by Jeff Siebold
Zeke crouched near the driveway and watched through the iron gates. A few moments later, a large man strolled across the front yard.
A guard, thought Zeke. He spotted the man’s handgun tucked into his belt and covered by his shirt.
The guard stopped near the car and lit a cigarette, the match flashing in the low light. He shook out the match and continued on his patrol.
As soon as the guard turned the corner, Zeke vaulted over the fence and made his way up on the front veranda. The space on the wide veranda was packed with chairs and chaise lounges, outdoor furniture that could easily be moved into the yard. It made for convenient cover as Zeke edged to the windows and snuck a look at the interior of the house.
Inside, the house had an expansive, open floor plan with a living area toward the front of the house, followed by a dining area and a kitchen. The back wall was primarily made of glass, and the outdoor living space was visible just past the kitchen. There were four people in the dining room, three sitting at the table. From his photograph, Zeke recognized Benito Diaz as one of them.
The others at the table were men, with the exception of the woman who was circling the table and serving them food. It looked to Zeke like she was serving enchiladas.
Mentally timing the guard’s probable route around the house, Zeke moved to the front door and waited. A moment later, through the glass he saw the guard circling through the back yard. When he was no longer visible, Zeke pulled his gun and waited just a moment longer.
Seconds later, a bright flash came from the back yard, followed by two loud explosions that originated at the far corner of the yard near the privacy wall. The men at the table all turned toward the noise and two of them stood, guns drawn, and ran to the sliding glass door, quickly exiting the house into the outdoor space. Benito Diaz sat at the table, watching them as they joined the outdoor guard and surrounded the still burning fire. They pointed their guns at the device and squinted in the darkness to see if anyone was lurking there.
* * *
Zeke opened the front door quietly and slipped inside.
I’ve got about twenty seconds, thought Zeke. He walked directly to the dining room table, touched the muzzle of his Walther PPK to Benito Diaz’s temple and said, “No te muevas. Don’t move.”
Diaz paled, but he was very still. Slowly, he moved his head toward Zeke and said, with no expression, “You’re a dead man.”
“Eventually,” said Zeke, “but not today.” He was watching the action in the back yard.
The woman who had been serving enchiladas looked at Zeke, then at the gun, and sat down at the table. She put her hands flat on its surface.
The men outside seemed confused. The fire was going out, and nothing had happened for almost a minute. One of the men looked back into the house and saw Zeke standing over Benito Diaz. He spoke a flurry of words in Spanish, and the others looked back into the house through the glass walls.
Suddenly a small ghost-like figure rose from the grass and in a single movement leveled an Uzi Pro at the three men.
“Ponte de rodillas,” said Kimmy. “Get on your knees.” She let off a three-round burst pointed at the fire.
The three men looked at Kimmy’s automatic weapon, a sinister and efficient looking tool, and they thought about their odds for a moment. Then each man lowered his handgun and they slowly dropped to their knees in unison.
* * *
“I can make you very rich,” said Benito Diaz, simply. “Or I can have you killed.” Having executed the warrant, Zeke and Kimmy were awaiting the ICE agents to take the arrested man to prison.
“You’ve been trying,” said Zeke. “To kill me, I mean. How’s that going for you?”
Benito Diaz looked at Zeke, his eyes not blinking. “Yes,” he said. “But you should be very careful.” He looked around. “Coming into my home, this was a big mistake.”
The three men were still outside, kneeling in the yard and outgunned by Kimmy and her Uzi. Zeke had secured Diaz’s hands behind him in the chair with a pair of handcuffs. The woman, across the table from him, was secured in the same fashion.
Zeke said, absently, “I make my fair share of mistakes.” He was clearly thinking about something else. Then he said, “Your two killers are in custody. Without them, I don’t think I have much to fear, Benito.”
* * *
“I’m wrapping things up here, closing up the cottage and I’ll be back in D.C. next week,” said Zeke.
“Righto,” said Clive. “I know that ADD Stiles is interested in talking with us.”
“Another debriefing?” asked Zeke.
“Of sorts. But he wants a private audience. The man seems almost paranoid, afraid that all of this will reflect poorly on the President.”
“Strange priority system for anyone who lives outside the Beltway,” said Zeke under his breath. “OK. I’m out for the weekend, then I’ll come back down here to see you.”
* * *
This was short notice,” said Tracy, tongue-in-cheek. “I’m lucky I was able to get away again.”
“No, I’m the lucky one,” said Zeke.
They were sitting on the floor of the cottage in front of a lively fire, the constant sound of the ocean complimenting the low sounds of the Oscar Peterson jazz trio playing in the background.
Tracy had a plaid blanket wrapped around her, bare shoulders showing. She was curled up, eyes closed, snuggling close to Zeke.
“Too bad you need to give this up,” said Tracy, eyes still closed.
“It’ll be cold before you know it,” said Zeke. “Time to move on.”
“Where to next?” asked Tracy, lazily. She opened her eyes and picked her wine glass off the floor beside her and sipped some more merlot.
“You have a suggestion?” asked Zeke.
Tracy smiled. “Atlanta’s nice this time of year.”
Zeke looked as though he was seriously considering that, but then said, “No, I don’t want to be anywhere where I’ll need to plan my day around the traffic. Besides, Atlanta’s land locked…”
“Hmm,” said Tracy. “True.”
“I was thinking about Marathon, in the Keys,” said Zeke. “It’s isolated, but not horribly far from the Miami International Airport.”
“For when you’re working?” she asked.
“Sure. And Naval Air Station Key West isn’t far, in case they need me in D.C. quickly,” Zeke said. “It’s down on Boca Chica.”
“That might be nice,” she said. She tasted the words, “The Florida Keys.”
“I grew up there,” said Zeke, casually.
“On the sailboat. Yes, I remember,” said Tracy. “I’ll bet it’d be nice to go back.”
Zeke thought for a minute. The jazz floated over them gently.
“I’m enjoying this,” said Tracy.
“I’m glad,” said Zeke. Barefoot, he was wearing cargo shorts and an open denim shirt. The fire warmed them both.
“The video bug sort of cramped our style,” Tracy continued, gesturing toward the cottage’s kitchen. “It’s creepy to know that a killer is watching what you’re doing.”
“It is. But it worked out,” said Zeke.
“It did,” she said. “But I was getting tired of going to the bedroom every time we…”
“I know,” said Zeke. “The camera’s gone now, though.”
“It is,” she said, and she snuggled closer to him. “It’s warm in here. You should lose that shirt…”
Other Zeke Traynor Mysteries available at http://amzn.to/2DL2jyF
If you enjoyed Zeke’s latest adventure, consider leaving a review on Amazon.com.
And visit the author’s website at www.JeffSiebold.net
About the Author
Jeff Siebold loves a good mystery. A life long reader, he has embarked on a personal journey in creativity designed to contribute to the delight of mystery readers everywhere.
Jeff and his wife Karin live on a barrier island in North Carolina, not far from the Cape Fear River
(made famous by one of his favorite authors, John D. MacDonald). They have three college-aged children and two unruly dogs.
