by Rod Collins
Chapter 27
Human Trafficking
IN PORTLAND, Special Agent Leroy Wilcox glanced at his partner in the passenger seat of their black SUV.
Cell phone to his ear, Special Agent Douglas Brandt listened to another of Smitty’s rants about Wilcox not answering his calls, and when Smitty asked what they had done with Cletus Falls, Brandt said, “We don’t want to talk about Cletus over the phone. I’m not sure you need to know where Cletus is hiding, but since we don’t know either, we can’t tell you anyway.”
Wilcox could hear Smitty shouting when Brandt held the phone away from his ear. The words, “Are you listening?” were clear to Wilcox.
Brandt shook his head in disgust and said into the phone, “Sorry, Boss. You’re breaking up,” and killed the call.
With raised eyebrows Wilcox said, “So?”
Brandt shook his head. “Well, Leroy,” he always made it sound like “Lee Roy,” instead of the “Lah Roy” like Wilcox’s mama wanted it to be, “your ass is grass as far as Smitty is concerned. You really should take his calls. It would make my life a lot easier.”
“Someday, I will,” Wilcox said, “like when he calls from D.C.”
“Okay, then. Smitty knows Butler is on the take. And he knows Butler is likely to run.”
Wilcox nodded. “Our watchers, probably.”
“Yep. Smitty says they have a recording of a really nasty conversation between Butler and Al-Alwani which pretty much nails Butler’s hide to the wall. Smitty has a BOLO on Butler out to all FBI units on the West Coast. And he said a team is watching Butler’s cabin cruiser down on the Willamette Channel.”
Brandt took a deep breath, paused and shook his head. “And he said we are to look for Butler at the safe house.”
“We know he’s not there.” Wilcox said.
“Yeah, I know, but let’s go look anyway … keep Smitty happy.”
“You didn’t say anything to Smitty about Butler’s call.”
“I know. If you’d answer your phone…”
“Damn it, Douglas, what did Butler say?”
“Temper, Leroy. You drive and I’ll talk.”
Leroy Wilcox made a strange guttural sound deep in his throat that could only be interpreted as negative. But he started the engine, dropped the gear shift into drive, and left a streak of tire marks on the pavement.
Brandt braced his right elbow against the door as Wilcox made a sliding turn onto a left side street. “Better, Leroy. Better. Anyway, what Butler said after letting me know he was gonna boogie, is that Al-Alwani is trafficking in humans. And he said we should look for a container on the Portland docks – one full of kidnapped girls destined for shipment to Yemen.
“He got to laughing in a really crazy-sounding way, and then told me he was going to make our careers. The jihadists aren’t only stockpiling weapons, they’re snatching women and shipping them to the Middle East. I think he wants us to find that shipping container.”
Brandt hit the emergency lights hiding in the grill of the SUV, accelerated, blew through a red light, and said through gritted teeth, “Why us?”
“Said he likes us, and he thinks you got screwed when D.C. sent Smitty out here. Wanted to do something right for a change.”
“Oh, goody,” Wilcox said with a cynical growl.
“You can slow down now, Leroy,” Brandt said as Wilcox powered his way into the first of the short, tight corners of the streets leading up to the safe house. “You’re making me car sick.”
Wilcox eased off the throttle and said, “Douglas, you are turning into a real pain in the ass.”
“I know, but I’m the only one who can stand to partner with you.”
“So, who are we going to share this with?”
Brandt took a deep breath, his blue eyes looking into the distance, not seeing the flash of maple and fir trees guarding the narrow street. Wilcox waited … and Brandt finally said, “I hate to admit it, but even though Smitty is a genuine asshole, I don’t see how he could possibly be dirty.”
Chapter 28
To Err is Human
TJ WILDISH LEANED on BB’s deck rail and just stared at the lake. He took a deep breath and looked at BB sitting in a patio recliner, an empty beer glass on a side table, his camo Cabela’s cap over his eyes. Miranda was sitting in another patio recliner opposite BB, sipping a Diet Coke and studying BB’s Audubon Guide to Western Birds, comparing pictures in the book to those on the internet.
The drone of a small single-engine airplane accented the quiet, and TJ said, “You know, I don’t think that even once in my life, not once, can I remember not hearing the noise of the city or to not feel the vibrations Portland gives off.
“It feels strange. I mean, it’s like the world just stopped turning. But, I think I’m as relaxed as I’ve ever been.”
BB pushed the cap back on his forehead and looked at TJ. “I know what you mean, Wildman. That’s why I go fishing – to get me some peace and quiet.”
