by Jeff Siebold
“OK.” Clive’s beer was gone. He waved and smiled at the server, indicating his empty glass.
“She was talking about the hit and run I saw, and she said, ‘When something like that happens, evil is always nearby and involved.’ And based on our experience, there’s a lot of truth to that, Clive.”
“The older I get, the less I’m inclined to dismiss that kind of talk,” Clive said.
“There was a guy there outside the coffee shop, a small guy, and I passed him as I was trying to catch up to the man who was hit by the car. It was peripheral, but I remember noticing that his eyes were almost reptilian. They didn’t blink, and when I stepped past him, I felt a cold chill. At the time I was in a hurry to get to the bag’s owner. And then the car jumped in front of me and killed him.”
“Contract hit?” asked Clive.
“Almost certainly. At first it seemed pretty random, but then there was the double-tap and the car driving off after the accident. So, yes, most likely a contract.”
“Talk to the police?” Clive asked.
“Not yet. The locals were too busy at the scene, and they told everyone to clear the street. Secret Service was there, too.” Zeke sipped his beer and pushed it aside, half empty.
“Thanks for the beer, Clive,” said Zeke. “We’ll want to stand by to reschedule the exchange with Mr. Cruz as soon as possible.”
They shook hands and Zeke walked out. The waitress approached and looked at Clive questioningly. She was a pretty blonde woman, approaching middle age, and a regular at this restaurant. She didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“How late are you working tonight, Darlene?” asked Clive.
“I’m off in half an hour,” she said with a smile.
“Shepard’s Pie, then?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said the waitress.
“And, after that, would you want a ride?” asked Clive.
“Perhaps so,” she said with a smile.
Clive stayed to finish his dinner and his beer.
Chapter 14
On Saturday morning, Tracy had decided to observe her partner’s interview of the Williams kid from the other side of the one-way glass. If she felt it would be a benefit, she could always enter the room and join the questioning later. But it may be that the kid would be forthcoming and cooperative, in which case there would be no need to pressure him.
She had arrived at the witness room the following morning at about 8:15, after Ron had started his questioning. The boy, obviously a student, and probably a freshman or sophomore, based upon his young looks and awkward posture, was sitting on one side of the table with a glass of something in front of him. Almost clear, like Mountain Dew, she noticed, with a slight yellow tint. Ron had a paper cup of coffee, top on and with a cardboard burn protector circling the upper third of the cup. He was holding the cup, sipping at it while they talked.
“So, tell me again, Mike Williams,” Ron said, “What did you see?”
“That was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” said Mike. “Man, I was studying calculus, so I didn’t really see much. I saw a guy go into the coffee shop with a backpack. I did notice him, because it happened as I was getting my stuff organized, and he bumped my table as he walked by. Said he was sorry when I looked up, but he kept going, didn’t make eye contact.”
“What did he look like?” Ron asked.
“Well, like I said, he looked Hispanic, I guess. Sort of short and stocky, and with thick black hair. He didn’t have an accent, though. I remember thinking that I expected an accent and there wasn’t any.”
“Can you remember the color of his eyes?” Ron asked.
“Seems like they were dark,” Mike said.
“Any tattoos or marks you noticed on this guy?” asked Ron. “Maybe on his face or neck?”
“No, I don’t remember any,” Mike said. “He was wearing khakis and a blue shirt. I only saw him for a second, and then again when he left.”
“Which way did he go when he left the shop?” asked Ron.
“He turned the opposite way and walked out into the street, away from me. Then the car flew by me and crushed him. Man, that was bad. I wasn’t focused on it, but later when you asked, it seemed a little bit odd to me that he came in from one direction, and left in another. Unless he was on his way somewhere, and just stopped in for a cup of coffee to take with him. Lotsa guys do that, I think.”
Ron nodded, and asked about the backpack. Tracy could see the kid’s head start shaking, back and forth. No.
The interview went on for another half hour before Tracy left, but there wasn’t much else that came to light. Ron had walked him through the chronology and then revisited the key points, but without uncovering anything further.
