by Jeff Siebold
“Did he mention any names? Anything that would help us find the killer or killers?” asked Zeke.
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Mostly we spoke in the visitors room, and he was pretty closed mouth in there. Didn’t mention any names, ‘cuz he didn’t want any of the guards to hear that. Or anyone else.”
“Sure,” said Zeke. “You ID’d his body.”
“I did. It was pretty bad.”
“What did it look like to you?” asked Zeke.
“What kind of a question is that?” said Hart, angry again.
“Sorry. I meant no harm. Was there anything about the body that struck you as odd?”
“Besides the cuts where they sliced his forehead? Yeah, his neck was cut, too. Like someone hacked at it. The worst thing was his eyes, though. They were open and they were dead.”
Zeke nodded respectfully.
“Was your brother in a gang before he went to prison?”
“I don’t think so,” said Hart.
“Again, I mean no harm, but I have to ask. Did your brother use drugs?”
“I think he must have. He stole that car, but it was poorly planned. It was a spur of the moment thing, from what I know. Unfortunately, there was somebody in it when he stole it,” said Hart.
“I read it was a woman and her child,” Zeke stated.
“Yea, the D.A. bounced it up to a federal charge. Called it ‘carjacking’. Our attorney tried to plea bargain, but it was an election year and, well, bad timing for Kadin.”
“What do you think happened, Mr. Hart?” asked Zeke.
“Me? I think it was the BMF that killed him. Trying to show how bad they are or something.”
Zeke nodded and smiled a disarming smile. “But didn’t you stop paying them after he was killed?”
Carroll Hart nodded. “Sure.”
“You get paid twice a month?” asked Zeke.
Hart said, “Every two weeks.”
“So by murdering Kadin, they gave up over a thousand dollars a month.”
Hart nodded, then he frowned. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?” he asked. “They coulda just beat him and the money woulda kept coming. Didn’t need ta be killin’ him.”
“Someone had a reason to kill Kadin, though,” said Zeke. “We need to figure out who that was.”
Chapter 21
The man, seated, shifted his weight, raising his left leg an inch to take pressure off his left ass-cheek. He held the position for a half minute and then repeated it on his right side.
Then he looked at his digital watch for the third time in ten minutes, noting again that they had been at sea for three hours. Still almost five hours to go in this tiny compartment before they would be met by the fishing boat in the Pacific and relieved of their cargo. A second crew would then take over and return their vessel to Ricamar, off the coast of north Rosarito, which was ten miles south of Tijuana.
For the trip north, the vessel carried a metric ton of pure cocaine. During the return trip, the cargo would consist of weapons, mostly automatic rifles.
He said in Spanish, “Humberto, take over the controls for a minute. I have to pee.”
The vessel, which was technically called a Narco-Submarine, did not have a toilet on board. The men used bottles when necessary and dumped them out into the ocean from time to time.
Humberto said, “Yes, OK, Raul. Then it’s my turn.”
The blue and gray tube-like submarine matched the color of the Pacific, and when riding just below the waves it was invisible to sonar and radar, as well as to the naked eye. There was a long pipe that ran the length of the sub, about 18 meters, that allowed the exhaust to cool before it was expelled, making the vessel less susceptible to infrared detection.
A metric ton of cocaine, thought Raul as he filled the bottle. Worth over two hundred fifty million dollars. And that’s just this shipment. There are many, many tons crossing the border every day, by land, by sea, by air...
But then he thought, But I can’t take any of it. It belongs to Tatouage, and he is crazy. Loco. He’d kill me and he’d make it last…
* * *
They could hear the boat before they saw it. It was a calm day, the ocean more like a pond this far offshore from the California coast. Humberto turned on the radio on schedule, and within two minutes the captain of the approaching vessel, a fishing boat, hailed them.
“Hola,” he said. “This is the Lady Jane out of Carlsbad Marina. We will be there in six minutes.”
Raul checked the GPS, confirming their proximity to the predetermined location, and powered down the narco-sub’s engine. Humberto adjusted the ballasts, and the sub rose four feet to float along the water’s surface. Raul opened the hatch and breathed the fresh ocean air.
The fishing boat, a commercial trawler with two large booms and a number of traps and nets spread across her decks, approached quickly. Humberto radioed to confirm their location, and a moment later, with surprising agility, the trawler swung alongside the submarine.
The captain of the trawler barked a command in Spanish and two men moved to the port side of the vessel. A rope was tossed to Raul, who secured it on a forward cleat.
One man stepped over the side of the fishing boat and onto the submarine’s hull. The second man stayed aboard the Lady Jane, his hands wrapped around an AK-47 rifle, his eyes on the horizon. After a minute, he set the rifle on the deck.
Raul helped the first man open a waterproof storage compartment, and they began emptying its contents. Raul handed oversized bricks of white powder wrapped in waterproof plastic to the man, who passed them onto the next man on the trawler.