“Dang it, BB, you know I don’t go by Wildman anymore, not since I was saved.” He glared at BB for a few seconds and let his breath out. “Well, as for peace and quiet, you sure have that here. I wish I could just stay for a while.”
BB raised his eyebrows and smiled, “I thought you’d be sick of fresh air and silence by now, but we don’t have to head out until morning, if that’s what you want. Won’t anybody bother us tonight.”
TJ said, “Do you have a boat?”
“I do. A big canoe.”
“I’d like to get out on the lake.”
“Okay. If you and Miranda sit very still and promise not to tip us over, we’ll do some perch fishing. Might catch enough for supper.”
Miranda put the book on her lap and looked at BB. “You sure that’s wise?”
BB said, “I don’t see why or how any of the bad guys could even get here before tomorrow. In the morning, TJ and I will take the back way out of here – follow the forest roads to Bly. We won’t even go through a real town until we hit I-5 at Roseburg. I’ve got it all mapped out.”
“Well, a canoe ride sounds nice,” she said. “I’ll bring my camera.”
“And your pistol?”
“What kind of a question is that? Of course. Rule number one: don’t leave home without your cell phone and your pistol. It isn’t ladylike.”
Chapter 29
Of Mice and Men
FORMER SPECIAL AGENT WINSLOW BUTLER, now on the run from his own people, had planned well. The money Al-Alwani paid him over the past five years was hiding in three banks, with an extra fifty thousand of his own money hidden in a second boat he’d bought in secret. He knew the FBI would be watching the small cabin cruiser he rented from the owner of Guy’s Marina. But he didn’t need to go there again. Never.
His ‘legend,’ built carefully over a three-year period was as foolproof as he could make it, complete with legitimate credit cards, a birth certificate that would pass at least cursory inspection, and a passport identifying him as an American citizen named David Kojak. It would take a forensics accountant to find him.
He knew they would try, but he planned to be living in plain sight in Homer, Alaska. With a beard, new glasses, and a black watch cap. His mother wouldn’t have been able to recognize him. Slowly, he would transfer money from the three banks into a new bank account in Homer – at about five thousand dollars per month. Nothing very extraordinary about that for a retired policeman weary of the population pressures of life in the States.
He regretted the loss of his retirement, but there was nothing to do about that now. He took some bitter consolation that his ex-wife wouldn’t get any of it either.
The taxi he hired stopped in front of a locked iron gate flanked by a discrete bronze sign proclaiming the land beyond the gate to be The Columbia River Yacht Club. The driver looked at the meter. “That’s thirty-seven-fifty.”
Butler handed him two twenties and a five. “Keep the change.”
Boogie bag in hand, Butler watched the tax
i turn around and head back upriver towards Portland. When the taxi was out of sight, he punched the key code in the pad by the pilgrim gate.
It wasn’t until he walked the ramp down to the docks, and then to his boat slip, that he realized his heart was pounding and his breathing was heavy. He eyeballed the marina, checked out the boat, and stepped aboard. He tried the latch and breathed a sigh of relief when the cabin door was still locked. They aren’t on to me … yet.
He spent the remaining daylight hours running through his checklist: fuel levels, batteries, running lights, GPS, radio, radar, flare gun, survival suit, AR-15, ammo, first aid … the whole nine yards.
He fired up the twin diesels and let them idle for a good five minutes, then shut them down.
Anxious, he watched the news on the small TV set mounted on the wall above the bed in the little state room, knowing the whole time the FBI wouldn’t announce to the world they were looking for a rogue agent. But it made him feel better, anyway, that he hadn’t made the news.
He ate a trail bar, drank a soda, listened to a sudden rain shower pounding the cabin roof, and waited for dark. The clouds thickened, the sky turned blue-black, and he became impatient with the waiting. He donned his rain gear, started the engines, and set them to idle. Rain pattered the hood of his storm jacket as he slipped the mooring lines and stepped back on the deck.
He eased the boat back out of the slip, spun the wheel and headed quietly and slowly down the marina channel to the Columbia.
“A good start,” he said to himself. And then he laughed and said, “Find me if you can.”
He was below St. Helens, running lights on, radar feeding the screen in the wheelhouse, when the lights quit and the engine stopped. He turned the key, but nothing happened.
“Shit.” He fumbled to find a flashlight on the dash and hurried to find his emergency running lights. He attached the emergency lights to the antennae and then walked to the back of boat to open the hatch to the engine room. The flashlight failed to give him a clue as to what was wrong.
