by Marc Rainer
Trask raised his bottle. "To those who oppose tyrants."
Aguilar tapped Trask's bottle with his own. "To patriots."
"Tell me more about your Zetas, Luis." Trask leaned forward across the table.
"Former military special forces deserters who have left their country for the lure of drug money. Originally trained by your own Green Berets and others, including some Israeli specialists. Ruthless. Their current leader is a thug named Lazcano. They specialize in rule by terror, and will kill anyone who opposes them. Sometimes they kill just to kill."
"And your civil authorities are powerless to do anything about them?"
"The cartels have more guns than all of our police forces combined, and also outnumber those in the military ranks. As I said on the Riverwalk, we are at war."
Trask nodded. "Any idea on which cartel is moving heroin into the US at the moment?"
"All of them. Along with cocaine, meth, marijuana, ecstasy, you name it."
"How about China White heroin?"
Aguilar put his beer down and studied Trask's face. "The Zetas. They are your targets, but understand this. To me, they are not criminal defendants anymore; they are the enemy. When we see them, they shoot at us. We shoot them, unless they surrender. In that case we lock them up, they escape, and they shoot at us again." Aguilar turned his gaze out toward the lake. "Let me ask you something, Jeff. Assuming that my military solution for these bastards fails, what do you think your system—the American courts—can accomplish?"
"Only what is constitutionally allowed in the States. Prosecution and incarceration. In the case of murder, sometimes the death penalty, but our extradition agreements with your country are a problem there. Mexico won't allow us to execute Mexican citizens, so your government refuses to extradite them if they're facing a death penalty in our courts."
"You could try Lazcano in your courts?"
"If the proof is there to tie him to our heroin trade in DC, yes. But the extradition process is very iffy, and you'd have to have him in custody first. And as I said, Mexico would not hand him over if we planned to execute him, but that wouldn't be an issue right now. I do have a lot of people dying from using white heroin at the moment, Luis. I don't have proof of where it's coming from yet, and even if I did, drug distribution alone is not a capital crime in the US."
"Then we will execute him here. No trial required. He is—as you call your terrorists—an 'enemy combatant.'" Aguilar paused for a moment. "I seem to recall that your courts have executed some Mexican citizens in the past."
"That has happened in some cases, but it involved defendants who were already in the US when they committed their crimes, and who were captured on this side of the border. No extradition was required."
"I see." Aguilar shifted his gaze from the lake back to Trask. "My intelligence concerning the Zetas is quite good at the moment, Jeff. I want to help you because helping you hurts the Zetas; if you stop their business, it robs them of their cash flow. But understand this. My first goal is to kill them. No trials, no courts, no prisons from which they can escape. I will try and get you whatever information you need to do your job on this side of the river, but for my nation's security, I will hold close any information that helps me track down and kill Mexico's enemies."
Trask nodded. "I understand. I'll take whatever help you can give me, Luis. I only wish I could give you as much assistance in return." Trask passed a business card across the table. "My cell number's on the back."
"You can do one thing for me," Aguilar said, putting the card in his shirt pocket. "Even if your investigation gives you enough to indict the Zetas, promise that you'll give me first crack at them before you try and extradite them. My solution is more final, and more appropriate."
"I promise I'll call you first, Luis. That's the best I can do. I won't have the final decision on anything else. My superiors will."
Aguilar nodded. "That is acceptable." A door behind them slid open.
"Dinner's ready," Linda said. "Let's eat."
An hour later, Trask followed his hosts down to their boat dock. They pulled life vests on, and Trask sat in the back as Luis took the little boat out around a point and into the main channel of Falcon Lake.
"Any risk being out this close to dark?" Trask asked his hosts.
"At the time David Hartley was shot off his jet ski, the answer would certainly have been yes," Linda shouted over the noise of the outboard motor. She smiled and pointed to another, larger boat approaching them from the center of the channel. "Now, not so much, as long as we're in US water and those are around."
As the bigger boat drew closer, it cut its engines and Trask could read the words "Texas Department of Public Safety" and "Texas Highway Patrol" painted on the side. Some highway, he thought.
