A Touch of Malice

A Touch of Malice

The pit viper slithered up the side of the tree and paused to glare at Trent Merrick with sinister eyes.

 

The tree limb creaked as Trent crouched lower, trying to stay balanced while his face dripped with sweat.

 

The humidity in the Amazon was already unbearable, but Trent had worked up a lather attempting to stay still.

 

The viper was one of the most lethal creatures in this part of Colombia, especially when the nearest medical facility was a two hour hike away.

 

The real problem for Trent, however, was his position.

 

He was over thirty feet high and had to avoid jagged tree limbs all the way to the ground.

  

The snake resumed his upward trek and Trent frantically searched above him to see how much room he had, but it was an ephemeral solution.

 

It would only add seconds to his life.

 

Once again the snake stopped and seemed to assess his prey.

 

The viper’s forked tongue slashed out several times to judge Trent’s proximity.

 

One bite would cause a person to bleed from the eyes and reach a critical condition within twenty minutes.

   

Trent had an even more serious problem brewing just a hundred feet down the path from his position in the tree.

There were a dozen Colombian soldiers with fatigues and assault rifles surrounding a small opening in the rainforest.

A glimpse of light peeked through the dense canopy of trees exposing two men who were obviously meeting in this remote part of the world for clandestine purposes.

The soldiers were scanning the perimeter searching for prying eyes.

The thick foliage offered Trent decent coverage, but the viper was soon going to put an end to his hideout and probably his life.

           

The snake reared its head back slightly and froze.

 

Trent felt his phone slipping from his sweaty hand and as he clutched it, he glanced at the picture he’d just taken from his vantage point.

 

The two men in the photo were exchanging pleasantries, but one man was clearly in charge and the other a mere servant.

 

The photo showed a very one-sided relationship.

 

The subservient man was older and dressed in a suit and tie.

 

He was on his knees bending forward as the younger man held out his hand for the gentleman to touch and bring to his lips.

 

The well-dressed man on his knees was Colombian President, Carlos Santoro.

 

His bald head and famous scar across his cheek was unmistakable.

 

The hand he kissed belonged to the most feared cartel leader in the country.

 

Pablo Moreno.

Trent had snapped several photos of the meeting, the president on his knees kissing Moreno’s hand over and over, while Moreno looked down at the man, prolonging the demeaning act to prove his superiority.

If Trent wanted, the photos could go viral and be shown globally within minutes of its posting.

He’d paid extra to have a satellite phone, but had no intention of using it for anything but lifesaving means.

All he cared about now was surviving long enough to see his pregnant wife again.

           

The viper, however, didn’t care much for politics or families.

 

It saw Trent as a threat.

 

Nothing more.

 

Just a warm-blooded animal who needed to be eliminated.

 

He slithered higher until reaching the same level as Trent.

 

The snake’s head slowly curled around the trunk of the tree with his tongue rapidly jutting from his mouth.

 

Trent glimpsed down at his knife on the jungle floor which had slipped from his humidity drenched hands just minutes earlier.

That’s when he spotted the soldier using the tip of his assault rifle to brush away the foliage as he headed in Trent’s direction.

           

The snake was now fully onto the thick limb.

 

He coiled the lower half of his body into a tight circle while his head stretched up and his tongue slashed from his mouth.

 

An attack position.

 

Trent crept farther out on the limb, buying more time.

As the branch groaned from the stress of his movement, the soldier swiveled his head searching for the foreign noise. Sweat dripped from Trent’s chin.

He was about to throw his phone at the snake, when a thought occurred to him.

He desperately pushed a couple of buttons on his phone. The snake reared its head back, about to strike.

           

It startled Trent.

 

His foot slipped.

           

As he fell from the tree, he saw the one word which he desperately needed to see before slamming to the jungle floor.

Sent.

                                  

*

       

                         

*

                               

*

Just west of the Oval Office was a small study used as a personal office for the sitting President of the United States.

President John Merrick had used it as a place to relax after a grueling day or a stay of reprieve during a stressful session next door.

Just crossing through the doorway from the Oval Office to his private study seemed to lower his blood pressure.

           

Tonight, he sat at the round oak table in his stocking feet with his tie pulled down.

 

Next to him was his college buddy and Secretary of State, Samuel Fisk.

 

They were playing gin and watching the Washington Nationals game on the wall TV.

 

Merrick’s schedule rarely allowed him to socialize with old friends, so his weekly card game with Fisk was a close as he got to down time.

           

“You need to discard,” Fisk said, grabbing a handful of salted peanuts from a glass bowl.

 

He was a large man with a placid demeanor and had little patience for over-thinking an issue.

 

A very good trait for someone who spent his day dealing with foreign dignitaries and their constant gyrations with the truth.

           

Merrick stared at his collection of misfits.

“I don’t even have two cards the same color.”

           

Fisk chuckled.

 

He dropped his cards face down on the table and got up to stretch.

 

He took his and Merrick’s empty glasses to the counter and filled them with ice from the stainless steel refrigerator door.

 

He mixed their drinks and brought two fresh gin and tonics back to the table.

 

Merrick swirled his index finger in his cold drink and took a sip.

His face instantly puckered up.

“Geesh, Sam, we run out of tonic?”

           

Fisk sat down and grinned.

 

“You needed it.

 

It’s been a long week.”

When Merrick won the election, he’d already recruited Fisk to come to Washington and take his Secretary of State position.

Fisk was content with his job as a consultant for a global medical distributor, but Merrick insisted.

He needed someone he could trust.

Someone who could smell bullshit and find the motive.

He also wanted someone who was a free thinker and would challenge Merrick with his decisions.

           

“How’s Emily?” Fisk asked, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs.

“She’s good.

Loves to read.

She’s so proud of her ability, she reads the cereal box during breakfast every morning.

Drives us crazy.”

           

“What, the ingredients?”

“No, the propaganda on the back of the box about how much fiber the cereal has and how it helps build your muscles.

She’s too young to understand the concept of creative advertising.”

           

“So then she actually believed your campaign promises?”

Merrick pickup up the remote control from the table and smacked Fisk on the arm.

Then he turned the volume up to hear the game.

           

“How about Trent,” Fisk asked while grabbing another handful of peanuts.

 

“I haven’t heard you talk about him lately.”

“He’s down in South America doing a documentary on some native tribe,” Merrick said.

           

“I liked his last one.”

“Yeah, his problem is he gets too invested in his subjects.

He doesn’t know how to stay objective.

Eventually he becomes part of the story.”

           

“Does he still refuse secret service?”

Merrick waved the back of his hand.

“Shit, he would never allow it.

He’s so anti-establishment, anti-government, anti-anything to do with authority.

He allows them to watch after his wife while he’s gone, though.”

Merrick laughed.

“He sent me a text photo a few hours ago.

I’m afraid to look at it.

The last one he sent was a picture of some dead elephant in Indonesia.

Poachers.

It was horrible.”

           

“Yeah?”

 

Fisk scraped the bottom of the peanut bowl and came back with salty fingers.

 

He got up and headed toward the refrigerator.

 

The large man opened the door and stared into the collection of cheese, fruit and yogurt with a disgusted expression.

 

“Don’t you hide pizza in here anymore?”

Merrick absently picked up his phone and tapped on his text message icon.

“Not since I got busted for having Ray’s Pizza shipped in from New York.

The tabloids have a snitch in every popular eatery in the nation.”

           

“So now you’re a pizza snob?”

“Guilty.” Merrick said while watching a picture come into focus on his phone.

           

Fisk returned to the table with a tray of cheese cubes and a box of crackers.

 

He leaned back in the chair and raised the TV volume on the remote.

 

Merrick yawned while trying to figure out what he was seeing.

It looked like a jungle setting, maybe the rainforest.

The photo focused on a couple of men in a small clearing.

One of the men was on his knees kissing the other’s hand.

Why would Trent send him something like this?

There were no starving children or endangered species anywhere to be seen.

Merrick enlarged the image to get a closer look.

At first the picture was fuzzy, but as the image cleared up, he could make out the faces of the two men.

           

“Oh, shit,” Merrick uttered.

                                                         

Chapter 2

Merrick stared at the image on his cell phone and tried to put it together.

Colombian President Carlos Santoro was on his knees, kissing the hand of Pablo Moreno.

The most powerful cartel leader in the world.

           

“What?” Fisk asked.

Merrick handed Fisk his phone and watched the Secretary of State’s eyes grow dim with confusion.

“Is this some Photoshop joke?”

           

“I don’t think so,” Merrick said.

 

“Trent has a better sense of humor then that.”

 

Fisk simply stared at the image, then handed it back to Merrick.

“Trent sent this to you?”

           

Merrick grabbed the phone from Fisk, pushed the screen a couple of times and put the phone to his ear.

 

“I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

“Hold on a minute,” Fisk said, turning off the TV with the remote.

           

After three rings a man’s voice said, “Hola.”

It stopped him.

All kinds of bad thoughts entered his mind.

His breath quickened and he wanted the answer to one thing.

“Where’s my brother?”

           

There was a muffled conversation in Spanish, as if the man had the pressed the phone against his chest and was having a discussion.

 

Merrick jumped to his feet and began pacing, Fisk was next to him now, paying close attention.

 

Eavesdropping on the conversation.

A different man came on the phone and spoke in a thick Spanish accent, “Who is this?”

           

With a clenched jaw, Merrick said, “Where is Trent?”

Fisk pawed at Merrick’s arm, trying to get his attention.

           

“It depends on who is asking,” the man said, almost a dare.

Merrick was already calculating how quickly he could get the CIA to find the bastard on the other end of the phone.

Fisk waved his hand in Merrick’s face.

           

“You have no idea how much trouble you’ve just caused yourself,” Merrick said.

Fisk was in front of him now shaking his head, trying to get him to stop him, but Merrick waved him off.

           

“Is that a threat?”

“Damn right it is.”

           

Fisk grabbed Merrick’s shoulders and stopped him from moving.

 

“Hang up,” Fisk mouthed quietly.

“You must think you are a very powerful man,” the voice said.

           

Fisk shook his head vehemently.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Merrick turned away and in a low guttural growl, said, “I’m the fucking President of the United States, asshole.

That’s who I am.”

           

Merrick turned in time to see Fisk shut his eyes while placing a hand on his forehead.

The man on the phone seemed pleased at the response.

“That is wonderful news Mr. President.

You will be hearing from us.”

           

The line went dead.

Fisk dropped down on the leather couch and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“What did you just do?”

           

Merrick held up the phone.

 

“I may have saved Trent’s life.”

Fisk didn’t move.

“As we speak they’re coming up with a huge ransom demand.”

           

“So what.

 

He’s alive, that’s all I care about.”

“No,” Fisk said, bolting upright.

“There will be more than mere financial terms.”

           

“Like what?”

Fisk glared at the phone in Merrick’s hand.

