Read Elixir for Free Online

Vice President in an hour,” he says, attention still on the article. “This better be as urgent as you said it was.”
    The DEA representative unclips the latches on his briefcase and takes out a manila folder. Leaning forward, he hands it to Pine and says, “My team on the ground took that last night. We have reason to believe Carlos Salinas has been hiding inside.”
    Setting down the newspaper, Pine opens the folder. He examines a night-vision photo, a grainy image of a white mansion with closed shutters, a man in front with an Uzi, mountains behind. “How confident are you he’s actually here?”
    “With the...new mathematical tool we have at our disposal...we were able to decrypt the code he uses to communicate with his lieutenants. Nearly all the thumb-drive messages we retrieved trace Salinas to Taxco, an old mining town in central Mexico. I sent three of my best surveillance experts down there yesterday. They got a visual on one of his security men. They tracked him back to that compound.”
    Pine shuts the folder and tosses it on the seat, the late-afternoon sun coming through the window glimmering on his pockmarked neck. Reaching to the mini bar, he grabs a bottle of bourbon and a glass. He unscrews the top with slow spins, pours, and sips, the limo filling with the smell of liquor. He makes eye contact with them for the first time, jumping between each. “So,” he says. “What’s the plan?”
    “The Mexican Federal Police are ready to pounce on this prick,” the DEA man says. “They’ll make a move when I confirm the intel. I wanted to of course notify you first since this would be an official engagement brought on by...a certain academic paper you have a vested interest in.”
    Patrick doesn’t seem comfortable. He hunches forward and says to Pine, “Though we’re confident about the intelligence, we’re not entirely sure what kind of muscle and arsenal Salinas has in the compound. I’d expect it’s not light. We need to keep in mind he’s in a residential neighborhood. We can’t make a war zone of it.”
    “This drug-lord piece of shit has been making a war zone of South Texas for the last three years,” Pine says.
    “I want him just as bad as you, but we should maybe consider luring him out of the area first, then apprehending him in a more stable location.”
    Pine swirls the bourbon for about ten seconds. His squinty brown eyes locked on Patrick, he asks, “How many enemies did you kill when you fought in Afghanistan?”
    “None sir.” He pauses. “I wasn’t in the war.”
    “How many when you were in Desert Storm?”
    “I wasn’t in that war either.”
    “How many in any other wars?”
    “I was never in a war sir.” A long pause. “As you know.”
    “I killed seventeen men in Vietnam,” Pine says with pride. He turns to the DEA man. “How about you?”
    “Ten.”
    Pine looks back at Patrick. “Twenty-seven dead enemies of the United States between the two of us. None from you. If I have a question about a computer, I’ll ask you. If I have a question about eliminating a threat to the nation in a real, physical way, I’d prefer if you kept your mouth shut. Is that clear?”
    Patrick doesn’t speak for some time. “Clear.”
    “Good.” Pine shifts to the DEA man. “What’s your call?”
    “He’s a sitting duck in that compound. Baiting him out is only a risk. I say we mobilize our friends south of the border tomorrow morning and put an end to Operation Golden Bear inside the house.”
    “That’s what I figured you’d say.”
    Early the next day machine guns ring through the misty hills of Taxco, Mexico. A black Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows speeds out of the garage of the mansion in the surveillance photograph, turning onto a quiet mountain road with a screech. An unmarked white van follows, three Mexican federal officers in body armor inside, one driving, two hanging out pointing assault rifles.
    The chase rumbles down to flat ground, where dozens