by Jeff Siebold
He parked in a visitor’s space on the Collin College campus and entered the brick and stone building marked, “Administration.” To his right there was a reception area, a long wooden counter separating the office workers from the students and visitors. A heavy black woman was standing at the copy machine as it cranked out indiscernible copies of what might have been a school newsletter.
“Can I help?” she asked Zeke.
“Sure, thanks,” said Zeke. “I have an appointment with Campus Police…”
“Oh, OK,” she said. “Go down that hall to the end. He’s on your left. Here, take this visitors badge.”
Zeke reached the door marked “Campus Security.” It was cracked open, revealing a small room with a desk and chair, and a side table with communications equipment and a computer on top of it. The office was vacant.
“Can I help?” asked a voice from behind Zeke.
“Looking for Captain Ferrell,” said Zeke.
“You found him,” said Ferrell. “You Zeke Traynor?”
“I am,” said Zeke. He’d arranged an appointment earlier, on his drive north. “Nice campus.”
“Sure is,” said Ferrell. “And there’s not a lot of trouble here. What’s this about an FBI investigation.”
Zeke told him some of it. “So, I’m here to see if any of these names ring a bell with you.” He handed Ferrell a sheet of paper with the five names on it.
“Well, sure,” said Ferrell. “They sure do.”
Chapter 11
“Welcome back, men,” said Bill Crawford, Special Agent In Charge of the Little Rock FBI office. Crawford looked as if he hadn’t changed at all from the meeting three days earlier. He wore the same crisp white shirt, cuffs rolled to his forearms, and had his suit jacket hung over the back of a chair. He was standing at the conference table, assuming a role of authority over the meeting, greeting each man by name as he entered the room. The tie he wore was blue, but a slightly different shade than last time they were together, Zeke noticed.
Dan Wheeler, Crawford’s counterpart from the ATF, looked slightly disheveled. His dark hair was somewhat askew and his manner was harried. He nodded at Crawford when he entered the room and then busied himself with finding a seat.
“We have a good report,” said Crawford, after Zeke and Clive and the rest of the FBI team were seated. “The drone insertion was successful. We flew it in by night and used the infrared camera to count the Freemen in the compound.” Crawford had the annoying habit of recounting information that was common knowledge as if it were a new FBI reveal. “There were thirty-eight bodies, and it looks like eight of them are kids, based upon size only.”
“That includes the three bank robbers, I believe,” said Clive. He had flown in earlier that day for the meeting.
“The drone is silent?” asked Dan Wheeler.
“It is. All electric and very, very quiet. Up there in Zinc you wouldn’t hear it over the night sounds.”
“Has anyone entered the compound?” asked Zeke. “Or left it?”
“Yes,” Crawford responded, shifting gears. He looked at his notes. Zeke noticed that, like a number of bureaucrats who deal in information, Crawford held it back and doled it out in small portions designed to keep him in control. “Yes, we have feet on the ground up there. We observed several deliveries of what appeared to be frozen food in a refrigerated truck, and there was a car full of four men that left the compound and found their way into Harrison one night this week. They made one stop at a place called “Billy’s” and spent the evening there. Then they checked back into the compound about eleven-thirty that same night.”
“Not much happenin’,” said Dan Wheeler. His anxious countenance belied his sharp, organized mind. Zeke had dealt with Wheeler for years, and respected his insights and abilities.
“No,” said Clive. “Perhaps they’re lying low for a time. Is there a pattern between the robberies?” Clive directed this last question to Crawford.
“Not really,” said Crawford. “They all took place on Fridays, paydays, but they spanned a four-month period, December through March. In some cases, there was a week between robberies, and in others there was a month between them.”
“OK, nothing last Friday,” said Zeke.
“No,” said Crawford, and the other FBI agents at the table shook their heads in agreement.
“And the last robbery was three weeks ago,” said Zeke.
They continued to nod.
