by Jack Hardin
“What’s this area look like?” she asked. “You’re seeing drugs actually being brought into Lee County or just in from Miami?”
”Oh no, directly. As best we can see, the Mexicans are bringing their product right into our coastlines. They’re getting bolder, going farther and farther north, away from their decades-old routes in the Keys, Miami, and the Glades.”
“And they brought you in to stop it all?” she smiled.
Garrett's expression tightened, molded into frustration. “Supposedly. That’s what I was told, but they haven't come through on it.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is where I grew up, and it’s the place I love, so when they offered me the helm I accepted with the caveat that I would be able to dig into the routes and sources. That hasn’t happened yet. They won’t give me the right people for it. You talk about politics; I’ve got my own to deal with.”
“They won’t let you dig under the skin? You’re joking.”
“I wish I were. It looks better for them when they can show a bust and hold up kilos in front of the cameras. I’m about to circumvent some suits and bring someone in anyway.”
“You should, Garrett. Good for you.”
Garrett’s lips formed a hard line, and he ran an open palm across the back of his neck. “Yeah...so, about that. What would you think about joining me? Coming on my team?”
Ellie blinked a couple times. “Hold on. Wait, you want me to chase down drugs?” She laughed, and, when she saw that Garrett wasn’t smiling, she lowered her voice. “I’m not a detective, Garrett.” It wasn’t completely true. Her first two years with the Office of the Inspector General at Langley meant she sometimes had a hand in finding the early morning shadow of officers that were suspected of unapproved or illegal activity overseas. Beyond that, her time as a case officer in Afghanistan meant that thinking logically and noticing trends could sometimes be the matter of life or death.
“You don’t need to be,” Garrett answered. “Ellie, I came down here to stop the flow of drugs from coming in at our coastline, not kick down the doors of single moms and grown punks who trade a few ounces here and there. My entire team is busy making raids and arresting bottom feeders who use more product than they sell. I need someone who I can give freedom to step outside the lines a little bit. Someone who has the creativity and the chutzpah to make connections and find pathways that no one else sees.”
Ellie wasn’t surprised easily, but Garrett had somehow discovered how to do it. She was intrigued, not sold. “So you’re telling me that Lee County is bringing in drugs directly - not just bringing it in from other places - and that you’re not getting the tools to stop them?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I probably don’t need to tell you that red is the color of the tape that ties up good ideas and sends them down to the basement to rot. I have good agents at my office, but I also have to record a certain number of seizures on the books every quarter.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “‘Have to show progress.’ That leaves little time or resources to actually track down where it’s all coming in at and where it’s all moving. Miami has a lot invested in uncovering the logistics of the drugs and working with the other agencies - the Navy, Coast Guard, and the Department of Homeland - but that keeps the focus on what’s happening down there. That means a lot of focus is spent on what’s coming in around Miami-Dade County and less on the goings-on up here. The entire area from Naples to Tampa is rising as a destination port.”
“Is it that bad here?” she asked. “I’m not naive enough to think there isn’t an underworld wherever you go, but I haven’t seen anything that would tell me drugs are running in and out of here by the boatload.”
“That’s because they’re moving them out quickly. You’re right, consumption isn’t as bad around here as an inner city, and we don’t exactly have the state’s most sought after nightclubs either. That’s my point. Consumption is average, but we have sufficient evidence to believe that a lot of product is coming into our coastlines and quickly being moved up and out of the state. By my estimate we’re not catching ninety-five percent of what comes into and through Lee County. Maybe more.”
Ellie ran the tip of her finger around the top edge of her empty mug then raised an eyebrow as a warning. “I’m not saying yes, Garrett, but, if I were to even entertain the idea, how exactly would you see me fitting in?”
A twinkle of hope shot from his eye, and he leaned in. “We’d start by running leads on low- and mid-level offenders and go from there. Honestly, Ellie, right now we’re basically blind as to the way their networks are structured. We’ve got a couple top men on our radar, but we know there’s got to be more than that. You’re a fresh face, and I can’t tell you how valuable that is. These drug kingpins, they have their own shared networks of photographs and personal files, and it’s filled with cops and agents from every GO under the sun that has ever been involved with drug hunting at any level. Whether it’s you or not, I have some discretionary funds in my budget to bring someone like you on. I just can’t get my own people on it. You wouldn’t formally be with the DEA and would have a lot of freedom to do things your way. You’d have a contractor badge and work for me on the side. We’d issue you a firearm, laptop. I would have to get you vetted, interviewed, and brought up to speed. That process is usually a few months, but with your background I could get it sped up to a few weeks.”
Ellie looked out the window again and watched the cars pass. In a moment of honesty, it sounded intriguing. But she had also grown used to the slow pace of her life now. A part time job with Major that she loved and the freedom to do what she wanted when she wanted. A job like this would not come without stress and political pushback of its own.
She looked back at him. “I appreciate the offer, Garrett, but I think I’ll pass. I’m sure it would be good for the right person, but I don’t think it’s me.”