The big craft pulled near and a tall figure wearing a badge tossed a rope to Luis, who tied the bass boat alongside. Aguilar motioned Trask to follow him as he climbed the ladder up the stern and into the patrol craft. Linda followed Trask. There were three uniformed men on board, and Linda gave the tallest one a warm embrace as she climbed into the big boat. Luis laughed as he saw the confusion on Trask's face.
"Jeff Trask, meet my brother-in-law, Sergeant Jimmy Avila. He's a member of either the Texas Highway Patrol or the Texas Navy, depending on how many beers he's had before you ask him."
Trask shook hands with Avila, a broad-shouldered tank of a man with a dark moustache.
"This is some kind of canoe you have here," Trask said, surveying the boat.
"Let me give you a tour," Avila said.
Trask followed him forward to one side of the boat, where two light machine guns were mounted between armored cover plates.
"They fire 7.62x51 mm NATO rounds," Avila said. "We have five on the boat. A dual mount on each side, and another one up front. We have a couple of .50 cal sniper rifles on board, some hand held submachine guns, and grenade launchers. We've also got the latest in night vision technology. She's 34 feet long, and powered by three, 300-horse outboards on the stern."
"And this is a Highway Patrol asset?" Trask asked.
"Yep. The governor decided that the feds weren't living up to their obligations to protect our folks down here, so the state bought six of these beauties at over a half-million bucks per boat. When I heard that we—The Patrol—were getting 'em, and that I had a chance to get back on the lake where I grew up every summer, I kidnapped, bribed and may even have shot a couple of guys to get to the head of the line."
"Jimmy knows both sides of the lake better than anyone I know, with the possible exception of Luis," Linda said. She smiled at her brother. "I should have told you that Jeff was 'a fed' before you went off on your rant. He's an AUSA up in DC."
"He's on my boat, now," Avila said. "Texas turf in Texas waters. Luis, if you'll untie and hang tight for a minute, I'll show our fed what a Texas boat can do."
Aguilar jumped back into the bass boat and cast off from the bigger craft.
"Better sit down and hold on, Jeff." Linda waited for Trask to grab a rail, and she smiled at her brother, who had moved to the controls.
The gunboat lurched forward as the outboards growled, the bow of the vessel lifting above the water as the craft raced across the lake. Avila motioned Trask forward. He made his way slowly up the boat, grabbing rails and chair backs to maintain his balance, and stood beside Avila, who shoved the throttles even farther forward. The engine growl became a steady, humming roar.
"She's the fastest thing and the best armed boat on the lake. We can be anywhere in our patrol area in a few minutes, and when we get there, the bad guys better be gone. If they're not, they're either swimming or floating."
Trask nodded. "Very impressive. Glad you folks are out here now. I hear there are some very bad actors on that other shore over there."
"The Zetas? Yeah, they're real assholes. I keep hoping they'll come out to dance. So far they've declined our invitations. As fast as we are, they run back into their waters at the first si
ght of us. We grab a lot of their dope out here, beating their boats to the stuff they drop into the water from their planes. They drop bundles of coke, weed, and meth into the water and try to get it across in the middle of the night. We call 'em splashdowns. We keep waiting, but they don't seem to want to fight us for their merchandise."
Avila turned the boat back toward where they'd left Aguilar. Minutes later, Trask and Linda were climbing back into the bass boat.
"Thanks for the ride," Trask called up to the sergeant.
Avila waved and hit the gunboat's throttles again, pulling away and back out toward the center of the lake.
"Helluva boat," Trask remarked.
"Yes," Aguilar said, "but lousy for fishing. Too loud, and he can't get close enough to the banks to use worm lures."
Waldorf, Maryland
March 21, 2011, 6:25 p.m.
"So how was the conference?" Sivella rested his elbows on the inside of the bar after pushing the beer toward Trask.
