by Evan Graver
José Luis Orozco declared himself the victor.
Before Guerrero’s death, Orozco had been third in command. Guerrero had liked Orozco because the man worked hard, handled himself with confidence, was unafraid to get his hands dirty to accomplish the job or to keep his men in line. Because of these attributes, Guerrero had placed Orozco in charge of his cocaine distribution network. Orozco increased shipments and sales, which pleased the cartel boss. What did not please Guerrero was Orozco’s opposition to his scheme to start a war with the United States and retake what many believed to be Mexico’s rightful heritage, the land stolen during the Mexican-American War and the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Guerrero believed the U.S. had unjustly started a war with their country and forcibly took more than half of Mexico’s land. Orozco didn’t care about ancient history, only about the money he could make from the sale of drugs, firearms, and slaves across the border in the United States.
When word of a gunfight at Guerrero’s isolated compound had reached Orozco, he’d been one of the first to arrive to provide backup, and he’d coordinated the city-wide manhunt for the murderous pendejos—assholes.
Orozco had no love for Arturo Guerrero, but he needed to take retribution against anyone who came into his territory and killed one of his own. His eyelids fluttered as he braced his hands on the desk, the fingers of his right hand wrapping around the pistol’s grip. He imagined the thrill of killing the gringos as he lost himself in the woman’s caress.
Chapter Two
Ryan Weller shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He rolled his neck and leaned against the wall. A steady flow of people exited U.S. Customs at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. They paid him no attention as they streamed past him, stuffing documents into pockets and excitedly speaking in myriad languages. Ryan was fluent in English and Spanish and knew a little French, allowing him to eavesdrop on their conversations.
He checked his watch again and glanced over his shoulder at Floyd Landis. The Department of Homeland Security agent was on the far side of the crowd, arms crossed, sipping a coffee and scanning the crowd. His dark eyes met Ryan’s. Landis motioned with his head to continue searching the crowd.
Ryan turned away, frustrated. They were waiting on Aaron Grose. His flight from Belize had arrived at the same time as two others. Ryan glanced at his watch again and scanned the lines. He shifted his feet, feeling the pinch of the patent leather oxfords. He longed for the comfortable fit of his normal attire: shorts, a T-shirt, and his well-worn boat shoes.
He spotted his man as Aaron glanced around at his fellow passengers, gauging the distance to the booth where his passport would be checked and stamped. Like most travelers, Aaron fidgeted with a smart phone, scrolling and pecking at the screen. Ryan caught Landis’s eye, and motioned toward their quarry.
Landis nodded and moved through the throng of people to stand beside Ryan. He was here because Ryan had asked him to help with an investigation into the international arms dealer, Jim Kilroy. Kilroy had supplied the Aztlán cartel with weapons for their attempt at starting a war for the desert Southwest, which many Latinos still considered part of Mexico. It irritated Ryan that no one wanted to do anything to stop this guy. No one wanted to talk about him in conjunction with the illegal firearms brought into the U.S. by the Mexican cartel. Just because Kilroy had contracts with the U.S. government didn’t make him a good guy. And if Aaron Grose was in bed with Kilroy, that made him guilty by association.
Aaron stepped to the customs booth and handed over his passport. The uniformed TSA agent took the passport and fanned through it. Ryan knew from studying Aaron’s passport photo and from watching countless travelers pass through customs that she was verifying the image of the five-feet-ten-inch-tall white male with brown eyes and blond hair matched the man standing in front of her.
Aaron flashed a smile at the agent. She smiled back, then ducked her head to look at the stamps in the booklet.
Ryan moved closer to hear their conversation.
“Says you’ve been in Belize for the last five years,” the TSA agent said.
Aaron leaned on the counter and gazed at her. She was a slightly overweight woman with light ebony skin. Her black hair was braided and piled high on her head. “Yeah, Tamica,” Aaron said, reading her name tag. “I own a scuba diving resort on Caye Caulker. I run charters to every country in the region. You should come down sometime.”
“I don’t scuba dive, Mr. Grose.”