           

Merrick followed his stare.

 

The photo.

 

Trent must’ve had taken the picture of the President of Colombia bowing down to a cartel leader.

 

Now someone had taken him hostage.

 

The Colombian government?

 

The cartel?

 

Both?

 

He looked over at Fisk.

 

“What?”

“We spend millions each year protecting family members of current and past presidents to prevent this exact scenario.”

           

Merrick looked out the doorway and caught the edge of a framed photograph on the wall of the Oval Office.

 

The picture was of Merrick’s other brother Paul in his lieutenant’s uniform taken just a week before he was killed inside the Pentagon on September 11th, 2001.

    

“I’m not losing another brother, Sam,” Merrick said, clenching his fist while resuming his pace.

           

Fisk pulled himself to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“We have a tiny bit of leverage.

 

But it won’t last.”

“Agreed,” Merrick said.

He looked at the clock on the wall.

If he were in the War Room, he’d have the exact time for every country on a digital display.

“What time is it in Bogota?”

           

Fisk took out his phone and took only a few seconds to say, “It’s only an hour earlier.

 

Nine forty-five.”

Merrick pushed a button on the phone on his desk.

“Hanna, get me a direct line with the president of Colombia.”

           

It took a few seconds for his secretary to respond.

 

Anytime the president was in his office, his secretary, or a staff member, was required to be at his secretary’s desk.

 

Once it got late, however, they’d typically take naps until the secret service notified them of his departure.

“Excuse me, sir?” came Hanna’s voice over the speaker.

           

“Get me the President of Colombia, Carlos Santoro,” Merrick said, more forceful this time.

 

“Now!”

As they waited for the call to get connected, Fisk said, “The press will find out.”

           

“I know.”

“We should get Fredrick on it right away to diffuse the situation.”

           

“He’s third or fourth on my priority list right now.”

Hanna came back on the speaker.

“Mr. President, they’re having a problem locating President Santoro.

They wanted to know what level of urgency you needed.”

           

Merrick muted the speakerphone.

 

He looked at Fisk.

 

“Should I dip into our bag of leverage?”

Fisk nodded.

“No reason not to.”

           

Merrick pushed a button.

 

“Tell them I’ve received a digital photograph that President Santoro might like to know about.”

They waited.

           

Fisk said, “I thought Trent hated politics.”

“He does.”

           

Fisk pointed to the phone.

 

“Then what’s that all about?”

Merrick shrugged.

“I have no idea.

Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

           

“Do you believe that?”

“No.”

           

Hanna’s voice returned.

 

“Apparently they were able to find President Santoro.

 

He’s on line three.”

“Thanks,” Merrick said.

He looked over at Fisk.

“Well?”

           

“Make him wait,” Fisk said, taking a couple of mugs from the upper cabinet and pouring hours-old coffee into two mugs.

 

He added cream and sugar to one and handed it to Merrick.

 

“I know this guy.

 

He’s bipolar.

 

One minute he’s praising your accomplishments, the next he’s ready to have you executed.”

“So how do I handle him?”

           

“Begin very convivial, but let him know right away you’re in control.

 

And should he ever get nasty, you need to give it right back to him.

 

He won’t respect you otherwise.”

  

Merrick took a sip of his coffee.

“Okay, I’ll start with the diplomatic approach,” he said, pulling the receiver to his ear.

“Mr. President, what is going on down there?

A few hours ago I received a very strange photo from my brother’s cell phone.

When I call him, a man in a Spanish accent answers the phone and makes threatening remarks.

Would you care to clear things up for me?”

           

There was a serious pause while Santoro attempted to deal with the brutal honesty thrown at him.

 

Finally, after a few seconds, he said, “Mr. President I do not understand why you would be telling this to me.

 

Which picture are you speaking of?”

“I see.”

Merrick’s face tightened.

“Well, I’ll tell you what.

I’m going to release this CIA-authenticated image to the media and within thirty minutes you will be able to see it on every news website around the globe.

Then call me and we’ll discuss your new job as the greeter at the Bogota Wal-Mart.”

           

Merrick slammed the phone down and ran a hand through his hair.

“Very diplomatic,” Fisk said.

“However, I said to wait for him to get nasty first.”

           

“You said show him I’m in control.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re in complete control, aren’t you?”

           

Merrick walked in a circle.

 

“Now what?”

“We wait for him to call back.”

           

Merrick stopped and squinted at Fisk.

 

“That’s brilliant, but I meant what do I say when he calls back?”

Fisk sipped his coffee.

“Are you thinking of changing your diplomatic approach?”

           

“Right now I’m thinking of changing my Secretary of State.”

Fisk sat on the couch and put his coffee down on the coffee table.

“Let’s see how he responds.

Don’t antagonize him this time.

It won’t help your cause.”

           

“What’s he waiting for?”

 

Merrick said walking to his desk and staring down at the phone as if it were able to talk.

‘He’s probably got advisors telling him how to respond,” Fisk said.

           

There was a tall grandfather clock sitting behind Merrick’s desk and normally its ticking was drowned out by conversation, television, or the bustling traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue.

 

Now it was the only sound in the room.

Merrick thought about his brother’s pregnant wife.

He would need to speak with Jaqui and find out what he could about Trent’s trip.

           

“Mr. President.” Hanna’s voice said over the speaker.

 

“President Santoro for you.”

Merrick reached for the phone, then stopped himself.

He turned to Fisk and waited for his approval.

           

Fisk nodded.

Merrick picked up the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President?”

           

Santoro’s voice was heavy with fatigue, as if he was tired of the conversation before it even started.

 

“Your brother is alive.”

Merrick let out a big breath and sat back on his desk.

“Good.”

He knew enough to shut up and listen.

Maybe Santoro would fill the empty space with words he wasn’t prepared to speak.

           

The silence lasted only a few seconds.

 

“He has been badly hurt,” Santoro said.

“He has taken a fall from a tree while spying on a private conversation.”

           

Merrick stood erect and took the slack out of his grip on the phone.

 

“How badly?”

“He’ll need medical attention for a few days, but he will survive.”

           

Merrick waited as long as he could before he asked, “When can he come home?”

There seemed to be some consulting going on the other side of the phone line because Santoro could be heard speaking in hushed tones to someone in his office.

           

“Mr. President,” Santoro said, “there is very little I can do to help your brother.

 

He has been taken prisoner by the Cameno Cartel and he will be used as a bargaining tool.

 

I am not capable of intervening in this matter.”

“I see,” Merrick said, his chin muscles tightening.

Fisk must’ve sensed his aggravation, because he jumped to his feet and approached Merrick with a paternal glare.

           

Merrick stared at Fisk and said into the phone, “What exactly do the Cameno’s want?”

“They are probably going to ask for more than you can give.

So I would not expect this to end well for your family.”

           

Merrick thought about the one thing he could bargain with.

 

He held up the image on his cell phone.

 

“And what about this photograph I have?”

A pause.

           

The grandfather clock ticked.

“I think we both know what would happen should that ever get released.”

           

Merrick nodded.

 

“So you do have some say with my brother’s welfare?”

“I may be able to keep him alive for a period of time.

But not much more than that.

I am sorry.

Spies do not have a long lifespan in this part of the world.”

           

Merrick gritted his teeth.

 

“Trent is not a spy.”

“So you say.”

           

Fisk grabbed Merrick’s arm and raised his eyebrows.

 

Merrick took a breath.

 

“Okay, Mr. President.

 

Please do your best to keep him alive while I work out the situations with the Camenos.”

“I will do my best.”

           

Merrick slammed the phone down.

 

He was already in presidential mode.

       

“Here’s the problem,” Merrick said, folding his arms.

“I just got a briefing from Ken yesterday telling me that Santoro hated Pablo Moreno.

So either one of Ken’s contacts has turned, or he’s feeding me the bullshit I want to hear.

Either way, our resources are scarce down there.”

           

“Ken does trigger the bullshit detector at times,” Fisk said referring to the Director of the CIA.

 

Merrick needed time to see this through.

He hated making decisions he would regret later.

           

“That being said,” Fisk added, “we still need to get Ken on this right away.”

 

“Yes,” Merrick said, his pace picking up speed.

“Eventually.”

           

“We don’t have time to play favorites,” Fisk said.

 

“Ken will have assets in Colombia.”

“He’ll send drones and spies and tip off the Colombians before we have a chance to rescue Trent.”

           

“Rescue Trent?”

 

Fisk turned to face Merrick.

 

“What are you talking about?

 

You already have a rescue mission in mind?”

Merrick walked over and sat down behind his desk.

He leaned back in his chair and swiveled around to see the Rose Garden lit up with accent lights outside his office.

He was the most powerful political leader on the planet, yet he felt completely helpless.

His family would need to be consulted.

He wouldn’t allow them to mourn another death though.

It was too much to ask.

           

Merrick began to develop a plan.

 

He considered his options.

 

The CIA would be quick, but bulky.

 

Navy SEALS could surprise the kidnappers, but they’d need a specific target.

 

They’d need intelligence to develop a solid rescue mission.

 

He knew the incriminating photo would only allow him a minimal amount of time.

 

Maybe days, maybe hours.

 

He scrolled through the contact list on his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

           

Merrick was groping.

 

He needed someone with stealthy contacts and the ability to move quickly.

 

Someone who could assemble a small team of professionals to maneuver without alerting the Colombian government.

 

An almost impossible task.

Merrick hovered his finger over the name he was about to call.

He stared at the phone in his hand as if it were a loaded weapon.

“We have assets even Ken doesn’t know about,” Merrick said, looking over at Fisk with a raised eyebrow.

It was subtle, but the inference was there and Fisk seemed to understand.

It was the first time Merrick had acknowledged he was aware that FBI agent Nick Bracco had been using his mafia-connected cousin, Tommy, to help fight the war on terrorism.

It was a fiercely kept secret within the confines of the beltway.

Something only a select few were privy to.

The president needed deniability and Fisk had done everything he could to protect his friend from the damage he would incur.

           

Merrick could see Fisk over there shaking his head, trying to determine a more effective method of saving Trent.

 

Nick Bracco had been one of the most celebrated FBI agent’s in the Bureau, and his partner, Matt McColm, was ex-Special Forces.

 

Between Nick’s contacts and Matt’s training, the two had thwarted many terrorist attacks.

  

But Merrick needed deniability and Fisk never wanted anyone to connect the dots back to the president.

“If it were your brother, Sam,” Merrick said, somberly.

“What would you do?”

           

Fisk sighed, then walked over and closed the door to the private office.

 

“I’d call Nick Bracco,” Fisk said.

Chapter 3

           

Casa de Nariño was Colombia’s version of the White House.

 

It was a palatial estate fronted by granite columns and a guarded black iron gate. The inside was decorated with Colombian artwork in virtually every oversized room.

 

It hosted most formal state functions and included the residence for the president and his family.

