A Dubious Terrain (A Colton Banyon Mystery Book 4)

by Gerald J Kubicki

  “That another golf term?” asked a serious Loni.

  “Actually, yes it is often used on the golf course,” laughed Agent Gamble as he walked up to Banyon and slapped him on the back.

  “I need another ball and tee,” a frustrated Banyon said mostly to himself. “I’m claiming a ‘mulligan’ Greg.”

  Instantly, Loni had another ball and a tee in her hand and offered it to Banyon. “I just happen to have a ball and tee in my pocket.”

  Gamble taunted, “You have her well trained Colt.”

  Banyon accepted the gift, but muttered under his breath, “a little too convenient.”

  The ball and tee were exactly the same as the ones that he had just used. His recent conversation with Wolf about Loni flooded back into his mind. There was something unknown about Loni, but Banyon was determined to not think about that now. He lined up his shot and wacked a long drive.

  They continued their discussion for several holes. Gamble told them there a small group of agents who were working towards uncovering the goal of the conspirators. Gamble was the lead agent and was on special assignment under a presidential letter. He could force anyone to bend to his will. It gave him access to information and equipment. It also gave him the ability to draft anyone to help him solve this mystery.

  “I guess that is where we come in,” Banyon noted.

  “That is correct, again” replied a now jovial Agent Gamble.

  “But, what is it that you want us to do?”

  “I want you to find the Black Diamond and the other items that were stolen,” Gamble officially replied as he looked straight into Loni’s eyes.

  “Why us,” asked Banyon? “We are just private citizens. You have the whole U.S. government at your disposal.”

  Agent Gamble turned to Banyon with a look of determination in his eyes. “Actually you do know why you have been chosen. Let’s not beat around the bush pal. I know that you have special powers, Colt. I know that you can use those powers to find anything.”

  “How could you possible guess that?” an evasive Banyon responded.

  “It is no guess,” a frosty Agent Gamble replied. He pointed and animated finger at Banyon and shook it. “I know all about Wolfgang Becker II. He was also known as Walter Pierce wasn’t he? I know that he is dead and that you can talk to him. He can answer questions. So we want you to find out where the missing items are being held.”

  A true panic now gripped Banyon. If anyone else knew about his contact with another world, they would quickly find ways to force him to do their bidding. His life would be a shambles. He and Loni would be inundated with requests to find things, and some of the requests would become demands with torture and violence attached. They would have to run for their lives.

  Banyon now wondered who else knew about his powers. “Greg, you are scaring Loni and me. You do realize that even though your impressions are false, anyone that believes we have special powers would have the ability to create havoc with our lives. We would never be free and would have to disappear.”

  “Relax,” responded Agent Gamble with a soothing wave of his hands. “No one knows about you but me. I want to make that clear. I did all the research myself. I have a copy of Pierce’s will. I have been to India and checked out the Patel women. I have even been to Pierces grave.” He stopped for emphasis. He wanted Banyon to know that he knew how Banyon solved mysteries.

  “Means nothing,” Banyon replied.

  Agent Gamble forged ahead. “Finally I do have the tapes from some of your conversations with Pierce. Although I can only hear your questions, it is clear that you are talking to someone. Remember Homeland Security had your house bugged. I replaced the tapes. They know nothing about you. I am the only person that knows about you. I have protected you.”

  “I see,” replied a tentative Banyon.

  “So are you going to help?”

  Banyon tried his best to remain calm, but knew the cat was out of the bag. Gamble was not going to back down. Gamble knew too much about the curse. To continue to deny it would only create more problems for Banyon and Loni Chen. Their best hope for survival was to make sure that Gamble would not share his knowledge. The big question for Banyon was this — did he really just want to solve this mystery or was he very ambitious and want to use Banyon for his own personal gain. Banyon recognized that politics was already involved in this search. Would politics govern their lives? A phrase popped up in his head – “knowledge is power”. It was immediately followed with the phrase – “absolute power corrupts”.

  Banyon stalled responding to Agent Gamble by walking up to the next tee box. The hole was a par three and was only 145 yards to the green. He addressed the ball and sent a high drive that landed in the sand trap next to the green. Banyon once again yelled “crap”.

  As he returned to the golf cart he looked Gamble straight in the eye and spoke. “I know where the Black Diamond was as of yesterday”.

  Chapter Ten

  The brawny bald man sat at the long well-used wooded bar. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but he was already on his fourth beer. He always drank from a bottle so he could keep count. He kept the bottles in front of him in case he needed one for a bar fight. There had only been one all morning. The bar located in the small southern Nevada town of Bullhead had been open for business since nine o’clock, just as it was every day of the week. It was crowded with biker types that had nothing better to do then drink and complain about everything in the world. Two dozen motorcycles graced the tarmac outside the bar. As the day wore on the bikers would egg each other into a frizzy and by late afternoon bad things would start happening. Today would be no exception.

  The bald man that sat in the middle of the bar was known locally as “Spike”. He never gave any last name. It would not have been convenient for people to know his real name as he had a long history of violence and had done jail time. The tattoos that covered his body proved he had been incarcerated many times.

