ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  Zack came into the shade of the trees first. He set his pack down and studied the ground. Eagle Feather joined him. Shell casings lay scattered near a dead log, the man hadn't bothered to pick them up. Without bending over, Zack saw they were .308 Winchester cartridges; great range, good power, inexpensive.

  "You're not gonna find prints on those," Eagle Feather said.

  Zack knew he was right. "We'll leave ‘em for the lab boys."

  Eagle Feather studied the rifleman's hide choice. "This guy was a professional." He pointed out where the grass was matted the length of a man's body. The rifleman had stretched out, firing leisurely from a prone position.

  Zack sighted over the dead log to the riverbed. "Like shooting ducks in a barrel. He didn't need a scope. With an accurate rifle and a good stock, he could pick Malden off before he knew he was there."

  "Why didn't he?" Eagle Feather eyed Zack. "We figured he's a professional. Why just the leg?'"

  Zack thought about it. "I think he knew we were here. I don't think he came to kill anyone, just scare us off."

  The men studied the ground for additional evidence. Finding none, they shouldered their packs. Law enforcement would come up here to investigate. It was important they find it just as it was.

  Eagle Feather looked for tracks. He found them, coming and going. Zack looked; Vibram soled shoes about size eight and a half or nine, headed back up the trail with long strides. They followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The sniper was easy to follow. He didn't try to hide his tracks. Zack figured he didn't expect them to follow him, he'd think they boarded the helicopter with Malden. Still, the men were careful, watchful.

  After a steep ascent from the river, the trail leveled off, ran beside a narrow gulch and entered a grove of Mazanitis bushes. The thick red branches here protruded into the trail, limited their view; a perfect place for an ambush.

  Zack led, gun in hand. The ground was soft underfoot; they made no sound. The trail eased to the right, moved out of the thick brush. They faced a small meadow covered in knee-high bunch grass rippling in the breezes, touched by the sun's golden glow. A solitary oak tree commanded the space. Zack's eye caught movement beneath the tree, in the grass. When he moved forward an ominous hiss stopped him, a loud flap of wings startled him. A vulture rose from the grass, struggled for lift, flew off. A moment later two more of the large birds erupted from the grass, careened off into the sky. Zack had a bad feeling.

  The two men approached the tree, ready for anything. They found the grass well trampled beneath, coated in a reflective substance; blood, Zack realized. Recently spilled, thick, it coated the grass and filled the crevices of the hard-packed earth. A strong musty smell permeated the air around them.

  His handgun ready, Zack moved to the edge of the clearing, walked a wide circumference around the meadow. Eagle Feather went to the tree and studied the ground.

  Zack came back to him. "He's gone now, I think." His voice came loud in the stillness.

  "Not long gone, though. The blood still drips." Eagle Feather pointed to a rifle abandoned in the grass.

  Zack walked over to it, knelt and inspected it without touching it. "This wasn't just some amateur trophy hunter. This is a long-range outfit, a Savage HB 110FV Rifle, looks like a Lothar Walther barrel, plastic stock, maybe a Bell and Carlson, the barrels equipped with a Miculek AR-15 muzzle brake. This outfit is a perfect fit for those .308 Winchester cartridges we found back there." Zack stood and looked at Eagle Feather. "This man was professionally equipped to hunt at long range, but not elk or bear, I'm thinking."

  "Question is, where's the body?"

  Zack looked at the blood spill. "This looks just like the other one, not forced in any direction as from an impact or directional wound." Zack looked up at the limb just above them, then down at the blood. "Some droplets shot further, the rest just sort of flowed."

  "There's a piece of cloth tied around that branch." Eagle Feather reached up with the barrel of the rifle, pushed at it. "It's hard to see, kind of blends into the bark."

  "So what is it, some sort of token?" Zack looked closer at it.

  "You ever hunt deer?"

  Zack looked at Eagle Feather, puzzled by the question.

  "That cloth's been cut just under the limb. Something was hung from there."