 

As with most rooms in the manor, the President’s business office was an immense with a dark oak desk large enough to support a small vehicle.

Behind the desk, the Colombian flag hung from a gold-plated flagpole.

Everything in the room was designed to intimidate.

Even the menacing portrait of Pablo Estrada which loomed across from the entrance was meant to create an ambiance of forewarning to foreign dignitaries who came to discuss their mutual interests.

           

President Santoro hung up the phone in his office and tapped a finger on his desk.

 

He was a smallish man with intense eyes and twitchy movements.

 

Sitting across from him was Roberto Sanchez, his vice president and overall muscle to Santoro’s aggressive presidential style.

 

Sanchez had large shoulders and a permanent sneer planted on his face.

“He seems resigned to his fate,” Santoro said.

           

Sanchez leaned forward, elbows on his khaki’s, his biceps tight against his blue cotton shirt.

 

“Did he give you threats?”

“No.

He simply stated the obvious.”

           

“The picture has potential harm, yes?”

“Yes,” Santoro said.

“We need to devise a plan to minimize its impact.

Until then, make sure Padilla keeps the brother in seclusion.”

           

Sanchez gently rocked back and forth and avoided eye contact.

 

“It was a stupid ceremony.”

“It was just that.

A ceremony,” Santoro said with a flat tone.

“Do not place more importance on it than necessary.”

           

Sanchez glanced out the bulletproof window behind Santoro into the dimly lit courtyard filled with orange trees and accent lights.

 

He wondered where Santoro got all his bravado from.

 

The smallish man with bad breath which no one would ever tell him about.

 

“We should have Padilla let the brother go,” Sanchez said.

“He will only bring us attention we do not need.”

           

Santoro kept tapping his index finger on his desk, the cadence picking up speed as the conversation continued.

 

His eyes darting in different directions.

 

“I’ve instructed Padilla to kill him.”

“Then what do we do?”

           

“We do what we always do when there is resistance to our ways.”

“But we cannot just send our men to eliminate the dissidents this time.

We are speaking of the President of the United States.”

           

Santoro’s eye’s momentarily focused on Sanchez.

 

“He has sent his brother down here to spy on us.

 

He deserves everything we give him.”

“See, this is the part which I do not understand,” Sanchez said, pulling a round lollipop from his shirt pocket and pointing it at Santoro.

“Would you send your brother to go spy on the president of another country?”

           

Santoro seemed incensed at the concept.

 

“Of course not.”

“Exactly,” Sanchez said, tucking the cocaine-laced lollipop into the corner of his mouth.

“You would send spies to do spies work.

Why risk a family member?”

           

“So you suspect President Merrick is incompetent?”

“No, I suspect this brother was there for some other reason and just happened to stumble upon your . . . .” Sanchez tried to remove the sarcasm from his words, “ceremony.”

           

Santoro curled his lip into a ferocious scowl.

 

“You have been sucking on too many of those drug sticks, Roberto.

 

This man was there for one reason.

 

And we need to find out everything we can about his agenda.”

Sanchez may have been influenced by the small amounts of cocaine he ingested each day, but he was not nearly as psychotic as Santoro.

The man twitched like a horsefly, never once remaining on task for any length of time.

His neurotic tendencies always getting in the way of governing the country the way it should be run.

The way Sanchez would run it if he were in charge.

           

Then, Santoro’s expression changed.

 

His

 

bald head bobbed from side to side and that stupid childlike grin came over him, as if a new person was emerging from the inside of his skin.

 

He bent over and opened the bottom drawer from his desk and came up with a small doll.

Sanchez rolled his eyes, then looked away.

He could never get over this fetish of Santoro’s.

           

“My pretty girl,” Santoro whispered.

Sanchez knew to stay quiet during these episodes.

The little man would go on for five or ten minutes pampering the blond-haired piece of plastic as if he were in a trance.

           

The doll was dressed in nothing but lace underwear and Santoro’s eyes glowed as he held out his index finger and reached for the doll’s lower stomach.

 

Slowly, and with a trembling hand, he touched the doll’s tiny abdomen and shut his eyes.

 

A soft moan escaped from his slackened jaw.

Sanchez watched the mentally disturbed leader with disgust.

He sucked on the lollipop and swallowed, allowing the cocaine to numb his sense of pride.

The power Santoro yielded prevented Sanchez from interrupting the sordid fantasy.

Colombia’s landscape was littered with the shallow graves of tortured souls who even came close to embarrassing their president.

           

“Now,” Santoro said, rubbing his tiny hands together, “how about some new girls?”

Oh boy, Sanchez thought.

The girls he was requesting now were all virgins, not more than fifteen.

All of them handpicked by Santoro’s guards and held prisoner until he called for them.

The things he would do to them made Sanchez cringe.

He was tired of pampering the man’s fetishes, but he didn’t yearn for a death sentence either.

           

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sanchez said.

 

He yanked the lollipop from his mouth and dropped it in a nearby trashcan as he opened the massive oak door.

 

Two armed guards on either side of the doorway came to attention.

  

He regretted the anguish he was about to facilitate, but he was in no position to oppose the request.

“He wants the girls,” Sanchez said.

The guards both had the identical reaction.

Their faces couldn’t hide the revulsion gathering in the pit of their stomachs.

They were the ones who had to clean up the mess once the sadistic little man was through with the young women.

           

One of the guards acknowledged the command with a terse nod, then left to retrieve the bait.

 

The other guard simply stared at Sanchez with sadness.

          

           

                                      

*

                            

*

                             

*

Julie Bracco was startled awake when she heard the buzzing noise coming from inside her bedroom.

She looked at the clock.

Only ten-thirty.

She must’ve been asleep less than an hour.

The buzzing persisted.

The Bracco’s cabin in Payson, Arizona was wired with a sophisticated alarm system and Julie knew every cautionary sound.

This was not one of them, however.

Her husband, Nick, headed the FBI’s top anti-terrorist team and they’d been targets of some revengeful terrorists in the past, so Nick had the place secured and tricked out for any intruders around their home.

           

A slight glow came from the top of the dresser.

 

She’d found the culprit.

 

Nick’s cell phone.

 

It was set on vibrate and danced slightly with each silent ring.

 

Julie glanced to the other side of the bed and realized she was alone.

 

She sighed.

 

Nick was going through another battle of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and she figured he was reading downstairs in the den.

 

He was finding it harder and harder to sleep and reading usually kept his mind from wandering down the wrong paths.

They’d left Baltimore in hopes of finding a peaceful mountainside community where they could escape the grind of the D.C. politics and the speedy city lifestyle.

But terrorists don’t have nine-to-five hours and they don’t care where you live.

They will come find you and go for your weakest link.

Your friends.

Your family.

Anything they can do to exact revenge.

           

Julie slid from bed and pulled down her oversized T-shirt to cover her knees.

 

She thought of looking at the display on Nick’s phone, but was more concerned about his whereabouts than his incoming call.

 

As she crept down the empty hallway, she decided to look in on her son, Thomas.

 

His bedroom door was open slightly.

 

She softly nudged it, then moved aside to let the dim hallway light fall across her son’s crib.

 

She could barely make out shapes in the dark room.

 

The oversized stuffed Lion in the corner; the airplane mobile dangling from the ceiling. She eased over the carpeted floor to the side of her son’s crib.

 

At first it looked normal until she reached inside to pull on a fluffed-up baby blanket and found it empty.

 

She frantically reached around in the dark groping for her child.

 

Her heart rate increased while her scalp felt like it was crawling with ants.

   

As her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, she noticed a large lump in the bed against the wall.

It was her son’s next sleeping quarters once he outgrew his crib.

A low-to-the-ground mattress surrounded by a racing car frame.

As she approached the bed, she could see the large shape of a man.

Julie got down to her knees and saw Nick curled up on his side, facing her, his chest falling and rising in the quiet.

Cradled in his arms was Thomas, facing Nick, his tiny head resting in the crook of his father’s elbow.

           

Julie put a hand to her heart and caught her breath.

 

It took her a moment to calm down and enjoy the scene.

 

Nick, the born protector, watching over his son even in his sleep.

 

She could hear her husband inhale gently, but when he exhaled it came out in short blast.

 

A beam of moonlight came through the window and glistened off of Nick’s forehead which was spotted with beads of sweat.

 

He was having another nightmare.

 

Julie was as attentive to her son as she could possibly be, but she’d felt completely helpless with Nick.

 

He kept everything inside.

 

The brave warrior not letting anyone know his frailties.

 

Not even his wife.

Nick’s phone buzzed again from their bedroom.

Julie cursed under her breath.

She slowly got to her feet and before she could turn, Nick jerked up gasping like a raged animal, his eyes wild and confused.

           

“It’s okay,” Julie whispered.

 

She quickly slipped her hands under Thomas and scooped him up and kissed his cheek.

 

With his eyes still shut his arms spastically groped for comfort in the night.

 

She kissed his cheek and gently lowered him into his crib.

 

He immediately curled up and stuck a thumb in his mouth.

Nick rubbed his eyes and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, his knees still higher than his waist.

He crawled over the side railing and pulled himself to his feet.

           

“You all right?” Nick asked.

“Of course,” Julie said, wiping the sweat from Nick’s eyebrows with her fingertips.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

           

“My phone.

 

Has it been ringing long?”

“No, this is the second time in the past few minutes.”

           

Nick took her head into his hands and kissed her forehead.

 

“I love you.”

Before she could return the comment, he was out the door.

She smiled.

It had taken him almost ten years to get those three words out of his mouth.

Now, after months and months of therapy, he could recite them without hesitation.

He would say it proudly, in front of company, just to prove to her how healed he was.

But she knew PTSD had its claws in him and it wasn’t ready to let go, no matter how many “I love you’s” he could blurt out.

           

Julie covered Thomas with a blanket and checked the volume on his wireless monitor.

 

She quietly left the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

 

Nick came rushing out of their bedroom, his phone to his ear.

 

As he passed her in the hall, he whispered, “The White House.”

Julie watched him hustle down the stairs, two steps at a time.

At the base of the stairs, he turned the corner and scrambled into his office.

She heard him say, “Yes, sir,” with a wide awake voice.

           

Then the door to his office closed and Julie knew he was leaving again.

 

This time she knew he wasn’t ready.

 

He needed more time to recover from his last episode.

 

She leaned back against the wall and her legs gave way as she slid down to the floor.

 

She curled her knees to her chest and lowered her head.

The thought which ran through Julie’s mind was the same thought she’d always had when Nick packed a bag to leave.

           

Would he live long enough for Thomas to remember his father?

                                                           

Chapter 4

Trent Merrick knew his text message had reached its destination because he was still alive.

His leg throbbed.

His head was lacerated.

But he’d survived the fall and knew his brother was responsible for his current ability to take another breath.

That and the soft rainforest floor.

