by Jeff Siebold
Bluegrass and Crimson
A Zeke Traynor Mystery
Jeff Siebold
Copyright © 2016 Jeff Siebold
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design
ISBN-13: 978-0-9979570-3-7
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to acknowledge Martyn Clarke for his help with the Dulles Airport Operations procedures. The author also wishes to acknowledge Elizabeth Bruno, his editor, for her sharp eye and constructive comments. And the author wants to acknowledge Deborah Bradseth of Tugboat Design for her excellent creative work.
Dedicated to Karin, my best friend and my greatest love.
Chapter 1
“Two masked perps pulled into the bank parking lot and entered the bank lobby with automatic weapons. They made everyone sit on the floor and give up their money. It was well organized,” said Captain Gideon.
Zeke Traynor was seated at a conference table in the Texas Rangers offices in Houston. He crossed his legs and picked at a crease in his jeans. Then he looked up and read the faces of the men around him.
Captain Hank Gideon and another Ranger, Jay Clinton, sat across from Zeke and his partner, Clive Greene. As usual, Greene’s face showed nothing. Although Gideon had on a traditional white Stetson hat, slacks, a dress shirt and string tie, his sleeves were rolled up as if he meant to get dirty in the mess that had gone down at the Shreveport National Bank. He was a tall man with a hardscrabble look, a frowning face and pocked and scarred skin.
He’s used to digging in, Zeke thought. Tenacious.
Zeke turned his eyes to the second Texas Ranger. Clinton was a short, stocky man with wide hands, a round face and a crew cut. His head was uncovered, although Zeke noticed that his hair still showed signs of indentation from his Stetson Alamo hat, now on the sideboard against the wall. Clinton also wore a dress shirt and slacks, cop shoes and a Rangers badge. Up to this point he had deferred to Gideon, but now he said, under his breath, “This is the fourth time this has happened. The fourth bank.”
“How many robbers?” asked Zeke.
“Two inside, but the automatic weapons are the damn equalizers,” said Clinton, red-faced and becoming more involved in the discussion.
He’s angry about the robberies, thought Zeke. That’s odd. He seems to be taking this personally.
“How much did they steal?” asked Zeke.
Clive had contacted him and brought him into this investigation through The Agency. Working with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF), The Agency had been hired to track down the automatic weapons. The bank robberies would remain the responsibility of the Texas Rangers and the FBI.
“They seem to have a pretty good feel for when the banks have cash on hand,” said Gideon, taking the thread of the conversation back from Clinton. He seemed to be more comfortable relaying the facts. “They tend to visit on Friday mornings, paydays, and they’re not greedy. They take what they find, large bills only, and get out fast.” He smiled. “Good thing, too. They could get more, a lot more, but the cost for them would be more time and more risk.”
“How long were they in the bank?” Zeke asked.
“From the security video, they’re in and out within three minutes, tops. One stop at each teller position.” This from Clinton, wrestling his way back into the conversation. Zeke sensed that there was conflict between the two Rangers. “You want to see the security video now?” Abrupt. Zeke could feel the man’s anxiety.
“Sure,” said Clive, also sensing the strain. “Calm down and carry on,” he murmured. True to his heritage, he was wearing a British Isles Walking Sweater in a chocolate brown, over tan corduroy slacks and matching tan traditional British brogue shoes. As usual, his appearance was immaculate. Zeke smiled to himself. “Keep Calm and Carry On” was a British propaganda poster from World War 2, and the allusion was not lost on Zeke.
Not having much interest in the office politics, Zeke reflected on the facts. From what he knew, he could make some good assumptions. There was probably a third man, a driver, waiting and watching outside the bank. If the dye packs didn’t ignite, it meant that the robbers were smart enough—or experienced enough—to be several cuts above the average bandit. No crazed druggie or smash and grab here, he thought.
In his years as an operative with a branch of Military Intelligence, Zeke had learned quite a lot about human nature. Now, working as a contractor with The Agency, a private firm run by Clive Greene, he had more flexibility and pretty much free rein. It was Dan Wheeler, his ex-boss from Military Intelligence and current Special Agent in Charge of the ATF in Texas, who had drawn him into this assignment. Plus the opportunity to work with Clive Greene again.
Zeke remembered the phone call. He had been crewing on a Morgan 60 center cockpit with a tall, leggy blond captain, running it to Fort Lauderdale from its former home in Belize City, when Dan reached him. He’d answered the cell phone, immediately taken back in time by the rich, deep voice with the Texas twang. “Hey, Zeke, you busy, boy?” Two days later he had joined Dan and Clive for the briefing.
