by Glenn Trust
“I got no idea ‘bout that.” Acero was hesitant, every word hanging in the air by itself as if he might end the call at any moment.
“John said you were a friend too.”
Several more seconds of silence passed before Acero said, “I am.”
“Good. Will you help John?”
“He knows I will if I can. Why he ain’t talkin’ to me hisself?”
“He’s on the move, leading away the people who are looking for him … and for you. What he needs might take a little time to arrange, and he didn’t have the time to do it. He asked me to help.”
“Seems you know who I am and who Sole is. Who are you?”
“Like I said, we’re friends. My name is Billy Siever. John and I grew up together. That’s more than he wanted me to say to you, but I figure if we are going to help him, we need to trust each other.”
“Trustin’ someone you ain’t never met is a hard thing.”
“I understand,” Billy said quietly. “I’ve never met you either.”
“Alright. Let’s meet.”
“What?” Arranging things by phone was one thing. Meeting face to face with a known drug dealer and criminal informant was something else.
“We meet. You and me. Place where I say. Then I decide if this is legit and I can help you.”
“Alright.” Billy swallowed. He was about to take a step off the high dive, and he had no idea how deep the water was.
The meeting took place at a bar on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia. Acero asked questions about Siever’s relationship with Sole. Billy realized that he had taken the time to do some online research and came prepared to check Siever’s story against the record. From old newspapers and court records, he had learned about Sole’s arrest for car theft, his father who disappeared, the death of his mother, that there were no other siblings.
It took a while. They sipped beers, and Acero quizzed Siever the way a seasoned cop would. Now and again he threw in a falsehood to see if Siever would catch it.
Finally, Acero leaned back across the high-top table and stared at Billy, making a final assessment. He knew that anyone could have found the same information that he had online, but if Siever was a killer working for the cartel, it was the best damn disguise Acero had ever seen. He made up his mind.
“Alright, what does Sole want me to do?”
Billy explained the need for three new identities and provided Acero with all the information on Isabella, Sandy, and Jacinta. They had to be entirely off the record, common names to make any search so broad that it would be impossible to trace them through any state or federal database without getting a million hits on the same names.
Acero nodded. “I got someone. I’ll be in touch.”
It took three more weeks to fabricate the identification for each. Acero’s contact was a professional, although he didn’t have a business number listed, and customers could only contact him through a referral from another customer. It was worth the wait. The product he produced was indistinguishable from government-issued identification.
A high-quality fake ID that a college student might use to get into bars and buy alcohol runs about three hundred dollars. For that, they get a driver’s license with the appropriate holograms and other security features embedded and laminated. The only way to determine they are a fake is to run the identifying license number through the corresponding state DMV system.
But Billy learned there was another tier of false identification, a level reserved for those with special needs and the money to pay for it. This level included not only false driver’s licenses and other necessary IDs but also fabrication of entirely new identities, mirroring those in legitimate government databases.
For those who could afford it, this was the stratosphere of false identification. It would appear as valid in every state and federal system because it used an actual person’s information as its basis and sometimes several persons’ information just to muddy the waters.
Additional layers were added, new addresses, moves to other states, travel, and even credit card use, all verified, and based on real transactions and locations. Like money laundering, the more levels it runs through, the harder it is for authorities to trace its source and validity.
John Sole had emphasized that they should have the very best in false identification, and Billy saw that they got it. For the price of five thousand dollars each, they had new lives. Sole paid for it all from the cash he put away from the sale of his house in the Atlanta suburbs following the murders of his wife and children.
***
The evening passed pleasantly. The cover stories they had prepared while the new identities were cooked up worked flawlessly.
When the check came, Billy insisted on paying for everyone. Isabella stood and leaned over to give Vera a kiss on the cheek.
“It was so nice meeting you, Vera.” She looked at Billy. “And thank you for dinner. Next time, you come to our place …” She laughed. “I mean the place we rent from you, and I’ll fix some home cooking.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Billy beamed as they walked away.
“Such nice people,” Vera said.
“Yes, they are.”
Billy wished there was a way to let his friend know that things were working out.
The Key
“I will be leaving for a while.”
Alejandro Garza sat across from Bebé Elizondo in the hacienda office on a hillside that overlooked the Pacific. In the city below, the port of Lázaro Cárdenas was busy with activity.
Stevedores unloaded ships and reloaded them with cargo containers bound for ports around the world. Some containers held the precious cocaine that had made Elizondo a billionaire. The losses from the seizure of their cargo by the DEA and Coast Guard during a transfer to shrimp boats in the Atlantic had been more than offset by their ever-expanding business. There was no shortage of markets for the high-quality cocaine Elizondo imported from Columbia and shipped around the globe.
“I have sensed your restlessness.” Elizondo looked up from the financial report his accountant had prepared. He nodded and smiled in the benevolent Buddha way that masked the ruthless killer beneath. “It’s our elusive North American who has you on edge.”
“It is.” Garza nodded. “We must bring this matter to a close.”
