by Jeff Siebold
The Sienna Sand
A Zeke Traynor Mystery
Jeff Siebold
Copyright © 2019 Jeff Siebold
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Book cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design
ISBN-13: 978-1-7336387-2-2
ALSO BY JEFF SIEBOLD
Zeke Traynor Mysteries
Lilac and Old Gold
Bluegrass and Crimson
Ardmore Green
The Crisp Poleward Sky
The Bakken Blade
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to acknowledge Elizabeth Bruno, his editor, for her excellent help and fine attention to detail. The author also wishes to acknowledge Deborah Bradseth of Tugboat Design for her outstanding creative work.
Dedicated to Karin. Such fun!
Chapter 1
Standing in the front yard of his modest bungalow, Rogelio Camero looked up to the dark sky and gauged his position. He scanned his yard, checking to be certain he was equidistant from the low concrete walls that bordered his property on both sides.
He moved his lawn chair back, closer to the garage door and squared himself, looking southwest. Then he nodded and checked his watch. It was three AM. He sat down to wait.
A few minutes later Rogelio Camero’s smart phone lit up with an incoming call. He noted the time as he answered. “Hello?”
“Are you in place?” asked the voice in Mexican Spanish. “All clear?”
“All good, ready here,” he replied. Rogelio’s second job was to watch for the random passerby or patrol car that might happen upon their project.
That’s how he thought of it, as their project.
Remembering his first job, Rogelio took a small laser out of his pocket and hit the “On” button. He pointed it at the dumpster in the vacant lot across the street. A moment later, he heard the low hum of an electric motor as it approached, invisible in the night sky. He checked the red laser beam, holding it steady.
There was a distant whistling in the air, a humming, and then a dull thud as a projectile hit the earth and stopped about a yard from the dumpster. Followed by silence once again.
* * *
“The Border Patrol seems to be in need of our assistance,” said Clive Greene. He was a tall man with coiffed graying hair that signaled dignity and class. Today he was wearing a houndstooth suit that fit perfectly, every bit a British nobleman.
“Let me guess. Our southern border?” asked Zeke Traynor. They were meeting in Clive’s D.C. offices at The Agency, a federal consulting group Clive had founded. The Agency was involved with a number of federal agencies, mostly law enforcement oriented, and provided contract security services as well as plausible deniability.
“Yes, the Mexico border,” said Clive. “There appears to be no end to the creativity used to move illegals and contraband across into the United States.”
Zeke nodded. “Who’s our client?”
“That would be Chief Patrol Agent Arlo Peterson. He runs their operation based in Calexico, California.”
“What’s happening on the border there?” asked Zeke.
“They’ve identified a number of late night breaches of border security in the past couple of weeks. Their equipment spots the breach, but by then it’s too late to do anything about it,” said Clive. “Seems like things are just flying over the wall.”
“Such as?” asked Zeke.
“Well, actually Peterson says it’s primarily drugs. Cocaine from South America,” said Clive.
Zeke nodded. “When is Peterson expecting me?”
In his late thirties, Zeke Traynor was deceptively young for a senior operative. And at five foot ten and tan, he looked more like a surfer than a cop, his longish blond hair complimenting the image.
“Tomorrow,” said Clive. “Sally has your itinerary and such.”
Zeke nodded.
“And I want to put Kimmy on this border situation,” said Clive. “She can surely help.”
“I agree,” said Zeke. “I welcome her assistance.”
Kimmy had joined The Agency a few years back after a run in with a counterfeiter and a cartel assassin. She was ex-Mossad and deadly, but Zeke thought that she looked a lot like a hippy with her long black hair and flowery dresses. At just over five foot, Kimmy was a study in contrasts. She was always moving, as if her being was wired to the source of the world’s kinetic energy. Her approach to life was somewhat offbeat and certainly original.
“She’s here in D.C. She’ll meet you at Dulles for the flight to Calexico in the morning,” said Clive. “Actually, you fly into San Diego and hire a plane to take you to Imperial County. From there it’s a twenty-minute drive. They want you to help with the intelligence gathering. And to see if you can identify the source of these, uh, deliveries.”
“Got it,” said Zeke.
“Peterson will fill you in when you get there,” said Clive.
* * *
“As best we can tell, they’re using some sort of mortar device,” said Chief Patrol Agent Arlo Peterson. “We think they’re lobbing loads of cocaine over the wall from Mexico.”
“How long has it been going on?” asked Zeke.
“Only a couple weeks, we think,” said Peterson. “Maybe two or three times a week.”