  Spike was a huge man who stood six foot four and had a belly the size of a small pond. Today he was dressed in black jeans, hard toed black boots and a black leather vest with no shirt. Many scars were visible all over his large body. Like most bikers, he didn’t much care how he dressed. Besides drinking, Spike did only one thing well; he was a first class brawler. Other than what he stole from break-ins and tourists, his main source of income was fighting anyone stupid enough to challenge him to a fight. Some still did, much to his delight. Sometimes he instigated the challenge as well. He had learned his skills not in the military, but in prison.

  Spike hated almost everybody except his three biker buddies and he was unsure about them. But, they hung together because the men never asked any questions about each other. Like Spike they all had nicknames rather than real names. They were Dust, Ride, and Break. They always went wherever he went and currently were spread out along the long wooden bar next to him. Spike tolerated them because they also hated everybody. Their little gang had no name, but did have one thing in common. They were all true-blood racists.

  Spike and his buddies sometimes met interesting people in the small bar. Some claimed to be true Americans and wanted help. Spike had often volunteered to bike down to the border with Mexico and was paid by the private citizens to roundup illegals that came like a flood over the border. His largest customer was a lawyer from Las Vegas named Joseph Campo. He sometimes wondered if the private citizens were really a government agency. But, he was making money and having fun while helping America. He was smart enough to know that the entire illegal alien issue was a political nightmare for the government. Politicians recognized the illegals as a force in many states in America and were reluctant to take a strong stand against them, even though they could not vote. Spike hated politicians too.

  But some of the people that Spike met were getting tired of catering to illegal aliens. The number of illegals that had crossed the border in the Yuma section, south of Bullhead, in to America in just the last year was known to be t
he size of a medium city. Upwards of 80,000 illegals entered the United States in the section last year. Something had to be done. Spike and the boys were paid handsomely to turn the illegals back, but also to identify the coyote, the guide for the people. The Border Patrol could not stop the coyotes for political reasons. Most coyotes were captured many times along with their charges, but no one would finger them and so, by law, they would be shipped back to Mexico, in an air conditioned bus, only to enter the US again the next day with a new group of illegals. The private citizens that paid Spike wanted the coyotes to go away permanently. Spike used his one talent to question illegals and always found the coyote. The illegals, those that were left, were turned back after Spike and his buddies relieved them of all their valuables. It was a good business for a brawler.

  “Hey, Joey turn up the volume on the TV,” Spike suddenly growled at the bartender as he focused on the TV.

  “What am I, your mother,” replied the equally surly bartender. One look at Spike and he then reached for a remote.

  The noon news show was on and it was time for the sports segment. Spike looked at the flat screen and scowled with hatred. He saw a picture of Danta Lopez with a caption below it that said “he challenges all comers”. Spike knew who Danta Lopez really was. He was actually the head of the largest drug cartel in Las Vegas and was also responsible for maybe a hundred thousand illegal immigrants in Nevada. He used them to bring in his dope. Spike had heard the name many times as he questioned illegals he found near the border. Lopez was trying to use a legitimate business to launder his money. The talking head went on about how Lopez had made the WMAA a growing sport and was now starting a spinoff fight league called the LDA. Lopez claimed that his Latino fighters would take on anybody whether or not they were professionals. Anyone who wanted to fight could sign up the morning of the fight card. The Hispanic looking talking head added that he was looking forward to the first event which was slated for the next night. He mentioned would cover it personally. Finally the talking head said that Lopez was a credit to his race. That was the statement that triggered the anger in Spike.

  He slammed his fist on the bar, “Finish your beers boys,” he yelled. “We are going hunting for some illegal trash down by the border.”

  “Spike is someone paying us,” Dust said.

  Spike then screamed at Joey to give him one more for the road.

  “No,” he growled. “Today’s work is free.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Meanwhile back on the golf course. Banyon and Agent Gamble had made the turn on to the back nine. Agent Gamble had explained that his little group was very clandestine and it would not be in Loni and Banyon’s best interest to talk about anyone in the group. In fact, the team had learned much from terrorist organizations and had set up the entire operation in cells. Gamble was the leader of the investigating cell. He didn’t know anyone else on the team other than his boss. That way no one could provide information freely or under interrogation.

  “If something happens to me, you two won’t have to worry about someone finding you,” Gamble said. “I won’t give anyone your names or what you can do.”

  “This scares me,” replied Loni with the shiver of her small body. “With all the powers Homeland Security people have today, they could make all of us just disappear. I don’t want trouble with any government agency, even yours.”

  “Loni, your job is to find out where the artifacts are located. We will do the rest. You should not be in any danger,” Agent Gamble reminded her.

  “It is the word ‘should’ that bothers me,” she shot back. “We have been in the fray before and no plan works after initial contact.”

  Banyon the businessman now asked a question. “How much are you going to pay us for our help?”

  “We have a black opts fund we are using. The government will pay you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars for each artifact you can find and we recover. Is that enough?” Agent Gamble spread his arms in surrender.

  “We will need it in writing,” the ever efficient Loni noted.

  “Nothing can be in writing,” Agent Gamble shot back. “It is too dangerous for all of us. You will have to trust me.”