“Makes for pretty good odds that something is planned for this Friday,” he continued. “Or next Friday, latest, I’d guess.”
“They may have stopped, thinking that we’ll be putting this together pretty soon,” said one of the FBI agents, a large, fleshy man sitting at the table to Crawford’s left. Zeke had heard him called Rosie and he looked as if he’d played football in a former life.
“Possible,” said Zeke, “but I like the odds that they’ll be at it again either this Friday or next.”
“Keep coverage on the compound and be prepared to follow them and detain them if three men leave together anytime after Thursday dawn,” said Zeke. “It’ll take them some time to reach the next target, and they’ll want to stake it out early. You’ll want to detain them as soon as you can.”
“We can do that,” said Crawford.
“Don’t forget, armed and dangerous,” said Zeke. “Those are G36 fully automatic weapons in their possession.”
* * *
“I’ve got the bag and the ammo,” said the first man, holding up three thirty-round magazines and gesturing to the other two. They were dressed in camouflage jackets that were designed for hunters, and they each wore the same black boots, ankle high and laced to the top. There were no insignias or ranks on their persons. “Let’s go.”
The other two men nodded and each of them set their rifle in the truck, one on the rear floor, and one in the front, under the glove compartment. The big man again took the back seat. They each casually threw a green blanket on top of the weapons and then climbed in after them.
The silver pickup rocked and then quickly stabilized on its good shocks. The driver started the truck and drove it to the main gate of the compound, stopping for the guard to let them out.
“You guys have a good time,” said the guard, unlocking and raising the gate bar. The truck entered an area completely surrounded by hurricane fence, eight feet high and topped with barbed wire. Once the gate bar had been lowered and re-locked, the fence gate in front of the pickup was opened. A second guard held the gate while the truck exited the compound and turned left into a densely wooded area. The road was made of gravel and dirt, and led to the property line six hundred yards away. It was curved with several switchbacks, to prevent a direct attack aimed at crashing the compound gates.
At the property line, the dirt and gravel road intersected Zinc Road, a two-lane paved road that led to Harrison, and on to the State road.
“Ready for Hollister?” asked the driver.
“As good a time as any,” said the passenger. “Tomorrow’s Friday, payday, and we need to be paid,” he laughed.
“Do you think they’re figuring us out?” asked the man in the back seat, the big, cautious one.
“Maybe,” said the driver. “But they haven’t been able to stop us yet.”
“I know. These small town police aren’t really geared up for prevention. Most of what they do is react,” said the passenger.
They turned left on Highway 7 and drove on through the town of Bergman and then through an area surrounded by hills and green fields, and an occasional stand of trees along a creek bed. Harrison was still about four miles away.
“We heading over to Harrison, then north?” asked the bear-like man.
“Yep, that’ll put us on Route 7 to Route 65, and Hollister is right on 65, in Missouri. Easy in and out,” said the driver, confidently. “Very easy.”
Ahead the men saw an eighteen-wheeler partially pulled over on the side of the road. It was carrying a load of timber but
had stopped, its wheels half on the shoulder and half in the right hand lane. A large tow-truck was maneuvering in the street, trying to get the proper alignment to connect to the eighteen-wheeler’s cab. He was rocking back and forth, forward and reverse, working on getting the right angle on the narrow road. The timber truck’s driver was standing in the middle of the road, signaling with a red flag for oncoming traffic to stop. The silver pickup, the only oncoming traffic at that point, slowed and stopped while the tow-truck aligned itself, still rocking back and forth across the road in short strokes.
The tow truck was a local one, judging from the sign on its side, and the driver was a man in his twenties, with a dirty brown baseball cap advertising some agricultural fertilizer above its bill. He looked local, like he lived nearby.
The timber truck driver, a blond man dressed in a flannel shirt and long jean-shorts, held up the hand with the red flag and, once he’d confirmed that the pickup truck was stopping, he looked back toward the tow-truck again, watching the action. The tow truck had almost cleared the left lane, with the cab sticking out in traffic. The tow-truck driver opened the door and jumped out. He went to the front of the eighteen-wheeler and started connecting.