“Fair enough.” His eyes held a gaze like that of a grouper lusting after a lure. He couldn’t hold back and asked, “Mind if I ask why?”
“I like the pace of my life right now. It fits me. Everyone runs around this world now like you’re wasting away if you’re not going a hundred miles an hour. Old Florida is healing, you know? Like magic. The air rustling the palms is almost a soundtrack - always in the background - the gracious sunshine, the call of a gull, the way the water laps at a hull in an eternal quest to find itself way inside. That’s what I need right now.”
Garrett laughed. “Fair enough. Just so we’re clear, no one is asking you to go to Juarez or Havana and get in a shootout with anyone. But just so I’m clear...you’re completely happy working at a bar part time and fishing the rest?”
“Isn’t that what everyone works toward?” She smiled. “I think it’s called retirement.”
His lips drew a thin line. “You have a point. Okay,” he conceded.
“I’ll have to find a real job at some point down the road, but I don’t think it’s now.”
“Well, if you reconsider, you know where to find me. Forgive me if I was too direct too soon. I’ve been told I am not one to smile kindly on patience. After having a vague idea of your past and making a few connections, I thought you might be a fit. Especially with us being old friends.”
“No harm,” she said. “It never hurts to ask.”
“It does hurt to hear ‘No,’” he grinned and then stood up. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”
Chapter Five
Three days later, after a long morning of shooting, Ellie and Tyler had decided to go for lunch and selected Nick’s Fish House on Matlacha as the place to do it.
Matlacha was a sleepy fishing village that connected Pine Island with Cape Coral via a single-leaf drawbridge at Highway 78. The bridge, dubbed “The Fishing-est Bridge in the World,” hosted generous quantities of mangrove snapper, trout, sheepshead, cobia, redfish, snook, and even small sharks.
The small island was a unique community in its own right and offered visit
ors such a rare glimpse into Old Florida that many now called it “The New Key West." Its old fishing shacks sat along both sides of the narrow road that ran through it and were splashed in bright energetic colors. Until the mid-1990s, Matlacha had been a famous and vibrant fishing community, bringing in mullet by the boatload for the good of all. In 1992, a pernicious voter referendum led to a ban on net fishing, and, in a punitive response, many of Matlacha’s commercial fishermen shot holes in their boats and set them on fire. The heaven-stretched flames could be seen out to Fort Myers Beach and Sanibel Island, a final death knell signaling the end of Matlacha’s existence as a commercial fishery.
Over the years the area came to be inhabited by a surplus of musicians, writers, and artists that in more recent years helped Matlacha grow primarily into a funky art community, giving the island its name, The Creative Coast. The locals claimed the relaxed way of life and the fresh, salty air were the perfect concoction for creative juices and imagination to flow freely. Art galleries, small seafood restaurants, and souvenir shops lined the side of the road west of the bridge and together formed a community that lived according to its own relaxed rhythms.
After looking briefly at the menu, Ellie had ordered Gulf shrimp tacos layered with shredded cabbage, garden fresh salsa, and cream sauce. Tyler opted for a steak strip sandwich that came served on garlic herb bread and topped with sautéed onions and Swiss cheese. They talked about rifles and trucks, and Ellie had managed to squeeze a little more out of him about what was back in Texas. Tyler had an older brother by three years who lived in Dallas and drove semi trucks for FedEx. His parents were still together, still lived in the same country house he was born in, and had their own business making custom leather products: wallets, knife sheaths, pens, and belts. Those were all reasons to stay in Texas - not to leave - but Ellie couldn’t bring herself to push that bright red button. Not yet.
“So...I’ve been offered a job,” she finally said.
Tyler stopped chewing and eyed her suspiciously then finished chewing and swallowed. He took a long sip of his sweet tea and then nodded confidently like he already knew what it was. “It’s The View, isn’t it? They want you to join the cast. Bring on a former CIA agent who is now a part-time bartender in Florida?”
She smiled. “Stop it. I’m serious.”
“Okay. So what is it?”
“I was with Major last week and bumped into an old friend of mine from high school. He works with the DEA━ ”
“The DEA?” Tyler interrupted. He scrunched his face. “As in the Department of Ecological Advancement?”
“Would you stop it? He tossed out the idea of me coming on as an outside contractor.”
“And what would you be contracting?”
“I’d help to identify connections between drugs being brought into the area and their sources.”
“You mean like find street dealers?”
“More like find the people the street dealers work for.”
“Aren’t those guys sunbathing in Speedos at the Equator?”
“No. It’s not like that. There are these domestic kingpins who control their own organizations. The guys doing the ordering and taking possession. That’s who’d I’d be helping to locate. It’s not sexy. Mostly just working through a lot of paperwork and asking the right questions of the right people.”
He probed the bottom of his glass with a straw and, like a toddler, slicked the remaining moisture out from around the half-melted ice cubes with a noise that sounded like an engine was taking off at their table. When he stopped he asked, “You mean these kingpins are around here?”
“Seems so. We have a lot of good coastline close to main roads, and I would imagine that makes it attractive to imports looking to avoid the eyes focused in on larger cities.”
