The End of Bull

By Jeffrey Knowles

Barney Trent may be a CIA legend, but now his talents are waning, his career is crumbling, and his wife is leaving.
His best friend, Gordon Montgomery, happens to be the sitting U.S. president, but that relationship goes south when Barney rejects Montgomery's offer to retire and take a cushy job in Washington. Instead, Barney is demoted and transferred to Tijuana, Mexico, to report on the drug war. Angered by the crimes of the "narco-terrorists," he decides that his last act as a CIA operative will be to destroy the Andele Cartel, a group that appears to have ties to Washington.
What Barney doesn't know is that the president's rise, from California congressman to the Oval Office, was financed with payoffs from this same cartel. As he comes to realize this fact, his mission reaches into the power centers of Washington, and the battle escalates.
Barney’s truculent march through Baja results in a PR nightmare for the U.S., seething anger from Mexico—and multiple entities seeking his destruction.
With a suitcase full of stolen drug profits and a price on his head, Barney sets a trap for the cartel—and the President—assisted by an assortment of oddball characters, including a ne’er-do-well private detective and a DEA agent, who is estranged from that agency for blogging against the drug war.
When the cartel finally locates Barney at a posh Cabo San Lucas hotel, they send their best assassins to take him down. There’s just one catch. They have to fight the president and the CIA for the privilege.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Knowles
• Release date: Dec 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310038457

Book preview

Pino Gordo, Mexico

Barney Trent was leaning on the mahogany bar in La Piñata, drinking with three dead narcotraficantes, who'd been casually perched on some nearby stools. He hated to drink alone at four in the morning, and these gentlemen were, at the very least, amusing. He particularly appreciated the one with the handlebar mustache who was still clutching his Uzi and grinning, as if he’d merely suffered a momentary setback—not been shot dead.

The private cantina of cartel-boss, Juan Sanchez, was situated on the outskirts of his ranch near Pino Gordo, and was part of a wild-west town featuring facades of hotels, storefronts and other odd bits of Americana. The estate included a golf course, Olympic-sized pool and stables, the mansion itself nestled at the base of the overshadowing Sierra Tarahumara Mountains.

Barney popped open his mobile and observed the screen saver; a matador flashing a red cape before dissolving to a logo for Aero-Mexico. A new text message said, Get Home NOW. He scrolled to the guy’s number, considered the request and set the phone down. He closed his eyes, picturing his wife, Karen, sobbing away at his funeral. She’d be dressed in black, her face puffy with tears—and still get hit on three times as she walked to the cemetery.

He'd placed the timing device near the cash register, and could just barely see the digital read-out; eleven twenty-two, eleven twenty-one—infinity exists between two seconds and just who the hell was going to make him pay the bar bill? He picked up the Colt-45 and placed a yellow drink-umbrella in the barrel.

He'd set additional charges throughout the estate—C-4 plastics—which had to be triggered manually with the small devices in his pocket. They would not be exploding, however, because after the unexpected and fairly enervating shoot out, he’d decided to have a gin and tonic. And then another. And then one more, until the whole idea of blowing up more Mexicans and old buildings seemed pedestrian. He tipped his glass. Drink up gentlemen. This bar is exploding in eleven minutes.

Barney Trent, sipping Boodles & Tonic, and looking through a slide-show of his life. He smiled when he got to Karen. He wasn’t angry anymore and now he was seeing her lovely face behind the lacy blue veil at their wedding. He’d been too dazzled to speak, had finally shouted yes-sir! instead of I do, and the place had come unglued. She’d have the million dollar life insurance, and a slice of what he’d stolen from the drug cartel.

It was three and a half minutes to boom-time when he saw the kid—a scrawny little guy carrying Windex and a bucket of rags. He'd walked in through a door behind the bar with his head down. Then he looked up, taking it all in; three dead guys, seated on barstools, gaping at him, along with a live specimen—a tall, striking, gray haired maniac underneath an enormous sombrero.

The kid turned on his heels and scooted into the kitchen, Barney screaming, No! leaping over the bar, losing the hat and smashing through the swinging doors, It’s going to blow! It’s wired! Get out of here! Where the hell did you go, son?

