The Traveler (8 page)

The president took a moment at this time to turn away, crutch in hand, and walk to the cafeteria area of the kitchen. He sat slowly in a chair with his cast and leg sticking out precariously.

“You and Mrs. Hamilton laid a trap for me, legally speaking, and frankly I don't appreciate it.”

“I don't know what you mean, Mr. President,” Niles retorted.

“I just gave you executive powers far beyond any agency in the history of the United States by granting you a delayed reporting rule change and you turn around and hit me with a prison escape, a request to allow a foreign intelligence agent into the top-most secret agency in the world, and, oh, by the way, we're also bringing in a sociopath as your head engineer, and now you're saying you want the foremost enemy of this department inside my facility!”

Jack looked at Niles, as he was stunned that just Niles and Alice had done all of the planning.

“Premeditated,” the president said. “You knew when you and I planned on sending her back to Israel that the odds were she was going to get caught, thus you had Alice on standby in case the worst happened.”

“Problem on all fronts solved. Now everyone, including the colonel and yourself, are up to date on everything. Anya and Henri are now my responsibility, so let's get moving and bring a brave man back home, shall we?” He smiled as he looked from Jack to the president. “If not, I can always tell your wife about your dietary habits when she's not here.”

“You bald bastard, get the hell out of here, and if that Frenchman steals anything, it's coming out of your ass. Jesus, we're probably letting the Mossad in on everything we have inside those vaults!”

“You worry too much.” Niles stood and he and Jack left the kitchen.

*   *   *

On the way to the elevator and the rooftop helipad, Niles lost his smile as he knew then that it was a good thing the president gave him the hundred-hour window for reporting. He knew that it was not only to keep deniability to other federal agencies, like the CIA, on when and how the president knew something, it was for other reasons also.

“Okay,” Niles said as he stopped short of entering the idling Black Hawk helicopter for their return flight to Nellis Air Force Base. “The one thing I didn't tell the president was that Operation Alcatraz has already commenced.” Compton handed one of his security men his briefcase. “It makes me nervous with the operation going in so short-handed. How is Mr. Ryan doing in Mexico?”

“He said he had volunteers, that's all I was aware of before his team left for Mexico. So, I figure Captain Ryan is deep into his role,” Jack said.

As Niles climbed into the seating area of the Black Hawk, Jack looked to the sky. When he knew Niles could not hear him he said a silent rebuttal.

“Just how deep is anyone's guess.”

RIO NATCHEZ CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, NORTHERN MEXICO

The Rio Natchez prison was a private concern based on the model perfected in the States. One of the minor investments of Richard Salvador Gutiérrez, the Rio Natchez was basically a death camp for storing the drug dealer's enemies until he had the leisure time to watch them die. At least fifty percent of the eighty-six inmates were sent there to die after committing some grievous error in judgment against the cartel.

Eyes watched the boy who had struggled to push his wheelchair into the far corner of the large cell for protection. Thus far the young man, who was no more than twenty-five and who had a beard as soft and sparse as a young deer, had to be given the credit he deserved. He had fought and been beaten for the right to hang on to the wheelchair after some toughs had decided they needed it more. The young man wiped the blood from his nose after placing the bed's broken slat in his lap. The three men who had attempted to purloin the chair were now trying to stem the flow of blood from the noses of two of their number after the young man had released a torrent of blows to their faces. They were stunned for now, but the new prisoner knew they would come again and very soon.

The eyes watched as the out-of-place young man once more brought the old wooden bed slat up and waited for the second assault to begin. The wheelchair-bound man didn't have to wait long.

The three men turned as one, their burly leader tossing a bloody rag to the floor. They started toward the brave young man in the chair. The largest attacker reached into the waistband of his pants and brought out a small picklike weapon. The toothless smile that crossed his face was one of pure pleasure at what they were about to do. They surrounded the young man, who raised the slat to defend himself.

“That's not a very wise thing to do, my brothers,” came a voice speaking in Spanish.