           

Trent was still semi-conscious when he’d overheard someone from the Cameno Cartel challenge his brother into admitting his identity over Trent’s cell phone.

 

Something his brother wouldn’t do unless he was really pissed, or really drunk.

 

Or both.

 

Nevertheless, now the Camenos knew who they had for a hostage and they were about to negotiate a hefty price for his release.

After a brief stint in a makeshift medic tent, Trent was relocated to his current facility.

A dome-shaped building made of thatch and bamboo.

The smell told him he was still in the thick of the rainforest.

He could feel the humidity and temperature drop that equated to around two thousand feet elevation.

He was lying prone on a portable cot in a room with a dirt floor and two candles hanging from the ceiling.

A man maneuvered his way through the mosquito net covering the doorway wearing a white lab coat with a Red Cross emblem over the breast pocket.

He smiled affably and picked up a round stool from the corner of the room and brought it toward Trent.

           

“How are we feeling?” the man said with a slight Spanish accent.

 

He sat on the stool and clasped his hands together, examining Trent’s torso with his eyes.

 

“Who are you?” Trent asked.

           

The man removed his black-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with the bottom of his lab coat.

 

“I’m Doctor Paulson.”

 

He pointed to Trent’s leg which was immobilized by a piece of bamboo and lots of white athletic tape.

 

“I am the one who patched up your leg and tended to your head wound.”

Trent was mostly unconscious for his treatment, but he touched his forehead and came back with dark, moist fingers.

           

“It’s iodine,” Dr. Paulson said.

 

“I had to secure the wound with some strong adhesive strips.

 

They should hold it together as long as you don’t exert yourself.”

“Thanks.”

           

“Sure.

 

You took quite a fall.

 

I’m surprised you did not break anything.”

 

The doctor had a barrel chest and his arms were so muscular they stretched out the sleeves of his jacket.

“Where am I?”

           

“You’re in a Cameno camp.

 

They’re keeping an eye on you until they can determine your future.”

 

“And who do you work for?”

           

Dr. Paulson pointed to the red cross on his coat.

 

“They sent for me when they realized how badly wounded you were.

 

They didn’t have anyone who could handle your injuries.”

“I see.

Exactly what are my injuries?”

           

“Well, of course there were some lacerations across your forehead.

 

Then there was your leg.

 

It wasn’t broken, but you’ve definitely torn a ligament.”

Trent pulled himself up on his elbows and twisted his left foot to the left, then back to the right.

There was no knee pain.

“Which ligament?”

           

“Oh, any number of ligaments could have been torn.”

“I see.”

Trent certainly was no doctor, but he knew there were only a couple of ligaments which could’ve caused him that much damage.

           

Dr. Paulson took a furtive glance over his shoulder at the open doorway and said, “Care to enlighten me on why you were in that tree?”

“Why do you want to know?”

           

Dr. Paulson shrugged.

 

“I’m curious.

 

They tell me you’re a spy for the United States government.

 

Is that true?”

“Yes, I am.”

           

Dr. Paulson’s eyes lit up like he’d discovered a pot of gold.

 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Trent leaned closer to Dr. Paulson and lowered his voice.

“I’m trying to uncover a brilliant plan by an incompetent cartel stooge who pretends to be a doctor while he interrogates prisoners for information.”

           

Dr. Paulson’s eyes grew dark as he pulled back and sneered at Trent.

 

“You think you are smart don’t you, Mr. Merrick?”

Trent laid back and rested his head on the folded towel he was using as a pillow and stared up at the thatch ceiling.

He listened to the nighttime rhythm of the jungle.

There was a certain cacophony of insects and predators which would keep the tourists awake, but to him it was the sweet cadence of biology at work.

           

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth,” the fake Dr. Paulson said.

 

“This would take the trouble from your mind and free you from your guilt.”

Trent placed a hand over his eyes.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

           

“I am an open-minded man,” Dr. Paulson said in a gentle tone.

“No,” Trent said, “I don’t mean it’s complicated.

I mean you wouldn’t understand because you only have a third grade education and I’m likely to use words too big for your vocabulary.”

           

In the shadows of the candlelit room, Trent felt a hand grasp his left leg.

 

A jolt of pain surged up his thigh forcing his back to arch upward from the shock.

 

His entire body convulsed as he fought to maintain control.

 

The man’s grip tightened.

Trent felt a rush of blood and nerves consume him.

He was overwhelmed with a searing anguish and was getting close to unconsciousness when the man finally let go.

           

Trent gasped in a deep breath of relief while his eyes glossed up.

“I assure you I am no stooge, Mr. Merrick,” the man said with a growl.

“My name is Manuel Padilla.

Make sure you do not forget who I am.”

           

Trent desperately wanted to say, “Who?” but decided otherwise.

Padilla stood.

He leaned over Trent, getting a good look at his anguished expression.

           

“Let me know when you are ready to tell the truth,” Padilla said, then lingered as he turned to leave, giving his prisoner the opportunity to speak.

Trent decided the longer he stayed alive the more time he gave his brother to negotiate his release.

He needed to let go of his petty issues he’d always had with authority figures and move on to the possibility of going home.

           

“You really want to know the truth?” Trent said, stretching forward to rub his throbbing leg.

Padilla stopped and turned to face him.

           

Trent forced himself to a sitting position, then slid his wounded leg over the side of the cot.

 

Padilla stared, but said nothing.

 

The candles flickered inside the dome structure while a gentle rain began to ping on the thatched roof.

“You know by now I make documentaries for a living, right?” Trent asked.

           

Padilla gave nothing away.

“Well, if you haven’t already done it, then put my name in any computer search engine and you’ll find that out pretty quickly.”

Trent rubbed his leg, finding a patch of blood along the side of the splint.

“I’ve been down here in the Amazon to document the Maruto tribe of local Indians.

They’ve been almost completely quarantined in their remote part of the rainforest for the better part of three hundred years.

They’ve been entirely unexposed to the outside world until recently when some of the cartels have been destroying the rainforest in order to cultivate coca bushes.

The level of deforestation has been accelerated, moving in on their territory.

I was simply scouting their perimeter when I came upon your . . . uh, meeting.”

           

Padilla stood there as if waiting for more, his eyes creased into a mixture of skepticism and distrust.

 

When it became obvious Trent was finished, he said, “That is the story you will begin with?”

Trent understood the suspicious nature of a cartel leader.

Padilla was conditioned to hear whatever version of reality would keep a detainee alive the longest.

           

“That’s the truth,” Trent said.

 

Padilla frowned.

“Okay,” he said.

“Then we will start with that one and move on from there.”

As if the incident were a malleable piece of clay to be molded into whichever shape the Camenos would like it to resemble the most.

When he slid around the mosquito netting, Padilla left the candles quivering in his wake.

The shadows danced a sinister dance on the walls.

Outside, the jungle sounded more alarming than peaceful.

The rain now pounded the roof overheard with a menacing beat.

           

Trent was experienced in the art of criminal behavior.

 

He’d produced documentaries on the elephant poachers of Indonesia and the pirates of Somalia.

 

He was acutely aware of the tactics a cartel like the Camenos would use on him.

 

The one thing cartels peddled even more than drugs was fear.

 

They would administer it aggressively and often.

 

What cartels lacked, however, was patience.

 

They were impetuous and capricious in nature.

 

It had caused them to kill irrationally and create enemies from every outside entity, giving them an us-against-the-world mentality.

 

The Camenos would keep Trent alive only as long as he brought value.

His brother would do his best to retrieve him, but Trent knew him too well.

President Merrick wouldn’t even give the appearance of negotiating with terrorists.

He would shuffle his feet and dance a bit to seem like he was moving, but ultimately there would be no concessions.

The Camenos could be asking for an Egg McMuffin in exchange for Trent and his brother would have to pass on the deal.

Which meant the Camenos would discover rather quickly that their prisoner had little value.

           

Trent Merrick knew more than anyone on the planet—his clock was ticking.

                

                                                      

Chapter 5

           

Jaqui Merrick woke to a sound she couldn’t recognize.

Ever since the second trimester of her pregnancy began she was having trouble sleeping and woke up constantly through the night.

From outside her bedroom door she thought she’d heard movement.

Footsteps.

           

She leaned forward; the creaking of her mattress caused her to pause.

 

Her stomach felt queasy.

 

Maybe from the baby, she couldn’t tell.

 

Their home was a small row house on the east side of Baltimore, but her security system was the finest money could buy.

 

The Secret Service.

 

A bonus when your husband’s brother was the president.

Jaqui got out of bed.

The noise was soft, but there.

She reached for her robe hanging over the side of the headboard and quietly pulled it on, one arm at a time.

From under her door, the hallway light came on.

She froze.

Her stomach was definitely churning now with nerves.

           

A soft knock on her door.

“Jaqui?” came a familiar voice.

           

The smile instantly grew on her face as she’d realized her husband had come home early from his trip.

 

Relief flooded over her as she hurried to open the door.

“Trent, honey, I had no—”

           

The man standing in the doorway wasn’t her husband, but there was a good reason why his voice sounded the same.

“John?”

She pulled her robe tight around her neck.

“What are you doing here?”

She suddenly realized the magnitude of the President of the United States coming to her home in the middle of the night.

“What’s wrong?

What’s happened?”

           

President Merrick wasn’t alone.

 

Behind him were two men.

 

One she’d recognized as the secret service agent assigned to her.

 

The other she’d never seen before.

 

All three men wore dark suits, Merrick’s was rumpled and he wore no tie.

“Come,” Merrick said, gesturing her to follow him to the living room.

“Sit down.”

           

Jaqui didn’t like this one bit.

 

She just knew she’d become a widow and her heart began pounding feverishly in her chest.

“John, please just tell me,” Jaqui uttered as she chased him into the room.

           

Merrick was all business.

  

He waved for her to sit.

 

Jaqui’s hand was pressed against her lower abdomen, as if protecting her baby from hearing the dreadful news.

Once she sat at the edge of her couch, Merrick sat across from her on the ottoman.

He rolled up close and took her hand.

Her nose began to swell and her eyes glossed up.

           

“Is he dead?” Jaqui squeaked.

“No,” Merrick said.

“He’s been captured by a drug cartel.”

           

Jaqui lowered her head into her hands.

 

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

 

She felt like she’d been punched in the gut and couldn’t catch her breath.

 

There was movement around her and in just seconds a box of tissues appeared on her lap.

 

She pulled a handful from the box and buried her face into the wad.

“He’s alive,” Merrick said.

“I’m going to do everything in my power to get him back.”

           

Her entire body trembled.

 

She could feel Merrick’s hand rubbing her arm, then cradling her head into his embrace.

 

She thought of the damage she might be doing to her baby, but the harder she tried to calm down, the more uncontrollable she became.

“Here,” Merrick said.

“Take this.”

           

She pulled away and saw Merrick holding a small white pill and a glass of water.

