by Jeff Siebold
There was no answer. The Learjet turned and taxied back toward the terminal building and radar tower, and then slowed to a stop on the tarmac. Out of the window, Jefe saw four armored personnel carriers with U.S. Marine insignias on them turn the corner of the terminal building, moving quickly toward the plane.
“Raul, what’s going on?” asked Jefe into the microphone. “Where are we?” He got up from his seat, took his Glock from its holster and went to the cockpit door.
With the armor-plated door to the pilot’s area secured from the cockpit side, it was virtually impenetrable. Airplane design had been updated since 9/11 to prevent hijacking and terrorists seizing control of an aircraft. As on commercial flights, once the cockpit door was closed, it was secure.
Still hearing no response from Raul, Jefe pounded on the door with the butt of his pistol while each of the Marine Personnel Carriers took a position around the plane. Each carrier aimed its attached .50 caliber machine gun directly at the Learjet.
Start to finish the action took about one minute. The first Marines dispatched from the MPC’s quickly put chocks and locks on each tire, assuring that the plane would remain in place. The second wave of men deployed from each vehicle were wearing full battle gear, helmets and vests, and were carrying semi-automatic assault weapons. They surrounded the Learjet as stairs were advanced to the exterior cabin door. When they were in position a few short moments later, there were thirty-two Marines circling the airplane, with thirty-two semi-automatic rifles pointed at it.
Jefe heard the engines slow and stop. There was no response from the cockpit. He turned back into the cabin.
A speaker located on the personnel carrier closest to the stairs came to life. “Open the door and deplane,” said an authoritative voice in Spanish. “Put your weapons down and exit the plane. Walk down the stairs backwards, one at a time. Do it now!”
* * *
“You can’t do this,” Jefe was saying to the Marine Sergeant, a large black man who was apparently in charge of the action. Jefe was seated in a small locked room in a brick building near the tarmac, handcuffed and shackled and surrounded by three very muscular and very serious Marines. They had been waiting for a few minutes.
“There is no extradition agreement between Grand Cayman and any other country, particularly not the United States,” said Jefe. “You can’t hold me here.”
His family members and his men had been separated and taken to holding cells as they exited the plane.
“Actually, my friend, we’re on American soil. And so, we can hold you, and we can hold you accountable for all that you’ve done,” said the Sergeant.
“What are you saying?” asked Jefe.
There was a sharp knock on the door. Then Zeke walked into the room, wearing a short-sleeved co-pilot’s shirt with epaulets and a captain’s hat. He smiled at Jefe and said in Spanish, “Welcome to Guantanamo Bay, Senor Jefe.”
Chapter 48
“Executed with flair, old boy,” said Clive. “Nicely done.”
Zeke smiled. They were sitting in a small conference room in Clive’s Agency offices in Washington, DC. The table was made of blond wood and the chairs were comfortable leather with swivels and wheels. The large window on one wall looked out over Pennsylvania Avenue and, ironically, the Department of Justice building.
“How did you know Jefe would run to the Caribbean?” asked Kimmy.
“My contacts at the FBI and DEA were spot on,” said Clive. “They’ve tried the joint raids before with the Mexican officials, and each time Jefe was tipped off, and each time he flew his plane to Grand Cayman. They’ve been watching him but just couldn’t get to him quickly enough. I think they’re happy with these results, though.”
“It didn’t hurt that Colonel Finester had the right contacts at Gitmo,” said Zeke. “And it didn’t hurt that Marines never leave one of their own behind. Especially not one who won the Navy Cross.”
“Right,” said Clive. “And now that the Marines have Jefe in a Guantanamo Bay cell, and they know that he ordered the murder of Manny Lopez, the ex-Marine and Police Chief in San Luis Rio Colorado, I’m guessing that Jefe will disappear off the grid, like a Bermuda Triangle sort of thing. Some of those terrorists at Gitmo have been there for years.”
