Blacksnow Zero Read online

  “A contract? You mean I’ve been targeted?”

  “Get the hell out of D.C., Megan. Better yet, get out of the country.”

  “Who’s behind it?”

  The line went dead and she replaced the receiver. A feeling of cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

  ***

  Juarez, Mexico

  Erica Blake glanced at the cracked mirror in the shabby, cramped bathroom. She was in a cheap motel just outside downtown, a cash-only place populated with hookers, johns and crack-heads. A perfect place to hide.

  Erica touched the ugly wound on her left arm, flinching from the pain. She was standing, naked and clean, having just taken a tepid shower. The dried blood and grime was gone from her weary body. But she was also very pale. She leaned her face toward the mirror to inspect her snow-white appearance. She’d lost a lot of blood over the last several days, something her lightheadedness and wobbly legs confirmed. Desperately needing medical care, she also knew she had to stay hidden. The NSA had spooks everywhere, even here in Mexico.

  Going back to bedroom, she collapsed on the thin mattress. Glancing at her cell phone on the cheap nightstand, she weighed her options. Running low on cash, she wanted to call Lewis. But what if the NSA was monitoring the senator’s calls?

  Deciding not to call, her thoughts drifted to Steve. Where is he? I need to find him and help him.

  As she lay on the bed, she glanced around the dingy room and accepted the fact she wouldn’t be helping anybody. She’d be lucky to keep herself alive. Her .38 rested on the nightstand, its black, stubby shape familiar and comforting. Fortunately, she’d been able to buy a box of ammo in Juarez earlier in the day.

  She traced a finger on her wound, lightly touching the raw skin. She felt a trickle of sticky substance and realized she was still bleeding. A doctor. That’s what I need. A doctor that takes cash and asks no questions. Her thoughts drifted, her vision blurred and she passed out.

  ***

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Bobbie Garcia was angry. He’d tracked Blake to the Mexican city of Juarez, right across the border from El Paso. Juarez was a big place, but he was certain he would have found her exact location quickly. The NSA had confirmed the woman was wounded during the shoot-out in Atlanta. She’d be looking for medical help, and he and his team would swoop in.

  As he sat in the black SUV, he forced himself to calm down by taking long gulps of the air-conditioned air. He couldn’t blame Corvan for changing the mission. Things happened. Priorities changed. But he wanted to prove, once again, how good he was. That he was the best. The NSA had lost Blake twice. He and his team would handle it the first time. Shelving those thoughts aside, he stared out the window of the vehicle.

  The SUV was parked across the street from Senator Lewis’s stately home. Lewis had already left her office in D.C., and was being tailed by Sergeant Thomas. Garcia’s plan was to wait for her to get home and let her get settled in for the night. He and his team would move in, then terminate the two bodyguards and kill her. Then they would transport the bodies to the safe house in Virginia and incinerate them. The house had an industrial oven that had come in handy several times before.

  Just then Garcia’s cell buzzed. He unclipped it and held it to his ear.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he heard Thomas say.

  “What?”

  “We lost her.”

  Garcia’s hand gripped the phone tightly. “How the hell did you let that happen?”

  “One of the bodyguards was driving. He must have noticed us following.…”

  The captain gritted his teeth. “Jesus, Thomas! Keep looking for her! Call me back in five. With good news, this time!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Garcia disconnected the call and began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel. He had a really bad feeling about this. He ground his teeth as he mulled over everything that could go wrong.

  5 Days to Zero Hour

  On Interstate 95

  Ten miles north of Philadelphia, PA

  Megan Lewis was in the backseat of the stretch Cadillac as it raced north on the interstate. Sitting across from her was one of her bodyguards, while the other one drove the spacious limo. The bodyguards were rugged, stony-faced men. Men of few words. But they were good. She was certain they had already saved her life. One of them had spotted a tail when she left her office, and making a split-decision, she’d decided to run. The conversation with Owen had spooked her.

  Since then they had driven quickly but aimlessly around Washington D.C. and then north through Maryland and now into Pennsylvania. Making only a few stops for gas, they had continued driving as she urgently tried to come up with a plan.

  Dawn was breaking and the first rays of pinkish-gray daylight streamed in the windows. As she sipped coffee from a to-go cup, her mind churned. It’s clear I’m in the cross-hairs. Taylor lied. Anyone capable of assassinating an American president wouldn’t hesitate to take me out. That’s for damn sure.

  Shaking her head slowly, she finally came to a decision. Pulling her cell phone from her shoulder purse, she punched in numbers. Glancing at her watch, she guessed Henry Mueller would be having lunch about now. Zurich was six hours ahead of her local time.

  The line rang for a long time, then went to voice mail so she hung up. Damn. I need to speak with him live.

  Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and she punched in the numbers again. This time the call was answered.

  “Megan,” she heard him say in a cheerful voice, “good to hear from you. I just noticed your number on my phone display and hoped it was you, not one of your assistants.”

  “Henry,” she replied, her voice strained. “I need your help.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “You don’t sound yourself. Are you okay?”

  “I’m in a bind. More than that, really. I’m in deep trouble and I need help.”

  “Of course. Anything. You know that.”

