In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (5 page)

On the second day of the new year, his first day back on duty, Richter had just stepped out of the command center when he saw Stephanie Sartori walking up the hall.  He smiled.  A first-rate agent, she was also a very attractive woman.

Sartori smiled back.  “Hi!  How was your holiday?”

“Good.  But after two weeks visiting family, I was anxious to get back to work.”

She laughed.  “I know what you mean.” 

They chatted for a moment before she turned serious. 

“Hey, do you remember that guy you busted a few years ago in New York?  The cannibal?”

Richter grimaced.  Reginald Tempest was a self-confessed cannibal suspected in the murders of eight people.  His fetish for dismembering and eating the organs of his victims came to light after his initial arrest.  If not for a threatening letter to the president, he likely would have gone on to kill again.  In the neat, hand-written note, Tempest promised not only to kill the president, but also to eat his heart and post the video online. 

Richter had driven up to Dutchess County to interview him and assess whether he was a practical joker, some guy blowing off steam or a real threat.  He remembered being surprised when a seemingly easygoing sixty-one-year-old man answered the door.  With gray hair and a pleasant smile, he looked more like a grandfather than a violent criminal.  Tempest had invited Richter in and they’d sat at the kitchen table.  He told Richter that he was a widower and had been living on his own for some time.  Richter studied the man before him, gently probing into his background.  Then he asked Tempest his opinion of the president.  Tempest readily admitted to sending the letter.  Richter asked if he really intended to eat the president’s organs.  As if surprised by the question, Tempest said that he always ate his victims.  Then he opened his freezer, and, as if he were sharing a stamp collection, proudly pointed to some two dozen packages, each labeled with a victim’s name.

The ensuing investigation discovered eight shallow graves on Tempest’s thirty-four-acre wooded property.  Forensic tests had confirmed that the remains and the frozen organs belonged to eight missing men and women, including Tempest’s wife, who hadn’t been seen for fifteen years. 

From what Richter remembered, Tempest was now in a state-run psychiatric hospital, committed until that time when doctors decided he was stable enough to re-enter society.  For men like Tempest, that day rarely came.

Sartori frowned.  “He sent another letter.”

The White House received mail every month from would be assassins, lunatics, and others who, for one reason or another, had a gripe with the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  The Secret Service investigated them all, dispatching teams of agents from its field offices as the first line of defense. 

“Listen, Matthew.  This time, he’s also threatened you.”

Richter felt a chill.  “He’s still in the hospital, isn’t he?”

Sartori nodded.  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but I wanted you to know.”  She squeezed his arm.  “Just be careful.  Okay?”

With a cup of coffee in hand, the president sat down across from his Chief of Staff.  The five days out of the office—time he had spent reconnecting with his family—had helped him put things in perspective.  By the time he had returned to the White House, he had made up his mind. 

“I’ve made two decisions,” he began.  “First, I am going to run for reelection.” 

Howell nodded, apparently not surprised.

“But,” he continued, “Rumson is not going to be on the ticket.”

It was clear that Howell had been expecting this too. 

“I’m not sure I can trust him anymore.”  The president shook his head.  “I realize now that I made a mistake.”

“I agree with your decision, sir.  But, I’m concerned about how he’s going to react when he finds out.”

“I am too.  I’m not sure how to manage that yet.  But, for now, I want you and Linda Huff to start developing a list of potential running mates.” 

The two men spent several minutes discussing criteria. 

Howell closed his notebook and stood to leave, but President Kendall caught his arm.

“This cannot go any further than you and Linda.”  

The large screen showed a Mexican hacienda, with over a dozen buildings, all surrounded by a fifteen-foot stone wall topped with an electric fence.  The main house was four separate buildings arranged in a square around a large stone courtyard shaded by citrus trees.  In the middle was a pool, the morning sun shimmering on its surface. 

A trellised and vine-covered walkway connected the main house to a covered parking area, the front ends of several Mercedes and Porsches visible in the shade.  Behind this were some outbuildings and another parking area—this one uncovered—with a dozen or more cars and trucks.  These appeared to belong to the guards and workers.

Half a dozen guards were patrolling the perimeter, while others clustered together, talking and smoking, their automatic weapons casually slung over their shoulders.  A few men were sitting in the shade of a jacaranda tree, possibly taking a siesta.  In the courtyard, gardeners were trimming bushes and trees, while two men cleaned the pool.  To the side, below a pergola, four men sat at a table.  A second screen showed three armed men in the shade of the guard booth at the end of the driveway, three hundred yards from the hacienda. 

Pat Monahan was amazed at the detail and the clarity of the video feed.  A colonel from the National Reconnaissance Office told him that the video was courtesy of one of the NRO’s Lacrosse satellites.  According to the colonel, the satellite was capable of capturing high-resolution images of objects the size of a football, all the while orbiting four hundred miles above the earth.  The satellite employed highly sophisticated radar-imaging technology and was able to “see” through clouds, through all kinds of weather, and at night.  The only drawback was that the satellite flew a geosynchronous orbit and passed over the target area just twice a day.  They had been fortunate that the timing of the mission coincided with the satellite pass.  Although, that probably wasn’t a coincidence, Monahan realized. 

The CIA analyst pointed to the men at the table. 

“This is Pedro Aguilar, ‘El Jefe.’  The men with him are his key lieutenants: his brother Jayme Aguilar, his cousin Manuel Hernandez, and Roberto Calzada.  Calzada is the enforcer.” 

“Do we know who’s inside the buildings?”  Monahan was nervous.

The analyst pointed to the largest house on the courtyard.  “We believe El Jefe’s wife and two daughters are inside this house.  His brother’s and his cousin’s families live in the houses on either side.  His mother and an aunt and uncle live in this one, across the courtyard.  There will also be maids and domestic servants inside each building.”  The analyst pointed to two other buildings.  “The chauffeurs and mechanics live in this one here, by the covered parking area.  And the one in the back is for the security force.  We expect there to be at least a dozen armed men in that building as well.”