“Either that, or they’ll take him stateside to stand trial and serve his time there,” said Zeke.
“How did you make that happen?” asked Kimmy.
“It was a good plan,” said Zeke. “Finding that Carlos was checked out as a co-pilot on Jefe’s plane was key. The FAA card that we found in Carlos’s wallet in the garage led to that, and without Carlos, I figured that Jefe would have to find a replacement co-pilot for his escape to Grand Cayman. The raid on his compound in Sonora Rio was the instigator to make him run. After that, he was pretty predictable. And he was contained.”
“How did you get the co-pilot position, Zeke?” asked Kimmy.
“Clive used his contacts with the FBI to get the Learjet people in Kansas to recommend me as an available pilot, cleared to fly the 75 model, and proximate to Sonora Rio. Actually, I believe they were waiting for the inquiry from Jefe’s man, Raul. There aren’t many commercial pilots checked out on that equipment that are immediately available.”
“And you are checked out on it?” asked Kimmy.
“Well, I had to do some quick study, but it turned out well,” said Zeke. “Once we were in the air out of Monterrey, it was simple to incapacitate the pilot and take control.”
“And you just landed in Cuba instead of Grand Cayman?” she said. “Sounds simple.”
“Not simple. But the Marines set up all of the permissions with the Cuban military, and they changed the flight plan once we were in the air. My part was to set her down and to deliver Jefe.”
“What happens now?” asked Kimmy.
“I suppose that eventually someone will take over Jefe’s spot in the cartel and it’ll be business as usual,” said Clive. “But we did what we could for our client. I don’t think Alberto will need to look over his shoulder any longer. Nor will we.”
Chapter 49
After Labor Day the crowds in Florida slack off for the shoulder season, the “in-between” fall season, before returning with a vengeance beginning in mid-December and continuing through the late spring. Zeke chose this particular barrier island because the coming and going of weekly and monthly guests promised a polite privacy and provided for acceptable social distancing. And social distancing was his goal.
For Zeke, last summer had been busy with a complex recovery operation in Turkey that ended well, but took more time than he’d expected. And in September, he had worked with Clive Greene in Atlanta. So he’d been looking forward to days made up of morning workouts and afternoon sunshine combined with occasional research and a spot of exploration. This particular tourist destination, Marie Island, is popular with Europeans and Canadians who tend to favor the south and west sides of the Sunshine State. When the Euro is strong against the weaker dollar, the cottages on this Florida Island are booked solid.
“Did you have any other questions, Zeke?” Mrs. Skilowicki asked. “There’s a map in the basket on the counter. The Wi-Fi password is taped to the router.”
Mrs. Skilowicki, the woman Zeke was renting from, was a Tampa resident. She was delighted to have a rental longer than a week or two, and she was very accommodating in helping him get oriented to the property and the area. Negotiations were held over the phone and via e-mail and he’d called her when he arrived at the cottage.
“No, I’m probably good,” he said into the phone. He’d found the rental early in his search and secured the cottage for four months, beginning the first weekend in October. From his previous rental experiences he knew that after school is back in session demand wanes a bit in most tourist locations. The four-month rental of a third row cottage between October and January was both attractive and lucrative to vacation home landlords. And he knew that paying in advance for the entire visit – at full price �
�� certainly sweetened the deal.
It was his preference to rent, not buy, and Zeke chose to live in transient areas like this one. In the neighborhoods he frequented, short-term guests are common, and the locals begrudgingly accept them as a necessary evil. Their presence keeps the shops and restaurants in business during the off-season.
Mrs. Skilowicki said, from the other end of the phone line, “The washer and dryer are in the second bathroom closet, and you’ll find beach chairs and all that in the garage. The kitchen has most of your staples, salt and pepper, sugar, coffee, that sort of thing. We just ask that you replace what you use when you leave.”
He thanked her and signed off, promising to contact her if he had any questions. I’m a bit old fashioned in some ways, he thought. Some might say that I’m overcautious.