“That will happen eventually in any event, will it not?”
“It must happen under our terms, in a manner in which we can control the outcome and the future effects on our business.”
“I wonder,” Elizondo began, leaning back in his chair. He folded his hands together under his chin, and looked at the cartel enforcer over the top of his glasses. “I wonder if perhaps you have not become too preoccupied with this John Sole. Two years have passed since we took his family from him, and yet …” Elizondo swung his arm in a gesture to include the office and the entire hillside estate. “Here we sit, and there is no sign of him … no threats to us … no interference with our business.”
Garza was quiet for a moment. They had had this conversation before. Each time Elizondo was more anxious than before to put the matter to rest, forget about the American, and move on. Garza would have been willing to abide by his wishes, if not for one thing.
He was convinced he knew the heart of John Sole. They were alike, he believed, bound by loyalty and a code they lived by. The codes might be different, but the loyalty and dedication to seeing the mission through to completion were the same.
The difference was that Garza’s code was brutal and ruthless, while Sole’s remained tied to a morality, a concept of justice. Time and again that had been made clear.
His protection of the Mexican family trying to cross the river in Texas. His escape from Texas as he safeguarded the woman and her son. His reluctance to harm anyone other than the cartel drug dealers and men Garza sent after him. For Garza, these were insights into his adversary’s character—critical insights.
Sole lived by his code, and he would never stop pla
nning for the moment when he would secure the justice it required. It was his reason for living. Garza understood this, even if Elizondo did not. He tried to explain.
“I understand your feelings on the matter.” Garza spoke in his customary, emotionless monotone. “He has been playing a game with us these last months.”
“How so?” Elizondo reached for a cigar from the humidor on his desk and lit up as he listened.
“He leads us on a chase, moving from city to city, always contacting our people, making his presence known, and then leaving before there is time to confront him.”
“So, he is afraid of us, perhaps?” Elizondo interjected.
“No.” Garza shook his head. “He is protecting someone, taking us away from them.”
“Who?”
“I have no way of being certain … yet … but I believe it may be the woman who fled with him from the town in Texas.”
“He leads us away from her; is that your belief?”
“Yes.”
“And where is she?”
“I don’t know. After leaving Texas, they disappeared. There was no trace of them until Sole began showing up to buy drugs from our dealers, always a different city, with no pattern to his movements. He moves randomly from one location to another. We never know where he will show up next until the report comes in that he has been spotted.”
“You make him sound very clever.”
“He is smart.” Garza nodded. “There is no denying it, but protecting others is his weakness. That’s why I must be gone for a time. Finding those he cares about is the key to finding him.”
“I see.” Elizondo puffed, sending a plume of blue-gray smoke into the air, considering Garza’s explanation. “And how will you find these others, the ones he cares about?”
“I’m not sure,” Garza replied honestly. “But I am certain that I cannot find them by remaining here.”
They sat across from each other in silence for several minutes. Garza waited. If Elizondo said to let the matter drop, he would have no choice but to comply. Unlike John Sole, the code he lived by demanded complete loyalty to Elizondo.
“Alright,” Elizondo said, breaking the silence, the stern eyes in his round face emphasizing his words. “Go on your hunt for the woman and for the American, but after … whether you are successful in finding him or not … it is over. We will get back to business and wait for him to come to us, if he ever does.”
Garza had no doubt that Sole would come for them eventually, but he refrained from arguing the point with Elizondo. “Thank you.”
Normal
“See you tomorrow.” Isabella stopped in the door of the small office and smiled at the balding fifty-something man behind the desk. “Want me to lock up?”
Sam Goodwin looked up from his desk and nodded. “Yeah, you might as well. Won’t be any walk-ins this late, and I’ve got to sit here and work on the quotes for that new tire shop in Hoschton. I’ll be here a while.”
“Anything I can do for you?” Isabella asked, knowing the answer.
“Nope. Not a thing. One man show.” Goodwin lowered his head to his keyboard and entered a few numbers, then muttered, “Shit.”
He hit delete and entered some different numbers and nodded.
“Okay, don’t stay too late.” Isabella turned and walked through the office to the front door.
“Uh, huh,” Goodwin muttered, his eyes alternating between the keyboard and the monitor on his desk. “See you tomorrow, Abby.”
The Goodwin Insurance Agency was small. Mostly it was just Sam Goodwin and a staff of two, Isabella and Courtney Smallwell, a young girl barely out of high school working as a receptionist and customer greeter. Courtney planned to attend Gainesville Junior College next year, but first, she wanted to save some money and take a cruise. She had made it clear she would not be working for Goodwin longer than it took to gather the necessary funds.
That was fine with Sam. An easy-going sort, he didn’t mind and didn’t feel taken advantage of. He recognized the job for what it was, busy work mostly with occasional moments of interaction with clients. The only real skill required was to be able to formulate a coherent sentence and answer the phone politely. Courtney qualified, and replacing her would not be difficult.