Zeke was average height, about five ten, but his slate blue eyes and keen memory set him apart. As an experienced asset, he was considered irreplaceable. He’d heard that buzz from time to time, but he didn’t really take it to heart. He thought it silly to get too serious about himself.
Clinton picked up a tablet computer propped on the conference table and pushed a few buttons on the screen. Once the app had been activated, he set the pad back down and made sure it was visible to the men at the table. They were looking at a black and white video of the bank lobby and teller area.
“Here we go,” growled Clinton.
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sp; “That’s Shreveport National Bank, the south branch, where the last robbery occurred,” said Gideon, still wanting to control the briefing. Zeke saw him refer to the notes penciled on his legal pad. They watched as a middle-aged security guard stepped into the camera frame near the door, looking toward the teller positions. “That’s the guard, Robert Flores.”
One masked man, and then another stepped into the bank lobby and looked around. On the pad, Zeke saw them enter the bottom left section of the screen. Their rifles were visible, but pointed down along their legs. Their bearing was erect. One man carried an empty canvass bag. There were three customers being served and two in a queue for the teller windows.
The first words were spoken. “Three minutes,” the first man said out loud. He approached the guard, who had turned his head toward the men, and raised his weapon, pointing it at the guard’s head. Zeke watched as the guard saw the rifle coming up and immediately put his hands in the air.
The guard asked, “What do you want me to do?” It all sounded tinny to Zeke, like a cheap microphone in a large open space.
The second man carefully circled behind his partner and stepped to the right side of the guard. His gun was raised now, also. With his left hand, he extracted the guard’s pistol from its holster and put it in the pocket of his pea coat. Both men were dressed identically, with tight, clear plastic face masks that distorted their countenance, and wool stocking caps over gauche dark wigs. They were both bearded, and wore gloves and navy pea coats that fell to cover their hips. Jeans and cowboy boots, not at all uncommon in this part of the country, covered their legs and feet. But one man, the man with the bag, was much taller and thicker than the other.
Like a bear, Zeke thought.
The sound from the teller windows was louder, now, and faster as if they felt the tension and knew something was going on.
One of the tellers, a young girl of perhaps twenty, looked at the men and the rifles and said in a high, fragile voice, “Oh, God, no!”
Another teller, a short black girl screamed, “I have a baby, don’t shoot me!”
“Shut up,” the heavier man yelled toward the tellers. “Everybody shut up! Get on the ground! This is a robbery!” He pointed his rifle at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. A loud burst of six or seven shots, a rapid staccato, echoed around the bank lobby.
“Tell the tellers to stay calm and do not press the alarm,” he said to the security guard. His voice was gravelly and harsh. “Then lie down on the ground.” He glanced at his watch. To his partner, he said, “Two minutes and twenty-five seconds.”
The guard walked toward the teller area and said calmly, “He says we shouldn’t push the alarm button.” Then he laid down.
“The silent alarm button had already been pushed by the third teller as soon as she saw the confrontation with the guard,” Clinton said, a bit more neutrally.
Zeke watched the videotape without comment while the shorter robber stood in front of the teller windows with his rifle pointed, able to monitor and cover each of the tellers and bank patrons. The taller man vaulted into the teller work area and walked to each teller in turn. One by one he had them empty their cash drawers.
“They only took large bills, $50 and $100 denominations,” said Clinton in a bitter voice.
The taller man made each teller quickly unstrap their bundles.
Checking for dye packs, Zeke thought.
And then they each dropped the loose cash into the canvas bag.
“They’ve got to be terrified,” Zeke said to himself. He could hear the sobbing and whimpering from the hostages on the floor.
The taller man took about 30 seconds with each teller and when each was done loading the money, he had her exit the area and sit down on the floor in front of her teller window, within a clear line of sight of his partner.
“Forty seconds,” said the small man as the last teller was assuming a seated position on the carpeting in front of her workspace. His voice sounded loud and metallic.
“Everyone stay down! You won’t be hurt if you stay down!” he screamed at the hostages. He was moving toward the front door. His partner carried the canvas bag from behind the teller work area through the open half-door, and headed for the outside door. Sirens could be faintly heard in the distance. Then the robbers disappeared from the screen.
“And that’s what we have,” said Gideon.
Chapter 2
“What about the other banks?” asked Clive.
“Same description,” said Gideon.
Clinton looked up. “The tellers take bundles of their bigger bills and take the wrappers off, then put them in the robber’s bag themselves,” he said.
“That way the robbers avoid the dye packs,” said Zeke. “And they know where the teller panic buttons are.”