 

It was almost like these people had made so many of these visits, they were prepared for every possible reaction.

 

Even the box of tissues was theirs.

“It’s okay.” Merrick nodded, a comforting expression on his face.

“I got doctor’s approval.

Just a little Ambien.

This won’t harm the baby.”

           

She shook her head.

 

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

           

“No.”

 

Jaqui sat up and took a few deep breaths.

 

“I’m fine,” she said with a shaky voice.

Merrick shut his hand around the pill and handed the glass of water to the secret service agent.

He took hold of her quivering hands.

“I need information about Trent’s documentary.

Where was he going?”

           

Jaqui tried to remember.

 

“He never told me exactly.

 

I know he flew into Bogota, but he took off in an off-road vehicle from there.

 

Somewhere in the rainforest.”

“What was the documentary about?”

           

“It was about these Indians.

 

They’d had little to no contact with the outside world, but their habitat was being encroached by the Colombian government or cartels . . .” Jaqui shrugged, squeezing the tissues until they were just a tiny ball the size of a marble.

 

“He wasn’t quite sure who, but he was trying to stop them.

 

He felt the film would bring enough attention to their cause to protect them.”

She thought about how much Trent cared about helping the underprivileged.

Just the notion made her shudder again.

Her voice cracked when she said, “He has such a big heart.”

She blinked back a new set of tears and saw Merrick staring at her expressionless.

Then it dawned on her.

They were talking about his brother.

           

She reached out and touched his knee.

 

“Oh, John, I’m so sorry.”

He nodded, but kept stoic. Keeping it all in like he always would.

She thought she could smell Tanqueray gin on his breath.

           

“How many people went with him?”

“No one.

He went by himself.

He paid for a guide to get him within ten miles of their territory, but that’s as close as he’d go.

Trent took a small digital camera, but his cell phone was loaded.

It cost like five thousand dollars.

He said it had everything he needed, a camera, a recorder, a satellite feed for calls.

He records the images, then does the voiceover back here when he’s done editing.”

           

“Did he ever call you?”

“Just once when he got to Colombia, but he texted me the rest of the times.”

           

Merrick nodded seeming satisfied with her responses.

 

“How much did he tell you about what was going on, or where he was?”

“Very little,” she sagged in her seat.

“Most of our messages were about . . .”

She felt her body begin to tremble again, her tear ducts flooded her eyes until everything was blurry.

She pulled another handful of tissues from the box and wiped.

“We talked about how much we missed each other . . .”

           

Merrick gathered her into his arms and let her sob on his shoulder.

 

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“We’ll get him back.”

           

She wanted to believe him so much she almost found comfort in his words.

 

“What do they want?” she murmured.

“It’s only been a few hours.

They’ll come up with something.”

           

“Ransom?”

 

Jaqui lifted her head.

 

“Because if it’s money they want . . . John, we don’t have any money.

 

You know that.”

Merrick wiped her wet cheek with his thumb.

He tried to smile, but failed.

“I doubt it will be money, but if it is, we’ll figure it out.”

           

“But . . . but . . .”

Merrick caressed her face with the back of his hand.

“It’s okay.

I’ve got my best people on this.”

           

She collapsed back into his shoulder and he gently patted her back as she let her agony come out in a mixture of sobs and hiccups.

“Listen, Jaqui,” he said into her ear as she sniffled back her misery.

“I need you to be strong.

You can be very helpful.

I’m going to have these guys look through your phone and your computer.

They’re going to scrounge around for anything that could help us find him.”

           

Jaqui nodded.

“Also,” Merrick said, “there’s going to be reports in the paper about Trent’s disappearance.

He’s going to be reported missing.

Don’t believe anything you read or hear on television or radio.

They’ll be a lot of misinformation fed to the media, okay?”

           

She squeezed her wad of tissues and watched Merrick get to his feet.

 

He gestured to the other two men.

 

“You know Stephen,” he said, pointing to her secret service agent.

 

The agent nodded.

 

“This guy is Mac.

 

He’ll examine your phone and computer.”

Merrick touched her shoulder.

“You going to be okay?”

           

Jaqui kept a hand on her abdomen.

 

“John, why do you need to know where he is?

 

Can’t you just give them what they want?”

Merrick’s disposition changed.

He looked presidential, standing there in the dimly lit room, his shoulders back, his face severe.

           

“I’ll try,” Merrick said.

 

But even as the words came out of his mouth, she could tell he was unsure.

 

There was a lot he wasn’t telling her.

Jaqui looked at the two other men and realized she could make a difference.

“I’ll help.”

           

“Good,” Merrick said, then the door opened for him and he was gone.

 

As if someone anticipated his exit right down to the second.

 

His entire life becoming a choreographed political dance.

 

As much as Trent despised politics, she felt it her duty to bring her husband home without relying on dignitaries to negotiate over his life.

 

That tactic was simply too unreliable.

Jaqui Merrick came to her feet and looked at the computer technician.

“Come on, Mac.

We have work to do.”

                               

*

*

*

           

Manuel Padilla sat under the large tent and tapped a foot while contemplating the fate of his latest prisoner.

 

The tent was covered with leaves as was every structure within the Cameno’s small outpost in the Amazon basin.

 

It was a surplus of camouflage since the rainforest canopy was so thick even the tiniest of sunlight barely reached the jungle floor.

 

It also made the complex impossible to locate even under the finest satellite technology.

He sat alone beside a rickety wooden table thrown together by his men in this makeshift camp, made to be moved in a moment’s notice.

His hand was thick with humidity and his brow gathered sweat as he stared at the cell phone which belonged to the U.S. President’s brother.

It was turned off to elude tracking.

           

One of Padilla’s lieutenants, Carlos Garcia, swiped aside the mosquito net and walked over to Padilla.

 

He wore fatigues and a thick black belt with a gun holstered on his hip.

“The men are restless,” Garcia said, acting like he’s reporting something Padilla didn’t already know.

           

Padilla sat expressionless, making Garcia squirm.

 

He knew what was coming next and simply waited for it.

“El Presidente,” Garcia said continuing his reporter tone, “he wants the American dead.”

           

Padilla pursed his lips and tried to maintain his composure.

 

“You see, this is the reason President Santoro is not running this mission.

 

He is a crazy, two-faced maniac who needs pills to keep him from crying.”

Garcia shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

           

Padilla saw the anxiety on his lieutenant’s face.

 

“Let me ask you something, Carlos.

 

The prisoner said he has been filming a movie about some local native Indians.

 

Do you believe him?”

At first Garcia tensed up.

He acted like he’d been asked a trick question, but then he appeared to make a decision.

“No,” Garcia said.

“There are no Indians for over a hundred miles from here.

Not that I know of anyway.”

           

Padilla worked hard at controlling his emotions.

 

“Good.

 

I just thought I would ask your opinion.”

Garcia gave a childlike smile, as if getting approval from his father.

           

Now Padilla wanted to offer his lieutenant some solace.

 

A consolation prize.

“We will kill the American.

In time,” Padilla said.

He didn’t tell him about his orders to keep the man alive until further instructions from Pablo Moreno.

           

Garcia’s face brightened.

 

“Go,” Padilla said to Garcia, waving the back of his hand.

“Check on the prisoner.

Make sure the chiggers haven’t begun to attack his injured leg.”

           

Garcia left and Padilla returned to staring at the cell phone.

 

He knew the entire assignment was one big test.

 

His temper had gotten him into too much trouble and Pablo Moreno had decided to leave him in this insect-infested region of the Amazon instead of back in Medellin, because Moreno was testing his resolve.

 

They were so deep into the rainforest, the satellite phones wouldn’t even work because of the treetops covering their camp.

 

A booster had to be installed on top of a tall palm tree in order to receive and transmit calls within fifty yards of the center of camp.

    

Padilla was known to have a short fuse, killing opposing cartel members just for speaking back to him.

It had brought some unnecessary heat on his boss and Moreno was punishing him for his impulsive behavior.

           

Now, Padilla’s foot remained tapping.

 

He thought about the defiant American prisoner who had insulted him.

 

A sense of pride came over him for not killing the man right then.

 

A couple of months ago he would’ve had the prisoner tortured first, then killed.

 

So he had grown as a leader and Moreno must know that.

The phone buzzed.

Padilla looked at the incoming call and took a deep breath.

           

“Yes,” he snapped into the phone.

“Is he dead yet?” Vice President Roberto Sanchez asked.

           

“No.”

“The president has become quite unstable.

I do not think you should test him.”

   

       

“You have done your job,” Padilla said, “now go back to babysitting your boss.”

 

He pressed the end button and spit on the dirt floor.

 

He was the only one who seemed to

                                                                               

             

understand the value of a hostage.

That’s when Carlos Garcia came rushing through the mosquito netting with a frantic expression.

“The American prisoner.

He has escaped!”

           

                                                             

Chapter 6

“Please don’t go.”

Julie clutched Nick’s shirt sleeve with a sense of panic in her voice.

           

Nick dropped his duffle bag next to the front door and gathered her in his arms.

 

“It’s okay, baby.

 

Everything will be fine.”

It was one-thirty in the morning and Thomas was fast asleep in his crib upstairs, but part of Nick wanted to linger until his son woke.

Nick had this urge to hold him one more time, however, he also knew time was short.

           

“No,” she said, hugging him with more force than he’d ever felt before.

 

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

She pulled back and looked up at him.

 

“I’m serious.

 

I’ve never told you this, ever, but I have a feeling about this one.

 

You’ve dodged too many bullets.”

Her eyes glistened in the dim hallway lighting.

Nick couldn’t afford to do his job and listen to someone explain how dangerous it actually was.

Like a high diver standing on the top of a cliff and having someone force him to look down and see the rocks jutting out into ocean below.

He knew the rocks were there, but that couldn’t be his focus.

Not now.

           

Nick gently brushed her hair behind her ear with the back of his hand.

 

He did his best to smile.

 

“Don’t worry.

 

Matt will be with me the entire time.”

Of course Matt would be with him, they’d been partners for the past dozen years and were inseparable.

Matt was the FBI’s three time sharpshooting champion and overall the finest partner a man could have.

This normally brought a smile to Julie’s face.

She’d always considered Matt his guardian angel.

Someone who would protect her husband, even take a bullet for him.

But now, even Matt’s presence didn’t seem to bring comfort.

She made a sour face, as if she were trying to swallow a large pill.

           

“I miss you so much,” she said, then reached her arms around Nick and pressed every inch of her body against his.

 

Nick felt he might need to have her physically removed from his torso.

They held each other in the silence of the Arizona night.

Nick rocked her gently feeling like this was more than the usual goodbye.

He could sense her about to speak, but pull back a couple of times before she finally said in a low voice, “It’s not worth it.

Whatever has happened, it’s not worth risking your life anymore.

Please. Think of Thomas.”