Zeke stepped out on the front porch and into the small yard and looked around. The neighborhood of cottages had a quaint feel to it, and there were people in swimsuits all around the area, carrying chairs and beach bags and coolers to and from the beach access. He dialed his phone.
“Tracy Johnson,” she answered.
“Hey, Tracy, I was just thinking about you,” Zeke said.
“Really, why’s that?” she asked with a light tone in her voice.
“Well, I was wondering whether you’re in another relationship yet,” he said.
“Hmm. Tell me, am I?” she teased.
“Seems like you could be heading in that direction,” Zeke said. “I was also wondering if you have any vacation time coming?”
* * *
The cottage itself was painted a bright yellow with white trim and sky blue accents. There was a long porch across the front of the building, which looked out onto the gravel driveway and the two-lane street that led to the beach. There was a flowerbed in front of the porch dotted with aloe and hibiscus plants and there was one lone palm bush near the side property line.
Inside, the property was functional, although it had some age on it. The front door led past the kitchen to the open dining and living area. It was a good space with a wall of windows on the back, overlooking a small swimming pool and a fenced yard. Beyond the fence was an alley, also of gravel, that extended along a drainage easement for the entire block. The cottage had high ceilings and several large fans actively cooling the living areas.
To the left Zeke saw a small hallway that led to the bedrooms and bathrooms. The décor in the living area was primarily “old conch,” a flavor of the Keys and Key West. The colors were pastels and the paintings were watercolors of beach scenes and boat docks and fish. There was a garish, wall-eyed tarpon mounted over the television set in the living area.
Zeke sat back in a tan leather club chair and found it to be pretty comfortable. The overstuffed sofa looked less so, but he was sure it’d be fine for a few months. The sofa was a beige and green pattern, and matched the wall color, a pastel green with beige trim. One wall was covered in mirrors, to make the place look larger than it was. It was a nice effect, but for just one person he didn’t need a lot of space. Zeke tended to blend comfortably into his surroundings.
He usually lived alone, and that lent itself well to smaller, one- or two-bedroom cottages. Typically a bike was the most practical transportation, or perhaps a short walk. Zeke kept his old BMW with him, but he seldom took it out of the garage.
And there were some other advantages to this life style. His housing came fully furnished, which saved him the trouble of moving furniture or replacing things as they wore out. Maintenance was taken care of by the owner, and in seaside locations, which he tended to select, the wear and tear of the salt and the sand increased the need for ongoing maintenance.
This cottage met all of his criteria, with two-bedrooms and two-baths, a small porch area, a short walk to the white sand and blue water, 361 days of sunshine each year – according to the Chamber of Commerce – and a constant surf temperature of 80 to 84 degrees in the summer. According to the Internet, there were a couple of local restaurants near the water that served highly rated fish sandwiches, and the island was in reasonable proximity to McDill Air Force Base for his quick transport, if necessary.
Chapter 50
Moving around a few times a year tends to accentuate the similarities of places, as opposed to the differences. Having been pretty much self-contained for the past ten years, Zeke had been able to fine-tune his perceptions. I’m probably self-contained in my opinions, too, he thought.
There are about twenty things that all of us do. And of those twenty, about six are discretionary. The rest are pretty much mandatory, for most people. Eat, sleep, work, pay bills, like that. That’s part of the thought process that made Zeke change his lifestyle a few years back.
Zeke describes what he does as “real-time problem solving in three-dimensions.” He enjoys quickly processing the available data and information to make fast decisions and take action. It’s somewhat like judo, as you have to feel the subtle shifts in weight and balance and respond immediately once your opponent has committed himself. It’s often a tense and demanding occupation, and what downtime Zeke gets is a welcome respite.
One of the first things Zeke does when he moves to a new location is to look for a local dojo for Judo practice. It’s not unusual to find such a place, primarily aimed at teaching kids the martial arts, but with a sensei who has the skill set to be a challenging opponent on the mats. On this island, Zeke had spotted Island Dojo Martial Arts. It advertised a prowess in the popular art of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. That’s perfect, he thought to himself.