“I tell you what, Tamica.” He slid her a business card, embossed with the name Caye Caulker Adventures. “You call this number, and I’ll make sure you have a free stay.”
The woman used her hand to cover her smile and hide her embarrassment, but she still took the card. “Thanks, Mr. Grose,” she managed to say.
“Call me Aaron.”
With a little too much honey in her voice, she said, “Anything to declare, Aaron?”
He grinned again. “Nope, just heading to Wyoming to see my family.”
Tamica stamped his passport before sliding it under the plexiglass divider.
Aaron slipped the passport into his back pocket and walked past Tamica’s booth. He gave her a parting smile and turned to find Ryan and Landis staring at him.
Landis pulled out his gold-and-blue Homeland Security Investigations badge from his pocket. “Mr. Grose, I’m Floyd Landis.”
Aaron glanced from one man to the other. Landis, in his fifties, had a slight paunch with short, steel-gray hair and hard, dark eyes set into a weathered face. He stood eye-to-eye with Aaron. Ryan was taller, six feet, with brown hair going shaggy around the ears. His green eyes stared at Aaron with curiosity. Both men sported dark suits. Landis wore a tie.
“Who are you?” Aaron asked Ryan.
Landis tucked his badge into his pocket and said, “Ryan Weller. He’s a civilian contractor. We need to speak with you in private. Follow me.”
“Am I being arrested?”
“Mr. Grose, we want your full cooperation. Now, you can come nicely, or I can slap some cuffs on you. We can make a scene about you being a threat to national security. Which would you like?”
Ryan nodded at Tamica. “I’m sure your new friend would like to see you go peacefully.”
Aaron glanced over his shoulder. Tamica was watching them. He flashed her a reassuring smile, then turned to face Ryan and Landis. “I’ll go quietly.”
Landis led the way. Ryan carried Aaron’s backpack and towed his rolling suitcase while following them through a series of hallways. They escorted Aaron to a small room and told him to sit in a chair. When he’d taken a seat, Landis closed the door.
Landis and Ryan continued down the corridor to another room. A computer monitor played footage of Aaron’s tiny holding room, which was cramped even further by a desk shoved into one corner, the chair Aaron was sitting in, and a second chair beside the desk. As they watched, Aaron switched chairs, so he was facing the door. He spent a few minutes staring at the door, then looked at a watch on his left wrist. He fiddled with the watch for several minutes.
Ryan asked Landis, “How long are you going to let him stew?”
“Until I get bored.” Landis poured coffee into a paper cup. He sipped the steaming liquid as he watched the monitor.
Thirty minutes later, Landis heaved himself out of the chair and poured more coffee. He filled two more cups. To Ryan, he said, “Put some cream and sugar in your pocket and carry these.”
Ryan did as instructed, following Landis to the holding room. Landis pushed open the door and held it for Ryan. Ryan nudged the door closed with his foot as he stepped inside.
Chapter Three
Aaron Grose watched the civilian contractor shove the door closed. He said, “Hope you have someone out there to open the door after it locks.”
“You better hope you get to walk out that door,” Landis responded. “It might be a one-way trip to Gitmo for you.”
“I’ve been to Cuba several times, but I have no desire to go to pris
on there,” Aaron said, clearly puzzled.
“Then you’d better cooperate,” Landis said.
Ryan set a cup of coffee on the desk and deposited a handful of cream and sugar packets. Aaron picked up two sugars and dumped them into his cup. He crossed his legs and sipped his coffee.
Landis sat down in the empty chair. Aaron watched Ryan lean against the wall in the far corner of the room. To Aaron, the man in the corner was the more dangerous of the two. He had an edge to him, a hardness in his lean, muscular body. He reminded Aaron of the American special forces troops who sometimes came through his dive shop while on leave from conducting operations in Central America.
When Landis moved, Aaron got a glimpse of a pistol butt. He couldn’t see a gun imprinted in Ryan’s clothes, either along his waistline or under his shoulder. He tried to relax. The closeness of the three bodies in the small room had increased the temperature. A trickle of sweat rolled down his temple. Aaron shifted in the chair and glanced up at the ceiling. In the corner, above Ryan, an all-seeing electronic eye winked back at him with a flash of red light.
