelt Park to be alone along the Potomac. Staring out the windshield at the river, he hesitated when opening the envelope.

When he returned back at the Bureau, Gates had left a note on Peter's desk to see him. "Colonel, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Peter, sit down. I was just informed through channels that the El Paso Station Chief, Mike Schmitt, got an email from the Cardenas Cartel."

"I know Chief Schmitt. So what did it say?" Peter had his hands clasped on his thighs.

"I don't know the details, but you better call him."

He stood and started to walk out when Gates continued, "Peter, if you want to go back to El Paso, I'll make it official this time."

"Thank you, Sir."

He hurried back to his office, and called Chief Schmitt who was waiting for the call. "Peter, I got this message that I'll send to you. I've already sent it to DHS and all the three-letter agencies."

"Mike, tell me what it says."

"Peter ... it says that there will be another spectacle on YouTube tonight. It goes on with a lot of bullshit about stopping the war on him, Cardenas, and some other sadistic ranting about the 'CIA woman', etc. I really don't want to go into details, but you get the point. I think he's going to kill Ms. Aston tonight. Sorry, I know she meant something to you."

"Yeah. 'Something'." He didn't appreciate Schmitt's past tense.

"Peter, if I could do anything, inbounds or out, I'd do it. I just don't know what."

"Look, Mike. I'm coming down."

"Good, all my troops want to help. Oh, yeah, Peter. You should know that he copied the local news stations on the message, so this will be viral."

His head was throbbing, "Look, Mike. Thanks. I'll see you later today, as soon as I can get there."

"Hey, one more thing. Your buddy Stokes. He's already on his way here too."

Peter had enough to worry about without concern for John and Carolyn. In the meantime, Gates came into his office with some papers. "Here you go, Peter, orders to support the Texas Guard in El Paso. You'll report admin-wise to Light Colonel Marian Colson, but the orders say you have direct tactical control under the Director."

"Thanks, Colonel, this is super. How about transport?"

"I'm working on it, you get home and pack. I'll have you outbound before you're done."

"Roger that, Sir."

"And, Peter. Good luck, son." Gates extended his hand.

Jailed

Rachael hit her head on the bulkhead as the plane bounced on landing, bruising her shoulder. After some fast turns, the pitch of the engines resonated inside a hangar before shutting down. Her bare feet were unbound, but her hands were tied behind, and the bag on her head was soaked from exhaling for several hours. She was hurt and exhausted when the door was opened and she was jerked to her feet. Two men gripped her upper arms as she stumbled down the unseen stairs from the plane. Both shins were scraped and bleeding.

They threw her onto the rear seat of a car, which started to move immediately. Other than engine smells inside the hangar, there were no sensual or visual clues about her location, although within seconds, she could feel the heat of sunrays coming through the windows. Men were talking in the front seat, but she didn't understand them. The car made several turns, initially, then drove at high speed on a straight course for a long time. The seat smelled moldy and didn't provide much isolation from ruts in the road. At the speed they were travelling without stopping, she assumed they were on some kind of major highway. She had no way to gauge time, but it was at least half an hour.

Scared, exhausted and injured, Rachael's apprehension increased when the car slowed, turning abruptly before stopping temporarily while someone exited, leaving the door open and the engine idling. She could vaguely hear the metallic sound of a chain and creaking gate opening. Then the person returned to the car and it drove a short distance before stopping. The door by her feet opened, and she was pulled by her ankles half way out before her legs were dropped onto the pavement. Two men grabbed her roughly, pulling her backward and upward, forcing her to walk before she was balanced.

Within minutes, she was thrown into a jail cell where her bindings were cut free. Pushing up from the dirt-crusted floor, she was able to sit and remove the bag over her head, throwing it violently. Her eyes adjusted to the small adobe cell with rusted bars at one end. The door was open, and an evil-looking man in a rumpled suit stood alone, staring at her. He had an amused look on his face. "Good day, Miss Aston. I trust you had an enjoyable trip?"

"Who, who are you? Where am I, and why am I here!"

Padilla didn't answer her questions directly. "Who I am is not important, but let us say that you are in my care, somewhere in Mexico. Why you are here is a bit more complicated."

"You people are insane! I assume you're with that lunatic Cardenas, and you know who I am."

The man stood erect with his hands folded in front, "Oh, yes, we know who you are, and, soon, the whole world will see you on TV."

"What! What do you mean?" Fear overtook her.

"Oh, you will see. For now, enjoy the comforts of our hospitality."

"I'm hungry and need to clean up!"

"All in good time. All in good time."

He pulled the old steel gate closed with a loud "clunk." She looked around at the space, no larger than her bedroom closet. It had a filthy old cot and a sink and open toilet with no seat or running water. Sitting on the very edge of the thin decayed feather mattress, she imagined all the microscopic creatures inside. The room was void of anything else and hadn't been cleaned in decades. At least there were no snakes or spiders she could see.

After a few moments alone, however, fear gripped her as she remembered how Billy Ware was murdered in front of the whole world. Suddenly, nothing mattered. She thought about Peter. He must be going crazy.

Return to Action

"Look, Carolyn, I'm going back to help Peter, that's all."

Her face was streaming tears, "John, you're not well enough, and you'll get killed."

He loved her so much. He stopped packing and held her, "Look, sweetheart. I don't know what we can do down there, but it's for Rachael. You wouldn't like me very much if anything happened to her, and I sat on my ass doing nothing. I'm more fit than ninety percent of the police and military, so I can't hide behind some supposed disability. Besides, I owe Peter my life, and he couldn't live without her."

"I know, I know. I want her back too, but you guys are not the ones to do it." Exhaling and looking down, she shrugged, "You're also the best guys to save her."

He tossed his bag over his shoulder, kissing her passionately. "Hug the girls for me. I gotta run to the airport."

She followed to his truck. "You need to wash this thing."

Starting the engine, he said, "Yeah, when I get back. I'll call tonight. I love you."

In Washington Peter called Gates after packing his gear and clothing. "All right, Peter, you need to get over to Andrews ASAP; got a C38A on standby."

"Thanks, Colonel. I'll get you a sitrep once I know what's going on."