Zeke and Kimmy were sitting with CPA Peterson and his Executive Officer, Ex-O, a woman named Joyce Henderson. They were crowded into a small conference room in the Border Patrol’s Birch Street offices in Calexico.
“What do the Mexican authorities say?” asked Kimmy.
“They can’t pin down the source. Apparently, it’s a moving target,” said the Chief Patrol Agent. “They apparently blast the contraband over the wall, then pack everything up and disappear.”
“Sounds like a unique twist,” said Zeke.
“That’s right,” said Joyce Henderson. “We’ve had many attempts to deliver drugs and such over the wall. From drones to small rockets to ultralight aircraft. One creative distributor used a hot air balloon. But a mortar…”
“The trouble with mortars,” said Zeke, “is that they’re typically inaccurate. You usually use the first shot or two to find the proper alignment and distance to the target. But that would be risky, particularly if there are houses around the launch point.”
Patterson nodded.
“Have you determined a point of origin?” asked Zeke.
“There's a dense residential neighborhood on the other side of the wall, along here,” said Joyce Henderson, pointing as she pushed two aerial photographs of the border area across the table to Zeke. “And some small commercial buildings, bodegas and such, but not much over two stories high.”
“How about vacant lots or parks?” asked Zeke.
“Sure, there are some. You think they use one of those areas to launch?” asked Peterson.
“Small 81 mm mortars like the M252 that the military uses are portable, so they could fire from a different location every day. Or night, in this case,” said Zeke. “The launcher weighs less than a hundred pounds and it breaks down into three pieces for transport.”
“How did you know that?” asked the Chief.
“He pretty much has an eidetic memory,” said Kimmy.
“Sorry,” said Zeke, and he grimaced.
“What about noise?” asked Joyce Henderson. “Wouldn’t the shot be pretty loud?”
“That particular mortar launcher has a blast attenuator device. It reduces the sound quite a bit,” Zeke continued. “Especially if they make a shot or two, then pack it up and move on.”
Chief Peterson nodded.
“And the projectiles. They’re quieter when you fire them a shorter distance,” Zeke added.
There was a pause as the meeting participants thought for a moment.
Zeke continued. “Armed mortar shells weigh about eleven pounds. These were probably filled with drugs or contraband, not gunpowder, so they might be a little bit heavier.”
“But how could you know where the projectile would land?” asked Joyce Henderson.
“I don’t know for sure, but the latest weapons have laser guided shells,” said Zeke. “And those shells now have wings for better accuracy. Accurate to one meter. Could the smugglers have gotten hold of some of those?”
Chief Patterson stood and walked behind his chair. He was looking at the aerial map on the wall.
“What did you say the range was?” he asked.
“About three and a half miles,” said Zeke.
“So we can work backwards and identify some possible launch sites,” said Patterson. “It’s pretty well built out down there, south of the border,” he repeated.
“Have you done anything to enhance your ability to track the projectiles?” asked Zeke.
“We’ve increased electronic surveillance, particularly during the time and at the locations of the last few firings. We brought some portable cameras in and set them up. And lights,” said Peterson.
“I’d like to take a look at the border wall this afternoon,” said Zeke. And can we get a copy of everything you have on this projectile device so far? Photos, audio files, infrared images…anything about the projectile. And anything you have about the routes the projectiles have taken. Also, we’d like to read copies of your reports, to get up to speed.”
Peterson nodded. “I’ve got that together for you.”
“You said this has been going on for a couple weeks, two to three times a week,” said Zeke.
“We think so,” said Joyce. “And we’re pretty sure there are drugs in the projectiles. Most likely cocaine.”
“OK,” Zeke nodded. “We’ll go through what you have for us here. I’d also like to talk with your Mexican counterparts. We should be able to do that fairly quickly and be back here in Calexico next week.”
* * *
“You’re where?” Tracy Johnson asked into her smartphone.
“A small town in the California desert,” said Zeke. “Calexico.”
“Sounds like it’s on the border,” Tracy said.
“Yep,” said Zeke. “Has a wall and everything.”
Zeke and Tracy Johnson had been seeing each other for a couple of years. They’d first met when they worked together on a counterfeiting case in Atlanta. Tracy was with the Atlanta Secret Service.
“What’s the case?” she asked, casually.
“It’s actually pretty interesting,” said Zeke. “Something to do with shooting drugs and such from a cannon, over the border.”
“A cannon?” she said. “Really?”
“No, it’s probably a mortar,” he said. “Something high-tech, I think.”
“Do you need me to come out there and help you?” she teased.
“Sure,” said Zeke. “We can find some kind of trouble to get into…”
“I think I’ll save my vaca for somewhere more exotic,” she said. “Like maybe Savannah. How’s your move going?”