He was taking the battery terminals loose one at a time and cleaning each when he heard the “slush” of a bow wave. He climbed back up to the deck and looked downriver in time to see the bow of a container ship riding high over his beautiful boat.
If anyone had been listening they would have heard a resigned voice saying, “The best laid plans…”
Chapter 30
All Hands
BUD’S OFFICERS crowded into his small office, coffee cups in one hand and donuts in the other, thanks to Karen Highsmith.
Deputy Larae Holcomb-Bernard smiled and nodded at Bud over Roger’s beefy shoulder. Bud remembered first seeing her riding into town astride a black Harley, dressed in a tank top, a hooded Cobra tattoo on her left shoulder – compliments of an undercover assignment several years earlier with a biker gang. For Bud, it almost overshadowed the fact that she was a trim, athletic woman who, when she smiled, was darned near beautiful. He grinned and said, “I thought you quit.”
She tilted her head back and looked at Bud. “Is that what you want?”
“Of course not, but Roger said you wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.”
“I do, but you seldom call an ‘all-hands’ meeting. Made me think you might need my assistance. John can watch the baby until I get back.”
Bud smiled and said, “How is that little rascal?”
Larae smiled back and said, “If you mean the baby, he’s growing like a weed. If you mean John, he’s getting restless. He likes horses and cattle, and he likes haying, but I think our six hundred forty acres is beginning to feel a bit small.”
“I’ll send him to Monmouth for academy training any time he wants.”
She shook her head. “That would be redundant. They have nothing to teach him.”
“Except which laws he might want to break,” Bud said with a grin. “You tell him I’ll hire him in heartbeat.”
Bud saw Lonnie Beltram frowning and said, “Not to worry, Lonnie. Your grant came through. We can hire another deputy. Good job, by the way.”
Wide-bodied Roger Hildebrand said, “What’s that about?”
Bud said, “Let’s move this to the conference room.”
As they walked down the short hallway, Bud said to Roger, “You working out? You look like you’ve lost some weight.”
“Thirty pounds, Boss. I’m working out with Gar … uh … I mean John, Larae’s husband. He kept nagging me about going to pot, so we started jogging five miles three mornings a week. And we lift a few weights in my garage.”
“It will always be Gar, won’t it? Anyway, you’re looking good, Roger.”
“Yeah. Me and Gar – just two old warriors working out.”
“I don’t suppose he swam to Kuwait with you?”
Roger frowned and walked into the conference room without saying anything.
Deputy Beatrice Tusk, all five-feet-five inches of her, looked at Roger without saying anything, but she thought the big man was nice looking … dark hair in a crew cut … not handsome … just regular features … maybe five-eleven … seeming shorter than that because he was so wide in the shoulders. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. I’ll ask Karen. If he doesn’t…
Bud walked to the head of the long table and said, “Before we get down to business, I’m happy to report that Sonny Sixkiller will be rejoining our happy team in about four weeks. I want to emphasize that I’m not at all unhappy with the job Lonnie has done in keeping this outfit afloat. In due time, he will be a good undersheriff, but Sonny will give us experience that only comes with years on the job.”
Lonnie nodded and said, “Thanks, Boss.”
“No, you deserve the thanks, Lonnie. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit distracted lately.”
“Lately?” Karen quipped.
“Lately,” Bud growled. “That said, I will admit to being sheriff in name only for the last couple of months. But that’s over and done with.”
Karen gave him a sideways look and a smile, then said sweetly, “Does your interest in being our sheriff once again have anything to do with your recent engagement to Nancy Sixkiller?”
Bud shook his head. “No. Well, maybe. It sure as hell doesn’t hurt.”
Roger grinned and said, “I told you so, Boss. Congratulations.”
“How nice,” Bea said with a smile. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Karen said, “His once-upon-a-time fiancée who dumped him last fall, Nancy Sixkiller.”
“The nice woman who runs the Emergency Services Center?”
“One and the same.”
Head cocked sideways, Bea stared at Karen through her dark brown eyes and then said quietly so Bud wouldn’t hear, “And I’ll bet there’s a story in that.”
Karen winked and whispered, “For later.”
Lonnie echoed Roger’s congratulations.
“Okay, enough,” Bud said. “Karen, please go cover the desk and find out what’s keeping our esteemed DA. I want him here.”
“And speak of the devil,” Bud said as Sonny Sixkiller walked into the room. “What brings you to the fine city of Lakeview? Or is that ‘who’ brings you?”
The lean six-footer grinned and said, “Well I heard my baby sister was fixing to marry a cop.”