Beach volleyball had also become a part of Zeke’s fitness routine. Admittedly, Zeke generally played on teams with four people on each side of the net, and with deep sand and hot sun, a couple or three sets makes for a pretty good workout. This year he’d been feeling like he may have lost a step, and the volleyball court just down at the beach from Mrs. Skilowicki’s cottage – well, his cottage, now – looked like a promising way to get that step back.
A ball in his beach bag just in case, along with a towel, some low level sunblock and a bottle of water, Zeke walked down to the beach. He set his bag down in the sand a respectful distance from anyone else and sat in the sand next to it. He found that he was particularly fond of locations that attach more importance to the local tide table and the moon phases, than to clocks. This place qualifies, he thought.
The beach sand was bleached white, whiter than most other places in this country. There were some sunbathers lying on towels scattered about and a handful of visitors who had brought their own chairs, generally clustered in small groups of two or three. A couple of them had brought beach umbrellas. At a concrete picnic table under a nearby tree, Zeke spotted two older men playing chess. Oh, good, he thought, chess games. The gulf breeze was pleasant, maybe seven to ten knots, just enough to keep the flies away and to cool the early October heat. So far, he liked it all.
Zeke turned to look toward the ocean. There were small waves, and the sun glimmered off the blue water. There’s a therapeutic effect associated with proximity to the ocean, and he was starting to feel it already.
* * *
Zeke had picked Tracy up at the Tampa Airport after her direct flight from Atlanta. She had one carry-on with her when they climbed into his BMW, parked in the short-term lot.
“What’s in that?” he asked her. “Swimsuits?”
“I didn’t think I’d need much,” Tracy said, looking directly at Zeke. Her brown eyes sparkled. “I sort of expected that you’d want to keep me naked.”
“Very cool,” said Zeke.
“Well, clothes are overrated,” she added, casually.
The drive back to Marie Island was pleasant, and they dropped the windows and let the warm Florida breeze flow through the car. Tracy seemed languid and content.
“Good to be someplace warm,” she said.
As soon as they’d arrived at the cottage, Tracy had changed into a dark green bikini accented with a large straw hat and matching straw sandals. Her b
each cover-up was white and very short, showing off her shapely, toned legs. She looks fabulous, Zeke thought.
“I’m ready,” she said. “Are we heading for the beach now?” She smelled like tanning oil and coconut.
As they walked to the beach Zeke asked, “How long do you have?”
“To visit?” she said. “I’m off all week.”
“Return flight next Sunday?” Zeke calculated.
“Yep,” she said. They found a spot in the sand a dozen feet from the water and put down their bag and small cooler. Zeke sat. Tracy took a deep breath.
“Gotta love the negative ions from the ocean, right?” she continued as she tossed down a towel and sat down near him. “That’s actually what makes people feel so good at the beach.”
“Really?” asked Zeke. “That’s it, huh?” He smiled at her.
“Yep. Want a beer?” Tracy opened the cooler and handed Zeke a cold beer.
“Nice, thanks,” he said. “Nice way to spend a week,” he said.
“Indeed,” she said.
“Who’s watching your Labra doodle?” he asked innocently.
Tracy looked at him with no expression.
“Joking,” said Zeke. “You work out mornings?”
“Yes. But not too early,” she said. “I am on vacation.”
“And do you want to show me your tattoo again?” he asked.
“Yep, sure do.”
“Hmm,” he thought out loud. “This may be the beginning of something beautiful.”
About the Author
Jeff Siebold loves a good mystery. A life long reader, he has embarked on a personal journey in creativity designed to contribute to the delight of mystery readers everywhere.
Jeff and his wife Karin live on a barrier island in North Carolina, not far from the Cape Fear River (made famous by one of his favorite authors, John D. MacDonald). They have three college-aged children and two unruly dogs.