The three men turned and saw a small but very stout man dressed in denim pants and a white, affectionately nicknamed “wife beater” undershirt. His close-cropped dark hair was covered by a black bandana. The goatee and crocodile smile were illuminated by the newcomer's three gold front teeth. But the most outstanding feature of the muscular man was the tattoo that started down from his scalp, crawled over his nose and eyes, and ended at a tanned jawline. The tattoo was in the shape of a claw and was etched in deep blues and reds. The man was smiling, showing his gold-plated dental work.

“Be patient,
ese,
you can be next, wait your turn,” said the middle-sized man on the left while he placed his arm around the larger one with the toothless grin and the improvised knife. “We have meals-on-wheels to take care of first.”

In the corner the young man raised the wooden slat higher. It was noticeable the young man was barely old enough to shave, but his determined look said that he had faced this sort of abuse before … bad-luck kids like him usually did.

The rest of the fifty-plus men inside the overcrowded cell took a step back when they saw that the small man who had confronted the three refused to move away. He held his ground as he studied the three very much larger adversaries before him.

“You think Senor Gutiérrez will take the killing of his prized prisoner lightly? If you do then I want to be around when you explain it to him.”

The young man in the wheelchair tilted his head as if he were having a hard time following the Spanish being spoken.

The first faltering smile came out of the large one with the shiv and no teeth.

The smallest of the three turned and looked at the wheelchair-bound prisoner. “Later,
ese,
Gutiérrez may not come soon enough, then you'll be ours.” Then the man turned to face the tattooed busybody. “But you,
ese,
what was to be his, is now yours.” The three men spread out and started to surround the newcomer. He made a stance that invited the three to make their attempt.

The whistle stopped the men before they could spring. The five guards were standing at the bars looking in.

“You speak of patience, I advise as much, for your benefactor will be arriving within the hour. For some of you”—the guard smiled as he looked at a few of the frightened eyes that watched him before settling on the wheelchair and its occupant—“your day of days has arrived.” The guards watched the men in the cell for a moment and then turned to leave.

The three brutes had lost all of their enthusiasm for getting even with the young man who had broken two of their noses. They turned away from him with one last dirty look at the man who had interfered, and moved off to sulk, because everyone knew that with the arrival of Gutiérrez some of their fates were already sealed.

The young man in his wheelchair watched the small man with the black beard and bandana as he eyed the departure of the three thugs. He moved his chair forward until he was next to the man with the horrid and fright-inducing tattoo.

“Thank you,” the young prisoner in dirty denim said in English, very slowly as if his unlikely savior wouldn't be able to follow the boy's native tongue. The small man turned and looked at him with a frown and concerned dark eyes.

“You're not very smart for some sort of computer prodigy.” The man slowly looked him and his chair over. “I mean you don't even speak Spanish, do you?” the man asked, losing all of his own practiced Spanish accent. The boy's face went slack. “Well, for the next hour or so you better become a hell of a lot smarter if you want to live long enough to eat dinner tonight. You understand?” the man asked, his three gold teeth shining in the diffused light of the old cell.

“Who are you?” the young man asked.

“A dickhead, son, a real dickhead”—the man smiled, exposing the brightness of the gold dental work—“who never understood my boss's philosophy of not volunteering for anything, so for now just refer to me as Captain Dickhead.”

*   *   *

Richie Gutiérrez sat atop the small platform that fronted the warden's office and faced into the prison's small exercise yard. The prisoners had all been brought out with the exception of the three men who were the object of today's lesson in why you shouldn't betray or mess with Richie Gutiérrez.

The middle-aged man, who was raised on the mean streets of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, and had fought his way upward through murder, kidnapping, and torture to lead the most ruthless cartel since the heady day of the drug war in South America, was sitting in a large and very ornate chair as if he were the Roman emperor Caligula overseeing a gladiatorial death match. His dress was more appropriate for an evening cocktail party. He was drinking tequila with finely chipped ice as the prison's population was brought into the area surrounding the exercise yard. The chain-link fence separated the privately owned inmates who were there to witness what it was they would one day face themselves.