The driver of the silver pickup blew his horn, a short blast, and pointed to the left lane with a questioning gesture to the driver standing in the street. “Can I go?” he mouthed.
The truck driver stepped over to the driver’s side of the pickup and signaled for the driver to lower the window. He took a step back and away for a moment and turned and looked further down the road. And then he nodded and stepped back to the window and said, “OK, go around,” and stepped aside to let the pickup through. As it passed he tossed a small canister into the open window of the pickup.
The driver accelerated, and as he did, the full load of logs began to roll off the back of the eighteen-wheeler, hitting the road in front and alongside the pickup, bouncing and rolling and smashing into the passenger side of the pickup truck. The driver did his best to swerve and avoid the falling logs, but their momentum carried the pickup with them, pushing it across the width of the road and into the ditch on the far side. The pickup teetered and fell and came to a stop lying on its driver’s side.
“What the hell?” The driver had been wrestling with the pickup, trying to keep it upright. The cab of the pickup was filling with smoke. “Tear gas,” shouted the big man in the back seat. “Get out!”
The passenger was still buckled into his seat, but he was trying to reach the rifle that had fallen from the space on the floor in front of him and landed on the driver’s side door. The passenger in the back seat had better luck keeping track of his gun. His rifle fell toward him and gave him a sharp rap across his shins.
“Ow! Damn it,” he shouted. He reached out to find the weapon. The cab was full of smoke, and the men were choking.
“Put your weapons down,” said an official-sounding voice over a loudspeaker. All three men looked out the window and suddenly realized that they were trapped. Forty feet in front of them an armored SWAT truck appeared, clearly marked as “FBI” on the side. It had, apparently, been hidden behind a stand of nearby trees. There were two dozen men in full SWAT gear standing around the pickup, each with a rifle and a bulletproof vest. The five men closest to the pickup held bulletproof shields in front of themselves.
The driver glanced around, but the tow truck driver and the driver of the timber truck, the blond man with the bright blue eyes, had disappeared.
“Throw your guns out now,” continued the voice. “You’re completely surrounded.”
Chapter 12
“The guns that the FBI found in the pickup should pave the way for a warrant to search the Arkansas Freemen’s compound,” said Zeke. “I’d think they can close down the entire operation, and Dan can end the hunt for the automatic weapons used in the robberies.”
“Seems right,” said Clive. They were sitting at a conference table in the West Little Rock FBI offices, waiting to meet with Bill Crawford and Dan Wheeler for the debriefing.
“Imagine if we had as many meetings as these guys do,” said Zeke. “I’m not sure how we’d get anything done.”
“Well, you tend to take a couple months off here and there,” said Clive. “Sort of shortens your workdays, on average.”
Zeke nodded and said nothing. Just then, Crawford and Wheeler arrived.
“This should work out fine,” said Crawford. “We’ve gotten a federal warrant to search the compound for automatic weapons. We’ve got three of the militia who are talking as fast as they can, giving up everything they know to cut a deal. They’re the bank robbers.”
“There may be more to this,” said Zeke. “Do we know the scope of Martin Burton’s sales of automatic weapons?”
“The scope…?” asked Crawford.
“I think it’s unlikely that these are the only weapons, or that he has no knowledge of any other sales. Not probable,” said Zeke. “Let’s circle back and ask Martin about that. I think he knows more than he let on.”
“Yes, we’ll do that,” said Crawford.
“Actually, our agreement was that we’d chase the guns, and you’d chase the bank robbers, remember?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Let’s stick with that. You guys have a “win” already. Let us do our job.”
* * *
The table contained a mixture of British dishes, including Bubble and Squeak Cakes and the makings for a Ploughman’s Lunch. “I decided we’d eat in,” said Clive, already serving himself on the china plates that the caterer had provided. “Grab some Bubble and Squeak.”