“Can you assure me that the family will not be harmed in the process?  That none of the servants will be hurt?”  Monahan was paid to worry.

“Mr. Monahan,” a new voice boomed, “we will do everything in our power to prevent them from being harmed.” 

The speaker was Rear Admiral Walt Magers, from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.  Magers was responsible for the Sea, Air and Land Team—more commonly known as the Navy SEALS—tasked with this mission. 

“We are employing non-lethal technology,” the Admiral continued.  “We hope to neutralize any resistance, at least from the group out in the open.  However, make no mistake, this is a combat operation, and we are going up against a heavily armed enemy who has demonstrated a willingness to use extreme violence.  Rules of engagement are that no lethal force may be used unless we are fired upon first.”  The admiral explained that the guards would be immobilized using a sophisticated military adaptation of stun-gun technology initiated from a remote location.  When pressed, he declined to provide details, citing need-to-know protocol.  Although Monahan had a top-secret security clearance, he decided, for the moment, not to press the point. 

Monahan knew that the SEALS were leading the planned strike in conjunction with Mexican Special Forces.  Similar to their U.S. Navy SEAL counterparts, the Fuerzas Especiales, or FES, specialized in unconventional warfare, assault, counter-terrorism, and special reconnaissance operations.  Compared to conventional forces, both were highly trained and disciplined and had a far greater chance of executing a mission like this without spilling innocent blood.  

Rear Admiral Magers looked at the clock.  “The strike should commence any moment now.”

It looked like a normal, peaceful morning at the hacienda when, suddenly, as if on cue, everyone in view fell to the ground.  Three men at the breakfast table slumped forward, their faces landing in their plates, scattering glasses and dishes in the process.  El Jefe fell off his chair and landed like a rag doll on the stone patio.  One of the pool cleaners fell onto the tile apron.  The other wasn’t so lucky and fell into the pool.

Monahan jumped up.  “Admiral, we can’t leave that man there!  He’ll drown!”

The admiral waved him back down.  “The assault team is inbound now.”

The screens went bright for a fraction of a second then returned to normal.

“Electromagnetic pulse,” the admiral explained.  “We just knocked out all communications in the hacienda and disabled every piece of electronic equipment within a one-mile radius.  Cars, ATVs, computers, microwave ovens, refrigerators—everything’s dead.”  

Seconds later, half a dozen guards rushed out from the main house and the security building, their weapons drawn.  Seconds later, they began shooting into the sky, only to be met with a devastating hail of bullets from above.  A helicopter entered the scene, the thirty-caliber mini-gun in its door still smoking.  It hovered, and the assault team began to rappel down.  Three more helicopters quickly followed; additional troops could be seen entering the compound from all sides.

The admiral turned to Monahan.  “There are medical corpsmen on the ground now.”

The assault was precisely orchestrated as the SEALS and FES broke into individual teams, each tasked with a specific objective.  Individual teams assaulted each building, first tossing stun grenades.  In the courtyard, the hands and feet of the still unconscious prisoners were bound, while two medical corpsmen pulled the body from the pool.  They began to perform CPR.  Another medical team rushed to El Jefe and his henchman.  After ensuring that their injuries were not life-threatening, the corpsmen carried them off screen to waiting helicopters.

A number of well-dressed women and children, their faces filled with terror, were led out of the main house.  Most were crying.  They too were escorted off screen.  

There was an audible click from the speakers in the room.  “Tango Alpha is secure.  Package in possession.  Zero casualties.”

The admiral smiled.  “That, ladies and gentlemen, means that the head of the Zacatecas Cartel and his key lieutenants are now in our custody.”

“Admiral,” the colonel from the NRO interrupted, “we will be losing satellite coverage in thirty seconds.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

The assault teams began to search the buildings for criminal evidence and to seize guns, weapons, computers, and anything else tied to cartel activities. 

The screens went blank. 

Monahan was surprised when the task force members—military and civilian alike—began to clap.  A few congratulated each other on the successful mission.  Monahan, though, was troubled.  Although the team had stayed within the parameters of the presidential directive and there had been no fatalities, there was no hiding the fact that the game had just changed.  The U.S. had drawn first blood and he wondered what the repercussions would be.

“How was your vacation?” Dr. Hastings asked.

Richter smiled.  “Good, Doctor.  It felt good to go back to work.”

The doctor smiled back.  “You look more relaxed.  That’s a good sign.”  She waited a second or two.  “Have you given more thought to some of the questions we discussed last time?”

“You mean, like what I want out of life?”

The doctor nodded.

“I have, although I don’t think I have all the answers yet.  What I do know is that I want to make this work.  For practical reasons, I can’t leave the protective detail yet.  If I want any other job in law enforcement, I need to demonstrate that I succeeded here.  If I leave now, it will look like I failed.”

“Okay.  I can see that.  How much time are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.  Two, maybe three years.”

She was silent for a moment.  “We discussed your dream last time.  Can you tell me what happened that day in Maine?  I know what the press is saying, but I’d like your perspective.”

Richter shifted in his seat, an uncomfortable silence before he spoke. 

“I was standing behind him,” he began in a monotone.  “He had shot six, maybe seven birds and hit them all.  It was impressive; the man could shoot.”  He smiled weakly.  “I really don’t know what happened.  He spun the gun so fast.  The next thing I knew, he crumpled to the ground.”  Richter shuddered as he took a deep breath.  “I didn’t even think that was possible with a shotgun.  He was tall, and I think the investigators even measured his arms and…well…”  His voice trailed off as he shuddered again.