The Crisp Poleward Sky

by Jeff Siebold

  The Crisp Poleward Sky

  A Zeke Traynor Mystery

  Jeff Siebold

  Copyright © 2018 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: 978-0-9979570-6-8

  ALSO BY JEFF SIEBOLD

  Zeke Traynor Mysteries

  Lilac and Old Gold

  Bluegrass and Crimson

  Ardmore Green

  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

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to acknowledge Elizabeth Bruno, his editor, for her sharp eye and constructive comments. And the author also wishes to acknowledge Deborah Bradseth of Tugboat Design for her excellent creative work.

  Dedicated to Karin. Always an adventure with you!

  Chapter 1

  “This one is already getting dicey,” said Clive Greene. “You may want to step in early.”

  On the other end of the call, Zeke Traynor was enjoying a lobster roll and a frosted mug of Beach Blonde, a craft beer local to Cape Cod. He swallowed and said, “It’s escalated, then?”

  “I’d say so, yes,” said Clive in his proper British accent, clipping his words aristocratically. Zeke wondered whether there had been an Earl in Clive’s lineage at some point.

  “Hate to leave the Cape,” said Zeke, mostly to himself. “I just got situated here.”

  Zeke occupied rental cottages, mostly along the East Coast of the United States, moving further south in the winter months, and braving the northern locations during the summer. He had recently moved from Marie Island on the west coast of Florida to an ocean front cottage in Hyannis Port. The cottage, which was actually the guesthouse of a seasonal oceanfront estate, suited him perfectly.

  There was no reply from Clive.

  “So you want me in Phoenix? That will take us away from our Cambridge thing,” said Zeke.

  “True, but I need your help out there,” said Clive.

  “It gets hot in Phoenix,” said Zeke.

  “Good boy, it gets hot pretty much wherever you are,” Clive exclaimed.

  Zeke smiled. “When and where?”

  “Phoenix Sky Harbor airport. We’ve got you booked for a 1:24 arrival tomorrow afternoon. Sally will get you the details. Kimmy will pick you up there.”

  Sally was Clive’s girl Friday and the best researcher at The Agency, Clive’s consulting business. Staffed with former intelligence and FBI agents, The Agency contracted with various government entities for high-risk assignments. Clive was former MI-6 and was well known as a recruiting wizard.

  Kimmy, an ex-Mossad agent, worked with Clive and Zeke.

  “All right,” said Zeke. “I’ll be there. What’s the current status?”

  “It looks like Mr. Diaz and his crew are about to make a move,” Clive said. “Possibly out of the country. Our client would prefer to keep him on U.S. soil.”

  “And your client is…?”

  “The Deputy Director of DHS, Clark Hall. He requested our assistance with Mr. Diaz and his operation,” said Clive.

  “Are we ready to take the operation down?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, yes, unofficially.” Clive smiled grimly.

  “So no assist from the local authorities?” asked Zeke. It wasn’t the first time.

  “Hmm.” Clive made a noise that could have been an affirmation, or not.

  “Human trafficker, not much sympathy for Mr. Diaz,” said Zeke.

  “That’s in our favor,” said Clive. “I’ve spoken with the Phoenix ICE team. They’ll clear the way for you. Run interference with the local law. But they can’t be involved.” ICE was the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement arm of the Department of Homeland Security.

  The Phoenix office of ICE had recently suffered some bad press when they attempted a raid on a warehouse, said to hold human traffic victims and boxes full of uncut heroin. Unfortunately, their confidential informant was unreliable—dyslexic or high or both—and gave them the wrong address. The result was an early morning raid on a cake factory. Bakers start early, and a pastry chef and six hardworking employees were arrested in the fiasco that came to be called the “Betty Crocker Raid” and “Cake-gate” by the media. While the address mistake was being sorted out, the heroin and the victims were quietly moved to an unknown location by their owners. On the heels of that fiasco, ICE was keeping a low profile in Phoenix.

  “No local police and no ICE involvement. Any other assist?” asked Zeke.

  “Well, I’ve sent Kimmy out there already. She lunched at the Rose and Crown in Phoenix, by the way. They have an excellent Pork Pie,” Clive said, distracted. It was well known that Clive favored British fare.

  “You sound jealous,” said Zeke with a smile. “Kimmy will have the weapons, I expect.”

  “Quite so,” said Clive, now back in the conversation. “As well as restraints, if you need them. I’ll have Sally send you the latest status. We’d all like the problem to go away.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Zeke.

  “Good, and then we’ll get on with the Cambridge affair,” said Clive, somewhat dramatically.

  * * *

  Zeke finished his Beach Blonde, wiped his mouth with his napkin and left the restaurant. A short drive in his vintage BMW returned him to the rental cottage where he opened a carry-on bag and went about the business of packing for the Phoenix excursion. He wondered for a moment whether he’d have enough time for a stop in Atlanta on his way back from Phoenix.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he answered, noting the incoming caller ID.