En route to the Air Force Base in Maryland, he called LTC Marian Colson to let her know he was moving. She said someone would meet him. There was a misty, chilly rain falling and a slight wind, but the traffic was unaffected. The trip to Andrews took only forty minutes, and the plane was waiting at the National Guard hangar. It was already preflighted and fueled. It took less than five minutes after Peter boarded for the engines to reach temperature and start the takeoff roll. The C38 is a militarized version of the Gulfsteam G200. It can fly at over 500 miles per hour at 45,000 feet.

Once airborne, the plane banked left sharply to course 260 degrees, while passing through 5000 feet. Once on course, the pilot engaged the autopilot and announced, "Sir, we've got a slight headwind, so the computer is showing three hours twenty to touchdown. That should put us on the ground just before 1400 local."

Peter moved aft to the VHF radio console away from the flight crew. He contacted headquarters, "This is Major Shields, requesting phone patch, over."

"Major Shields, on whose authority are you using this comm frequency? Over."

"LTC Colonel Gates at HQ, over."

After a few moments the operator replied, "Ah, roger, Major. What do you require?"

"Phone patch." He supplied the number. The radio operator initiated the call.

"Go ahead, Major, your call is in process."

He waited until she answered, then keyed the microphone, "Cybil, this is Peter Shields in an Air Force plane heading for El Paso, over." He un-keyed the mike.

"Oh, Hello, Peter. I wasn't expecting a radio call."

He waited a few seconds, "Ah, Cybil, this radio only allows me to have one-way communications, so we need to say 'over' when listening. Over."

"Oh, okay, I've got it. What's going on, Peter? I'm so worried here. Ah, over."

"I'm heading for El Paso, Cybil. Look, I need Sandy Vitale's private cellphone number. Can you get it for me? Over."

"I think so, Peter, but how will I get it to you? Over."

"Just send me a text message. And, Cybil, don't tell anyone that I'm going to call him, over."

"Sure, Peter. It might take me a little while. Over."

"No problem. I'll be in the air for a few hours anyway. Over."

"Okay, Peter. I'll do it. Over."

"Out."

Three hours later, when the plane taxied to a stop at Biggs Army Airfield, Fort Bliss, the same Specialist that met him before was waiting. He tried to take Peter's bag again, but was refused. "Colonel Colson wanted to meet you here, Sir."

Peter nodded while checking phone messages. They walked inside where Colson was using an unoccupied office. "Welcome back, Major. I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances."

Peter was in civilian clothes. "Thanks, Colonel. I guess I'm destined to be in El Paso more than my own office."

"Take a desk in any open cubicle, and make yourself at home. Anything you need, come to me, or call my mobile. Here's my card."

"Actually, Colonel, I need to make a very private call. It involves Rachael Aston's kidnapping."

"Okay, sure. Take the Squadron room down the hall. It's not in use today."

"Great. Thanks."

"Oh, and, Peter, Major, please step into my office." She had a subdued look on her face.

When he entered, she closed the door. "Look, the news just reported that Cardenas is going to broadcast something at seven o'clock tonight. He says it's in revenge for his father's death."

Peter looked at her helplessly, "Any chance he doesn't mean Rachael?"

"He doesn't have anyone else important alive that we know of."

"Excuse me. I need to make some calls."

He rushed from her office to the Squadron room and closed the door.

His first call began ringing, "Stokes."

"John, it's Peter. Where are you at right now?"

"Just landed at El Paso."

"Good. Get your gear and come to Bliss, the Security Squadron."

"HUA, Major. I'll be there as quick as I get my gear."

"Shields out."

He then called the number he' gotten from Cybil.

The message was a male voice without identification, "leave a message."

Peter stood upright as though he was addressing the Director in person, "Sandy Vitale, this is Major Peter Shields. You need to call me immediately, reference Sandcastle."

He then went to a computer terminal and did some on-line shopping using his credit card. He then asked Colson to have her driver go to a sporting goods outlet to pick up his order. He listed several more tactical items from the armory on a piece of paper, asking Colson to provide.

Back in the squad room, he called another special number at MacDill, AFB, in Tampa, Florida, and asked to speak to U.S. Army Special Operations Commander, Lt. General Robert Gardner, who answered moments later, "Major Shields! How are you, Peter?"

"I'm fine, Sir, but I have an urgent request to ask."

"Go ahead, Major. If we've got it, you'll get it."

"Sir, are you aware that a U.S. Government Intelligence Director was kidnapped in Mexico today?"

"We heard about it, Peter. We also heard a familiar name, Rachael Aston."

"Yes, Sir, they've got her. What you probably don't know is that they're planning to kill her publically, on YouTube tonight."

The General knew Peter from his former days as a Special Forces operator at MacDill, and knew Rachael by reputation after the Chicago counter-terror operation. He also knew what she meant to Peter. "Peter, what do you need?"

They discussed his thoughts about an operation in Mexico, and then his phone beeped from another incoming call. The General understood Peter's request and signed off. "This is Shields."

The man on the other end spoke cautiously, "Uh, yes. This is Sandy Vitale. I believe you called me."

"Yes, Director. I need to talk to you about Rachael Aston."

"Are you insane, Major? This is an open line, and I'll not discuss anything remotely related to The Company."

"Look, Sir, I don't want to threaten you, but I'll blow the whistle on you, if I need to."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about!"

"How about land in La Paz? How about your meeting with Hector Cardenas as a congressman?"

There was a long pause. "How dare you! Look, I don't know who you are, or what you think you know, but this call is over."

"Then so is your career!"

Peter held his breath not knowing if Vitale would continue or hang up.

After several seconds and heavy breathing in the microphone, Vitale said, "What is this about?"

"It's about Rachael Aston. She was kidnapped today."

"Yes, yes. I know that. What has that got to do with me?"

"It has everything to do with you. She works for you. You sent her to Mexico. For all I know, you tipped off the cartel."

"How dare you talk to me like that!"

"I'll tell you how, you pompous son-of-a-bitch! You took a bribe of land in Mexico from Jamie Montes when you were a Congressman. You also met secretly with Cardenas when he was an illegal student in college."

"You can't prove any of this!"

Peter didn't have anything but Rachael's letter, "Wanna bet -- wanna take that risk?"

"This is all fabricated bullshit, Major, and you're going to get court-martialed."

"Won't be the first time, asshole. Be my guest if anything happens to her!"

"There's nothing I can do about that!"