  “And if we don’t trust you,” Loni snipped back at Agent Gamble. “After all, Greg, it was you that came to our house and took everything after our last mystery.”

  Agent Gamble just stood and stared at her for some time. “I told you I was under orders from Homeland Security. I had no choice. If I didn’t come for your stuff, they might have sent some muscle-bound gung-ho agent who might have arrested both of you.”

  “And if we don’t take this case? What happens then?” Loni persisted with her hands on her hips in defiance.

  “Let’s just say that things will get tough for the HLC Detective Agency, LLC,” Agent Gamble retorted with anger in his words.

  “Well, now your true colors have come out,” Loni blistered. “That was a clear threat. I won’t deal with anyone that threatens us.”

  “Enough,” an irritated Banyon boomed. “If we recover the items, they will belong to us, not the government. Remember there are no records to prove they belong to the government so the artifacts would belong to us. The government will have to pay us to get them back. It will cost two hundred thousand per artifact. It is that simple.”

  Agent Gamble glared at Banyon but said nothing. Banyon could see that he was mad, but didn’t really know why. Banyon had leverage and used it, any businessman would.

  “Agreed,” Agent Gamble reluctantly responded.

  “It’s your turn to hit, Greg,” Banyon calmly spoke.

  He addressed the ball and took a full swing with his club. Banyon noticed that he missed the ball entirely taking a large divot from the fairway. Agent Gamble suddenly dropped his club and grabbed his ungloved hand. They could see that he was in pain.

  “Damn, I broke a blister. Loni do you have a band aid?” Gamble held out his hand so they both could see the broken blister.

  Loni patted her pockets and with a look of sorrow replied, “I didn’t think to bring any, I’m sorry.”

  Banyon was surprised that Loni didn’t produce a band aid, but went to his bag and grabbed one from his stash. Golfers often got blisters on their hands while golfing and he was prepared. He tossed it to Agent Gamble.

  Banyon now spoke to both Agent Gamble and Loni. “Okay, we are going to find these artifacts. Not because of the money, but because these people whoever they are need to be stopped. The fact that Homeland Security has so much power and also the “Patriot Act” scares the hell out of me. Now you tell us that they have elite private shock troops with unlimited power and they can demand information from other agencies about anyone whenever they want. This makes me very concerned.”

  “I understand,” Agent Gamble said.

  But Banyon wasn’t done. “This is power that will corrupt if it hasn’t already. This is a repeat of history, German history. All that we are lacking is a guy with a stupid mustache. I’m no bleeding heart liberal, but I also don’t want my rights as an American to be muted. All that we need is some sleazy politician to get into the act and we have the makings of the first stages of a dictatorship. ”

  Chapter Twelve

  The new Cadillac sped past the front gate of the ten acre estate located in south western New Mexico. The crushed stone drive crackled under the weight of the vehicle.When it reached the large two-story stucco house the driver opened one of the four garage doors. The man parked the car and closed the garage as he entered his home. He headed for the small office on the first floor, cowboy boots slapping on the tile floor. He plopped himself behind the ornate wood desk and then decided to pour himself a drink. A fully stocked portable bar stood in the corner of the room and the man availed himself of an expensive cognac. After all, he deserved it. He now sat with his feet on his desk. His dusty boots leaving tracks on the highly polished wood. They contrasted with the expensive blue suit the he wore. He was thinking about his future. He had ju
st returned from a luncheon in his honor.

  His name was Randolph Sanders. His first name had been chosen carefully by his father so that people would recognize him as a man of stature. At six foot two with blue eyes, wavy blond hair and a carefully crafted athletic body, he photographed well. This was very important for his line of work. Randolph was a politician. At fifty-two years of age he was finally about to accelerate his career. He had waited patiently for many years for the pieces to fall together, but things were moving along now. He was very proud if himself.

  Like his now dead father, he was finally a Congressman. He planned to continue the path of his ancestor who had been a strong supporter of the true American way — at least true as he believed it. The elder Sanders had been an advocate of closing the American borders to immigration, ridding the world of Communism, and keeping America as the dominate superpower it still was while reducing the leadership base in America to a few select people. He had been an advocate of Homeland Security and he had lobbied for a reduction of rights for undeserving people. Of course he wanted to decide who was undeserving. The father was long dead now, but his son had stepped into his shoes easily and had used many of his father’s ideas for his own platform. Randolph expected to succeed at implementing the agenda his father had failed to complete.

  Randolph pledged to follow his exact footsteps, well communism wasn’t as big a problem anymore, but the rest of the long term agenda had been drummed into his head since he was a small boy. His strict father had often told Randolph that he was the chosen one and he would lead America in the right direction once in power. His father explained all the pieces were in motion and had been for many decades. All Randolph had to do was follow the path. His dad left him a sizable fortune of questionable origin, but Randolph only cared that the money would be used for his rise to power. His father also explained there were several people who would guide him on his journey. They included his handpicked Nordic-looking wife Sarah. She now entered the office. Sarah was dressed in a flowery yellow sun dress that flowed around her well-developed body. She walked over to the bar and poured herself a drink. Randolph watched her out of the corner of his eye.