  Realization began to dawn. Zack felt a little sick in the pit of his stomach. "He hung the guy up there..."

  Eagle Feather nodded, his face grim. "Yep. He hung him up there by some part of his clothing, maybe his shirt sleeve, and gutted him out, just like you'd dress a deer in the woods."

  "Jesus!" Zack stared at the limb, picturing the man hanging beneath. He looked at the ground. "Then where are the guts?"

  Eagle Feather crouched. He poked his forefinger into the blood. When he raised it, something chunky rested there. "Those vultures do a real good job of cleaning up. Here's a bit of tissue, might be from something stretchy, like intestinal wall."

  The sick spot in Zack's stomach grew. "The vultures ate it all."

  "It wouldn't take 'em long. Be like Vienna sausage to those boys."

  "Jesus, Eagle Feather." Zack threw him a look, askance. "But where's the body? Those birds couldn't have eaten the whole thing."

  Eagle Feather shook his head, looked around. "That's a fact." He stood. "What now?"

  Zack considered the question. There were no more answers here. "We keep going." He pulled out his phone. "I'll tell Barnard what we found, give him the coordinates." He glanced at Eagle Feather. "Maybe we can't follow this...whatever, but we can backtrack the assassin, learn where he came from."

  Eagle Feather hitched the rifle up on his shoulder. "Let's go."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Eagle Feather led off. He inspected the trail surface, grunted in satisfaction. He'd found prints. "The sniper moved rapidly coming toward the river. He jogged along, like he was worried about getting somewhere on time."

  "Any sign of whoever killed him?"

  "No, nothing."

  They traveled in silence, intent on the ground. The trail steepened as it wound up the side of the mountain. Another half-mile took them out of the chaparral into open terrain with a view of neighboring mountains, and glimpses down into valleys. They slid and scrambled over shale and tread across large expanses of smooth ledge. The trail was visible far ahead; it wound along the slope like a thin line drawn in pencil.

  "We're vulnerable to snipers up here," Eagle Feather said during a brief rest stop.

  "Yeah, I thought of that. I don't see many options."

  "Just sayin'."

  The men crossed the open slopes without incident. The path dropped into a forest of pinyon pine where the smell of pine needles and cool air in the dells refreshed them. The trail continued to lose elevation until it reached the bottom of an arroyo. Here the smooth damp dirt path captured every impression. Their progress was swift.

  The arroyo intersected with another one. They stopped. A small stream entered the narrow canyon from the right, pooled up into a small pond. Mud at its edge recorded deer prints and raccoon. Eagle Feather scouted around the pool while Zack explored the dry arroyo entering to the left.

  Zack heard Eagle Feather call and returned to the pool. His friend pointed to the far edge of the water. "Look behind that big rock. See that bit of black? It's small diameter tubing, someone is irrigating from this pool."

  They walked upstream until the irrigation tube resurfaced. It led them up the arroyo. The ravine was rock-choked with no obvious path. They hopped from rock to rock. The way steepened, here the boulders seemed pre-arranged almost like steps. Beyond the steep section the ravine leveled, vegetation grew thick. Here they found another path, moist from spray.

  Eagle Feather went to one knee. "The sniper was up here. Those are his tracks. Here's another print, a guy with big heavy feet." He glanced up at Zack. "This might be the operation they called Malden to handle."

  Zack took out his handgun, checked the
load. Eagle Feather unlashed the rifle, held it in one hand. They came to a grove of oak where the arroyo widened to form a small valley. The men squatted, surveyed the scene.

  "We must be close," Zack said. "We could stumble into it any moment."

  "Or get shot. You want to lead for a while?"

  Zack grinned. "You hear your ancestors calling?"

  Eagle Feather's lips twitched. He let Zack pass.

  Gun in hand, Zack stayed low, crept up the path. A few yards ahead the underbrush gave way to grass. He saw the camp. The black tubing terminated at an electric pump connected to a car battery. Beyond it were two wickiups, roofs covered with tarps, a fire pit between them with a frame of saplings overhead to diffuse the smoke. Supply crates were stacked near the huts. Empty pesticide containers lay in a heap. Several propane tanks were stacked in a pile next to a tree. Plastic water bottles and empty Corona bottles were scattered everywhere.