"Oh, yes there is if you're through playing games? We don't have time for more bantering, and you're either helping or hurting her. It's better for you, if you cooperate."

"Are you threatening me? If you are, let me assure you ... "

"Look, Sir, you don't want me as an enemy, trust me. So, shut up and listen."

There was a pause. "Okay, I'm listening."

Raiders

Stokes arrived as the call with Vitale was ending. They embraced, and Peter invited John into the Squadron Room that had become an operations center. They talked a little about John's tearful goodbye with Carolyn and about Peter's plans so far.

"John, we've got a lot of pieces to put together and not much time."

"Do you know where she's at?"

"No, that's the biggest problem. But, I think I can find her, if we have the time. Remember your old buddy Commandante Padilla?"

"Oh yeah. Do we get to see him again? I've got some courtesies to return."

"He's our link. He's got to be involved. If we can get him at home or his office, then we have a chance."

"Cardenas could have Rachael anywhere. We can't cover enough ground with the time he's giving."

"I'm working on that."

The plan went together quickly, but it would be dark, after sunset that night before everything was ready. Peter and Stokes were constantly on the phone and internet.

Late that afternoon, Peter called Vitale again, but the call went to voicemail. "Damn him!" He slammed the table with his fist, then his phone rang.

The display said it was Vitale. "Damn, you, I said to keep the phone close, and don't miss my calls."

Stokes was listening to only one side as Peter continued, "I don't care about your excuses. There is nothing more important. Do you hear me?"

John couldn't believe Peter was talking to the top Intelligence Official in the country.

"Did you get the information I requested? Good." Peter began writing.

Stokes smiled, then Peter spoke to Vitale, "Now, listen very carefully, because you now have Rachael's life in your hands, and it's a life I value above all things. Think of it as 'her fate is your fate'."

Peter listened for a moment, "Shut up and listen. You need to call Cardenas, and get this stopped or stalled long enough for us to get to her."

After listening again. "I don't care if you haven't spoken to him in years." A pause, "Then call Padilla. I don't care how you do it! You're the CIA for Christ sake. Make the call, and stop the excuses! As I said before, I'm holding you responsible."

Stokes cringed before Peter continued, "Consider it a promise."

Peter shut off the call. "What an arrogant ass! No wonder he's in politics."

Rock and Roll

Sunlight dimmed rapidly over the mountains. By five, Peter and John were dressed in Desert Camouflage Uniforms with backpacks, water camels, body armor, radios, GPS, medical supplies and weapons. Colson had done an outstanding job cutting through red tape. They had the intel they needed and were waiting for their ride.

Within minutes they heard the whispery sound of an experimental high-speed scout and attack aircraft as it landed: The new design is half helicopter and half turbo-prop conventional aircraft. The coaxial-rotor system uses two stacked counter-rotating blades on top of the fuselage and a five-blade rear "pusher" propeller to move silently at more than 250 miles per hour then deposit them without a runway. The small experimental version only had room for two soldiers and equipment. It was designed using stealth technology, nearly invisible to radar and infrared. General Gardner had convinced the manufacturer in Arizona to "loan" the plane to them – special operations.

The pilot was a factory pilot volunteer with more than five thousand hours flying combat helicopters in the active Army. His name was Chief Warrant Officer, Steve Perry (U.S. Army retired) and he was excited to be called to action. He excused himself to use the men's room and stretch, while the soldiers loaded their gear aboard.

After ten minutes on the ground, the assault team was cleared for takeoff across El Paso commercial air space, staying below 2000 feet. At this altitude, they were silent and invisible in the moonless sky. Perry wore Night Vision Goggles (NVGs), flying around the outskirts of Juarez to GPS coordinates provided by Shields.

Elsewhere, Sandy Vitale closed the door to his office and scripted the discussion before dialing the phone. He really didn't know Cardenas, and when they had met years earlier, he was a Congressman, not the head of the CIA. His first call was to Juan Padilla.

"Hola."

"Yes, I would like to speak to Juan Padilla, please."

"This is Commandante Padilla."

"Well, Commandante, my name is Sandoval Vitale. I'm with the American CIA."

"Yes, Mr. Vitale. I am honored by your call."

"Yes, Commandante. I am calling because I wish to speak to Mr. Hector Cardenas. I was told that you would know his phone number."

Padilla was silent for several seconds. "Si, Señor Vitale. Of course, I do not have the phone number of Mr. Cardenas."

"But you do know how to contact him?"

"I have talked to him in the past when examining some matters."

"Look, Mr. Padilla. It is a matter of national urgency for me to speak to him."

"Whose national urgency?"

"Excuse me. The U.S. security."

"In that case, Señor, I am pleased to assist you. If you will give me your telephone number, I will make some calls, and maybe Mr. Cardenas will oblige you."

"Yes, well, all right. Tell him we met many years ago when I was in Congress. I would like to speak with him as quickly as possible (he gave the number)."

"Yes, Señor, sure. I will try hard to get your message to him. Thank you for calling." Padilla hung up before Vitale could speak more. He thought, So it begins, the Americans want to bargain.

Almost an hour later, near the hour of Rachael's execution, Cardenas called Vitale. "Hello. This is Hector Cardenas."

"Ah, hello, Mr. Cardenas. How are you today?"

"I'm fine. Is this a social call?"

"Oh, ah, no. Do you remember meeting me ten years ago? I remember meeting you."

"Si, si. You were in Congress then, and now you have the whole CIA."

"Ah, yes. That's me."

"Look, Señor Vitale. I am a very busy man tonight. What is this about?"

"About? Oh, well. My associates in Government heard some news stories that you would kill Ms. Aston at seven tonight."

"Yes, it is all arranged. Several of my men are going to enjoy her body first. It should provide quite a long bit of entertainment, if you understand me?"

"Ah, well. That's what we need to discuss."

"No! We need to discuss nothing. You call me assuming I care to talk to the great CIA. Well, I do not care. You see, I am more powerful than you in my government in Mexico."

"Yes, well. I do respect your position there, but please understand how we might react. Ms. Aston is no ordinary citizen. She's a senior government executive. The U.S. Government will not tolerate such action."

"How will you stop me?"

Vitale didn't have an answer. "Look, Mr. Cardenas, What do you want to stop this?"