The investigation is slowing way down, thought Tracy. It had been about 16 hours since the victim walked out of the coffee shop, and they had nothing to show, no information, no leads, no clues. Alright, lets start over, she thought. Let’s start at the beginning.
So, Cruz contacts the Atlanta police, who in turn contact the Secret Service and Ron and Tracy are assigned to handle him. Cruz showed up about a week ago, looking for help and a way out. He was visibly shaken when he was escorted into their offices. Ron signed for him, which released the Atlanta uniform cops from responsibility, and they left.
“Wait, what are you doing?” Cruz had said to the Atlanta uniform. “I need you to protect me. They’re coming after me, and they’ll kill me.”
“Can’t really do anything about that until a crime is committed,” said the younger policeman. “People get threatened all the time, but usually its just noise. You can hire a bodyguard if you’re really worried.”
“Well, what are you here for, then?” asked Cruz.
“We’re here to protect and serve,” said the older cop as they turned and left.
Then there was a long morning of meetings with Cruz with various other agents coming and going, and then half a day verifying the facts. Finally, with Cruz still in protective custody of a fashion and sitting in their offices between meetings – they began to arrange for the exchange to be made, while Cruz secretly arranged with The Agency for protection.
It wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t routine, gathering together the printer plates and the money, keeping both low-key and secure.
During that workweek, Cruz observed a number of agents. He was sitting at a vacant desk that Wednesday past when a cell phone rang in the office nearby. “Martino,” answered the agent that Cruz knew to be Tom Martino, a tall, thin man who looked to be about 40 years old. Martino paused and then said, “How are you, honey?”
Cruz couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but by this time he knew that Martino was chatting with his daughter, a middle school student. She called every day when she got home from school, which Cruz assumed was because she was alone in the house. Either Martino’s wife worked, or he was a single dad.
“I don’t know if I can get off tomorrow morning,” Martino continued. He had dark brown hair, cut short and wore a white shirt, with his cuffs rolled up two turns. His sports coat was on the back of his chair. “I have to work.”
Martino listened for a moment. “Of course, I’d love to see you get the award, hon. I’m just not sure that I can get out to the school in time. But I’ll check and see about it. We can talk about it when I get home, OK?”
Cruz made a mental note of the man’s situation and filed it away with his many recent observations of the Secret Service agents’ behaviors.
* * *
The next day the man who had first called him, the small man, George, contacted Cruz and set up the exchange at the coffee shop. Friday afternoon, around 4:50 PM, the man was to meet him at the shop, collect the blue and gray backpack, and part ways. That Cruz had substituted a surrogate was out of character from what Tracy knew. Perhaps he’d found a Judas goat, one to take his place—a distraction while he planned an escape.
And it seems to have worked. He’s vanished, she thought.
Chapte
r 15
At that same moment, in the border town of San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora, Mexico, in a large house, in a large and protected compound, Antonio Herman Gurrerra heard his cell phone ring. He was a tall, slim man, taller than most of his relatives, perhaps the result of an errant gene a couple of generations back. Possibly this was the result of a liaison between his grandmother and a tall, handsome soldier during the Second World War.
Antonio was, however, a man of action. He had learned that action quells fear, action brings results, and that quick and decisive action can be crippling to his opponents—the quicker, the better.
The display on his cell phone said that the caller was “indisponible”, or unavailable, which wasn’t true at all, was it? The caller was very available; all Antonio needed to do was answer the phone. The calling number was, however, “unavailable”, and he decided that was probably the message the phone company was trying to send.
He answered.
“Rápidamente,” he said, quietly.
“Jefe, hello,” said the voice.
He listened for twenty-five seconds and hung up. Three young children were playing loudly in the next room. It sounded like they were playing La Gallinita Ciega, the Blind Hen, running and yelling to each other in excitement. With three, there was always the odd man out, and always the partnership by the end of the games. Antonio had usually been the odd man out in his youth. But not so much anymore.