“Looks tasty,” said Zeke.
“What is it?” asked Kimmy.
“It’s a dish made up of potatoes and brussel sprouts, with a fried egg on top,” said Clive. “Very good.”
“So, Dallas was not what we expected,” said Zeke.
“So you mentioned,” said Clive. “But you did some good there.”
“Well, yes, but it won’t help with the automatic weapons.” Zeke was serving himself from the casserole dish.
They were in Austin, in an office in the Texas Rangers headquarters building, debriefing the Arkansas takedown of the militia robbers. It was a sunny day and the mood was light.
“The students weren’t terrorists,” Zeke continued. “They were selling drugs. Heroine, ecstasy, oxycodone, designer drugs and prescription drugs. But their communications patterns were very similar to a spy ring or a terror cell…one leader communicating with each person individually. And with short, concentrated communications, usually when a shipment arrived.”
“So they would each get a message to pick up their drugs for distribution?” asked Kimmy.
“Right, and the texts or phone calls were short and coded and occasional. Same as you’d expect from terrorists.”
“So how did you uncover that?” asked Clive. To himself, he said, “Mmm, this is delicious.”
“Turns out that the local police were working on a sting, getting ready to take down Amir Khan and his distributors. The good news is that our information, Roger’s list of names, helped them to make it a clean sweep. They picked up everyone at once.”
“Good news, but we’re still looking at Martin Burton about the automatic rifles,” said Clive.
“Yes, let’s visit him, again,” said Zeke.
* * *
Martin Burton was sullen. He was still sitting in an interrogation room in the Texas Rangers Austin Headquarters, cuffed to the metal table and wearing an orange jumpsuit marked TDOC, for Texas Department Of Corrections. He hadn’t been charged yet.
“I am just the middle man,” said Martin, for the fifth time in five minutes. “I only sell a few of the rifles, and only to collectors and private individuals. They keep them in their collections and display them. No one is hurt by this.”
“We’re waiting for your attorney to show up,” said Cliff Jordan, a large, black ATF officer. He was wearing a windbreaker with a yellow “ATF” stenciled across his back. “Then we’l
l process you.”
Zeke sat next to Jordan, watching Martin’s bravado begin to crumble. He’s not a player, thought Zeke. He’ll fold quickly.
* * *
The lawyer, it turned out, was out of his league. Tom Fredricks was in his third year out of law school and worked as an assistant to the litigators at Black, Haas and Lipton, a Houston law firm. The partners, he said, were in court today, and couldn’t break free to represent Burton at the interrogation. Zeke watched him enter the interrogation room and try to take control of the situation.
“I need to see my client alone,” said Fredricks.
“No can do, counselor,” said Cliff Jordan. “He’s on suicide watch.”
Zeke smiled to himself at the ploy.
“Oh, well, ahh, there’s got to be a place where we can talk,” he said, looking around. Jordan sat and looked at him, with no intention of moving.
“Don’t say anything more, Mr. Burton,” Fredricks said. That’s sort of lame, Zeke thought. It was clear that Fredricks was uncertain about the legality of the situation.
A large man dressed in a blue jumpsuit and black combat boots stood by the door. With the wide bodies of the ATF agents, there wasn’t much extra space in the small interrogation room. Clive Greene and Dan Wheeler were outside, watching through the two-way mirror.
“But I’m innocent,” said Martin. “I didn’t sell any guns to terrorists!” The look on his face was that of a man spiraling into a situation that was out of control.
“Mr. Burton, I have to advise you to stop talking now,” said Fredricks.
Zeke shifted in his chair and looked at Burton. “Martin, you can help yourself here,” he said. “This whole thing can go away, with a little cooperation.” He paused and looked at Fredricks. “Now that your attorney is here, I suggest that we chat. He’s here to protect your rights,” Zeke continued.