He smiled at the thought of the CIA begging. "I want my father back alive. I want my money for the drugs captured at what you call 'Smuggler's Ridge.' I want to live in peace and not worry every time my shipments cross the border. If you give me all this, then I will spare Ms. Aston."

"Look, be reasonable. You know I can't do these things. Your father is dead."

"Yes, my father is dead! You people killed him. Now it is my turn."

"Look, there must be something?"

Cardenas was tired of the dialogue, and it was time to set up for the execution. "Okay, Mr. Vitale, I ask your government for one billion dollars. You must pay tonight by ten o'clock in Mexico City. I will make the announcements of the delay."

"But ... "

"Good day!"

Resistance

The men congregating outside Rachael's cell were the ugliest humans she had ever seen. They glared and joked at her. She sat on the cot and stared away from them at the wall, trying not to show emotion, although fear was overwhelming her. Fast footsteps down the hall signaled something happening, when Hector Cardenas yelled something to the others in Spanish. He pushed his way past and opened her cell.

"Good evening, Ms. Aston. You really do look terrible. Oh, you are still a beautiful woman, but fear is not becoming on you."

Rachael wanted to say something, but he had total control, so she remained silent.

"I had a chat with your Mr. Vitale. He is a weak person."

She remained silent.

"Do you know what we have planned? You see these men? They have a hard life, so the Mexican women don't like them very much. When you came to this old Federale prison, they became very excited.

"I told them that each could have you as his own toy tonight before they kill you. You will be a movie star, a dead porn star after your first movie. So sad. But, your Mr. Vitale, he is trying to bargain for you, and I have asked for him to get only one billion dollars, so that I won't kill you at ten o'clock tonight. What do you think of that?"

He was standing next to her as she turned her head. "I think you're shit, and I'll enjoy watching you die."

He slapped her hard, knocking her to the floor where she covered her face, silently whimpering.

"You will show respect in front of my people."

Holding her face, she screamed, "Go to hell!"

She feared he would unleash his dogs at that point, but he left her cell instead, locking the gate. It was reassuring, knowing that the creatures were momentarily outside the locked bars.

Coming

Neither soldier had flown at such speed this close to the ground before. The aircraft had a completely enclosed front and rear cockpit for streamlined operation. There was mild wind noise, but the flight was otherwise quiet, in eerie contrast to the throbbing torque from the 1500 horsepower turbo-shaft engine, radiating through the hull. It was difficult to see land features, but occasional lights on the ground showed their breakneck speed.

Over the intercom, the unseen pilot in front said, "Ten miles to touchdown."

They had organized everything at Bliss and were already wearing almost everything. Loose items were gripped firmly as the plane slowed and descended in controlled transition from flight. The pilot came on again, "Once on the ground, crouch low, the blades on this thing are only slightly above head height. I'll secure the bubble then depart back to base. Call me for pickup."

Peter responded, "Thanks for the ride, Chief. We'll call when ready."

"Roger that."

The plane settled quietly in a small clearing. They hardly realized it was on the ground. Opening the side-lifting window, a vortex of desert dust enveloped them. Peter jumped out, and Stokes handed loose gear, then jumped down himself. The pilot was standing nearby to latch the door with a gloved hand over his nose and mouth to shield against the dust, patting them each on the shoulder before climbing back into the cockpit. Within seconds, they were moving through the brush in darkness, completely silent.

They crouched low as a car passed on the nearby dirt road. Peter, said, "It's only about a half klick (half a Kilometer) from here."

"Roger that." Both were wearing tactical headsets, and the military radio was inside Peter's pack.

The brush raked against them, depositing small spores and barbs as they jogged around cactus in the partial-moon light toward the lone ranch home. Peter didn't expect Padilla to be home, but hoped someone would know where he was. He would do anything tonight to get information.

A hundred meters away from the house, they stopped, kneeling in the brush. Light wind blew through the sage as peter whispered. "Okay, John. Last time he had guards front and back, but I got around them, so watch for more now. You take the front and this side. I'm going to reconnoiter the back and far side."

Stokes nodded, "HUA, be careful."

He gave a thumbs-up signal then disappeared into the night.

Stokes moved to the edge of the brush about fifty meters from the house. He was positioned closer to the rear corner and could see partway down the back of the house. It was dark, but someone lit a cigarette showing two men sitting on the porch. He then moved into position to view the front and identified two more men.

His earpiece sounded, "Striker, come in."

"Striker here."

"I ident four sitting, two front, two back. Confirm."

Stokes replied, "Roger. Confirm also two by two."

Peter came back, "Let's get them sitting. You take front, I'll take back -- on my mark."

"HUA."

Simultaneously, both Rangers moved slowly to the sides of the house. Peter went toward the rear corner and Stokes to the front. Timing was important. The wind noise helped them move undetected.

Stokes whispered, "In position."

Peter replied, "Prepare to engage." This signaled Stokes to cock his weapon.

The distance both needed to cover from their respective corners to the sitting guards was about thirty feet, a little over one second away. "Ready. Mark!"

Peter stepped from the corner walking fast directly at the two men. He switched on his gun light fastened to the barrel with Velcro. The guards were startled. One fell backward in his chair, while the other reached for his automatic rifle. Peter yelled, "DON'T MOVE!" He didn't care if they understood the language, they understood the instruction. The fat man who fell tried to roll and grab his gun, while the standing man glared, frozen in place.

Peter momentarily focused the light beam directly in the face of the down man, "I said, don't move!"

The standing man then made a move for his weapon, and Peter fired twice into his upper body, and then aimed back at the down man who covered his head with his arms. The man who was shot sat motionless for half a second before falling to his knees, trying to grasp something unseen to break his fall. He slumped face down on the patio deck. Peter couldn't be sure how badly hurt the man really was, he hadn't been able to aim.

He signaled the fallen fat man who was now whimpering something in Spanish, to get up. Peter assumed the down man was dead, but shot him again in the back of the head, not wanting any surprises. He called Stokes. "Are you clear?"

"Clear."

"Good. Bring them to the rear."

"Roger."

About a minute later, Stokes rounded the corner following two Mexicans, with their hands behind their heads. "Good work, Striker Two."

"Looks like you had a little more trouble than me."

"Yeah, that one tried to be a hero."