  “Henry, this line may not be secure. This call has to be quick and cryptic. Don’t mention specific names or places.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I need to get out of the country. Fast. I can’t fly commercial – people are after me.”

  “You’re an important American senator. Are you saying you’re not safe there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sounds ominous. Listen, Megan, I have several Lear jets that I use for business travel. I have one on stand-by in the city where we first met. In fact we had a quick meeting at that airport five years ago. Do you remember it?”

  Megan racked her brain, came up empty for a moment. Then it dawned on her. JFK airport in New York City.

  “I got it, Henry.”

  “Good. I’ll make a call now and have the pilot wait for you. By the way, where do you want to go?”

  Her mind raced. “I want to fly to Australia,” she lied. “I’ll be safe there.”

  “Okay. I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll call you back later with more specific information. And be careful.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Henry.”

  Megan disconnected the call and put her phone away. She leaned forward and said, “Head to Kennedy Airport. Fast.”

  ***

  The Oval Office

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  President Taylor, Treasury Secretary Longstreet and the Budget Director were standing by the president’s desk, conferring on the national debt when the intercom buzzed. “Mr. President,” Taylor heard Alice say, “General Corvan is here to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

  The president turned to the two men. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but we’ll have to continue this discussion later.”

  “But, sir,” Longstreet replied, “the debt problem is urgent too.”

  Taylor held up a hand. “Sorry. National security trumps that. We’ll talk later today.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The two men left the
room, and the general walked in and nodded. “Hello, sir.”

  Taylor went behind his desk and slumped in his chair. “Thank you for saving me from another tedious Power Point presentation. The treasury secretary may be an economic genius but he always puts me to sleep.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Alice said you had something urgent?”

  A frown crossed the general’s face. “Yes. I spoke with Garcia several times late yesterday and again early this morning. I didn’t want to bother you until I was sure. Garcia’s crew lost Senator Lewis.”

  Taylor’s hands formed into fists. “Lost her?”

  “Yes, sir. They were following her but she gave them the slip. Looks like her bodyguards are highly skilled and picked up the tail.”

  “Shit! I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “This is bad, Corvan. Really bad. We have to eliminate her. She knows way too much.”

  “I understand.”

  The president rubbed his temple with one hand. A massive headache was brewing. “I know you understand. You have just as much to lose as I do.”

  “Sir, unfortunately I have more bad news.”

  Taylor grunted. “What? What else?”

  “The NSA has been monitoring Lewis’s calls for the last few days. They picked up a call today. They didn’t get all of it, but enough to know that the senator is flying out of the country.” The general glanced at his watch. “In fact, she may already be gone.”

  Taylor clenched his jaw and desperately longed for a scotch whiskey. “God damn it, where did she go?”

  “Australia.”

  The president shook his head slowly. “That’s a big place. We’ll have trouble finding her.”

  “I’ve already alerted our contacts there and the NSA is monitoring flights into Australia.”

  “Find her and kill her.”

  “Yes, sir. Do you want me to send Garcia after her?”

  Taylor was quiet for a moment, then said, “We’re only days away from BlackSnow. I’d rather not have him that far away. Contact one of our friends at the CIA – send one of their black ops teams after Lewis. God knows we don’t want to send an NSA field unit after her.”

  “Yes, sir. What about Blake? Maybe Garcia should go back to finding her.”

  The president waved a hand in the air. “Sure. Fine. Anything else, Corvan?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Okay. Now leave me alone. We can talk later.”

  The general stood. “Yes, Mr. President.” He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The president pressed the intercom. “Alice, I don’t want to be disturbed for half-an-hour.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied.

  Taylor stood and walked over to the ornate wooden cabinet at the far side of the room. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a key and unlocked one of the drawers of the cabinet. Then he pulled out a glass and a large bottle of 30-year old scotch and took them back to his desk.

  4 Days to Zero Hour

  Juarez, Mexico

  “Ustedes aceptan dolares Americano? Do you take cash? American dollars?” Erica Blake asked the short, plump woman in the stained nurse’s outfit.

  The nurse gave her a crooked smile, her discolored teeth showing. “Si. That is all we take.” She let out a throaty laugh. “No American Express cards here.”

  Erica was in the waiting room of a clinic that the night clerk of her motel had recommended. No questions asked kind of place, the clerk had said.

  The dingy room was filled with shabbily-dressed men of all ages, wearing makeshift bandages and walking with crutches and canes. From the furtive looks they gave her, Erica was pretty sure most of them had something to hide. Juarez had a rep for being a lawless town and the clientele here seemed to prove it.

  There was no A/C in the place and Erica brushed at the sweat rolling off her forehead. “How long a wait to see the doctor?” she asked.

  “Eso depende,” the nurse replied. “That depends. A hundred bucks gets you to the front of the line.”

  Erica thought about that for a moment. She was running low on cash, but she desperately needed to get treated. “Okay.” She pulled some bills from her pocket and handed it to the woman, who grabbed them quickly. “Sigame, senorita. Right this way.”