Barney crashed though the kitchen, smacking into blenders and banging into carts loaded with plates, shelves of glassware crashing to the floor creating a cacophony that was going to compete head-to-head with the bomb blast. Finally the harsh sound of the alarm. Standing amidst waist-high sacks of beans now, cupping hands to his mouth and turning in a circle as he yelled, Amigo there’s a bomb in this restaurant! We’ve got about two minutes!

There must have been twenty pantry doors…what am I doing! Spanish! But he was winded and his voice came out raspy and weak. "Hay una bomba en el restaurante! Usted tiene que salir. ¡Va a soplar!

The boy appeared ten feet away, his face a mask of uncertainty. Barney took a long stride, collared him and dragged him back to the bar. As they stumbled in, the front door of the cantina burst open and two guys walked in, spotted them and raised weapons. Barney threw the kid down and ducked just in time to hear the unmistakable burst of yet another Uzi and the now familiar sound of glass shattering, falling to the ground, and shattering some more. The hail of bullets missed the detonator whose blinking red message now said two minutes, thirteen seconds.

He reached into his fanny-pack and removed the Glock. He couldn’t even kill himself correctly, and was calculating that it had been exactly ten months since something had gone right. Now, If he tried to grab the detonator they'd shoot his arm off. Self-demolition was fine, but he wasn’t going down via some narco-terrorist’s sloppy shooting. He plugged his ears, the bursts of machine gun fire like being on a factory floor. He looked down. The kid, who he now realized was no more than twelve, was sobbing, shaking and pointing up toward the liquor shelf. Barney shouted in his ear, It’s too late for drinking, kid!

The young man was fixated on the shelf. Barney looked again and saw the dog; a preposterous, Chihuahua-looking thing with huge, terror-filled black eyes. It was perched, still as midnight, on the liquor shelf between Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo. Taking a closer look, Barney saw that it was trembling, or rather it was vibrating. It was terrified, just like the kid. One of the Uzi slingers unleashed another spray of bullets, chewing up bottles, schooners, and hi-ball glasses until the only ones left on the end of the shelf were Jack and the little dog. There was a pause, the metallic sound of another clip being slapped into an automatic—the two men shrieking and laughing. Then one of them shot the dog and the boy screamed.

There were things he held dear; other people's kids, football and Nancy Sinatra recordings to name a few. Had the Uzi-slinging cartel-gangster known his adversary, as the guys at the top did by now, he would never have shot the dog. But when Chihuahua fell in a bloody heap on the floor, and the boy's sobs became a jarring wail, a decision was made that would send shock waves from the drug distribution centers of Columbia and Tijuana—to the White House. Barney Trent decided to keep on living. He realized that he hadn’t yet killed enough Mexicans or blown up enough cartel property. That fact was clear now as he aimed carefully, and shot the detonator.

He heard the two men talking. They were drunk, and probably passing a bottle back and forth as they fired over the two stuffed horses in the lobby. Barney endured another minute of machine gun fire and then there was a pause. While the men reloaded he stood up behind the bar. They were actually astride the horses, wearing cowboy hats and waving Uzis in the air. Barney shot them both dead. After covering the Chihuahua with a dish towel, he reset the explosives to manual, gave the boy a wad of cash and outlined for him, the benefits of leaving the premises. The boy pocketed the money, and carried his little friend through a side door.

Barney reloaded, crashed out through the saloon doors elbows-first, and walked to the middle of the street. He noted the stables across the way, and up the hill, Juan Sanchez’s magnificent estate, complete with a cocaine-filled grain silo, jutting up through the haze like a cold-war missile. He pulled out a detonator, thinking he might make Drudge again;

INSANE CIA AGENT BLEW A FUSE

He turned slowly in a circle and studied his surroundings, not exactly West Broadway. A few somnolent cows, a lone tumbleweed blowing down the road—two crows on top of a Burma Shave sign. (The big blue tube’s, Just like Louise, You get a thrill, From every squeeze!)

As he fingered the device, he decided to do the silo first, and then the bar. You could hit boom! or boom in 60-seconds. Flashing red digits caught his eye.

59 seconds….54 seconds.

He hadn’t touched either button. This kind of thing was eventually going to cause problems.

39 seconds.

22 seconds. At a bullfight two days ago, he’d gotten a direct call from the President, ordering him back to Washington. He’d pretended to lose the signal (What? Gord? I’m losing you…) closed the phone, and spotted the Mexican flag, snapping in the breeze—an eagle with a snake in its beak. And Barney, you are the…?