Peter ordered two men face down on the ground, forcing the other one into a chair. Stokes guarded the others. The sitting man was the fat one that had fallen earlier. He was still whimpering as Peter forced him to sit next to the bloody corpse. He stood in front of him with his M4 aimed at the man's face asking, "Where is Padilla?"

The man was shaking uncontrollably, "No sabe, Señor, no sabe!"

Peter rocked forward within a foot of his face, "Padilla! Tell me, or join your friend in hell!"

One of the men on the ground spoke, "He does not know, Señor. El Commandante, he does not tell us this."

"Well, then. You are all worthless, so I will kill you now."

"WAIT! Wait! Please, Señor. We can tell you."

Stokes was looking at Peter in disbelief. He had never seen him ready to kill in cold blood.

Peter responded with his gun aimed at the talker on the ground, "Tell me what? Speak now, or you will never talk again."

"Please, Señor. Jefe Padilla is coming home."

Putting his foot on the man's back and resting his gun muzzle by his ear. "When?"

"We do not know. He was to be home soon after his work."

"Where is his work?"

The man on the ground next to the talker gave a warning in Spanish, and Peter stomped his combat boot hard into the back of his neck, temporarily paralyzing the man. "I said, where is his work?"

"Please, Señor, we do not know certainly, but he had Miguel, Que descanse en paz (rest in peace), take him to the old part of federale prison, 'Centro Federal de Readaptación. It is located in Almoloya de Juárez."

Peter told the man to stand, while Stokes pushed the fat man from the chair back to the ground. "Tell me about this prison."

"It is very old, from the time of Francisco Villa."

"When is he coming here?"

"I do not know. I swear! He said after some work at the prison."

Peter could guess at the work. He ordered the man back down and Stokes to guard them. He prayed that his cellphone would connect through one of the towers in El Paso. He stepped out of earshot from the guards and dialed the number. This time, Vitale answered on the first ring.

Peter demanded, "Tell me what happened?"

Vitale spoke nervously, "Look, Major. I tried. I really tried."

"Calm down. Tell me what happened."

"Well, he won't stop the execution and the other things."

"What other things?"

Vitale couldn't speak for several seconds, "He's having his killers do things to her, before ... "

"You worthless shit, didn't you get anything!"

"Major, he agreed to hold off till ten o'clock. That's all."

"Why ten?"

"Because. Because he thinks I might get him a billion dollars."

"What! He's ransoming her?"

"Well, no. He's playing a sick game."

"What game?"

"He knows I won't get the money."

"Did you try?"

"Don't be ridiculous. There's no one in Government that would approve that!"

"Look you spineless wimp, you try. AND, YOU GET ME MORE TIME! I know where she's at."

"Oh good. We can call the police."

"The police have her, you moron. Now get me more time!"

"What if I can't?"

"Then say your prayers, because I'm coming back to Washington!"

Peter ended the call, hoping fear would work in his favor. It was only a couple hours before Rachael would be dead -- or worse.

Returning to Stokes, he started to say something when they heard a car driving down the dirt road toward Padilla's ranch. "John, keep these guys quiet, I'm going out front."

"I've got 'em. But be careful, Peter."

Peter was gone.

As he neared the front corner of the house, a car slid in loose gravel, stopping with a dust cloud encasing it and swirling in the headlight beams. The driver exited in the fog and walked toward the house yelling, "Renato, Angel, dónde estás?" He was another fat man in a poorly pressed suit coat, "Dónde estás?" With no reply, he pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and crouched painfully, trying to look through the front windows to the back. He moved in Peter's direction. Midway to the corner, Peter stepped from the darkness, "Drop it!"

The man started to raise his weapon, and Peter shot a short automatic burst, hitting him in the stomach and throat. The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees holding his neck before rolling over. Peter took careful aim and shot him again in the chest, and then walked toward the car. Inside, Padilla strained over the front seat, trying to put the car in reverse. Peter shot both front tires then moved beside the car.

Several bullets were fired from inside the car, shattering windows, but all missed, as Peter returned fire with an automatic burst through the front driver's window. This scared Padilla, who threw out his gun. Peter yelled, "Get out of the car! Get out now!"

The rear door flew open on the opposite side, and Peter moved around, aiming at Padilla. A quick check of the car showed no more occupants.

"Up against the car! Hands on the roof! Spread your feet!" Peter kicked Padilla's feet farther apart as he patted him down, careful to check for an ankle gun, popular with police.

He spun him around, pressing his rifle below his chin, "Major Padilla, how good of you to drop in again. Remember me?"

Padilla was petrified, and Peter smelled urine. He roughly pulled Padilla in front of the car, into the lights, throwing him in the dirt. Padilla tried to regain some balance on all fours, but Peter kicked him onto his side. Padilla put his hands in front of his face in a reflex action.

Peter yelled, "Look at me! Look good! I'm the last face you're going to see on this earth."

Stokes was still in back, unable to see anything in front except rippling shadows in the headlights shining through the darkened house. Padilla defiantly tried again to roll onto his side when the gun blast ripped through his right elbow. He fell screaming onto his back cradling his severed arm when Peter fired another burst, exploding the right knee.

"Stop crying, or you lose the other leg and arm! You apparently didn't take me seriously last time."

Padilla cried, "PLEASE! Please, Señor! No more! Why are you doing this? Why? I have done nothing to you!" Padilla was bawling hysterically.

"That's not important. It's important what you will do."

"Anything! Anything! Just let me live!"

"Remember our little game? Now think about your left knee. I have several magazines of ball shot ammunition that I'm going to use, first cutting off your remaining leg."

"No! No! Don't do that! I will do anything — please don't shoot me again. Please!"

"Where's Rachael Aston?"

"I don't – wait! I will tell you!"

"Talk fast." He was standing over Padilla, aiming at his remaining leg.

"She is with Cardenas at 'Centro Federal de Readaptación."

"Good. How do we get in there? Be careful how you answer."

"You cannot. Only I can get you in." He moaned and began rolling around grasping his arm. Blood loss from cut vessels in his leg caused Padilla to hallucinate.

Peter grabbed his shirt collar, "What about your guards? Can they get in?"

Padilla was going into shock, saying weakly, "No, no. They cannot ... "

"Which gate should I use? Which gate!"

Padilla was verging on blacking out, "No gates. Walls are meter thick ... " He lost consciousness.