  “Hello yourself,” said Tracy Johnson.

  “I guess you could sense me thinking about you,” said Zeke. “I was working out a plan to stop by and see you.”

  “Again? Already?” said Tracy with a smile. Tracy was in her late twenties and worked as a Secret Service agent in Midtown Atlanta.

  “Well, I’m on my way to Phoenix, and a layover in Atlanta actually sounds pretty good,” he continued. “Unfortunately, the job won’t wait, so I’m thinking of stopping by on my way back. I could fly Delta.” Delta’s southernmost hub is located in Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport. Southernmost, thought Zeke. It edges out Los Angeles by a third of a degree latitude, maybe eighteen miles.

  “Sure, keep a girl waiting,” said Tracy, feigning hurt feelings.

  “Don’t want to do that,” he said under his breath.

  Zeke was average height
, five foot ten inches, a couple inches taller than Tracy, and muscular in a well-toned way. His balance and efficient movements exuded competence and coordination. Zeke’s blond hair, worn slightly long, set off his slate-blue eyes.

  “You could stay longer on the return trip, I suppose,” said Tracy, out loud but sort of to herself.

  “I could,” said Zeke.

  “I suppose I could make time for you,” she said.

  “If nothing better comes along,” he teased.

  “Well, sure, that,” said Tracy with a smile. “That goes without saying.”

  * * *

  Zeke spotted Kimmy waiting with a small crowd in the lobby just outside the TSA area of Sky Harbor Airport. The airport was bright with sunlight flooding in through the large windows. Kimmy was wearing a flowing, ankle length beige skirt and a bright red shell that matched her sandals and toenails. Her thick black hair was held back with a hairband that looked like a princess’s silver crown.

  “You look right at home here,” said Zeke as they headed for the exit.

  “Well, more so in Sedona, actually,” said Kimmy, referring to the eclectic town about a hundred miles north of Phoenix. “That’s more my style. Ethereal and spiritual. You can feel the energy.”

  Zeke nodded in neutral agreement. “OK, so what’s going down here?” he asked, sidestepping a discussion about Red Rock Country.

  They were walking toward the exit and the parking garage.

  “Benito Diaz has set himself up as a human trafficker, kidnapping young people—mostly female—and selling them. It’s been going on for years. Many of his victims are illegals, up from Mexico or Central America. They have something to hide, so they can’t call the authorities even if they trusted them…which they don’t,” Kimmy added.

  “Do they keep them here,” asked Zeke, meaning within the United States, “or ship them out?”

  “Both, we think,” said Kimmy. “Some of each.”

  “Connections with the Eastern Europeans?” In recent years, Eastern Europe had become a hotbed for prostitution and Internet porn. Along with identity theft and computer malware.

  “Probable. The world’s becoming a smaller place,” said Kimmy matter-of-factly. “You make your money where you can.”

  Kimmy bounced on the balls of her feet as she walked beside Zeke, moving her hands and constantly changing her expression. Her whole being was like a bundle of kinetic energy.

  Lots and lots of joules there, thought Zeke with a smile. She’s electric.

  “So this guy Diaz, he’s set up here in Phoenix. Lives in Scottsdale, but he does his business in Phoenix, east to El Paso, and west to Tijuana. Some up in Vegas, too.”

  “Sounds like a pretty big operation,” said Zeke.

  “He’s got hundreds of people working for him,” said Kimmy. “Well, ‘working for him’ is a loose term. Most are on a contract basis. Bring Diaz a good deal, and he’ll pay you well. He’s built a reputation on that alone. And he’s in the market for runaways, illegals, even kids on vacation.”

  Outside, now, Kimmy stepped ahead of Zeke and led the way to their parked car.

  “Can I assume that he’s into drugs and prostitution as well? They usually go hand in hand,” said Zeke.

  Kimmy stopped at a white Cadillac SUV with gold piping along the sides. She clicked a key fob and the four doors unlocked simultaneously.

  “Yep, he sure is,” said Kimmy.

  Zeke opened the back door, passenger side, and set his carry-on bag on the seat. The interior felt hot. By the time he was seated in the passenger seat, Kimmy had the engine started, the air conditioner blowing, and the GPS initiated.

  “Here you go.” She handed Zeke a handgun, a Walther PPK.

  “Thanks. Where to?”

  “Thought you’d want to be officially briefed on the situation,” said Kimmy. “So, our first stop is at Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

  * * *

  Kimmy turned the SUV into a large parking lot before the car had had a chance to cool down inside. They were only about a mile from the airport. The ICE building looked as if it may have been a one-story retail mall at some point but had been converted to government offices.

  “Find a shady spot,” suggested Zeke.

  Kimmy circled the large lot twice before she pulled into a spot being vacated by a dark blue sedan. It was under a small tree, quite a distance from the building.

