by Thomas Craig
“I think so, too,” I replied as I observed the approaching caravan of black suburban’s likely filled with FBI, followed by two 40-ton MRAP SWAT vehicles. One from the County Sheriff’s tactical motor pool and the other from the DEA’s.
A moment later, the hood of our trunk became the central point of conversation as an aerial view photograph and blueprints of the plantation were laid out for one last review of our assigned breach points.
Everyone knew their role. Most had shotguns with beanbag rounds for nonlethal engagements. We expected to encounter a few thugs in close quarters, and avoiding collateral damage with the customers or victims of human trafficking was paramount. A half-hour later our caravan turned off the main road and onto the private drive leading to the plantation.
Massive willow oaks lined both sides of the long path to the house, towering over the drive every forty feet, casting their guardian like shadows upon us. Our approach could not have been more obvious to the occupants of this mansion.
The drive was a straight path to the front of the house where it turned into a semi cul-de-sac with a simple looking three-tiered fountain in the center for cars to drive around.
There was an offshoot of the drive that exited the cul-de-sac and went around back where likely a parking lot existed.
If there was going to be an assault on us in the open front walkway, the two MRAP vehicles would be our impenetrable wall of defense. One was sitting idle blocking the drive that went to the back of the mansion. The other cranked up its loud diesel engine and pressed forward up the stone steps as if it were going to go right through the front door. It came to a stop, resting at what seemed to be a 45-degree angle, front bumper feet from the door.
A sheriff served the warrant with no problem to a large man in a business suit at the front door. In minutes we flooded the mansion and had a law enforcement agent in every room without incident. Anyone that looked like they might be in a gang or qualify to be a hired gun or bouncer, found themselves face down.
“We have a runner!” Someone shouted in the room next to mine towards the back of the first floor.
My suspect was cuffed, but just to be safe, I used a zip tie on his ankles to prevent him from getting up and running around. Soon after, I was in the other room looking around. A Deputy was shining his flashlight behind a three-drawer dresser that was pushed away from the wall.
“I saw him move this away from the wall and he disappeared behind it. It looks like a tunnel going down. No lights,” the Deputy explained.
I spoke into my radio, “This is Agent Abrams. Deputy Hodges and I are entering a tunnel in pursuit of a suspect. The room left of the parlor with the big red fireplace. First floor. Requesting Zeek.”
Zeek was a 4-year-old, 80 pounds German Shepherd Dog trained for chasing and subduing runners. He was very intimidating to look at with his dark coat and dark eyes and has made every runner regret creating the circumstances that allowed for Zeek to chase them down with no mercy.
My police dog, Andy, an Australian Shepherd, had a more casual and less intimidating look with his white chest with blue and brown patterns covering the rest of his coat. There were a few black spots mixed in and he had white feet that looked like socks. He was back in Atlanta with Arya now, probably laying on his back in a sunbeam in the living room dreaming of chasing an unobtainable rabbit.
Seconds later, Zeek flew by us and entered the passage, his handler hot on the dog’s blazoned path. We followed. It only took a minute before we had the assailant in custody, crying about how Zeek bit his leg. He was lucky Zeek did not sense the need to grind on the guy's face or private area. He must have given up easily, which kept Zeek from escalating his tactics.
The runner turned out to be connected in the LLC gang and told us he “would rather die than give any information” on the women formerly in his custody at the house.
Three of the women were local college students that had gone missing in the past few days. Drugged for ease of moving but lucid enough to tell us who they were. They were hours away from never being seen again and living a short, miserable life in a cartel sex trade ring in South America. Returning them to their loved ones was a nice win in the middle of this case.
The career criminal sat handcuffed to the table making stupid facial gestures and head nods that were meant to convey “you are nobody to me, you are beneath me, you are afraid of me.” Fair enough. We brought Zeek into the room, pretended we had to answer a phone call, and left this yet unnamed criminal alone with 80 pounds of Teutonic badassery.
Each time the gang member moved an inch or made a sound, Zeek leaped forward exactly 5 inches, growling low and deep, licking his chops. It only took 5 small movements from the suspect, and 25 inches of movement from Zeek, and the announcement of cooperation and the smell of urine emanated from the room.
Once he started talking, we could not get him to stop. He advised us of a name of a law enforcement agent that was on our list to arrest for collaborating with the LLC and Cartel. Clients that visited the Plantation were mostly prominent businessmen and politicians from the D.C. area. Some knew each other and that did not seem to matter to them. There even seemed to be a few lawyers and judges that also frequented the establishment for either high stake gambling events or debauchery.
After that, it was more random information. It took all we had to keep him focused on a specific line of questioning to get clues to our OMS puzzle and related human trafficking we had been assigned to investigate. He eventually described the operation at the plantation in detail.
We focused on who and how they would abduct and bring in local women. Once we had sufficient and useful intel on that process, we moved on to find out who transported women from Colombia. How did these exchanges work and was there any timing or patterns to it all?
He also informed us that the women stayed at the plantation for a couple of weeks at a time and always moved mid-month to other locations, never to be seen again. This pattern lined up with the travel patterns of the Santiago to and from the NIT port.