Peter left him bleeding in the dirt, and ran around back where Stokes was guarding the others. Stokes asked, "What happened? I heard a lot of gunfire, not all yours."

"Just a little tussle with your police friend, but he's in hell now. What time is it?"

"It's after nine."

"We gotta go. Not much time."

"What about these turds?"

Peter flipped back to full automatic, but Stokes yelled, "Peter! We can't waste these guys! That's murder."

"Call it justice for all their victims."

"We can't ... " The machine-gun burst cutting through the row of men was startling. All screamed.

"Peter!"

He responded, "Just some leg wounds. Come on. We gotta go!"

Stokes didn't feel any sympathy for the wounded men, who had done much worse to their victims.

They jogged back into the brush for the rest of their gear, where Peter used the radio to call El Paso. "Raven, this is strike team, over."

"Go ahead strike. Raven, over."

"Raven. Need pickup at point alfa, over."

"Up in one, Strike. Stand by for pickup in six, over."

"Raven, get ops working on coordinates to an old Juarez federal prison, the 'Central Federal Readjustment' prison."

"Roger that"

"Strike, out."

They gathered everything and ran up the road to the turnout used by Guy during Peter's prior visit to Padilla.

Prison

Vitale had never met Peter, but knew his background from press reports he found online. He was overtaken by fear now that Peter was in a rage and somehow knew his darkest secrets. He needed to do something, or his career would end and probably his life.

He dialed the last number called, and Cardenas answered immediately, "Ah, my friend Mr. Vitale. Do you have my money?"

"No. No I don't, but you better give up now, and let Ms. Aston go!"

"What, and miss all the fun! I'm about to make a home movie for the world to enjoy. It's called a snuff movie. I'm sure you will enjoy it."

"Look, we know where you are and are coming to get you, so you better stop what you're doing and give up."

"That is not in my nature, Señor. But thanks for the tip. Adios."

"But wait ... "

Fifteen miles south of El Paso, the aircraft settled cautiously in the darkness. Unable to see through the dust swirling everywhere, Peter used his gun light as a beacon.

They could hardly breathe as the pilot turned on the interior lights. They were airborne in less than twenty seconds.

Peter asked the pilot over the intercom, "Got vector?"

"Good to go, Strike."

"Great."

At the prison, Cardenas moved quickly down the stairs, walking fast to the cell block. Twelve men stood from the floor when he approached. He ordered several to get to the prison entrance.

Rachael sat upright, startled by yelling and men running. Cardenas opened her cell door, and two men ran in, grabbing her and pulling her through the opening. Rachael screamed and kicked, but never got balanced before being thrown onto the floor. Cardenas was yelling at another man who manipulated camera and lighting equipment. She tried to crawl, but one of them grabbed her feet and then ripped her blouse open. Cardenas clubbed him, yelling Spanish obscenities. The man backed away as the cameraman continued to test lighting.

In the air, Peter and Stokes were rechecking their gear and looking out the side Plexiglas door onto a moonlit landscape. They'd been in the air only three minutes when the pilot reported, "The prison is in sight, Strike, dead ahead."

Peter commanded, "Chief, do a fly-around."

There were no lights in the huge rectangular building, which was surrounded by weed fields, empty gun towers and rusted barbed fencing.

"Okay, John, here's what I see. Our best chance is to get on the roof. You take position on the end by all the cars. I'm going inside."

Stokes replied, "Roger that. I've got seven full mags."

"Here, take these." Peter handed him three more. "If I need more, I'll need you inside anyway, but you'll probably have a lot of squirrels leaving the nest, once I'm in."

As the plane settled quietly in the center of the roof, Stokes said, "Sounds cool. Let's rock this house!"

"Yeah! How often do we get to break into prison!"

Both jumped clear before the plane disappeared straight up into the blackness.

Inside, Rachael sat curled on the floor, not able to look at the lights, as Cardenas began giving directions.

Peter ran across the roof looking for an entrance, but all roof doors were padlocked. Moving to the edge of the building, he took a rope from his pack, along with all remaining ammunition, and rappelled down the side of the four-story building. At ground level, he could see interior lights in one section. Moving along the wall, below window height, the first door ahead was standing open.

Deep inside, Cardenas stood over Rachael, "Now, my beauty, the fun will begin. I hope you entertain us." He moved back to a computer that had video feeding from the camera.

She looked at him defiantly, but said nothing as he walked backward, barking instructions to the three men with him. They attacked together, ripping at her clothing and pressing her to the floor. One man struggled in the excitement to lower his pants. She thrashed, but the man on top was too heavy and smelled like unwashed feet. He was fat, unshaven with bad teeth and greasy hair, and hadn't bathed in days.

Peter moved cautiously in the dark until he heard her scream.

He ran toward the sound, as she cried out, repeatedly. His adrenalin was raging as he ran down a dark hall, toward the light. She screamed again!

He turned the corner about fifty feet behind the mob scene. His footsteps had been masked by Rachael's pleading and the men yelling, Cardenas yelling the loudest. She was pinned to the floor by two men, with another on top. She fought as men jeered and hooted. Cardenas was looking through the camera display, and no one saw Peter take careful aim at the man on top, firing one shot into his head. The body jerked violently then collapsed on top of Rachael. At first, the other men cheered thinking the attacker had climaxed prematurely, but then they saw his shattered skull. They released her, as she screamed and pushed at the limp corpse. One man tried to rise as Peter fired a burst at him, hitting him at least once.

The second man tried to roll away, but collided with the opposite cell bars. Peter fired a burst at his back without aiming.

Cardenas threw the camera and tripod at Peter then ran toward the far end of the corridor. Peter ignored him, running to Rachael. One of her attackers was crawling away as Peter pulled the dead one off of her. As the wounded man tried to stand, Peter raised his M4 with his free hand and fired a burst, again without aiming, downing him for a second time.

Rachael clung to his left leg as he turned toward the other wounded man trying to pull upward on the bars only five feet away. He was shot, but still moving. Peter fired several times into his back and head. Hot brass shell casings pinged off the floor around her as she gripped tightly, burying her face in his pant leg.

Men ran toward them from the direction Cardenas had taken. He lifted her and felt another surge of rage looking at her tattered underwear and bloodied body, "Rachael, sweetheart, we gotta move — fast!"