To break the silence, Aaron pointed at the camera and asked, “Who’s watching us?”
Landis leaned forward, ignoring the question. “Mr. Grose, how long have you operated a business in Belize?”
Aaron smiled. “Twelve years.” He was trying to remain calm. “Look, maybe I should call my lawyer.”
“I’m afraid we can’t let you do that,” Landis said. “You’re being held on suspicion of terrorism.”
Aaron rose abruptly as he shouted, “Terrorism!”
Landis stood up. “Calm down, Mr. Grose.”
Ryan didn’t move from his corner. Aaron glowered at him, unnerved by the man’s nonchalance.
The two men stared at each other until Ryan pushed away from the wall and took a step forward. Menace laced his words. “Sit down, Aaron.” In the small room, the step brought them nose-to-nose.
Aaron backed up. His knees hit the edge of his chair and buckled. He dropped heavily onto the thinly padded steel.
Ryan continued. “Who’re you going to call? Trisha, your sister? She’s a real estate lawyer. She can’t help you. Or maybe you’d like to call your business partner?”
Aaron’s eyebrows arched. “Who?”
Ryan leaned in closer. “Come on, Aaron. We know you’re helping Jim Kilroy move illegal weapons.”
Aaron gulped. “Jim’s a resort developer.”
Ryan said, “Jim Kilroy’s one of the largest arms dealers in North, Central, and South America.”
Aaron’s jaw dropped open. “No way.” To help recover from his shock, he picked up his coffee and sipped it slowly. Ryan retreated to his corner.
“It’s a fact, Mr. Grose,” Landis affirmed.
“Jim is just an investor in my business. I’m not involved in the weapons trade, so why am I here?”
Landis crossed his arms before speaking. “Number one, you haven’t paid U.S. taxes since you left the country, and you owe the U.S. government quite a chunk of change. Our figures indicate you owe about half a million dollars in back taxes, interest, and penalties. All those are compounding daily, Aaron. Every minute you waste sitting here is another dollar in fines. Number two, we think you know more about Jim’s business. We want you to give us information on his whereabouts and his movements. We also know you’re friendly with his wife, Karen. Press her for information if you can.”
“This is blackmail!”
“This is you playing ball, Mr. Grose,” Landis said. “We want information on Jim Kilroy’s gunrunning operation. You want to get your business out of hock with the IRS. We can work hand in hand, or we can do things the hard way. If we don’t get information, you lose your business.”
Aaron balled his hands into fists. His blood surged through his veins and pounded in his temples. His vision blurred. He took a deep breath, knowing a fistfight in the confined office space would result in his being arrested. Two steadying breaths later, he said, “And if I play ball?”
Landis glanced at his partner, then back at Aaron. The agent had a hint of a smile on his lips. “You give us actionable intelligence, and we’ll wipe the slate clean. Then you’ll need to start paying taxes on your future income.”
“What if I can’t get any actionable intelligence?” Aaron used his fingers to make air quotes around actionable.
“We want intelligence that will lead us to Kilroy’s network,” Ryan said. “We’re going to take him down. We’re going to stop him from selling weapons.” He stepped forward and leaned down to face Aaron. “Your business partner arms gangs in El Salvador, who rape and murder young children, and Colombian cartels, who manufacture cocaine. He sold weapons to the Mexican separatists who started a bombing campaign in the U.S. last month. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. Kilroy’s weapons are in every country in this hemisphere, Aaron.” The name came out like it tasted bitter. “We’re going to take him down and send him to jail. You’re going to help us.”
Landis glanced up sharply at Ryan.
Aaron stared in disbelief. “Jim helped me start my resort. He’s a developer. I’ve worked with him for years. I would know if he was an arms dealer. He’s not, he’s just a resort developer.”