           

It was the only thing he had been thinking of ever since the White House called.

 

Julie needed to know the gravity of the situation.

 

Without it, she couldn’t grasp the importance of his mission.

“The President’s brother has been kidnapped,” he said.

           

Julie jerked back and examined his face.

 

“Seriously?”

Nick nodded.

           

“Where?”

“Colombia.”

           

“South America?”

Nick nodded.

           

“A terrorist group?”

He shook his head.

           

“But that’s the CIA’s jurisdiction.

 

Why you?”

“Because the CIA’s assets have been sending bad data.

Either they’ve been taking payouts from the cartels, or they’ve been given misinformation from their Colombian contacts.

Either way, they’ve been compromised.

We need someone they’re not familiar with.”

           

Julie glared at him, taking it in with no delight.

 

“And what about Tommy?”

There she was two steps ahead every time.

Nick’s family was Sicilian and his cousin Tommy was involved with other Sicilian families as well.

Families which worked underground, away from the law enforcement’s watchful eye.

Nick was raised in Tommy’s house once his parents died in a car accident.

He’d just become a teenager when it happened and he and Tommy grew up as brothers.

           

In recent years, however, Tommy spent a good portion of his time volunteering for the underprivileged.

 

HIV orphans in Kenya.

 

Injured soldiers returning from overseas.

 

But the reason Julie had been asking about Tommy now was because he’d been a great asset to the FBI helping uncover terrorist cells and extracting information in extremely unconventional ways.

 

Tommy still had strong connections in places they didn’t.

“Yes, he’ll be helping us,” Nick said.

           

Julie’s face grew even more somber.

 

“Why can’t you leave Tommy out of it?

 

He’s not a government employee.”

Tommy was more than just family to Julie.

He’d even saved her life a time or two when Nick’s past enemies came looking for him and decided she was the next best thing to killing the Bureau’s top counterterrorist agent.

           

“He’s

 

. . . we’re all going to be fine.

 

No one’s taking any more risk than is necessary.”

That did nothing to settle the expression on her face.

They stood in the hallway of their secluded cabin in the heavily wooded suburb of Payson, Arizona.

A mountainside community handpicked by the two of them when Nick’s position as the head of the FBI’s counterterrorism division in Baltimore became too stressful.

While Nick and Matt were on an assignment, they both took a liking to the place for different reasons.

While Nick’s battle with PTSD and Julie’s yearning to start a family drew them to the peaceful spot, the war on terror continued unabated and Nick’s responsibilities ultimately returned with just as much fervor as they did in the big city.

           

Matt was drawn there, however, by the local FBI agent who turned out to be an old flame and transferred to be with her at the same time Nick decided to leave the Bureau to become the Sheriff and raise children.

 

That’s when the terrorists came calling.

 

Matt’s girlfriend was killed in a firefight and soon afterward Nick returned to the Bureau.

 

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

 

The only consolation for Julie was she got to raise her son in a sheltered neighborhood, while Nick took on the bad guys away from their home.

     

A pair of headlights lit up the opaque window above the front door and car tires crunched on the gravel driveway.

Julie simply looked up at him with an empty stare.

When Nick pulled her back into an embrace, she seemed to have lost the fight and her body hung limp in his arms.

It was even more disturbing than when she was clinging to him like a drowning swimmer.

As if she’d been dulled into accepting whatever card she was about to be dealt.

           

A pair of approaching footsteps chomped at the loose gravel outside followed by a soft tap on the thick wooden door.

 

A moment later the door opened and agent Matt McColm poked his head in.

 

He saw the couple disengage and didn’t hesitate to come inside and grab Julie around the waist to give her a big hug.

“Hey, sweetie,” Matt said, looking down at her.

At his height, he looked down at most anyone, even Nick.

           

Julie tried to be brave, but when they separated it was obvious she’d been crying.

 

Matt looked at Nick who’s heart sank in his chest.

“She has a bad feeling about this assignment,” Nick said.

           

Julie put her hands on her hips.

 

“All these years, have you ever heard me say that to you two before?”

Matt shrugged.

“Yeah, Jule, I get it.

Maybe you’ve never said those words, but are you telling me there’s been an assignment where you were thinking, “I have a really good feeling about this?”

           

Julie smiled a crooked smile, while wiping away some moisture from her cheek.

Matt bent down and grabbed Nick’s duffle bag.

He opened the door and gestured for Nick to go ahead of him.

Nick, looking a little startled, gave Julie a quick kiss on the forehead and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be home in a day or two.”

He glanced upstairs.

Julie followed his gaze.

           

“He’ll miss you,” Julie said, using up her last wild card.

Nick wanted to run up and give his son one last hug.

           

“C’mon,” Matt said, tugging on Nick’s sleeve.

Nick hesitated.

Matt grabbed his arm.

           

“Sorry, Jule,” Matt said, kissing Julie a brief kiss on the cheek.

 

“We need to go.”

Once Matt was pulling out of the driveway, Nick looked over at him from the passenger seat and said, “What was that all about?’

           

Matt frowned.

 

“You should be thanking me.”

 

He looked at his partner.

 

“That was only going to get messier and messier.

 

You needed to rip it off like an old Band-Aid.

 

One quick pull.”

Matt drove though the narrow roads of Nick’s neighborhood, lined with treetops which hung over them like an organic tunnel.

They passed the house where Matt’s deceased girlfriend, Jennifer Steele, used to live.

The outside porch light was on and it seemed to have new residents.

Matt appeared to force his attention away from the cabin, his eyes darting back and forth between the side and rear view mirrors.

Nick let it go, not wanting to bring up a sensitive subject when they were on their way to another tough assignment.

           

Matt drove out of Nick’s neighborhood heading west on the two lane state road for a mile, then made a quick turn into a sleepy high-end neighborhood without any outlets.

  

“We’re going to the hospital,” Nick said.

“That’s where the helicopter is waiting for us.”

           

Matt gave his partner a sideways glance.

 

“I know,” he said, refocusing his attention on the rear view mirror.

 

“But I’ve got someone following me.”

                                                                

Chapter 7

           

The eastern sky was threatening to brighten, yet morning rush hour traffic in downtown Washington D.C. was still hours away.

 

In nearby Baltimore, the parking lot of the FBI Field Office had a dozen cars all gathered close to the rear employee entrance signifying an emergency situation.

 

Special Agent in Charge, Walt Jackson, was busy at his desk preparing for his discreet Red Ball meeting.

  

Inside the beltway there were three different colors signifying the level of urgency for a meeting.

Green meant it was a weekly or routinely scheduled meeting.

Yellow meant a previously unscheduled meeting, but you’d better be there.

However, there was only one Red Ball.

That meant if you were alive, you attended.

           

Walt had arrived in his office shortly after the call from Sam Fisk at two-thirty in the morning instructing him to gather the small group of department heads for the Red Ball.

 

Walt was a large man, six-foot-four inches, with chocolate skin and the smooth athletic moves of a much smaller man.

 

He was an Olympic athlete before he began his career with the Bureau, working his way up from a field agent to the SAC inside of fifteen years.

 

A lightening pace even for an Olympic sprinter.

His main responsibility as head of the Baltimore Field Office was to spearhead a group of counterterrorist specialists known simply as The Team.

Highly specialized agents who were trained to zone in on the most immediate threat to the United States.

The number of agents within The Team fluctuated anywhere from two to eight depending on the level of focus, budget cuts and, unfortunately, deaths.

           

No matter the size, the two most important members of the group were Nick Bracco and Matt McColm.

 

The partners had been together for over a decade and knew more about terrorist threats than anyone on the planet.

 

It’s why he felt the need to protect them as much as possible.

 

Over the years he’d attempted to bring them into an administrative position, get them out of harm’s way, but their expertise was just too valuable to overlook.

 

He’d even allowed them to reside up in the mountains of Payson, Arizona, hoping they could take on less of the heavy lifting, but terrorists didn’t always comply with timelines and the globe had become a small arena.

Now, Walt sat at his desk rummaging through the notes he’d taken from his conversation with Fisk an hour earlier.

On the other side of his desk sat the Secretary of Defense, Martin Riggs.

Riggs was an ex-Marine who had no appetite for politics.

He’d been in enough conflicts during his time in the service to appreciate the sacrifices a soldier made for every decision he would make.

It’s why he avoided combat whenever a diplomatic solution presented itself.

But when those solutions broke down, he made sure his soldiers were supplied with ample support for their mission.

           

“He wants you to take the lead here?” Riggs asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

“Yes,” Walt said.

“He’ll want us to keep it simple.”

           

“Which means keep it small.”

“Yes.”

           

They were alone, still awaiting the arrival of the rest of the department heads.

 

Riggs got up and went over to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee into a cardboard cup.

 

The office was large enough to seat twenty if needed and was wired with enough technology to rival most War Rooms.

Riggs returned to his chair and crossed his legs and began to play with the tablet on his lap, touching the screen and reading as he spoke.

“So, where are they now?”

           

“They should be on a helicopter heading to Sky Harbor.

 

Fisk has a plane waiting for them there.”

Riggs took a sip of his coffee while he maintained his attention on the tablet.

“And where’s Ken?”

           

Walt had to smile at that one.

 

It was no secret that the FBI and CIA were constantly at each other’s throats over jurisdiction.

 

Since this assignment was in South America, the CIA would have the authority to control the situation, but that wasn’t happening here.

 

And it took an order from the Commander-in-Chief to make that happen.

 

“Ken’s in Egypt breaking in a new field director,” Walt said, speaking of Ken Morris, the CIA Director, with more than a little contentment in his voice.

           

Riggs returned the grin.

 

“I don’t know, Walt.

 

You want all that responsibility?”

Walt looked up at Riggs.

“Why?

Are you leaving for vacation?”

           

“I’m just saying.

 

As soon as something goes wrong, you know Ken’s going to be able to point the finger at you.”

Walt clicked his computer mouse and began to focus on his latest emails.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have a finger ready for him as well.”

           

Riggs laughed.

 

Both of them multitasking at warp speed, trying to find an answer to a question that wasn’t answerable.

The door opened and Walt’s boss, FBI Director Louis Dutton came in carrying a brief bag and a cup of coffee from Starbucks.

           

Dutton patted Riggs on the shoulder and looked around to decide where to situate the meeting.

 

There was a large coffee table sandwiched between two leather couches which served as a gathering spot for most staff meetings.

“Who else is coming?” Dutton asked.

           

“Just Fisk,” Walt said.

Dutton shrugged and dropped his brief and coffee on Walt’s massive desk and pulled up a chair next to Riggs.

He unloaded his tablet from the bag as couple of flash drives and assorted paper files spilled out.

Walt swiveled his twenty-four inch computer monitor for everyone to see.

On the screen was the latest satellite images from a specific region over Colombia.

           

“Here’s the latest image,” Walt said.