Zeke had a habit of moving south during winters, and then back north in the summers, always renting small homes or cottages near the water. He was presently living in the Florida Keys, but in recent weeks he’d been looking around for a cottage on the Georgia coast.
“Savannah’s a great town,” he said. “I think you’ll like it. And it’s only three and a half hours from Atlanta.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I could get down there every weekend.”
“If you want to,” teased Zeke. “There’s a lot to do in Savannah.”
“Maybe we could solve a mystery,” said Tracy. “There’s got to be something in a city that old.”
“Two hundred eighty-five years of secrets and mysteries. Sounds like a hotbed of intrigue.”
“It does,” said Tracy. “A hotbed.”
“I should have a place lined up soon,” said Zeke. “I plan to be set up in Savannah in a couple of weeks. Meet me there?”
“Sure,” said Tracy. “I’ll drive down. Just give me the address when you’re ready…”
* * *
“They shot the drugs over the border wall with a catapult?” asked Clive, incredulously. “Like the Leach trench catapult used on the Western Front? That was developed by the British Army, you know.”
“The Leach trench catapult? Yes, during World War I,” said Zeke, sitting across from him. “History repeats itself once again.”
They shared a table in the bar area of The Alibi, a British American Pub in downtown Washington. Clive was impeccably dressed, as always, with a trimmed white moustache and a Scottish Black Watch tartan tie attesting to his aristocratic British heritage.
“Only this time we think it’s a mortar,” said Zeke. “Probably similar to the M252.”
“The M252 mortar was designed in England, too, you know,” said Clive.
Zeke rolled his eyes.
The table was covered with a variety of small plates that Clive had ordered. There was Scotch Egg, Bubble and Squeak, and Yorkshire Pudding. Clive was drinking a gin and tonic, Bootles Gin, while Zeke sipped on a local IPA.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find that there are a number of ways to get drugs and immigrants into the United States,” said Zeke. “I’d think it’s a cottage industry, finding ways to circumvent the wall and the border. Seems like there’d be a lot of money in just providing that linkage.”
Clive chewed a bite of Bubble and Squeak for a moment, thinking. “Those are all high-profit activities. Getting drugs into the country. Getting refugees in. And it seems like it would be ongoing, with the human trafficking and sex trade. Just like you found to be true in Phoenix.”
Zeke had spearheaded a drive to stop human traffickers in the southwestern United States recently, and along the way he had uncovered corruption within the DEA. The human trafficking had resulted in young girls from Central America being forced into prostitution.
“I’d think right now we need as much information as we can get on the mortars. Current technology, remote guidance systems, ordinance, speed and distance, everything we can find,” said Zeke. “Can Sally help?”
Sally was The Agency's best researcher, and Clive's girl Friday.
“I’ll set her to it,” said Clive. “She’s up to the task.”
Chapter 2
“It happened again last night,” said CPA Peterson over the phone line. He had called into The Agency’s D.C. offices and was talking wi
th Clive and Zeke, who were together on a speakerphone.
“The mortar?” asked Zeke.
“Yes. Now that we know what we’re looking for, we’ve changed our patrol drones, made them more sensitive to sound. And two of them were able to triangulate a general location.”
“With two points it’s bisection, not triangulation,” said Zeke. “But you can narrow down the point of origin based on the maximum distance of travel.”
As if Zeke hadn’t spoken, Peterson said, “We identified two more explosions from the Mexico side and they originated from different points.”
“But less than three miles from the wall,” said Zeke.
“Yes, we think so,” said Peterson.
“Were you able to track the projectiles?” asked Clive.
“Not really,” said Peterson. “It was dark, and our drones weren’t able to pick them up on their cameras. We’re pretty much going by sound here.”
* * *
“I learned more about mortars than I ever wanted to know,” said Sally, scrunching her nose. “But with what you gave me from the Border Patrol, I think we can piece together the activity in Calexico.”
“Do tell,” said Clive. Sally had joined him and Zeke after their phone call with CPA Peterson. Her somewhat ethereal nature and odd dress habits put Zeke in mind of a young Marilyn Monroe.
“Well, first of all, there’ve been some serious advances in the technology in the last couple years,” she said. “Basically, the weapons went from dumb to very, very smart.”
“How so?” asked Clive.
“Well, for one thing, they have small wings now. That gives them a greater range, and more importantly, greater precision. They’re very accurate.”
“And?” asked Clive.
“And, they can be laser guided. So their landing point can be precise. Like I said, very accurate,” she repeated.