“Yeah, he’s a developer,” Ryan said sarcastically. “He just uses his resorts to launder his dirty money. He’s probably using yours, too.” He stabbed an accusatory finger at Aaron. “He’s a criminal and you’re his accomplice.”
“No, I’m not!” Aaron shouted. “I don’t have anything to do with guns, and I know every penny that goes in and out of my place. I am not a criminal, and neither is Jim.”
Ryan gazed implacably at Aaron and sipped his coffee. Aaron noticed Landis was staring at his contractor. He tried to wrap his mind around the information being dumped on him. The men seemed earnest, yet the only real fact Aaron could pin down was that he was up to his neck in IRS debt.
He concentrated on what he knew about Jim Kilroy. The man had inherited several commercial properties in Florida, among them a world-class golf resort. He had used these as leverage to buy and develop more properties. He now owned hotels in New York City, Florida, Mexico, Costa Rica, Panama, the Dominican Republic, and both the U.S. and the British Virgin Islands. He had once famously tried to build a resort on Jost Van Dyke but was quickly shut down by environmentalists and the government. Jim had always been good to him. He’d helped him start his resort when he was just a young dive instructor looking for the next thrill in life. If he had a best friend it would be Jim’s wife, Karen.
He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the bare concrete floor. He wanted out of this room, out of this airport, and out of this trouble.
“What can you tell us about Jim’s boats?” Ryan asked.
Aaron looked up. “He’s got a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-foot Alaska crab boat he converted into a luxury mothership for a Viking sportfisher and a couple other small boats.”
Landis took a notepad out. “What’s the name of the boat?”
“Northwest Passage.”
“What about Karen?” Ryan asked. “Can you press her for information?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Ryan asked.
“She went to New York City a few weeks ago. She had a fight with Jim and went to see her mother. I haven’t spoken to her since she left.”
“Call her. Go see her,” Ryan said.
“How would that work?” Aaron used his fingers to make a pretend telephone and held them to his ear. “Hey, Karen, your husband’s an international arms dealer. Got anything to tell me, so I can spill it to the feds?”
“Okay, anything else?” Landis asked.
“No,” Aaron barked, clearly annoyed. “Look, I run a scuba diving resort on Caye Caulker. I see Jim, maybe, once every six months. Karen comes by more often. I take her diving. But, like I said earlier, I haven’t seen her around because she went to New York City to visit her mother.”
“Okay, Mr. Grose, here�
�s what’s going to happen,” Landis said. “You’re going to walk out of here and go see your family. You’re going to get that sister of yours to hook you up with a good tax lawyer. Then you’re going to go back to Belize and run your resort.” Landis pointed his thumb at his companion. “In a few weeks, Ryan will come down to your resort and spend some time diving and taking in the sights. You’ll introduce him to Kilroy.”
Aaron looked over at Ryan, “Do you dive?”
Ryan smirked.
“That boy is part fish,” Landis said stoically. “He was Navy EOD.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Aaron said, puzzled.
“It means he disarmed bombs underwater for the U.S. Navy,” Landis said.
Explosive Ordnance Disposal was one of the Navy’s most rigorous programs, a grueling year long course of diving, ordnance disposal training, parachute, small unit tactics, and firearms skills. They operated in the harshest environments to disarm and dispose of all manner of explosive devices from car bombs to underwater mines.
Aaron sat up straight, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Come on down. I can’t guarantee Jim will be there.” He crossed his arms and stared at Ryan. “Hope the government’s paying for your rooms, because I’m not footing the bill.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ryan replied.
Aaron looked at his watch. “Are we done here? I missed my connecting flight to Salt Lake City. I need to book another one, and, apparently, I have to find a lawyer now.”
Landis pulled an airline ticket from his jacket pocket. He set it on the desk and tapped it with his finger. “You’re on the next flight out.”
“You never had any intention of sending me to Gitmo,” Aaron exclaimed.
“Oh, no, Aaron,” Ryan said. “We have every intention of sending you to Gitmo. You’re complicit in the illegal arms trade by involving yourself with Kilroy. I’m going to make sure you go to prison.”