 

He played with the controls, trying to illuminate the picture as best he could.

 

“It’s not even sunrise yet, so it’s hard to distinguish much.”

“Distinguish?”

Dutton said.

“All I see are trees.”

           

Walt kept trying to adjust the clarity, but the image kept getting grainier as he zoomed in and less detailed as he zoomed out.

 

After a slight tap on the door, Sam Fisk came in with a McDonald’s bag.

He was still wearing the suit he’d worn last night, minus the tie.

He dropped the bag on the coffee table and poured himself a cup of coffee from the counter.

           

“You look like crap,” Riggs said.

 

“I feel worse,” Fisk said, stirring his coffee with a wooden stick.

           

“How’s the president?” Walt asked.

Fisk’s large hand practically covered the entire cup of coffee as he took a sip and faced the team.

“Not good.”

           

“What are his expectations?” Dutton asked.

Fisk reached into the McDonalds bag and unwrapped some sort of breakfast sandwich.

He took a bite of the sandwich and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Once he swallowed, he said, “At the moment his expectations are unrealistic.”

           

“Why’s that?”

 

Fisk dropped the sandwich on the coffee table and began a slow pace.

“Because we have no reliable assets down there.

The jungle canopy is so thick our satellite images are useless.

There’s no way we could send as much as a drone over that airspace without being detected.

A team of soldiers would trigger an immediate response. As soon as the Camenos knew we were there, they’d kill Trent immediately.”

           

Fisk gestured to Walt.

 

“Did you have time to review that data I sent you?”

Walt grimaced.

“Yes.”

He clicked the mouse a few times and began reciting the information.

“We currently have thirty five CIA operatives in Colombia.

Ten in Bogota and twenty five in Medellin.

That’s it.

The rainforest consumes the entire southeastern portion of the country.

For obvious reasons we have no contacts down there.

There’s never been a reason.”

           

Riggs placed his tablet on the desk and folded his arms.

 

“I’ve spent some time in the Amazon.

 

Once these two men step foot into the jungle they will instantly become prey.

 

And I’m not even speaking about cartel thugs.

 

I‘m talking about the deadly coral snakes, the piranha, the anaconda, the cyanide-squirting millipedes.

 

They have parasitic worms which cause blindness, the phyllobates terribilis, a frog which contains enough toxins to kill a hundred men, red hairy chiggers that consume human tissue, ticks, poisonous spiders, do you want me to go on?”

Fisk acknowledged the comment with a terse glare.

He looked at Walt.

“Do we have a guide prepared to assist them?”

           

Walt kept his attention on the computer screen.

 

“Nick is lining one up right now.”

 

In the corner of his eye, Walt could tell Fisk was ready to challenge the answer, but then must’ve noticed the avoiding eye contact.

“Okay,” Fisk said and wisely left it at that.

           

They waited as Fisk pursed his lips and dropped down on one of the couches, his legs giving way like a boxer in the twelfth round of a championship fight.

 

He leaned back and sighed.

 

“What other options do we have?”

There was a prolonged silence until Riggs said, “We can negotiate.”

           

Fisk slowly moved his head from side to side.

 

“I know the president of Colombia fairly well.

 

He’s unstable.

 

Maybe even bipolar.

 

I doubt he’ll ever allow Trent to live.”

“Have you told the president that?”

           

“Yes.”

Again silence as they grappled with their dilemma.

           

Fisk bent forward, placed a hand on each knee and pushed off until he was standing again.

 

He resumed a slow pace with his hands in his pockets.

 

“How else can we reduce our risk?”

Walt’s phone vibrated on the desk and he looked at the display.

“It’s Mac,” he said.

“Maybe he found something over at Trent’s house.”

           

Walt picked up the phone and listened for almost a minute.

 

He said thanks, then put his phone down and scrutinized the image on his computer screen.

 

He clicked the mouse a couple of times and the longitude and latitude lines appeared.

Walt pointed to a specific spot on the screen.

“Here.

Just east of that deforestation along the border of Brazil.

That’s where Trent was headed just before he was captured.

He left the exact coordinates in a text message to his wife the day before yesterday.”

           

Walt made a red X pop up on the monitor, then zoomed in on the image.

 

It was nothing but a green blur.

 

“What if we can get them into that exact spot?” Fisk asked.

“How close do you think they’d be?”

           

“I’d guess inside of five or ten square miles,” Walt said, staring at the image, trying to evoke a clue with his glare.

“Is that something we can pull off?” Fisk asked, obviously searching for a positive response.

           

The men at the desk exchanged glances.

 

Finally, FBI Director Louis Dutton pushed back on his chair and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.

 

“Let’s abort, Sam.

 

Why kill off our best agents for an impossible rescue mission like this?”

Fisk picked up his sandwich and shoved the final piece into his mouth as if he were in a competition.

He quickly chewed, then washed it down with a sip of coffee.

He placed the coffee back on the table and scrunched up the McDonalds bag in his right hand.

           

“The problem is,” Fisk said, moving in a tight circle now, “Nick and Matt have saved our skins so many times, John thinks they’re invincible.”

“But why—”

           

“Because it’s Trent, dammit!” Fisk snapped at Dutton.

 

“That’s why.”

 

There was silence while they collectively remembered the September eleventh disaster which took thousands of American lives, including the President’s brother, Paul Merrick, who was working at the Pentagon when the attack occurred.

Now, Trent was the only sibling he had left.

           

The testosterone level escalated, while the roomful of type-A personalities tried to find common ground.

 

Walt looked down at his desk wanting to say something to protect his crew, but when the Commander-in-Chief gave an order, it was his job to follow.

    

Fisk seemed to assess the department heads with a sense of empathy.

           

Finally, Riggs broke the silence.

 

“Sam, he’s no dummy.

 

He must know this is a suicide mission.”

“Oh, he knows,” Fisk said, squeezing the McDonalds bag until it was a merely the size of a golf ball in the palm of his right hand.

“He knows.”

           

                                      

                         

                                 

Chapter 8

           

Manny Padilla found Trent Merrick lying behind a Brazil Nut tree.

 

It was still a couple of hours before dawn broke, so he and a dozen men had to canvas the perimeter of the camp with their spotlights.

 

The American prisoner was only thirty feet from his tent.

 

His face was saturated from the jungle humidity even in the middle of the night.

 

He had obviously crawled to his current location.

Padilla ordered his men back to their quarters and told Garcia to stay.

“Where did you think you might go?” Padilla asked Trent.

           

The man huffed while rubbing his splinted leg.

 

“Just out for a stroll.”

“You do not appreciate your situation do you?

You are fifty miles from the closest village.

Even if you managed to guess the correct direction, you couldn’t crawl there inside of a month.

The beasts of the jungle would ingest you before you left the shadows of our camp.”

           

Garcia snickered and Padilla squinted.

 

“What is so funny, Carlos?”

Garcia stood stone-faced.

           

Padilla turned back to his prisoner.

 

He could feel his blood pressure begin to escalate as he considered his options.

 

Padilla could kill the American and be back in Medellin for dinner tomorrow night.

 

His boots began to sink in the soggy jungle floor.

 

As he pulled up on his boot, it made a sucking sound as it came free.

 

He took two wide steps back, looking down at his muddied footwear.

 

He let out a low growl, then readjusted his spotlight on the American.

 

Once again Padilla was losing the battle with his temper.

He shook his head and pulled his gun from his holster.

The American squirmed in the dark, his back up again the tree, nowhere to go.

           

“I cannot wait any longer,” Padilla said.

 

As he stretched out the pistol his phone chirped.

 

He looked down at the number and saw who it was.

 

Pablo Moreno.

 

The middle of the night and he is still at it.

 

Does not the man ever stop?

 

Padilla touched the screen and put the phone to his ear.

“Yes, Patron.”

           

“Amigo,” Moreno said in a loud voice.

 

There was music playing and women’s voices cackling.

 

“How are you?”

“I am well,” Padilla said, flipping the gun in his hand like a cowboy, just wishing the American would try something.

“You are up late.”

           

It was clear Moreno was talking over the speakerphone, the entire party coming to life while Padilla slapped at mosquitoes.

 

He could practically smell the cigar burning between Moreno’s fingers.

“Listen, Manny, I have a bet with Julio,” Moreno yelled.

“I say the American prisoner is already dead.

He says you have changed and are ready to accept responsible chores.

Tell us, who wins the bet?”

           

Padilla lowered his gun and frowned.

 

“You have lost, Patron, because the American prisoner is still very alive.”

There was a boisterous cheer on the other end of the line, while beer bottles rattled against each other.

           

Finally after thirty seconds of roaring laughter and screams of delight, Moreno said, “You have made me proud, Manny.

 

This is one bet I do not mind paying.”

 

The flamboyant cartel leader of the Cameno Cartel hung up the phone and left Padilla in the stillness of the rainforest.

He kicked the American in his bad leg and watched him double over in agony.

           

“Get him back inside,” Padilla ordered Carlos.

 

“And be sure to have him staked to the ground, so we don’t have to pull him from an anaconda’s belly.

 

Then he pointed the gun at the president’s brother.

 

“You are dead.

 

You just do not know it yet.”

*

*

*

           

Matt pulled over the SUV in the quiet neighborhood and snapped his gearshift into park as a pair of headlights slowed behind him.

“Who is it?” Nick asked, twisting around in the passenger seat to see who was following them.

           

Matt glanced at the dashboard.

 

“It’s three-thirty in the morning.

 

I don’t think it’s the paperboy.”

The headlights slowed even further until the the driver of the vehicle stepped on the gas and swerved to the side of the road and slammed on his brakes, coming to a stop just inches behind Matt’s car.

           

Matt unsnapped his holster.

 

Nick already had his gun in his hand.

 

Two figures jumped out of the car, both heading to Matt’s side of the car, immediately announcing their amateur status.

 

They wore dark clothes and full face ski masks to disguise themselves.

 

Both of them held out pistols while the driver’s side guy barked for Matt and Nick to get out of the car.

Matt shook his head and let out a breath.

“Teenagers.”

           

“Now don’t go and hurt them,” Nick said.

 

“They’re too young to know what they’re—”

“Stop,” Matt pointed to his partner.

“You’re too easy on these punks.”

           

“Get out,” barked the lead assailant in a high-pitched tone.

 

Both of the kids were now waiving their pistols just like they’d seen it done in the movies.

Matt slowly got out of the car.

           

“This is a hold up,” the boy said.

Matt rolled his eyes.

“No it isn’t.”

           

“You don’t see these guns mister?”

Matt rubbed some residual sleep from his eyes.

“You picked the wrong guys to pull over.

We’re with the FBI.”

           

“Shit,” the lead kid said, immediately lowering his gun.

 

He looked at his fellow thief and said, “You told me he was a basketball player.”

“I did not,” the second boy said, still holding out his gun, but without the enthusiasm.