She showed renewed strength, as she pushed up to her feet, while Peter took aim down the hall. "Run that way!" He pointed to the darkened hall from where he had entered. She was hurt, but she ran in bare feet for the darkness, stumbling on hot shell casings, while Peter knelt, waiting.

Stokes couldn't hear the gunfire inside, crouching in the dark behind the roof façade, when suddenly the massive ground-level door burst open below and several men ran to the cars. He didn't see a woman and held fire. Instead of fleeing, the men began grabbing weapons from cars and started running back toward the prison. He switched to automatic and aimed down into the moving horde, firing a full thirty-round magazine fanning left and right. It was impossible to aim as he ducked, reloaded and reengaged over the wall. This time, several men, behind the cars, fired back, and he dropped below cover again. He moved left about twenty feet and visualized where the muzzle blasts had been. Switching to semi-automatic, he rose quickly and fired where the flashes came from, exposing very little of himself. He counted three men firing from the parking lot below. There were also some casualties lying on the dirt by the door, but others had made it back inside.

When Rachael rounded the corner away from Peter, he stood and started to run in the same direction. Hearing the security door behind them creak open further, he turned and fell prone, strafing the end of the corridor. He then flipped to semi-auto and took aim at a muzzle flash in the smoky haze, as bullets ricocheted off the floor and walls near him. He squeezed off four shots until the shooting stopped. He remained still, waiting. Gun smoke filled the corridor, but he could see several men down. Most were moaning, and some struggled to rise.

Stokes was pinned down, but safe, kneeling behind the thick concrete of the roof façade. He keyed his head-mounted communicator, "Peter, come in."

Peter was set to voice activation, "Go ahead."

"I got some, but some went back in with weaps, over."

"Yeah, I got a few, not sure if all. Rachael is heading out the side. Can you get to her? Over."

"Is your rope still in place? Over."

"Yes."

"On my way."

Stokes put his spare magazines in his leg pockets, then sprinted to Peter's pack. The side yard below looked quiet, so he rappelled down and moved to the door about fifty feet away. It was dark, and he peered inside, moving swiftly into shadows. She was whimpering nearby. "Rachael? Rachael, it's John."

He heard her feet shuffling closer, but she didn't say anything. Her arms flew tightly around his neck, and he could feel her quivering almost-naked body clinging to him in terror. "Rachael, where's Peter?"

She released and pointed to the lighted corridor. "There."

"Look, honey. I've got to help Peter."

She released her grip and followed behind him as he moved toward the light. There was no sound, but there was a strong smell of cordite. "Peter, it's Stokes. I have Rachael."

"Hold. I'm coming your way, John." Stokes remained still.

Peter rounded the corner. "I've got them pinned. Let's get her to the roof for extraction."

"Roger that."

Peter took a covering position as John grabbed her upper arm and led Rachael to the courtyard. "We're clear Peter. I'll cover."

Peter ran toward the door, where Stokes knelt outside aiming past him. No one followed.

Peter said, "Get her to the roof, John. You climb, then pull her up."

"I can't Peter. Arms aren't strong enough to climb. I'll cover."

Peter looked at him for a moment, then patted his shoulders and ran with Rachael to the rope.

"Rachael. I'll go up first then send down a harness to pull you up."

She jerked her head up and down but still didn't speak.

It took him twelve seconds to scale the wall. He pulled up the rope and tied a double loop at the bottom for her legs, dropping back down. "Step into the harness."

As he pulled upward, she was able to push with her feet, helping him. She still had remarkable strength as adrenalin flooded her body.

Stokes fired three shots and moved to the edge of the door for more cover.

Rachael came over the wall showing good agility, and Peter quickly dropped the rope again. "John, come up now."

"Hold one." He fired several more rounds, then ran to the rope.

Peter handed his M4 to Rachael. "Honey, you cover us."

She screamed, "Peter! I don't know how ... "

He looked at her and said calmly, "Just lean over and point toward the door. If someone looks out — shoot! Don't worry about hitting 'em. It'll keep them inside."

She moved to his right with a clear view over the edge at the doorway below.

Peter struggled to pull Stokes up. Even with John's legs helping, the lift was twice Rachael's weight. Still, he was up quickly. Rachael had fired several times.

Peter pulled the radio from his pack and keyed the microphone. "Raven, come in."

"Raven here, over."

"Raven need extract, last location, expedite, expect fire, over."

"Roger. Stand by, over."

"Out."

They moved to the center of the flat roof taking opposing cover positions. Rachael stayed between them, trembling in the cold desert night. The temperature had nothing to do with her chill. She said nothing.

Long seconds passed before the aircraft hovered overhead. Rushing to open the rear hatch, the soldiers helped Rachael get inside and belted in. The pilot ran around the front of the idling aircraft with ten extra magazines for them. Peter said, "Thanks, ace, get them out of here. I've still got some work to do."

Stokes yelled. "Hell no, you don't! Not alone!"

Rachael screamed. "Peter!" \-- As the hatch was locked. The Rangers moved away, and the plane disappeared.

When all was quiet, Stokes said, "Man. You're pressing your luck — our luck."

"Buddy, I appreciate your help, but you don't need to do this."

"Hey, I'm the guy with the bad shoulders, and someone needs to pay."

Peter patted him on the knee, "Good man, let's go."

Safe

The pilot reached behind his seat, waving a headset, which she took. "Ms. Aston, there's an extra flight suit under the seat by you."

She was still dazed and hardly aware that she was in her underwear. "Oh. Oh, thanks."

"No problem, Ma'am." He was smiling to himself, having enjoyed the view, when she climbed aboard. He was unaware of the ordeal she'd endured.

It was dark in the plane, but after releasing the seatbelt she was able to find the suit and struggle into it. She was still shaking, thinking of the smelly monster that Peter killed, clawing at her. She was glad they all died. In the ambush in Mexico City, Steve had begged, and they had shot him for no reason. She was glad when Cardenas' men were killed. She wanted them all dead.

It only took a few minutes to cross the border and arrive at Ft. Bliss. The pilot spoke into the headset, "Ma'am, we're going to land now. Colonel Colson will meet you and take charge. I'm staying with the plane to get our boys back out."

Peter! He and John were still with those madmen. God, why did they stay? Peter, I need you now!