  Zeke stepped out into the parking lot and walked to the back of the car, near the trunk. Kimmy met him there and he heard the four doors snap locked as she pushed the key fob.

  “Who’re we seeing?” asked Zeke.

  “We’re meeting with Jorge Ramirez. He’s Agent in Charge of the DHS’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement here in Arizona. ICE.”

  They started toward the main entrance of the building, across the hot asphalt. Zeke could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes.

  Without warning, two black SUV’s squealed in from around the building, blocking their path to the entrance. Six doors flew open simultaneously and six Hispanic-looking men jumped out of the vehicles. Two were holding M-16 rifles, now pointed at Zeke and Kimmy. The others held what looked like semiautomatic handguns.

  Zeke reacted immediately, diving low between two cars and scampering away from the shooters before they could get fully oriented. He pulled his weapon from its holster, glanced back, and saw that Kimmy had vanished.

  Six bogies, thought Zeke, and I’ve got seven rounds in the magazine. Nothing to waste.

  The six men, all dressed in untucked, long sleeve flannel shirts and khaki pants fanned out in a large semicircle and began moving toward Zeke and Kimmy’s last position. They moved slowly, carefully, their large work boots noisy on the paved lot.

  Suddenly, Zeke heard two shots, and the two men with the assault rifles fell to the ground. The others instinctively turned to their right, pointing their guns and looking for the source of the unexpected sounds.

  Zeke moved quickly between the cars, flanking the men to their left, dropping farther back into the parking lot. When the men turned toward him, he’d moved past their peripheral vision, and was almost behind them.

  The four remaining men looked confused, now. They stepped forward, the drivers following behind, creeping along slowly in their SUV’s. Then the men ran quickly, closing in on Zeke’s last position. But there was no one there.

  Zeke sat on the hot ground, directly behind the man farthest from the building, shielded by the large tire of a small Hummer. His PPK was in his right hand, held loosely at his side. The gun made him feel a little like James Bond, who always carried a PPK in the movies. At least he did until 1997, Zeke thought.

  He spotted Kimmy, ducked down and hiding behind a decorative stone wall closer to the entrance to the building. Civilians had disappeared from view, either running back into the building, or hiding behind cars across the parking area. The killers looked suddenly disoriented.

  Two drivers, four killers left, thought Zeke. Hardly fair.

  Zeke stood and shot the man closest to him in the back, then pivoted quickly and shot the next in line as he was turning toward the sound. The other two men sprayed bullets in his general direction while diving for cover.

  Then Zeke shot each of the SUV’s from the rear, the bullets entering through the back windows and exiting through the windshields. The window safety glass shattered but stayed in place.

  Spider webs. So much for visibility, Zeke thought.

  Simultaneously the two remaining men turned and ran back toward the SUV’s, their guns in hand. The drivers backed the vehicles into crescent-shaped turns, sawed forward, then back, and were ready to accelerate away from the action.

  At that moment, a dozen agents came crashing out of the building dressed in SWAT gear, each with a large, yellow ICE stenciled across his chest and back. Carrying shields and short riot shotguns, they immediately surrounded the two vehicles. Two agents shot the tires on each SUV, disabling the vehicles. Then they t
ossed teargas into the broken windows.

  Zeke heard one of the drivers yell, “Mierda,” and as he moved closer the driver’s door flew open and a short, squat driver jumped to the ground and started running, away from the agents and directly toward Zeke.

  Zeke stepped into his path.

  He’s got a low center of gravity, and he probably outweighs me by sixty pounds, Zeke thought instinctively, sizing up his opponent.

  Running at Zeke full speed, the man put his hands out to push Zeke’s chest and shove him out of the way. But Zeke wasn’t there when he arrived. Stepping to the man’s right, Zeke avoided the violent, two-handed push and slapped the man’s arms down. He hooked the man’s nose with his left hand fingers and with his right elbow hooked the man’s neck, effectively stopping his head as his body continued to run forward. In a moment, the driver was flat on his back on the ground, his nose bleeding badly and the wind knocked from his lungs.

  Two ICE agents moved forward to retrieve him from the parking area. The other driver and two gunmen had been subdued by the agents. The SUV’s sat empty in the parking lot, shot up and looking like relics from an abandoned junkyard.

  * * *

  “Gang bangers,” said Agent in Charge Jorge Ramirez, after the action was over. Kimmy and Zeke were sitting in Ramirez’ office, an hour and a half after the ICE agents had arrested the four remaining Hispanic men. “They’re from L.A,” he added.

  “Long way from home,” said Zeke.

  “They were probably sent here on a special assignment,” said the agent. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they were hand-picked by Diaz.”

  “They came here for us,” said Kimmy, seriously. “They knew what we were doing.”

  “Do you think they followed you?” asked Ramirez.

  “Doubtful,” said Zeke. “We drove about a mile from the airport parking lot to your offices. I’m not sure how they’d be able to find and follow us. And they were actually around the corner of the building when we parked and started walking in.