Bull. And when I finally cash in, as I certainly will, stick the sword in and uncork the Champagne. He ignored the timer and looked at the mansion. Its opulence juxtaposed against the poverty of the village made him want to throw up. So he did. Standing up, he patted himself down for gum as he took in the six-thousand-square-foot colonial. Snooping around, he’d learned Sanchez claimed ownership of all the valley's water and charged the locals exorbitant fees for irrigation.

5 seconds;

Boom! And the silo was airborne. The clattering of debris striking the earth, the smell of sulfur. That cartoon feeling as he watched the junk rain down like a mutated hailstorm. He peered through the smoke, thinking of a partner, retired in Florida, who was probably hooking a marlin this very moment.

Across the street, the stable door was ajar. He walked in, wolfed down a Hershey-Bar, pulled out another detonator, and blew the cantina. Moments later a familiar black SUV came roaring down the street, throwing up dust and skidding to a stop. The mangy narco-terrorists clambered out and ran straight for him. Crap—the whole damn street's on surveillance video! He blew six rounds at them, slammed the door, pulled the bolt across and retreated into the cavernous barn, reloading the Glock and feeling for his backup pistol. Trapped now—what the hell was he doing?

A cross-breeze highlighted the stink of manure, and he sensed movement in the rafters. The sounds of wings flapping, shadowy outlines of bladed machinery; the livery was the one place he hadn't reconned, figuring that he wasn't going to do anything to it anyway, and time had been precious. He moved deeper into the tomb-like stable, pausing to listen before finding a screened aperture near the floor. Looking out, he saw a man who appeared to be the leader, face angry, his fingers like tiny venomous snakes, squirming up and down the barrel of an AK47. There were eight men now, the first responders having been joined by some scruffy desperadoes he'd observed a few days ago in Pino Gordo. They'd been sitting in an outdoor restaurant, automatic rifles at their feet, staring sullenly at anyone stupid enough to make eye contact. Now they were building a fire and gazing menacingly at the barn.

When they approached with torches, Barney stood and walked to the back of the stable. No animals, tons of dry wood. What we have here is a cremation pyre. An hour ago that would have been fine. He reached the rear of the building and tapped the wall, his hunch being that there was another thirty feet or so to this structure. Running his hands over the wood, he discovered the outline of a door and pushed. As he stepped across the threshold, he heard crashing sounds, and observed licks of flame permeating the barn walls.

The room had a skylight, and contained a private stall of some sort. He caught a heady whiff of smoke and thought of an black-and-white photograph he'd seen years ago in a Mexico City museum; a condemned man with a cigarette in his mouth. The picture had been taken from behind the sombrero-hatted firing squad, catching the puffs of smoke at the tips of their long rifles.

He sighed and pressed both hands against the hot wall. This was on its way to being a miserable year. First getting transferred to Mexico, then Karen wanting kids, pulling phrases into her complaints like end of her rope and not waiting around forever while you run all over… And then he swims down into the muck and sleaze of this stinking Mexico situation and bumps into an old friend, a guy with unimaginable power, who just may have attained that status through the drug trade.

He was staring at the rafters in the next room when he heard the snort; a startling, boom-box rumble that jolted him out of his reverie. He followed the sound back to the first room and stopped cold. In the center of the stall stood an enormous black bull. It must have been lying in the shadowy corner when he’d first walked in. The fire was spreading fast, illuminating the barn, though what he saw in the bull’s guileful eyes, gave him a strange comfort.

Sounds of crackling timber, noxious black clouds swirling like demons, and Barney Trent starting to choke. He dodged an avalanche of flaming lumber, put an arm across his face, and regarded his cell mate; The beast had a huge triangular head, broad, lethal horns, and one side of his face was streaked in white. And something extraordinary; the eyes did not contain the dull glaze of a beast. The bull glared furiously, as if the human before him were an inept servant, performing his tasks too slowly. Barney yanked open the gate and scrambled out of the way, coughing as wood popped and snapped in the inferno.

Local boss, Chavez had murdered hundreds of people for the Andele Drug Cartel. He was not a religious man. But the sight of the immense black beast bursting through the flaming barn-wall, shattering fiery boards into the sky and running toward the hills, was a scene from hell. First the beast, then birds, screeching and flapping. White birds, black birds, goblins from the pit, he and his men too preoccupied with that horrific vision to notice the gringo step out moments later through the same hole.

