Free One Rough Man by Brad Taylor Page A

argue with success.
    George saw him bristle and backed off. “I’m not saying he wasn’t good. I’m just saying that this effort is greater than one man. You can’t let an individual—any individual—supersede what we’re doing.”
    “Yeah, I know. I get it. I don’t need my own speeches thrown at me.”
    Kurt had used the “greater good” argument to convince President Warren to begin with. He wasn’t sure anymore it was right. The greater good had been used to defend a lot of actions in the past, including Pol Pot and Hitler. In contrast, the constitution of the United States itself was based on the individual—every individual. When does the greater good become evil? When was it okay to kill one innocent to protect many? When the many said so? Or when the one has a vote? It wasn’t a trivial question, because Kurt and President Warren had managed to create an organization that, in the wrong hands, could be very evil indeed. He was walking a slippery slope, trying to keep his perspective on what was truly in the greater good against men, like that asshole Standish from the council, who didn’t understand the meaning of the term.
    His thoughts were broken by their sedan pulling up to the security gate for the Old Executive Office Building next door to the White House. The imposing granite structure housed some of the most important offices in the U.S. government, including the office of the vice president and the National Security Council. It was also where the Taskforce Oversight Council convened.
    George parked the car. “Hey, I know how you feel about Pike. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
    Kurt smiled, letting him off the hook. “Don’t worry about it. I know what you meant. Let’s go get this brief over with.”

16
    W ithin his palatial estate a few miles outside of Guatemala City, Miguel Portilla addressed the two Arabs in English. “To ensure I understand, you’re offering me a retainer to move items across the border into the United States for a period of three years. These items can range from human beings to boxes no larger than three feet by three feet and weighing no more than two hundred pounds. Is this correct?”
    “Yes. We’re willing to pay you a handsome fee regardless of whether we bring you something to ship or not,” stated the taller of the Arabs in heavily accented English. He appeared to be the spokesman, with the other Arab simply looking on and listening.
    Miguel was a smuggler, although applying that term to him was like saying Bill Gates was a computer salesman. He was the undisputed leader of high-end smuggling into the United States. First earning his reputation with the Cali cartel in Colombia, he now worked exclusively with Los Zetas, a ferocious drug cartel made up of former Mexican Special Forces currently at war with the Mexican government.
    “If I agree to do this, it’ll cost much more than you’ve offered, as I believe the implications will have a traumatic impact on my business. In addition, I’ll get your items into the United States, but I won’t travel more than forty miles across the border. I have no interest in being associated with your enterprise.”
    Miguel was no fool. He knew that he was being asked to smuggle people and equipment that would be used solely to inflict death and destruction on the United States. In so doing, he also knew that the United States would react in a frenzy of fear, turning its porous borders into an airtight Tupperware container that an ant would have trouble infiltrating. He cared not a whit about the damage and destruction, but was concerned a great deal about the future of his industry. He also knew that in this day and age, the one thing that could destroy him was being named as an associate of a terrorist group. He could bribe his way out of any smuggling charge or connection to Los Zetas, but he couldn’t stand up to the pressure the United States would bring to bear if he was seen as helping