Marian Colson opened the hatch and helped Rachael step out of the airplane. She seemed less like a Colonel and more like a woman than any other time. "Let me help you, dear. Let's get you patched up and pretty."

Rachael felt weak. "Thanks."

Worried

Cardenas hid in an upstairs office without lights, not knowing where his men were, or if the danger was over. He dialed his cellphone. "Mr. Vitale!"

"Who's this?"

"Hector Cardenas!"

"What do you want?"

"Do you have my money?"

"No, there is no money."

"Well, we had some visitors tonight. Were they your men?"

"Not really, just some other good Americans."

"Yes, it's the American way. Now you see, they have taken my prize, and I am going to find them all and kill them. They killed some of my men."

"Good. Less shit to send down the sewer."

"Now, Mr. Vitale, there is no need to be coarse. I want to bargain with you."

"How's that?"

"Well, you see. I don't know how many you sent, or where they are right now. This worries me. So, you call off your dogs, and I'll assure that none are killed."

"Well. I'll see what I can do." Vitale didn't plan to do anything.

On the roof, Peter and John discussed options. Stokes was pumped. "Let's go get him, Peter."

"No. He's expecting us. I'm sure he has an Army coming. We need a different plan."

Airborne

Sometime later, Cardenas had dozens of men search the prison from roof to cellar before feeling it was safe to move. Seven of his men were dead and a dozen more wounded by the Americans, and he'd lost Rachael Aston. The Americans would pay ten times over! When he learned that Padilla was also dead, he knew it was time to move farther south, away from the border. He ordered an escort to the airport.

Several men surrounded him as they ran to his limousine. Two guards got into the car with him and he ordered the remaining guards to follow them in their own cars to the airport, about twenty minutes away. Once at his hangar, the pilot was waiting for him. He had fueled the plane. Cardenas ordered an immediate takeoff.

He didn't feel completely safe until airborne. The night sky was bright with stars as they rose above the low cloud cover. His temples throbbed and he told one of his body guards to mix a pain reliever with his scotch. The affect was almost immediate, as he reclined in the soft goatskin-covered luxury seat. His eyes closed, and he was soon dreaming. The vision of Rachael Aston, submissive, pleading under his control, nearly naked, caused him to smile. It was not the vision he had expected to film, but she was still fun to watch. Oh, well, there would be more.

There was turbulence while the plane was climbing, but it was peaceful at cruising altitude, as the plane headed due south, toward Mexico City. He always enjoyed the Mexican vastness, which was his in many tangible ways. He felt a sense of tranquility. He relaxed for the first time in hours and felt his eyelids grow heavy.

Suddenly, there was a loud interior noise as the luggage compartment door slammed open. Shields and Stokes jumped out, with M4s leveled at the two body guards who first looked at Cardenas, unsure what to do. He screamed something, and the guards hesitated momentarily before reaching inside their jackets. The American gunfire inside the narrow cabin was deafening, as the two lifeless guard bodies slumped in their seats.

The pilot yelled something from the cockpit, and the plane dropped momentarily, before he regained control. Cardenas' face was distorted by fear as he raised his hands in submission.

"Hello, Hector." Peter moved toward the man paralyzed by rage, as Stokes checked the body guards. Both were dead by several bullets in their chests; their eyes remained fixed.

Cardenas screamed, "What is this! This is my plane. You cannot be here!"

Peter smiled, "Oh, but we are here!"

Cardenas slumped and lifted his chin in defiance as the Rangers moved quickly to restrain him with belts and shoe laces from the dead Mexicans.

"Now, we're going to take a little trip together."

Stokes guarded Cardenas as Peter went forward to the cockpit. The pilot was armed but showed Peter his gun, without attempting to use it. Peter instructed him to turn toward El Paso, which the pilot obeyed immediately.

Back over Juarez, Peter used the plane's radio to call El Paso control, clearing the way for a direct flight into the main airport with Hector Cardenas aboard. Once cleared to fly over the border, Cardenas was blindfolded and gagged. The rest of the flight was uneventful, ending the Reign of Terror.

### Peace

Hours later, Peter had been resting his head on his forearms, leaning against the railing of her hospital bed. He needed rest, but wasn't leaving her. She was sleeping with two IVs, one for fluids and one for antibiotics. She looked fresh and beautiful with clean hair and only minor scrapes and bruises visible above white sheets. The nurses had been especially attentive.

She'd slept for hours before her head nodded. After a moment, she said, "Peter?"

He looked up and stood, stroking her hair. "Hi. How are you doing?"

She licked her lips. "Oh, I've felt better. You look good all cleaned up." He was dressed in civilian clothes.

"Rachael, you're gorgeous."

She looked around asking, "What time is it?"

"Oh, around daybreak. The nurse said you'd be out for a while with the antibiotics."

She reached both hands to his arm, pulling him down to kiss. "Thank you. Thank you and John."

He spoke softly, still caressing her head, "He'll be here, after some sleep. You can thank him then."

"Peter, I was so scared." Her eyes watered as they embraced.

"It's over, Rachael. Cardenas is in jail — in El Paso."

"You got him?"

"Yes. We got him. He's cozy in U.S. custody."

"Thank, God! That monster!" She looked away and started to cry.

"Sweetheart, he can't hurt you anymore."

She clutched his hand and pulled him down again, wrapping her arm around his neck with a firm grip. She couldn't talk.

"Rachael. You need to rest and not worry about him anymore. I'll be here with you and won't leave."

She lay back with a peaceful expression and started to doze again, under the influence of the drugs. He sat down beside her, finally allowing himself to relax.

He hadn't slept for two days, and his eyes were heavy. He smiled lightly and started to doze off when she opened her eyes as he was drifting toward sleep. "Peter."

"Ah, yes?"

"I want you to propose again."

***END***

About the Author

Frank Perry has worked with the military since 1966, first on active duty, then with industry. His background includes military operations, technology and involvement in most of the systems and organizations included in his books. In addition to the military, he has thirty years of experience supplying solutions to Federal, State and Municipal law enforcement involving tactics and equipment. He is currently a consultant in surveillance technologies used for Homeland Security. He lives in coastal New Hampshire. He welcomes comments and ideas/suggestions for new material. Feel free to contact him at: books.by.frank@gmail.com