“I said he looked like a basketball player.”

           

“Hey, that’s great,” Matt said, approaching the boys with his hands out.

 

“Now give me the guns before someone gets hurt.”

They both stood frozen, waiting for the other to move.

           

“Guys,” Matt said, “this is Payson, not South L.A.

 

There hasn’t been a murder here in almost a year.

 

You guys aren’t hardcore, so don’t go down with a hardcore sentence.”

 

Matt pointed to the tattoo on the side of the lead kid’s leg and winced.

 

“Besides, that’s the same lion tattoo everyone on the Payson High School Marching Band got last fall before the playoffs.

 

How long before they find you?

 

Two hours?”

This got the kid fidgeting.

He was almost there.

           

Matt pointed over his shoulder.

 

“My partner has already phoned the sheriff’s office and they’ve been listening in on this conversation.”

 

Matt shrugged.

 

“C’mon guys.

 

You really going to shoot a federal officer and spend the rest of your life cuddling with bodybuilders?”

    

The first kid handed over his gun, but the second kid still held his out, backing away as Matt approached.

“Hey wait a minute,” the boy said.

“If we give you our guns will you let us go?”

           

“No,” Matt said, flicking his fingertips impatiently.

 

“If you give me your gun I won’t shoot you.”

“Crap,” the boy said, finally relinquishing his weapon over to Matt.

           

“Great negotiating,” Matt said, while snapping a handcuff to the kid’s wrist, then motioning the first kid over.

 

He snapped the other end of the handcuff to the first boy’s wrist, then handcuffed the first boy’s free hand to the door handle of their car.

 

Matt snatched the keys from the ignition and threw them across the street.

 

“Nice talking with you.”

Nick pulled his cell down from his ear as Matt drove off to the hospital.

“Denny’s on his way to take them in.”

           

“You know what?” Matt said.

 

“You’re an enabler.”

“How’s that?”

           

“You’re always defending these young hoodlums like they had no choice.”

Matt turned onto the main road and hit the gas.

His tires spit the remaining gravel from Nick’s driveway, pinging the undercarriage of his SUV .

           

“Speaking of hoodlums,” Nick said.

 

“I need to call Tommy.”

“Tommy’s no hoodlum,” Matt said defending Nick’s cousin from the calloused remark.

           

“Listen to you, coming to his defense.

 

Look how far you’ve come.”

“Yeah, well, Tommy has done some good things for a lot of people.”

           

“Sure,” Nick said.

 

“Like when we were twelve and he stole a Playboy Magazine each month to cut out all the promiscuous pictures and sell them to our friends for fifty cents apiece.

 

He made like forty bucks an issue.”

“Just providing a service to the community,” Matt said.

           

“Exactly what he said at the time.”

Matt approached the hospital and saw the helipad lit up and a helicopter’s blades beginning to turn.

The sight made them both remember where they were going and why.

           

Nick pulled out his phone and pushed the proper button for his cousin, hoping he was just waking up on the east coast.

                                          

Chapter 9

Tommy Bracco sat at the table in the basement of Lloyd’s Poker House with a collection of cards he couldn’t believe.

Four Aces and a King.

They stared back at him, almost gleaming in the dull overhead lights.

It was practically seven in the morning, but Lloyd’s didn’t have any clocks to alert anyone of the oncoming new day, so most of the diehards kept the meter running as long as their luck kept going.

           

“Your bet, Tommy,” a gray-haired man said.

 

He sat slumped over with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a long ash curling from the tip.

 

The night before there were twenty tables full of lawyers, plumbers, electricians and a variety of business people all there

to scratch their gambling itch.

Now, there was only one table left.

Six players who managed to navigate the pitfalls of card sharks and lady luck.

           

Tommy bit on a purple toothpick and casually dropped three thousand in chips into the pile in the middle of the green felt table and said, “You’d better run for the hills.”

“Very funny,” a small, round female said while feeding the pot.

She was the owner of a very successful chain of dry cleaners around the Baltimore metropolitan area.

           

One other guy, Richard Olbert, yawned while placing his bet.

 

Everyone else folded.

“How’s your dad, Rich,” Tommy asked.

           

“Bad,” Rich said, staring at his cards.

 

“He fell and hit his head.

 

He needs a procedure which will probably save his life, but he doesn’t have insurance.”

“You serious?” Tommy asked, putting his cards down in front of him.

           

“Yeah.

 

His head swelled up and he needs a shunt to alleviate the symptoms.

 

But we’re trying of find some way of financing the procedure.”

Tommy jabbed his toothpick into a back molar and said, “How much is the procedure?”

           

“Ten grand.”

Tommy looked at the pile of chips in the center of the table.

“This pot probably has twenty thousand in it right now.”

           

Rich looked at Tommy under the glare of the fluorescents and through the cloud of drifting smoke.

 

“What are you saying?”

“I’m just making conversation, that’s all.”

           

Tommy’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he smiled when he saw who was calling.

 

“Hey,” Tommy said.

 

“Isn’t it like three in the morning in Arizona?”

“Yeah,” Nick Bracco said.

“I wake you?”

           

“Tommy,” the grump with the curled ash said.

 

“Get off the phone and bet.”

“Oh,” Nick said into the receiver, “you spent the night at Lloyd’s.”

           

“Bingo.”

 

Tommy matched the five thousand dollars that the dry cleaner lady had just dropped into the pot, then added another five thousand in chips.

Rich frowned at the bet.

He glanced at his cards, then back to the dwindling collection of chips in front of him.

A pure sign of weakness.

           

“I need some help,” Nick said.

“I’m listening,” Tommy said.

           

“Work related help.”

“Yeah?” Tommy said, watching Rich decide how much he should invest in his losing hand.

           

“Do you have any contacts in Colombia?” Nick asked.

“Hmm,” Tommy said, understanding the need to keep the conversation confidential.

“As in the country or the city?”

           

“The country.”

With a sour look, Rich finally placed chips in the pot to match Tommy’s bet.

Then he relinquished his remaining chips to raise the bet another five thousand, leaving nothing but green space in front of him. He looked like a man walking to the gas chamber.

           

“Of course,” Tommy said on the phone.

 

“I know people everywhere.

 

What kind of help do you need?”

There was a long pause.

The dry cleaning lady looked at her cards as if they were disobedient children, then placed them face down and slowly slid them under the large pile of chips announcing her resignation from the hand.

           

“This is really important,” Nick said.

 

“And really classified.”

“Okay.”

           

“The president’s brother had been kidnapped.

 

I need to go down there and find him before he’s killed.”

“Whoa,” Tommy snapped back in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right?”

           

“I wish I was.”

It was Tommy’s turn to bet and he was receiving glares from everyone at the table.

He was breaking the first rule of Lloyd’s Poker House: No cell phone conversations at the table.

           

Tommy said into the phone, “Hang on for a second.”

 

Then he put the phone down on the table, pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Rich.

 

“You have a losing hand there, pal.

 

You know it.

 

They know it. The Pope knows it.

 

The police know it.

 

The only way you win is if I fold.”

Rich licked his lips with apprehension.

           

“So, here’s my proposition,” Tommy said.

 

“I’ll fold my hand if you promise to cash in right now and drive to the hospital and pay for your father’s procedure.

 

I know what he has.

 

It’s called Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus.

 

NPH for short.

 

I had an uncle with the same condition.

 

Every hour you wait can destroy more brain cells and keep him from making a full recovery.”

 

Tommy held out his hand for a handshake.

Rich examined the pot of chips, probably trying to decide how much profit he’d have left over after paying the hospital bill.

           

Tommy cocked his head.

 

“Last chance, killer.”

Rich must’ve known he had a losing hand, so he did the only reasonable thing.

“Okay,” he said, shaking Tommy’s hand.

“You have a deal.”

           

Tommy turned over his four Aces and watched Rich’s eyes go wide in shock.

 

“Go,” Tommy pointed to the door.

 

“Now.

 

Take care of your father.”

Rich greedily swiped the pile of chips toward him and nodded.

           

Tommy looked over at a bulky man who handled the security at the poker house.

 

“Cash me out, Phil.

 

I need to get going myself.”

The man began the process of stacking and counting chips, while Tommy grabbed the phone and moved to the back of the room where a dozen empty tables stood bare in the dark.

The fluorescent lights were turned off so Tommy couldn’t see the cigar and cigarette smoke, but he could still smell it.

           

He sat at the farthest table, pulled out a purple toothpick and dug it between two back molars.

 

“Okay,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and crossing his legs.

 

“What’s going on?”

“We need contacts down there.

Anyone,” Nick Bracco said, suddenly in a whirlwind of background noise.

           

“Where are you?”

“I’m about to get into a helicopter to go to Sky Harbor.

We’re flying to Miami to pick up some technology for the trip.

Then onto Colombia.”

           

“Nicky, I’ll make a couple of calls, but how much time do you have?”

“Very little.

I doubt this will last beyond tomorrow night.

You think you can find someone who can help us track down a cartel in the Amazon?”

           

“Shit,” Tommy said, rubbing the back of his neck.

 

“I got people all over the world, even in Colombia.

 

But the Amazon?”

“This is important,” Nick said, the helicopter blades picking up in pitch. “The president is willing to do just about anything to get his brother home alive.”

           

A man came out of the shadows of the poker room and dropped a stack of bills on the table where Tommy was sitting.

Tommy took a couple of hundreds from the top of the stack and handed them to the guy.

“Here you go, Phil.”

           

Phil took the money and nodded as he left.

“Tommy,” Nick said.

“I need something.

We’re desperate.”

           

In the stillness of the dark something came to Tommy.

 

“Actually, I do know one guy who is familiar with that part of the world.”

“Yeah?

Who?”

           

“Well,” Tommy said, digging out stale pretzels from his teeth with his toothpick.

 

“The guy’s not exactly a boy scout.”

“What are we talking about, some muscle?”

           

“More than just muscle.”

There was silence for a moment.

Nick was smart enough not to pry.

Tommy could practically see Nick running a hand through his hair while his partner, Matt McColm waved at him to get in the helicopter.

           

After a few seconds, Nick said, “I need you to meet me in Miami.

 

I’ll have a Department of Justice plane waiting for you at Dulles Airport.

 

Go to gate 1C and ask for Martin.

 

He’ll take you to the plane.

 

Call me once you’re airborne.”

“Got it.”

Tommy stood up to gather his money.

“Hey, how’s Julie?”

           

“Not happy.”

“I can’t say I blame her.

I mean, for crying out loud, Colombia?”

           

“Yeah, well . . . this is different.”

“All right,” Tommy said, stuffing cash into his pocket.

“We’ll talk soon.”

           

“Hey,” Nick said, a little too loud.

 

“Don’t take any chances.

 

Okay?”

Although Nick couldn’t see him, Tommy smiled at his cousin’s concern.

“All right, chief.

Will do.”