Barney looked toward the mountain where he'd hidden the Honda Scooter and braced himself for a hard run. The town of Pino Gordo was ten miles away. If he could get to the bike, he'd regroup and make his way to the Cessna he'd concealed in a nearby valley.

His thoughts were of creaky, wood-slat bridges, high over the Thai Binh River, menacing officials in third-world countries yanking him from a jetliner and dragging him to a cell, ponderous stone monuments to tinhorn dictators, and traitors in his own State Department who fanned the fires of war to prove their manhood.

He considered the mounting evidence that something sinister was stewing in the highest offices of his country, and that he was more than a little acquainted with the top guy—the events of the last ninety days, all lining up and pointing at one man. In his mind’s eye, he saw the Tarahumara girls selling sashes by the river, the sad face of the one whose father had disappeared, the bull with the white face. He thought of Gordon Montgomery, the most powerful man in the world. A man he called his friend. So, what do you think, Gord? I'm down here in Mexico blowing up... your stuff?

The Honda-90 crackled and coughed as he picked his way over the hills of Pino Gordo. He was halfway up an incline when he heard gunshots and looked back to see the black SUV throwing up dust. Andele. When he rounded the next bend, they pulled ominously close before he goosed the throttle and sped around a curve. As soon as the road straightened, they'd run him over or blow him away. As he cut across the next switchback, he spotted a perpendicular trail, leapt off the still moving scooter, and ran.

The SUV burst through the brush, throwing up dirt and mowing down trees. Barney heard the engine’s growl and the snapping of branches and realized his time was short. As he crashed through the woods, he reached into the fanny-pack, picking blindly through the contents. The truck was almost on him.

Crackling gunshots, birds screeching, no time to look back, just a desperate lunge around each tree and boulder, his lungs heaving and a searing pain in his side. He couldn’t run any further, so he took a hard turn into the brush, fighting through, then escaping the jungle’s grasp and falling through space. He was tumbling down into a drainage ditch, the fanny-pack spewing its contents in a wide arc as he descended.

As he struggled to his knees, the SUV appeared, a black nightmare on the rim of the ditch, the man with the deer rifle climbing out, and walking to the front of the truck. Barney heard boots crunching on gravel, wild-parrots screeching and the clicking of cicadas in the trees. Silence. Suddenly the Mexican gave a war whoop and swung the gun to his shoulder. Barney dove for the ground, squeezing the button in mid-air, the truck exploding in a burst of yellow flame, the thunder of the charges raging in his ears.

Chapter 2

Washington D.C.

Two men were sitting in the spacious office of a high-level appointee on E Street. It takes years to obtain such an office and just moments to lose it. In this game, each man presides over one square of a chessboard. Flanked by other squares and sandwiched between competing boards, his dream is to stay employed. A bad day brings conflict between pieces below, which are semi-controllable, and those above, which are not controllable at all.

CIA Director Crenshaw and General Counsel, Henderson spoke softly, as if such mild tones would lessen unwanted attention to their respective games. The name Barney Trent had provoked many such conversations over the years, and with the election of his friend Gordon Montgomery to the presidency three years ago, things had gotten much worse.

Now the President wanted Crenshaw to bring Trent in from the field and slot him into an administrative post, a high-ranking position where his experience could be put to proper use. That was a problem. Trent was a loose-cannon who loathed bureaucracy, and he had no interest in coming in from the cold as he liked to say.

Henderson was a slightly built man with thick glasses and wavy brown hair. A boy wonder at thirty-five, he was of the opinion that Crenshaw's job was in jeopardy and his was safe. That was today's prognosis, but the day was young and the pieces were moving. He considered whether a hostile bishop might have an angle to his queen and imagined an extra player on the table, a large piece with a head like Barney Trent’s, moving at random and crashing boorishly into his game. Your career could be toast in a matter of hours. All it takes is one idiot to blindside you.

He moved the clipboard to his knee. "Mr. Director, it appears that Barney Trent is trying to aggravate a certain drug cartel. One source suggested that he's trying to provoke them to attempt to hit him."

Hit whom?

Hit Barney.

Why?

We don't know.

Crenshaw rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

Henderson said, "Remember, Stan, we sent him to Mexico to get him closer to home. The drug assignment was perfect because it's strictly an intelligence-gathering gig. The problem is, Trent's gone beyond the scope of his mission. Again.