"Interesting. A vacation of sorts until the first weekend, anyway. I bumped into a major in the Mexican marines who has an inside track on the cartel that is probably supplying our heroin. Brutal bunch. I was able to help one of our blue-suiters solve a much smaller conspiracy case while I was there. Not a bad trip overall. How've you been?"
"Every day's a vacation for a retired cop. Even one tending bar. At least it would be if that retired cop didn't have to keep playing spook to help out his friendly federal prosecutor." Sivella reached under the bar and tool out a manila envelope. "Your DVDs of the racquet club are in there. Hope they help. How's the hand?"
Trask reflexively raised his left hand. It was steady. "Making a liar out of me. No problem while I was in Texas. I even had some of the docs at the Air Force hospital run some neurological tests. They couldn't find a thing."
Sivella shrugged. "No news is good news, right?"
"I suppose."
"Lynn and the dogs make out all right while you were gone?"
"Yep. Not a ripple on the moat."
"Great. Did your new friend from Mexico give you enough to reopen channels with the Bureau?"
"Not yet. He did say he'd have his intel guy look into some stuff. Can't hurt."
"Never does, unless you run into one of those one-way-street information streams like you had with DEA on the Jamaicans. They actually stole your case files and refused to share anything with you, didn't they?"
"Yeah. I had to have the marshals seize my own case files with a subpoena after DEA broke into our office and ran off with them. Two of their field office bosses ended up getting fired over it."
"Unbelievable."
"I wish I never had to believe it. The DEA office here still hasn't made peace with me, even though they were the ones in the wrong, and now I've got FBI—or what's left of it after nine-eleven—shunning my investigation, and my best lead so far is in another country. What would you do in my shoes, Willie?"
Sivella shoved the mug at him. "Have another beer."
Washington, D.C.
March 22, 2011, 10:45 am.
Trask fast-forwarded through the recorded video on the discs playing on his desktop computer. The angle of the camera on the racquet club left a lot to be desired. It was a narrow-width view of the front of the club, with the left side of the scenes clipped so that only a fraction of the driveway to the rear of the building was shown. Oh well, beggars can't be choosers. Whoever Willie's friend is can't have much field experience. Nobody just watches the front door. I've watched three weeks of running video. The Metro Maintenance truck comes and goes at what look like regularly scheduled intervals. Nothing suspicious there unless our man Roscoe is more than he seems to be.
Trask froze the frame on something he thought he'd seen before. What appeared to be a light colored truck turned through just enough of the scene so that he could make out the vehicle before it disappeared behind the building. He checked his notes, pulled out the disc he was watching, and replaced it with one he'd already reviewed. There it is. Ten days before. Could be the same truck. Can't see the plates. Same size, same color. He noted the arrival and departure time, then put the other disc back into the computer.
He advanced the frames at regular speed this time, then froze the frame. The truck had left the driveway and turned in front of the club this time. Gotcha. Maybe. The angle still didn't permit a view of the truck's plates. Damn. Oh well. Light-colored cab. Ton-and-a-haf from the looks of it. I thought it was too big to be a pickup.
The phone on his desk rang. He looked at the caller ID window before picking up the handset.
"What's up, Bear?"
"Doing anything for lunch?"
"No plans at the moment."
"Why don't you head this way about twelve. I don't like where we left things. I'm buying. We're all going to the FOP."
"Twelve then. I'll meet you there."
He hung up the desk phone, but felt the cellular phone vibrating in the holster on his belt. The number shown in the caller ID box identified the new caller as a subscriber in Mexico.
"Luis?"
"Yes, Jeff, how are you?"
"Been better, been worse. How's the shoulder?"
"About eighty-five percent now; improving. I have some news regarding the American distributors moving your heroin. They're based in Laredo, and are probably supplying your capital city and some others on your eastern seaboard. My man with the Zetas tells me you should be looking for a truck with Texas plates—"
"A ton-and-a-half with a light-colored cab?"
"Exactly. I see you've made some progress on your end as well. Excellent."
"I'm looking at a still shot of it right now on my computer. Part of a surveillance camera feed. Got any names for me to go with the truck?"