  Zack and Eagle Feather stole toward the shelters. There was no sound. Zack went to the first one, Eagle Feather to the other. Zack peered in. No one was home.

  Eagle Feather looked in the second one, shook his head. No one was home there, either.

  They walked on up the slope. Ten yards further on they came to the marijuana crop. The entire operation was deserted.

  Back at the camp, Zack sat on a log and watched Eagle Feather study the signs. "It's amazing that they found this from the air."

  "Maybe they didn't, maybe this is a different one." Eagle Feather came back and sat next to Zack. "I've found sign for a total of four men. Two, including the one we've been following, were here briefly. They were the last to arrive and the last to leave. Since their tracks overlay the prints of the other two, they must have been following them. Everyone left by that trail over there, the second pair still following the first."

  "They were in a hurry." Zack pointed to the supply crates. "They left all their essentials behind."

  Eagle Feather nodded. "We can assume the first two were the growers, the second two came to kill them."

  Zack stood, walked to the trail, scouted the ground. "The growers must have been warned about the assassins somehow."

  "The killers arrive, see they're gone, go after them."

  Zack's brow furrowed. "Just one thing. Why did the sniper come after us? How did they know where to find us?"

  "Here's another question." Eagle Feather said. "Where's that second assassin right now? Did he follow the growers, or is he out there waiting to ambush us?"

  "They might have radios, somebody directing them."

  "Maybe." Eagle Feather stood. "So what now, boss?"

  "The way I see it, there's one way to go from here. We know what happened to the first sniper. Now its time to find the other one."

  Eagle Feather grinned and picked up his pack. "How'd I know you'd say that?"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jesus opened his eyes to bright light and the hazy outline of man above him. The image cleared, he saw the face of a stranger, the shooter, the killer of Javier. He thought he would die now.

  The man reached an arm under his shoulder, lifted him to a sitting position. He held a bottle of water to his lips, had him drink.

  Jesus almost choked in his fear.

  The man spoke Spanish. "Don't worry, you are safe. I work for the Sonora Cartel. I am a friend of Jorge. I have been sent to protect you."

  Relief swept over Jesus. He trembled, his eyes watered from emotion.

  "Your pant leg is covered with blood. Have you been shot?" The stranger eased him back down.

  Pain swelled from the movement of his leg and Jesus cried out.

  The stranger had a large knife in his hands. "I am going to cut away your pant leg. I need to see how serious your wound is."

  Jesus felt a strong tug on his pants, almost screamed at the pain. Then the tugging stopped. He heard an intake of breath.

  "The bullet passed along the outside of your upper calf," the man said. "It left a large cut but the bleeding has nearly stopped. It is not serious. It is your knee that is bad. What happened? It is swollen and purple. You can't walk like this."

  "I hit it several days ago. It has not had a chance to heal." Jesus was still groggy and confused.

  "You were lucky with the bullet." The man continued to examine the leg. His eyebrows were black and thick, Jesus noticed, like bristles in a hairbrush.

  "The bullet hit your stick splint, broke it. That changed its path just enough to save your leg."

  Jesus was relieved. He remembered how the bullet knocked him right off his feet. He was sure his leg must be broken.

  The stranger stood. He was a large man, barrel chested, big hands. "There is no time for your knee to heal now, either. We must find a way to bind the joint for you to travel. We need to get you to a safe place."

  The man rifled through a pack––his own pack, Jesus realized, found a shirt, tore it into strips. Then he took the broken splint and cut it shorter with his knife. After gently rolling Jesus on his side, he placed the piece of wood behind the injured knee, tied it above and below the swollen area with the cloth strips. He reached under Jesus' shoulders and lifted him on his feet as easily as a feather pillow.