There were a couple of agents who used Sam as their broker and maintained desks in the open front office, but they didn’t write much business, and most of the profit, or loss, the agency incurred rested squarely on Sam’s shoulders. The real staff was Isabella, the office manager, and Sam, the broker-agent.
Isabella pulled the glass front door shut and threw the deadbolt with her key. She looked up and down the small strip shopping center where the office was located. Most of the businesses were closed except a pizza joint at one end and a drug store at the other. It was a nondescript place for a small business, like a hundred thousand others spread around the country. Its mundane normalcy suited her perfectly.
On a recommendation from Billy Siever, Sam had hired her not long after her new identity, Abigail Banks, had been established. It was on a trial basis at first, and she had much to learn about the insurance business, but it didn’t take long for Sam to realize he’d discovered a golden nugget. Abby Banks turned out to be the hardest working employee he had ever hired.
The drive to the rental house took fifteen minutes. When she arrived, Sandy’s pickup was already in the driveway.
He too had found work shortly after their arrival. Bearing the new identity of Chris Banks, he soon became one of the most valued mechanics at Brandeiss Trucking. The old-timers nodded and patted him on the back, amazed at how quickly he had picked up the basics of diesel engine repair and maintenance. Chris Banks possessed an attention to detail they found lacking in most young people his age.
Jacinta stepped onto the porch as Isabella crossed the yard from the driveway. “You look tired.”
“I am tired.” Isabella nodded. “It’s been a busy day. How about you?”
“Not too bad. I worked this morning, but got home around noon.” Jacinta smiled. “I made chili for dinner.”
“Mmm, I’m starved.”
“Good.” Jacinta held the door open as Isabella came into the house.
She had also received a new identity—Margarita Flores, a common enough name that it would be difficult to verify which Margarita Flores she was if anyone ever checked. With the name and a forged Green Card and Social Security number, Jacinta had found work in the kitchen of a diner on Highway 53.
On the surface, they appeared to be an average family, at least for a single mother living with her nineteen-year-old son and his Mexican fiancée. Sometimes, Isabella worried about everything unraveling and exposing them. She kept the worries to herself. Sandy and Jacinta were adjusting to their new lives. In time, they really would be Chris and Magarita. In fact, the plans for their wedding were underway for them to become Chris and Magarita Banks.
The date was set for next month. It would be a small affair, just some friends from their jobs and Billy and Vera Siever.
Isabella hung her handbag on a hook by the front door and dropped into a chair. Sandy came from the kitchen with two brown longnecks in his hand.
“Hi, Mom. How about a beer?”
“You read my mind.” Isabella reached up for the beer. “Did you get one for Jacinta?”
“Nope.” Sandy grinned. “She’s not drinking.”
“No?” She looked past Sandy to see Jacinta grinning at her as well. “What …” Her eyes opened wide. “You mean …”
“Yes.” Jacinta nodded and patted her belly.
“That’s wonderful!” Isabella jumped from the chair to wrap her arms around them both.
She stood back and looked into their eyes. “I’m so happy.”
Life in Gainesville, Georgia had just become a little more normal for her. They were a family, and a baby was on the way, and she was going to be a grandmother, like grandmothers everywhere. How much more normal could life be?
Fearsome
Man
It was not his first trip to the States. Over the years he had made dozens of clandestine visits always on business for Los Salvajes. Typically, the business was to resolve some problem, which was a euphemism for eliminating the problem and burying the body where no one could find it.
Alejandro Garza’s methods were invariably bloody. With every drop of blood, discipline and loyalty within the cartel ranks were solidified. Eventually, the number of problems decreased until, on Bebé Elizondo’s advice, he had reduced the number and frequency of his visits. Then John Sole entered the picture.
He walked through the Atlanta airport, an anonymous face in the crowd. Invisibility was always a requisite for survival, and Alejandro Garza was a master of survival.
No excursion out of Mexico began without a new false identity. This was especially true for any trip to the States. In many places where Los Salvajes conducted its business, law enforcement maintained an often unscrupulous, if not entirely corrupt, relationship with the cartel. That was generally not the case in western nations, particularly the United States, a fact which significantly increased the risk of discovery.
While every enforcement agency knew of the Los Salvajes cartel, Alejandro Garza was a shadow figure. All knew of the existence of the cartel’s chief enforcer. There had been too many dead bodies not to notice, but none had the slightest idea what he looked like or the name his mother had given him.
On the cartel organization charts posted on law enforcement bulletin boards around the country, Garza’s name box was left blank. His image was represented by a dagger a DEA agent had drawn to represent the phantom-man they would all have loved to snare, but it was like trying to trap a ghost.
The truth was, he could have bought them drinks at their favorite bar, and they would have no idea that the tall, dignified man in the business suit, or Hawaiian shirt, or flip-flops and sunglasses, was the man they all sought. Garza, of course, would never knowingly do such a thing. He was much too cautious for that. He preferred to remain cloaked with anonymity behind the false identity he used on each visit.