We had already made a list of the I.D.s we gathered from the detained guest earlier in the day, and shared it with Lauren back in Atlanta to run in her system against the OMS information she had gathered. It did not take long for Lauren to call us back with some interesting information.
It took a few minutes to arrange to move one of the detained individuals from the holding cell to the secure interview room for questioning. Holliday knew more about this person and their organization than I, so he took the lead as we entered the room.
“Mr. Dante? Winston Dante?” Holliday asked as he pulled the chair out and sat down across from the man.
He gave a nod that spoke volumes. “Can we speed this shit up and get to it? I want my call and my lawyer ASAP,” Mr. Dante stated.
Holliday’s voice took on a cadence that was so matter-of-fact, that it almost seemed rehearsed.
“it is shocking to find the Vice President of FLAGG in that unlawful establishment. I’m sure the CIA, an agency known for its secrecy and for using your private company for contracting military services, would not appreciate this negative publicity. What would they say when they find out you’ve been involved with the sex-slavery trade?”
“That’s bullshit! What are saying? You would feed lies to the press to have us lose our contract with the CIA if I don’t talk to you?” Mr. Dante demanded.
“There will be no call and no lawyer for you, sir. It seems you have come to a crossroads and what you say here is either going to get you that call and lawyer or…” Holliday paused for a moment.
“Or what? Get my fucking lawyer.” Mr. Dante slapped his hand on the table.
Holliday leaned back and pointed his thumb over his shoulder my way.
“Or this gentleman with the FBI will put a black hood over your head and ship you to his black site with the other Latin Lords Crew you associate with and treat you like the domestic terrorist sex trafficker you seem to be. From there, still no lawye
r or rights, you go to...” Holliday turned to me. “Where do you take them from there?”
I took one step forward and simply answered, “Who gives a shit?”
“Ah, you see!” Holliday’s voice was elevated with some excitement. “I think behind all the bravado, Mr. Dante gives a shit,” Holliday said over his shoulder to me and then gazed back across the table. “Don’t you Mr. Dante?”
“Jesus, no need for the theatrics. I’m willing to help you if you help me. You know I’m not involved in all that shit you mentioned. I will give you full access to my spending and whereabouts. I was strictly there for a card game.”
Holliday pulled his chair closer to the table and sat up. “Tell us more about how you heard about this place. How did you hear of this card game?”
Mr. Dante proceeded to tell his story which took us from one character to another in his organization. Nothing was adding up to any value and we had been at it for about an hour. We could tell he was holding back. We had to peel the onion, so to speak, and get to what he was hiding.
Holliday kept at him while I had already stepped away making calls with Arya and Lauren to help dig up the latest contracts FLAGG had completed and any current ones underway. Something had to connect to OMS. I just could not believe this was a coincidence that FLAGG, used by the CIA, was in the OMS plantation.
Chapter 13
The Cartel Meeting
Tazario looked across the table into the eyes of Miguel “Tiki” Contrera. He gave his old friend, Tiki, a slight head nod and then started the meeting.
The large rectangular Brazilian Jatoba wood table easily sat ten, and all seats were taken by various high-level Ibagué Cartel members. Over the past four years, there had been a few changes in leadership for various reasons. Those sitting around the table represented a relatively new leadership, and there was plenty to discuss.
Their rivals, the Cali Cartel, controlled the Pacific coast and one of the largest coca cultivation regions southwest of Bogota. It practically reached the backyard of the Ibagué Cartel. The Cali Cartel also had a long-standing arrangement with the Mexican Sinaloa Cartel for various port entry points into North America. They had the shortest and cheapest way into North America, making them the most profitable and powerful.
The Ibagué Cartel had the second largest area of cultivation east and southeast of Bogota. If they weren’t dealing with the Cali Cartel for Pacific transport agreements, then they were dealing with various factions of the Medellin Cartel north and northwest of them for access to some Pacific and Caribbean transport access points. This was why Tazario’s control of the Santa Marta port to the Caribbean was so critical.
Recently, Tiki and a few other high-ranking members decided former Ibagué leaders were being too soft on rival narco-paramilitary resistance while also giving too much product as ‘tax’ to have access to Pacific and Caribbean merchant routes. A swift, decisive and bloody shift in power took place, and Tiki Contrera elevated himself to El Jefe of the Ibagué Cartel.
“This location in Santa Marta, run by Tazario, has been particularly good to us. We all thank you for cooking the green and shipping the pearls. Not to mention managing our North American east coast distributions through the LLC,” Tiki announced as he raised a glass, and everyone did the same.
“Yes, but the LLC has come under some recent unwanted attention. Should we be concerned Tazario?” Asked Gilberto, who ran the Cartagena boat smuggling to Central America.
Gilberto was well respected by all, and well connected to the information in Tazario’s camp, which irritated Tazario. He would investigate this at a later time because leaks were betrayals and needed to be dealt with quickly and swiftly.
“What is this?” Tiki asked as he looked from Gilberto to Tazario.
“The Santiago was compromised the other night. I’m working to arrange an alternative ship to take its place moving forward,” Tazario responded with confidence, ignoring any smug reaction that might be on Gilberto’s face.
