Independence Day by Ben Coes Page A

the hilt. He put it in his mouth and aimed it at the photographs inside the folder.
    “Those are fresh off NGA SAT an hour ago,” said Bond.
    NGA, the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency, was a key CIA operations support agency, providing real-time imagery of areas of operation, looking primarily for signs of unexpected enemy manpower.
    Several of the photos were taken during daytime. They showed a rectangular warehouse, along with a few semitrucks backed up to a loading dock. There were also night shots, from the sky, using advanced holographic-imaging technology. They looked like X-rays. One of the photos displayed a close-up of the side of the building; a red circle had been stenciled around a door.
    Dewey finished looking at the photos and tossed them on the seat.
    “You’ll approach on foot in a northeast pattern, coming at the building through a side door. The location is on the scan. Eliminate anyone you see, then hit me up on commo. I’ll get down there, we’ll set munitions, then split. We’ll detonate it remotely. We should be able to fly Air America out of Acapulco. SEAL Team 4 is prepared to exfiltrate if things get nasty.”
    Dewey stared out the Suburban’s back window. As hard as he tried to listen, Bond’s words sounded like they were coming from a thousand miles away. As hard as he tried to concentrate, he couldn’t.
    “Cartels your first desk?” asked Dewey, willing himself back to the present.
    “Second,” said Bond. “I spent five years in Russia.”
    “Doing what?”
    “I was part of a team that was trying to destabilize Putin before he got elected. Obviously it didn’t work too well.”
    Dewey closed his eyes and pictured Jessica. It was the afternoon she was killed. She was on a horse, riding in Argentina. He was riding behind her. For some reason, this was the image that popped into his head as he stared out at the moonlit Iguala countryside.
    It had been almost precisely six months to the day since she was killed. He and Jessica would’ve been married. The first bump of a child might’ve appeared on her stomach by now.
    He shut his eyes for several moments, then opened them, steeling himself against the sadness he knew would soon come on like a fever.
    “I heard you spent some time chasing down the North Valley cartel,” said Bond, referring to one of South America’s most notorious cartels, a group that was now largely gone.
    “Yeah,” said Dewey, meeting Bond’s eyes, forcing himself back to the present, to the Suburban, to Bond’s words, to Iguala.
    “What was the biggest coke fab you hit?”
    Dewey stared at Bond in the mirror. He remained silent.
    Stop thinking about her.
    “I don’t remember,” said Dewey. “They all sorta blend in.”
    “I studied how North Valley was taken down. You were right in the middle of it.”
    “If I was, I didn’t realize it,” said Dewey.
    Dewey looked at Bond in the rearview mirror.
    “Can I ask you something?” said Dewey.
    “Sure.”
    “And not have it leave here?”
    “It stays between us.”
    “You know someone at the Agency named Gant?” asked Dewey.
    Bond’s eyes flashed in the rearview.
    “The new deputy director,” he said. “Yeah. Why?”
    “Just wondering.”
    Bond paused.
    “Steer clear of him,” he said. “I don’t trust him. Politicians are bad enough, but the guys who get them elected? They’re assholes.”
    Bond slowed the Suburban.
    “We’re here,” he said as he pulled on a set of thermal night optics, killed the lights, and banked left into the driveway, accelerating down an empty dirt road. After a minute, he came to a stop.
    Dewey reached to the seat next to him. He lifted a half-moon-shaped mag and slammed it into the gun. He opened the door and climbed out. He reached to his ear.
    “Commo check.”
    “Roger,” said Bond. “See you in a few.”
    Dewey started a quick-paced run off the driveway, into a low field of brush and dry scrub grass.
    He had night optics, but he kept them