He turned around and saw Carlos standing in the open archway between the rooms. From there, Carlos could survey and protect both rooms, as well as the immediate outdoor area, visible through windows and large sliding glass doors in the family room where the bambinos were playing. Carlos had slung his AR-15 over his shoulder, and it was presently arranged across his back. Easy access to such an ugly weapon, thought Antonio.
The AR-15 is a semi-automatic rifle that shoots a .223 Remington or a 5.56 NATO cartridge. Antonio knew that Carlos favored the NATO bullets, which were 45 mm and travelled at about 14 meters per second. This one wasn’t a short barrel model, and there was lots of stopping power there.
The call came from his brother, Enrique, who had been overseeing a shipment of heroine. The box had been wrapped in coffee grounds, to prevent the dogs from identifying its contents, and shipped FedEx to a vacant Los Angeles address. The address was directly across the street from a home owned by Gurrerra, but held in a relative’s name. Once delivered to the vacant house, the neighbor across the street would arrange to pick it up, unwrap it in a different location, and distribute the product through their usual channels. There were hundreds of similar deliveries that took place each month across the country.
Enrique called to confirm the package had arrived, and that there had been no activity in the area in the days before the delivery. It had been taken to the warehouse and was being divided up for distribution. A few of his more distant relatives – cousins mostly – were involved at this point. It was business as usual.
The matter with Cruz should be coming to an end soon, Antonio thought. He preferred to use family members for such activities because their loyalty was assured, with their families and their possessions remaining back in Mexico. But this George fellow was quite good and had been very efficient in the past. El Contador, the Accountant, he was called. This was a sticky situation, and a professional was certainly called for. Not inexpensive, but considering the potential loss of face and respect, it was important to control the situation with quick and decisive action.
* * *
Zeke Traynor had just finished a late Saturday breakfast and was sitting at his kitchen island among the remnants and the dishes. Breakfast had been two eggs and bacon, a good dose of protein, along with a few carbs in the form of rye toast, and coffee. It put Zeke in mind of the breakfasts that his mother used to make for him on Saturday mornings.
He decided to call Tracy Johnson.
“Hi, this is Tracy,” she said, responding to the unfamiliar number on her buzzing personal smartphone.
“Tracy, hi, this is Zeke Traynor. We met in the coffee shop on campus last night. You were looking for your dog.” She could hear the smile in Zeke’s voice.
“Oh, right,” she said. “Uh, have you found him?”
“I thought you said it was a ‘her’,” teased Zeke, still smiling. “But no matter, I haven’t found the dog.”
“Oh,” said Tracy.
“Well, listen,” Zeke continued, “I think we have a mutual acquaintance. After you stopped by my table I got to thinking about it.”
“Yes?” asked Tracy, remembering his interesting eyes, but thinking that this was a bad time for a new relationship. A whole lot had happened to distract her since she’d given Zeke her phone number yesterday afternoon.
“Don’t be upset about this, OK? I’m in town working on a project with Clive Greene. I think you may know Clive, or perhaps your boss knows him. Alan Fitch, right?”
“I’ve heard of Clive Greene,” said Tracy. There was the beginning of an annoyed tone creeping into her voice. This wasn’t what she had expected.
“Whoa, slow down, Agent Johnson,” said Zeke. “I’m not the one who fabricated a missing dog. I called because I wanted to make the connection legitimate. Besides, I amuse myself.”
“Clive Greene, how do I know that name?” asked Tracy, now a bit less annoyed.
“I asked Clive, and he said that his Agency was involved in a private protection detail in Atlanta this year. Apparently, the Vice President was here, as well as a number of foreign dignitaries and businessmen. Mr. Fitch was involved in coordinating some of the security.”
“That sounds right,” said Tracy. “Last spring.”
“Yes,” said Zeke. “So when I add all this up, I think you may have come across Mr. Cruz recently. We did, too. Seems to me like we might want to get together and share some information.”