Crenshaw said, Where's he planning to do this operation?

Cabo San Lucas.

The director looked at paintings of Paris streets on his office wall. Dealing with Trent was like being the teacher of your boss’s kid. You can't win anything, but you can lose big. He brought his gaze back to Henderson. And Barney Trent reports to—

Touché. Henderson smiled. Me, Stan. But as you well know, he doesn't actually report to anybody, and we've never fired him because he's too damn good. And for twenty-five years, he's made the agency look very good. He laughed and crossed his legs, comfortable now that he'd made the point that Trent was everyone's problem. He pushed it further, allowing an amused twinkle to appear at the edges of his eyes. Then his best friend, one of our own ex-spies, gets himself elected President and Trent becomes untouchable!

Crenshaw pursed his lips. Contact him, Henderson. Get him back here.

Henderson held his ground. Trent was a runaway train and a no-win assignment. It would be safer trying to infiltrate al Qaida. He deadpanned, We've been paging him, sir. He doesn't answer.

Crenshaw deadpanned back. Maybe you should go to work for Georgetown Lexus, they have an excellent paging system.

Check. You, Henderson, are a lonely castle with no move left except the one I'm laying out. If you can't get Trent in, you'll be managing security guards for Sears. At two o'clock, Crenshaw said, You'll be joining me for a meeting with President Montgomery regarding this matter. It's off the record.

Henderson could see the massacre unfolding. Crenshaw would forward the President’s unanswerable questions to him, sliding them off his body like a juggler rolling a ball down his arm, looking concerned, raising his eyebrows in subtle shock that the matter hadn’t already been taken care of. He leaned back, Stan, are we going to tell the President that his old pal Barney is running loose in Mexico, blowing shit up?

The Director looked stunned. Don't use phrases like 'blowing shit up' around the President, Henderson. Montgomery knows about the bombings.

Crenshaw stared at a chessboard on a corner shelf. On the floor below, knights and pawns were scattered about like something from a Clausewitzian nightmare. A half hour later, in the White House-bound Limo, he drummed fat fingers on his alligator briefcase and worried.

***

A few hours later, the President rubbed a thumb across manicured nails and looked skeptically at Crenshaw. Out with it please, what in hell’s name is going on in Mexico?

Crenshaw glared at Henderson who scooted to the edge of his seat and spoke circumspectly. Mr. President, Barney Trent is engaging in acts of sabotage, using stratagems of incineration to achieve disapprobation among the cartels.

On his feet now, the President was almost screaming. Trent’s blowing shit up from Tijuana to Nacho and you want to talk about disapprobation?

No sir.

The President sat down and reached for a cigar. He squinted at the men, lit the cigar, cracked his knuckles, leaned back, and smiled. Montgomery was a good-looking man, sporting a blood-red power-tie and an imperial blue blazer.

The war on drugs is to be fought within the proper precincts, and that doesn’t include your agents ‘employing stratagems of incineration.’ No one's willing to give me the straight dope on this because everyone knows Barney is an old pal of mine. He swept a hand in a wide arc, delineating the astonishing scope of his power. I hate to blow my own horn, gentlemen, but, he whispered, I’m the President of the United States. He smiled benevolently. Help me out here.

Crenshaw wrinkled his nose at Henderson as if anticipating a bad smell. Henderson said, He’s been offing cartel bosses. And the problem Mexico has is that its Vice President has been falsely accused of running a drug cartel. The gentleman informed me on the phone today that he’s not interested in being offed. Basically, he wants this unnamed, rogue CIA agent, who we know to be Barney Trent, shot.

The President looked from Crenshaw to Henderson. Don’t we all. Then, "If Trent’s not wearing a suit and telling jokes at the water cooler in forty-eight hours, I'll fire you both. I'll fire you ugly.

Crenshaw spoke up, We’re just two days away from re-certifying Mexico, Mr. President.

And what’s that got to do with anything?

That DEA analyst who wrote the articles on drugs and immigration—as you know, his stuff’s popping up all over. CNN, FOX, Drudge Report.

Secretary of State Norstrom, who had been sitting across the room, joined the conversation, quoting the oft heard sound-bite from the obscure DEA analyst, "Montgomery’s plan to eradicate drugs in third-world nations is going to drive the cost