“Why am I just now hearing of this?” Tiki questioned Tazario.
“I did not want to bother you with insignificant details of some women being picked up by a random Port Authority inspection. Our 200-million-dollar shipment of Cocaine was not compromised. But as I mentioned, for precautions, I am organizing an alternative ship to take its place.” Tazario reassured Tikki and threw a slight glare the way of Gilberto for bringing it up.
“Good to know,” Tiki replied as he took a cigar from his shirt pocket and looked it over.
“Gilberto, it is not on the agenda, but if you and others would like, I’m sure we can make time to review all of our lost shipments and merchandise,” Tazario suggested with open arms to the table. It was an antagonistic bluff.
He knew Gilberto lost a speedboat full of Marijuana twice a month to the Colombian Navy and US Coastguard, not to mention a mini-sub with 500 million US dollars’ worth of cocaine 3 months ago.
Gilberto just grunted and waved his hand in a motion to carry on. Tazario had no intention to piss-off Gilberto. Gilberto came from District 4 of Soacha, the district that bordered Bogota. It was one of the most neglected and dangerous places in Colombia. Gilberto ran those streets years ago and has the scars and reputation to prove it. His weapons of choice were his hands or a knife. Which was what made the man so terrifying to so many. He liked to be up close and personal with violence. Tazario respected him but wasn’t going to back down from him.
Thankful for the small victory and wave-off by Gilberto, Tazario continued with the update.
“As you all know, the presence and partnership of the United States DEA and FBI in Colombia with the Colombian AFEUR has only increased trouble for us. So have our disputes with our rivals. I think the pressure…”
“Aggression,” Gilberto interjected.
“Yes, the aggression from all of you here is influencing our rivals to reconsider agreements and reduce their resistance with us,” Tazario finished saying.
Tiki took this as a direct tribute to his bold and aggressive leadership, so he lit his cigar and made hand gestures to the others letting them know this is the way forward and he was pleased to hear this news. Even though he already knew it.
“Which brings the next matter to hand. Cartel de los Soles,” Tazario stated. The room instantly became active with comments and sidebars. He expected this reaction, as it was not the first time he brought up the Venezuelan organization led by corrupt members of the Armed Forces of Venezuela.
“As you all know...” The room was still humming with chatter, so he repeated himself a bit louder this time. “As you all know, when I built this place, I contracted Venezuelan workers and quickly realized how easy it was to send cocaine back with them to Venezuela,” he reminded them.
On queue as rehearsed three beautiful women dressed in tailored light blue business suit jackets and skirts came in with silver platers and hand size dark blue cloth bags on them. As Tazario continued to speak, the women slowly walked around the table placing one in front of each cartel member.
“I have slowly built up somewhat reliable contacts in Venezuela to give us more options to the East. With a greedy and needy partner that has plenty of coastline to the Caribbean, an Army for hire, and no opposition between us and them to deal with, there is potential for an unbridled weight of trafficking,” he paused and looked around.
“Open them please,” he gestured. “You each now have 2 million in cut and certified diamonds. The paperwork is included, ready to be sold legitimately anywhere in the world. A clean currency that fits in your pocket. I know it is less than a few week’s profit for each of you, but it is yours, and it is easy to carry. Nice to have access to a few million dollars for the rainy day we all hope to avoid, eh?” He could see the members pouring out the diamonds and examining them. Some impressed and giving head nods, others curious where this conversation would lead.
“Even though the Venezuelan Diamond mines don’t have many years left, the country has no shortage of Braz
ilian and Paraguayan gemstones coming in for various reasons. A country so poor has so many riches to offer us,” Tazario emphasized those last words before continuing.
“If we agree to push more product through Cartel de los Soles, we increase our port and shipping access through their oil and shipping tankers. The Army is eager to make this work and get their fair share of profits, and those profits are at an incredible discount in comparison with Cali, Medellin, or corrupt DEA and Local Colombian Polícia,” Tazario seemed to have their attention.
“The Sun rises in the East and so shall our profits.” He looked at Tiki, nodded, and sat down, which made it seem like it was Tiki’s idea.
Hours later after all business discussions concluded, most of the men found themselves a female companion and went their separate ways on the mansion’s grounds.
Tiki and Tazario knew they had a few more items to discuss and took a fresh drink and cigar to the patio.
“Like Gilberto, I too, pay very well for information to flow to me,” Tiki said as they both brushed their seats free of the little red flowers that had fallen from the nearby 20-foot-tall Tropical Umbrella Tree.
“I figured as much. Any blanks I need to fill in?” Tazario offered.
“I always saw you as this smart kid, you know? But somewhere along the way, you picked up some bad habits,” Tiki said as he inhaled his cigar slowly while staring into Tazario’s eyes for a reaction or some self-awareness.
“I have always appreciated your mentorship and support and have never taken it for granted. What is the concern, Tiki?” Tazario asked.
Tiki shifted in his seat and leaned into the conversation.
“This thing with the Assistant District Attorney giving details on the organization and all this nonsense on the internet to get strangers to take people out, instead of just outsourcing to the LLC. It was messy Taz. Messy and very unprofessional,” he explained as his patience was showing thin now.