Chapter 16
Growing up, Zeke had lived with his mom and dad aboard a sail boat named West Wind. She was a 52-foot Mandarin motorsailer with a single Cummins diesel engine that slept six comfortably and allowed their family the freedom of movement they craved. Zeke’s father had retired after sixteen years at a manufacturing facility in Chicago. “Dad,” Zeke had called him. Zeke remembered him as a kind and intelligent man who always seemed to have time for his family.
Zeke’s mother was a gentle woman with a kind heart. Although Zeke was an only child, he remembered the many times that his mother would adopt Zeke and his neighborhood friends and help them build a fort out of couch cushions or show them maps that led to buried treasures. The treasures, more often than not, were in the form of warm chocolate chip cookies, and the treasure hunters usually ended up finding them by their distinctive smell.
When Dad was diagnosed at his annual company physical with a thickening of his heart muscle, the doctor gave him a treatment plan. “Basically, Ken,” said Doctor Herman, “you’ll have to avoid any kind of stress. That muscle could tighten up and kill you at any time.”
“How do I avoid stress?” Ken Traynor had asked.
“Well, believe it or not, you can do most anything that you want to do, but you’ll need to avoid doing anything that you don’t want to do. The latter is what causes stress and distress.”
With that diagnosis, Zeke’s Dad retired from the company; and the family of three sold their house in Cicero, moved to Florida and bought the sailboat that became their home. Most of Zeke’s memories of life after the age of eight were acquired aboard the West Wind. It was a sloop with a gray mainsail and great lines—a real beauty. They kept it in Boot Key Marina, in Marathon.
Zeke became an accomplished first mate and ultimately a proficient sail boat captain aboard the West Wind. It wasn’t unusual for the Traynor family to lift anchor and head northwest into the calm waters of the Florida Bay for a few weeks or a month at a time.
The Florida Bay had a calming effect on the whole family, and as often as was practical, they would venture north from Marathon, across the F
lorida Bay toward the mainland. They would then usually head northwest with the coast in sight on their starboard side, toward the Ten Thousand Islands and Everglades City, careful to avoid the myriad mangrove clusters that were forming new islands in the bay.
The marina that they called home hosted a number of interesting characters, and most of them befriended the young blond boy. They were a diverse group.
There was a Brit and his wife, both in their eighties, and the husband claimed to have been a Rear Admiral in Her Majesty’s Navy. The folks in the marina called him Admiral, and he single-handedly tended the massive and colorful flower garden between the marina entrance and his double wide trailer overlooking the piers. His wife, Maude, was a kind lady who always had carmel candies available in a bowl near the front door.
Scooter, the assistant dockmaster, lived aboard a small trawler that had been dry-docked for as long as Zeke could remember. When he wasn’t working in the dock office, he was usually working on the hull or the brightwork of his trawler, the Lazy Jane. Scooter was small and agile and bounced around the dock area with no apparent effort, pumping fuel or getting beer and ice for visitors and residents alike. The information Scooter shared was often a little bit wrong, but his smile and willingness to help made up for it. Scooter was fascinating to young Zeke, partly because he had lost the last two fingers on his left hand in a boating accident.
“Hey, Zeke,” Scooter said one day, as Zeke stopped in to buy some live bait. “How’d you like to meet a Kung Fu expert?”
“Sure,” said Zeke. To a young boy, Kung Fu was the rage during the 1980s.
“He just moored that 32-foot live-aboard on Pier 3, Slip 8 there. The Ryūha. Watch for him. He’s about my height, and he looks Japanese or Korean or something. He looks sort of like a used-camera salesman.”
Cool, thought Zeke. He leaned his fishing rod against the dock office and started toward Pier 3 to check it out. The Ryūha was a single-masted sailboat with sleek lines and a minimalistic look. Unusual for that time, the mainsail was a chocolate brown color, with white trim piping. The majority of the exposed surface of the boat was teak, which was well oiled. The brightwork was clean and reflected the Florida sun.