They emptied the storage compartment and started the process in reverse, Raul receiving heavy wooden crates from the bucket brigade and stacking them. They filled the empty space exactly.
Raul sealed the storage compartment and waited while the first man climbed through the hatch and into the submarine. Once he was in place, Humberto climbed out and onto the Lady Jane. When he was on board, Humberto picked up the rifle. The second man joined his partner inside the sub. The hatch was closed and sealed, and Raul untied the rope before jumping aboard the Lady Jane.
The captain turned the Lady Jane and pointed her bow east, toward shore. Raul watched as the narco-sub disappeared, descending slowly a few feet into the azure sea.
* * *
“There was nothing we could do,” said Paco, his eyes averted.
Juan Lopez listened to the small man standing at attention in front of him. Clearly he was in fear of losing his life. Or perhaps just losing a limb or two.
Juan said, “Nothing? You lost a million and a half dollars in drugs, and you could do nothing to stop it?”
Paco seemed to stiffen even more. He said, “The Americanos, the Border Patrol, they set us up. They must have. We were getting ready to move the cocaine- we’d already cut and packaged it- and then, suddenly they were there, everywhere around us, even in the house.”
Juan looked at him.
“There was nothing we could do,” he repeated. He was looking at a spot high on the wall behind Juan Lopez.
“I’m disappointed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What became of Rogelio Camero?” asked Juan.
“No, I don’t know. He retrieved the mortar projectile, and he met us at the cargo transfer terminal as planned. He was on time. We made the exchange, and he left. It all went as planned, that part,” said Paco.
“We haven’t heard from him since the exchange,” said Juan. “But our sources say that he’s been arrested. That he’s in jail in Calexico.”
Paco thought about that, but he didn’t speak.
“Tatouage will not be happy,” Juan continued. “I don’t look forward to telling him about this.”
“No, jefe,” said Paco, his attitude even more subservient now.
“What about Enrique? And the younger one. Was it Carlos?”
“Si,” said Paco. “Enrique was released with me and we
were escorted over the border. By the Americanos, the Border Patrol. Carlos is still there, in jail.”
“You were released?” said Juan. “What did they say to you?”
“Jefe, they said that we would very likely be killed for losing the cocaine and the mortar,” said Paco, almost formally. He was sweating now and his voice cracked as he spoke.
“Yes, that may be true,” said Juan Lopez.
* * *
“The Americanos took my drugs and my mortar,” screamed Tatouage, pacing. “A million and a half dollars. Who’s responsible for this?”
He was talking to five of his Lieutenants, as they sat around an old wooden table in a seaside home in Rosarito. The home gave them a clear view of the Pacific Ocean, as well as access to a nearby marina.
The men sitting around the table looked away from the fierce anger of the tattooed man. Today he wore only a pair of yellow board shorts and flip-flops, looking as if he was about to catch a wave. But his anger belied the look. Tatouage’s fully automatic Beretta 93R pistol lay in front of him on the table, pointing at the men, inert but ready to spread havoc if given a target.
“Does anyone know anything about this? Anyone?” he yelled again, spittle forming on his black moustache.
One man sitting at the table, Juan Lopez, said, “It was the Border Patrol, Tatouage. They set a trap before we could finish testing the mortar.”
“How did they know?” asked the tattooed man, suddenly totally focused on Juan Lopez.
“I don’t know. But they were prepared for us, tipped off. They must have watched us in Mexicali, then followed us to Calexico when we recovered the llello.” He used a common Spanish nickname for the drug, cocaine.
“What about our resources? We pay a lot of money to avoid this kind of situation.”
“Yes, we do, Tatouage. Our people inside law enforcement said this came from outside the area. A U.S. federal consultant was involved.”
“What else?” asked Tatouage.
“Apparently they’d been watching us for several weeks and monitoring our tests. They figured out our system, the man receiving the mortar shells, and then they set us up. They followed our men when they retrieved the llello and took it to their Santa Ana Street house,” said Juan Lopez.
“Where they arrested Paco and his men. Yes, I know. Does anyone know who this federal consultant is?” Tatouage asked, his voice acerbic.
There was silence around the table, each man looking down or away as the force of the tattooed man’s anger was palpable.
“No, nothing?” he asked. The strong muscles in his chest and arms rippled with anger. He looked at each man individually. “Nothing?”
“We were told there is a man and a woman. That they arrived from Washington, D.C. They said they are working with the U.S. Border Patrol, with Peterson’s unit,” said Lopez.
Through bribed informers, Juan Lopez kept track of the activities of the U.S. Border Patrol and local law enforcement in Calexico.
“They were involved with the mortar?” asked Tatouage.