“They seem to,” said Gideon.
“And they know that dye packs are usually kept in stacks of smaller bills, $10 or $20 notes,” said Clinton. He wrote something on his pad.
“The dye packs are activated by a radio transmission as the pack exits the bank, right?” Zeke confirmed.
“That’s right,” said Gideon.
“So they average, what, $50,000 per robbery? Maybe $60,000?” said Zeke.
“About that,” said Clinton with a snarl. “We’ll get you the tapes from the security cameras at the other banks, too,” said Gideon. He looked at Clinton, who appeared to be distracted, making important notes on his pad. Gideon looked at Zeke. “Jay will get them to you,” he said.
Jay Clinton looked up at Gideon for a minute, still as a snake. Then he stood, took his pad and left the room.
“What’s with him?” asked Clive.
“Who knows?” said Gideon. “He gets like that.” Gideon looked at his papers.
“The police station in Shreveport is about twelve minutes away from the bank,” continued Captain Gideon, “and I’m sure they knew it. Witnesses said they headed south on East Kings Highway, the opposite direction from the incoming cops. Said they were driving a silver pickup, a crew cab with four seats.”
“And there’s more. We didn’t put this together for quite a while,” Gideon continued. “These guys have been playing ‘four corners’ with us.”
“How so?” asked Clive.
“Well, they’ve been working the same general areas, but jumping over the state lines for the robberies. This one was in Shreveport, but the last one was in Texarkana, on the Arkansas side, and the one before that was in Tyler, Texas. Before that, Hugo, Oklahoma. So the associated law enforcement didn’t really have any overlapping communications. We’re just now figuring out the rest of the puzzle.”
“Bank robbery is a Federal crime,” said Zeke. “Didn’t the FBI see the connection?”
“These robberies were reported to the FBI, but in reality, they just track the data. They don’t really investigate unless there’s evidence of repeat offenses by the same group. In this case, they hadn’t recognized the similarities yet.”
“So, same M.O. Two guys with rifles enter the bank, neutralize any opposition with overwhelming force, gather the money and are gone within three minutes?” asked Zeke.
“Pretty much it,” said Gideon. “Typical bank robbers aren’t this organized or competent. They usually act on impulse, and sort of try to figure it out as they go.”
“Any chance of an inside man?” asked Zeke. “Or woman?” He knew this was a common occurrence but would be unlikely with four different banks.
“We’ve checked that angle,” said Gideon. “No connections so far. But it could be.”
“What do you know about the automatic weapons?” asked Clive.
“We have pretty good pictures from several of the banks’ security cameras. We were able to blow up some still shots from the videos. They’re carrying very dangerous weapons. Heckler & Koch G36 fully automatic rifles,” said Gideon.
Military grade, said Zeke to himself. Then, to the others, “That’s the weapon of choice for a number of special forces. And th
ey’re used in about 45 countries, from Albania to Uruguay, including the United States and Great Britain.”
“How do you know that?” asked Gideon.
“I have a pretty good memory,” said Zeke as he hid a smile. In fact, Zeke’s memory was nearly eidetic.
Gideon looked at him for a minute. Then he said, “Well, the special forces rifles are well documented and accounted for. We need to find the source of these, though, and we need to stop these guys before someone is killed.”
“No argument there,” said Clive.
“I suggest that we split up. You guys see if you can track down the guns, and we’ll stay with the bank robberies,” Gideon said, looking at Clive.
“Right,” said Clive. “Let’s plan to bring each other up to date on our progress weekly, though, and in the event of any breakthroughs. Also, Dan Wheeler of the ATF is our client.”
“OK. How do you plan to go about finding the source of the guns?” asked the captain.
“I think we’ll start on the supply side,” said Zeke.
Gideon’s phone made a chiming sound, and he looked down at it. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said and stepped out of the conference room, answering as he went, “Gideon here.” The door swung shut behind him.
Clive swiveled his chair toward Zeke. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Let’s start with the universe of guns. More specifically, H&K G36 rifles. What do we know?”
“With regard to the supply, I suppose the original source is in western Germany,” said Clive.
“Oberndorf,” said Zeke, preoccupied, thinking. “So how do they get into the hands of a couple bank robbers in Texarkana?”
“They’d have to cross the U.S. border somewhere,” said Clive. “Could come in as weapons for law enforcement at pretty much any level. SWAT or something, from local to FBI.”
“Right, but those guys keep a close watch on their weaponry, particularly automatic weapons. Dan Wheeler said that nothing like that had been reported to ATF as missing. Gideon confirmed it.”