Gutiérrez accepted a refill of his tequila as he ate grapes and laughed along with his six henchmen as they watched the festivities below. There were two armed men not part of the prison's staff of mercenaries in each corner of the balcony. It wasn't that the drug dealer was afraid of outside influences interfering as the prison was completely legal in the eyes of the law, it was his closest associates the guards watched. The dangerous business he had risen to the top in broke no lackadaisical attitudes in the arena of trusting one's subordinates. No, Gutiérrez was very safe from the law, because here, in this place, he
was
that law.

The FBI, DEA, and the American Homeland Security had chased the cartel and its leader for nearly seven years and could never find him. The warrant the Americans carried told the world that they intended very bad things for Gutiérrez and his organization. The man knew that was not possible in his world. Even with the major monetary loss caused by the subject of today's circus had not dampened the cartel's fortunes as they made the deficit up by increased manufacture. Still, he knew that the execution today would serve its purpose. That fact was proven a moment later when a film crew was brought in. The two men, a cameraman and a sound person, were there to capture the majesty of the moment for the benefit of those who would try to damage him in the future. The black cameraman and the Mexican soundman took up station by the concrete wall near the front of the large balcony.

Gutiérrez lit a large Havana cigar and then nodded at the prison's warden, who was immaculately dressed in a royal blue uniform complete with scarf. He removed his saucer cap as he stood. His crooked, pencil-thin mustache turned up at the corners as he anticipated a great event ahead. The warden had been specially chosen from the Mexican army for his brutal reputation, and for the fact that he had been on the cartel's payroll for nearly fifteen years.

“Bring them out!”

The silence of the gathered inmates gave credence to the fact that this was not an excited gladiatorial arena as the only applause came from the elevated balcony of the warden's office. The prisoners were silent and most crossed themselves as the fifteen prisoners were led forward.

*   *   *

As the chosen inmates had been gathered and hurriedly lined up, the last person to join was the wheelchair-bound prisoner who bravely faced his fate without pleading or comment. The guard who was pushing him smiled when the young man looked back.

“When called, you will advance into the exercise yard in single file,” the guard by the large gate said as the sun filtered in from the outside, obscuring the excited look on the lead guard's features. The man turned and exited the waiting area for the exercise yard, leaving only the one guard behind the wheelchair.

“I hear they have something very special planned for you, my friend,” the guard said as his hot breath hit the young man in the back of his neck, making him cringe. “I have three thousand pesos that says you end up begging before—”

The young man heard the thud and the hiss of breath as the hands holding the wheelchair handles fell way. The young man turned and saw the tattooed man standing in the place of the guard.

“What are—”

“No time for twenty questions, kid,” the man hissed as his eyes scanned the other prisoners in front of them. Some had turned at the minor commotion, but decided that the guard wasn't worth their precious and very limited time. “This is about the third damn plan we've had to scrap in the last twenty-four hours. This is plan D and there isn't a plan E, so be quiet and do exactly as I tell you.”

“Who are you?” the young man said as the large double-sided gate started to swing open.

“I'm the asshole who bragged to his bosses this could be done, so I guess they'll have the last laugh when this thing blows up right in my face.”

The young man turned to face the front just as his heart fell through his belly to his ass. “Oh, my God, what are you going to do?” he asked as his voice broke just as he was pushed forward following the long line of fifteen condemned men.

“Shut up while I figure a new way to get us killed in the next few minutes.”

As they broke into sunlight after the warden's order to bring them into the yard, the tattooed man quickly scanned the area. The prisoners were of no help as a chain-link fence topped with razor wire held them in check. The three guard towers oversaw the entire area, including the exterior of the prison. One benefit he immediately noticed was that the three armed guards had their attention focused on the activities inside, not out. One break, but he needed more as he again quickly evaluated this new situation that had changed drastically this morning when it was announced that the mysterious and hard-to-corner cartel leader was arriving early. Thus, plan D.