  Waves of pain came from the knee. The pant leg was blood soaked, the torn material flapped, but he could walk. The new splint was less awkward yet effective.

  Jesus looked back toward the hillside. "Where is the man who shot me?"

  The stranger shrugged. "There was no one here but you." He picked up Jesus' pack. "He could come back at any time. We must move." He turned and walked across the ridgeline.

  Jesus stumbled after him. His memory of the bullet impact was vivid. He felt fearful, exposed. His heart rate slowed only after they entered the cover of the brush on the far side.

  They paused for water.

  "What shall I call you?" Jesus said.

  "I am Pablo."

  "My name is..."

  "Your name is Jesus Hermenegildo Romano," Pablo said. "I know all about you. It is my job." He passed his water bottle to Jesus. "Where is Rafael?"

  A tear came to Jesus' eye. "He is dead. The sniper killed him."

  Pablo made no comment.

  "Where will we go now?"

  "Not far. There is a cave close by. We will go there until the danger has passed. After that, we'll get you out of these mountains."

  "But my job...?"

  "Your job is done. You are in no shape to continue as a sembrador. When you recover, others will decide what you can do." Pablo stood. "Enough chatter. None of that will matter if we are killed. We must keep moving."

  Jesus followed Pablo along the flank of the mountain on a gradual descent into a narrow valley. The canyon wall was steep, there were many switchbacks. They came to a small stream of water on the valley floor.

  "That is our water source. The cave is over there." Pablo gestured across the valley. "But first, we must hide our tracks." They turned off the path upslope of the stream and walked along a patch of exposed rock parallel to it. Several yards on, they descended.

  Across the creek there was a meadow, alive with wildflowers. Great oaks surrounded it, their arms stretched far beyond their thick trunks, as if awakened from a long nap. At the far side of the valley a Mazanitis grove, red branches intertwined like a loose-knit sweater, blanketed the steepening terrain. Pablo led across the meadow to the grove. Beyond the thick shrubs the steep valley wall was layered with loose rock.

  Jesus stared at it in despair. "I can't go up there."

  "You don't have to." Pablo slipped in among the Mazanitis bushes and disappeared. Jesus followed. He came to a tunnel through the twined branches. On the far side was the entrance to a large cave. He stared in wonder.

  "We will be safe in here," Pablo said.

  Jesus went in. A dank, musty smell greeted him. It wasn't completely dark, there was light enough to see, aided by cracks where daylight found a way in. The roof was comfortably high, the room large and spacious.

&n
bsp; "This is where I sleep, over here." Pablo gestured toward some personal articles next to a sleeping bag. A rifle with a scope lay on the bag. A small gasoline stove, a pot, packages of Raman noodles sat nearby. "You can sleep over here." Pablo put Jesus' pack down next to a second sleeping bag near the far wall.

  Jesus went to it, sat, his leg stretched out before him. The relief was immediate. He glanced around the cave, started when he saw a bleached skull with a long narrow jawbone.

  Pablo grinned at his expression. "A deer. The previous occupant had a large appetite." He passed a water bottle to Jesus. "Drink, eat something, sleep. We could be here a long time."

  Jesus took a long sip, handed back the bottle. Without another word, he lay down, turned his face to the wall, and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Zack took the lead to give Eagle Feather a mental rest. The trail was easy to follow; the men they pursued took no care to cover their tracks. Back on the original path, the prints led east; two sets of sandals and a sneaker overlaid.

  Zack spoke over his shoulder. "The second assassin has followed the growers."

  "Another sniper, likely. He'll be patient, wait to get his shot. The two growers might not know they're being followed."

  Zack read something else in the dirt. "One sandal is injured. He's favoring his right leg." The dirt surface was smooth; the story clear, the injured man was struggling. At one point Zack found thread among a jumble of prints. He showed Eagle Feather.

  "That's from ripping material. They might have torn some cloth strips to bind the leg somehow."

  Zack moved on. The injured man's strides were longer now. It seemed the new support helped. Next moment, the path surface before him was empty, the footprints gone.