  Erica followed the nurse into the back area, a large room that had been partitioned into small cubicles. The cubicles were dimly-lit and grimy and were full of patients, many groaning or crying. It looked like two doctors and a handful of nurses were shuttling between the rooms. They reached the end of the narrow corridor and the nurse pointed to an empty cubicle. “Doctor Flores will be with you in a minute.” Then she laughed. “And be careful with that puto. He likes to grab tetas.” The nurse left and Erica sat on the elevated table in the center of the room, its tufted plastic covering torn and faded.

  A minute later a middle-aged man with a wide mustache and black, slicked-back hair came in the cubicle. He pulled the screen closed behind him. He wore a doctor’s white lab coat and a stethoscope hung from his neck.

  “Yo soy Doctor Flores,” he said theatrically. “I can see from your looks you are an American? Eres mui bonita, senorita.”

  Erica crossed her arms in front of her. “Actually I’m Canadian.”

  “My mistake. Perdoname. What is your name, pretty lady?”

  “Susan. Susan McMillan.”

  “A pretty name for a pretty lady.”

  “Doc,” she said brusquely. “I’d like to chat, but I need medical treatment.”

  “Of course. Of course. What is the problem?”

  She pointed to her shoulder. “I’ve got a deep…cut on my upper arm.”

  “I see. Please take off your jacket so I can take a look at it.”

  Erica slowly shrugged off the too-big jacket, careful not to re-open the wound. Then she rolled up the short sleeve of her polo shirt.

  Flores took off the makeshift gauze and bandages and inspected the ugly wound. “How did this happen? It’s more than a cut, senorita. This is a gunshot wound. Luckily for you, the bullet went all the way through your arm.”

  “Doesn’t really matter how it happened. I just need you to sew it up. But I got to know how much first.”

  He stood back from her and gave her a wide smile. “How will you be paying?”

  “Cash.”

  His eyes lit up. “We could work out a different payment plan, if you prefer.”

  “Like what?”

  “A pretty woman like you, I am sure you have something to trade.”

  The lecherous man was giving her the creeps. Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I’ll pay cash. How much?”

  He looked crestfallen. “Pity. Cash is five-hundred dollars, U.S. And that includes a shot for the pain and a prescription for Percodan. The pills will help with the pain. I will need half before I start, the balance when I am done.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Let’s do it right now.” She pulled the dwindling wad of cash out of her pocket, counted it out and handed it to him.

  “Please take off your shirt and lay on the table,” he said.

  She gave him a hard look. “I’ll keep the shirt on – just cut off the sleeve.”

  He sighed. “As you wish, senorita.”

  Erica lay on the torn plastic cushion and stared at the bare, dim light bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

  He cut off her sleeve and rolled a cart next to the table. As he picked up a hypodermic needle, she said, “Aren’t you going to wash your hands first?”

  He seemed surprised at her question. “Of course, I must have forgotten.” He left the cubicle and returned a minute later. Then he methodically put on rubber gloves and picked up the hypodermic. “The shot will dull the pain. First I will clean the wound and then cut away the dead skin. After that I will suture the wound. No te procupes. Do not worry. I have done this many, many times.”

  He gave her the shot and after a minute Erica felt her arm go numb. “Go
ahead, doc.”

  The man began to work on her and to her surprise, he seemed very proficient. He was done ten minutes later.

  Snapping off his gloves, he said. “By your pale complexion, I can tell you have lost a lot of blood. I recommend you take it easy for a while, eat lots of protein and drink lots of fluids.”

  Sitting up on the table, she inspected her neatly bandaged arm. “Good job, doc.” She pulled out the balance of the cash and handed it to him.

  “If you ever need any other medical attention, yo estoy a tu servicio.” Florez gave her a theatrical bow. “I am at your service.” He gave her another bright smile. “Have dinner with me, Susan McMillan. I could show you the better parts of our…lovely city.”

  She stood, awkwardly put on the jacket. “Got to run, doc. Got a long day ahead of me.”

  He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Pity.”

  An hour later she was back at the motel. On her walk back she had stopped at a cantina and wolfed down a heaping plate of enchiladas and washed it down with Dos Equis beer. It was the first real food she’d had in days and she savored the rich taste as it was going down. But now, as she sat on the lumpy mattress, she began to regret it. Her stomach grumbled and she rubbed it. But she took comfort that her arm had been patched up – she wouldn’t have to worry about bleeding out.

  Getting up, she went to the bathroom to clean up and change into a new shirt. After that, she’d pack the few meager possessions she’d bought and stuff them in her backpack. It was time to leave town.

  ***

  Bobbie Garcia disconnected the call and re-clipped the cell phone to his belt.

  “That was Moseley, the NSA guy,” he said to Sergeant Thomas, who was sitting next to him on the front seat of the rented, dark gray Yukon. The vehicle was parked on a side street, not far from downtown Juarez. “They’ve tracked her location.”

  Thomas nodded. “Good. How’d they get it?”

  “Moseley’s worked with the Federales here in Juarez a couple of times before. Drug-enforcement stuff. Anyway the Mexican feds just got a tip from a local doctor, a real sleaze-bag from what Moseley said. Anyway, this doctor treated a woman fitting our description to a tee. And she had a GSW in the arm. The NSA guy is certain it’s Erica Blake.”