Tyler patted a trim belly that sat in front of a now empty plate then leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head. “So you gonna take it?”
She shrugged. “No. I’m happy with the way things are.”
“You’d rather take the position with The View?”
Ellie ignored him and took another sip of her tea. “I don’t need to work. These last several months have been good for me.”
“So humor me for a second. What don’t you like about the possibility?”
“I know it would be stressful. Even if I work at it part-time. I have to be accessible and couldn’t just pull up and go down to the Keys for three months if I wanted to.”
The waitress brought their ticket and set it on the table. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
Tyler grabbed it. “I’ve got this.” He took out his wallet, grabbed a piece of plastic, and set it on top of the ticket. “If you did it, when would you start?”
“Whenever I say ‘yes,’ I guess. It’s weird. Here I am fishing one day, and the next I have an option to step into something like this.”
“You’re intrigued,” he noted.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s it. But I’m not sure I really want to do it.”
“Well, I think you’d be good at it.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
“I also think you should do it.”
“Really? Why?”
“Why? Ellie, all the smart people that study people say it’s not good for people to do nothing.”
“Hey, I don’t do nothing.”
Tyler dipped his chin and stared at her. “Helping your uncle around the bar and the marina here and there does not classify as something. You keep this up, and you’ll be dead in five years. We’re not meant to be half idle for long periods of time. You know the stories of retirees who don’t find purpose after they leave their careers. They croak within a few years. Shoot, at least go buy a set of golf clubs.”
“But I’m not old. And I do have purpose.”
“Yeah. I’m not saying you don’t. But you can’t live the rest of your life on vacation either.”
Ellie grabbed her sunglasses off the table and stood up. “Watch me,” she grinned.
He winked at her. “I do that already.”
Chapter Six
The white Suburban moved gently on its suspension as it turned into the large circular driveway. It came to a stop, and the young boy’s eager feet were on the concrete before the vehicle's transmission was set in park.
“Mom, can I take my bike out for while?” he asked through his mother’s open window.
She turned off the SUV and opened her door. “I thought you were going to call your grandfather and wish him a happy birthday?”
“I will. I just want go for a ride. Come on, Mom,” he prodded. “I’ve been running errands with you all day. I won’t be gone long.”
She stuck out her hand and rubbed the top of his head. “And thank you for being patient. Of course you can ride your bike. Don't be gone for too long.”
He darted from the vehicle and ran toward the garage to get his bike. His mother clicked the garage door opener on her visor. “And don’t be loud when you come back in!” she called after him. “I’m putting your sister down for a nap!”
“Okay!” he yelled back. He ducked under the door as it shuddered upwards and rushed over to the blue Diamondback Octane that he’d begged his parents for - and gotten - for his birthday last week. He walked it out of the garage and jumped on then adjusted the gears as he gained momentum. He turned out of the driveway onto the main road of their secluded neighborhood. He loved this place, and even more he loved riding through it. His father was an engineer for an aviation company, and that meant they got to live in the nicer area of Ionia. The plots were two to three acres and set well off the road. Trees were thick, and it almost deceived one into thinking you were in a forest far from the ocean and not less than a mile from the water's edge.
The chain clicked against the gears, and he twisted the dial on his handlebar. It locked in, and he gained more speed as he pushed hard against the pedals. The wind whistled around his ears, and he pictured Ben, his best friend, racing behind him, tr
ying to catch up. Ben would be back soon from the family vacation he took to New England last week. They would race down this road like they had hundreds of times; only this time Ben would lose. He hadn’t seen the new bike yet. There was no way he could beat it.
The man’s legs dangled off the pickup truck’s tailgate, and he fidgeted with the suppressor on his .45 ACP. “I can’t believe we’re doing this during the daytime,” he mumbled. “You guys hurry up.” Andrés Salamanca and Jared Robinson stopped and stared him down.
Andrés was just at six feet tall and had a high protruding forehead and a sharp nose. His head was shaved down to the scalp on both sides, and the long hair on top was slicked back and shiny under the excessive amount of hair gel he’d folded into it. Andrés had grown up in the sordid streets of Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, a brazen border city that was the main cocaine gateway to the United States. Shoved up against the metal fences of the Texas border, exactly halfway between the Pacific and the Gulf coasts, the city had long been a smugglers’ lair: a place where illicit fortunes were made and blown on fast cars, gaudy mansions, and purchasing amoral politicians.
Andrés was smart and quickly moved up in the ranks of the local cartel, but after a few years his closest friends had all been killed by anti-narcotics efforts or assassinated by rival cartels. He liked breathing, liked the feel of his heart beating, so he transferred to the port city of Tampico and started running product across the Gulf. Over time he’d gotten to know his current boss, the cartel’s most respected distributor in Southwest Florida. When Andrés was apprised about coming to work stateside, he cleared it with the Mexican lords and made the switch. Three months later he was furnished with a social security number and an American passport, both legit and above board. The move was good for both parties. The cartel now had someone on the receiving end that knew the routes better than a migrating dolphin, and his new boss had someone who was respected by the runners and who had a reputation for getting things done.