"Not yet. I'll work on that. On your side, at least."
"Yeah, I remember our deal. No indictments or extraditions of your Zetas until you've had your chance at them."
"Thank you, my friend. I'll call again when I have more."
12:02 p.m.
The DC Chapter of the Fraternal Order of Police was located at 711 4th Street, N.W., about a block north of the FBI field office, so it was a short walk for Trask. Once inside the entrance to the dining room, he was hailed by Doroz, who waved him over to a large table. Lynn was there, along with Dixon Carter, Tim Wisniewski, and two uniformed DC cops in uniform, a male with flaming red hair and a moustache, and a very attractive female officer. Trask stood behind the seat Lynn had saved for him.
"We have a couple of party crashers, Jeff," Dixon Carter said. "This is Tom McInnis. I was his training officer a few hundred years ago."
"Call me Sam," McInnis said as Trask shook his hand.
"Sam," Trask nodded. "No explanation required. The resemblance is uncanny."
"I guess so. Everybody says that," McInnis shrugged. "This is my partner, Randi Rhodes."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," she said, extending her hand to Trask.
"Oh for God's sake, don't 'sir' him," Lynn snorted. "His head is big enough as it is."
"Alright, Mr. Trask, then," Rhodes said, smiling. "So Detective Carter, I have you to blame for training my training officer?"
"I'm afraid so. Not too tough on you is he?"
"I'll survive him," Rhodes said. "So what kind of team are you guys on now?"
"We've been adopted and deputized by the man, the myth, and the legend, Barry Doroz, whom you've just met, as members of an FBI squad. We basically protect the city and other parts of the republic as directed by Supervisory Special Agent Doroz."
"More accurately put, Randi, Detectives Carter and Wisniewski have proved themselves to be very valuable in the past working against some very dangerous criminal drug-trafficking organizations," Doroz explained, "so I arranged with your department to have them permanently—I mean temporarily—assigned to my squad at the Bureau. Jeff here is our favorite prosecutor. Not only because he’s damned good at it, but because we have his wife Lynn here as part of the package d
eal. She's a former Air Force OSI agent, and our squad analyst."
Trask noted the compliment. More apologies from the Bear. Good to see the bridge isn’t burned. He looked down the table at Wisniewski. Sitting directly across from Officer Rhodes, he was strangely quiet, and Trask saw that Tim was trying very hard not to stare at her. He focused on McInnis for a second, and saw that Rhodes’ partner had also noticed the attention being paid to her by Wisniewski. Is that jealousy I’m seeing, or just a protective brother in blue? His left hand started to tap a rhythm on his thigh, enough to grab Lynn’s attention. Her right hand closed softly on his left.
"So, Lynn, you actually do the brain work for these guys?" Randi asked.
"Very perceptive of you," Lynn said. "They do need a lot of help in that regard."
"She's the best analyst I've ever had on the squad," Doroz said. "It helps that she's had street experience like you, Randi. She's our resident expert on deciphering telephone traffic."
"The cell phone is today's criminal's biggest tool, and his Achilles' heel," Lynn said. "I just look at lots of numbers and identify patterns. All from the safety of my cubicle. No more drawing down on guys who outweigh me by a hundred pounds and want to kick my little butt. I was never an actual patrol officer like you, Randi. I don't know how you gals do it. I admire your courage."
"Lots of training, weapons, and bluffing," Rhodes deflected the compliment. "It gets a little dicey at times, but I have my big brother Sam here to protect me. He has something in common with you, Lynn—a real thing for phone numbers. Scribbles down every one he finds."
"Like the lady said, a tool and a problem for the perps," McInnis said.
"He really likes those that end in sixty-nine," Rhodes quipped.
"Dammit, Randi—" McInnis protested, but was cut off almost immediately by Lynn.
"As in nineteen sixty-nine?" Lynn asked.
"It's when I was born—" McInnis started to explain.
"Have you come into contact with this number?" Lynn cut him off again, writing the phone number down on a paper napkin and sliding it between Rhodes and McInnis.