“Si, yes, they were at the raid at the Santa Ana Street house,” said Lopez. “And the same man conducted the interview with Paco and his man Enrique, after they were arrested.”
“And we know this how…” asked Tatouage. He was still angry, his black eyes full of fire.
“Paco was released by Border Patrol agents,” said Lopez. “They returned him and they returned Enrique to Mexicali and set them free.”
“Did they roll over on us, those two?” asked Tatouage, suddenly suspicious.
“I don’t think so. But we’re watching them.”
“Take care of them and report back to me,” said Tatouage.
“Si, I’ll see to it.”
“What else?” asked Tatouage.
“He said the name of the man who questioned him. He said it is Zeke Traynor.”
* * *
“We’ve done what you wanted,” said Juan Lopez. “Paco and Enrique are out in the desert. They’re dead.”
Tatouage turned and looked at him. “A lesson for others,” he said. “They lost my money and my drugs.”
“Si, yes,” said Juan Lopez. “We will take care of the younger one, Carlos, also. As soon as he is released.”
“What about this Zeke Traynor?”
“But Tatouage, we can’t kill a federal consultant. That’s worse than killing a Border Patrol officer. They would shut down our operations for weeks, even months,” said Juan Lopez.
“I don’t care! Find a way to do this, and do it fast. This Zeke Traynor must be stopped!”
Juan Lopez said nothing, somewhat cowed by the Frenchman’s fury. He was clearly psychotic, and probably bipolar, ranging from one emotion to an opposite within a few moments. He was driven by rage and then, moments later, he would lay out a most brilliant plan. That he had never been caught, never arrested was a testament to his careful planning and his quick wits. And now he was quietly taking over the cartel.
Juan Lopez said, “Yes, sir,” and left the room, glad to be outside the range of Tatouage’s fury. He paused, swallowed, and straightened himself before he went to his car and headed home.
“Find a way to do this,” echoed in his head.
* * *
“Carlos, you’re looking at a long time in prison. The U.S. District Attorney will go for the maximum sentence,” said Zeke. He sat across the metal table from the one boy who was still incarcerated from the raid on Santa Ana Street.
“You will want to talk with me,” Zeke continued in Spanish.
The boy said nothing. He yawned. His body language said that he was relaxed.
“With that much cocaine, you’ll be heading for federal prison,” Zeke added. “Not to mention trying to kill law enforcement officers. And the illegal weapons. It adds up to a long, long time.”
Carlos said, “I’m not talking to you.”
Zeke said, “Paco and Enrique are both back in Mexico. The Border Patrol deported them.”
For a quick moment, Carlos looked confused. Then he said, “They were released?”
“Released and deported two days ago,” said Zeke. “And both are dead. Word is that Tatouage is upset about the loss. The cocaine we took from you was worth several million dollars.”
The boy looked cautious. He was working it out in his head. “He blames us.”
“He does. Paco and Enrique were cut with a machete, according to the police in Mexicali. They found them in the desert.”
The boy shifted in his chair.
“A long prison sentence in the United States is better than a slow death by machete, though,” said Zeke.
“He runs the prisons,” the boy said.
“He runs one of the prison gangs,” corrected Zeke.
“Tatouage is unstoppable,” said Carlos. “He will kill me, too.”
“We may be able to do something about that,” said Zeke.
* * *
“The U.S. Border Patrol has found one of our newer tunnels. Our informants tell me that this Zeke Traynor is responsible for that. Perhaps we can lure him into a tunnel and kill him there,” said Juan Lopez.
“A setup?” asked Benny Perez, a drug smuggler in Lopez’s part of the organization.
“Sure. We’ll plant bait and draw him in, and kill him when he tries to shut the tunnel down.”
“Sounds dangerous,” said Benny.
They were sitting under an umbrella on Lopez’s back patio, drinking bottles of Jarritos and planning the hit.
“How would we know which tunnel they are investigating? Which one they’ll find?”
“Our informants should be able to tell us. And then it is a simple matter of setting the trap there. Perhaps a bomb in the tunnel…” Lopez continued.
“If he goes into the tunnel, yes,” said Benny. “But usually they wait for the experts to clear the tunnel.”
“Then the bait must be very attractive to him, no?” asked Lopez. “Very attractive.”
“Yes,” said Benny.
“Perhaps if we can make the Americanos think they have trapped one of us, they will become hasty.”
Lopez thought for a minute. “If this Traynor thinks they have trapped someone important, that could happen.” He looked at Benny. “Yes, Bueno,” he said.
Benny nodded.
“Can we make him think he has trapped Tatouage in the tunnel?” asked Lopez, thinking out loud. “Certainly that would get them to move quickly.”
“Let’s ask Tatouage,” said Benny.
* * *
“Yes, I like that,” said Tatouage. “Mano a mano with this Zeke Traynor.” He savored the words.
Juan Lopez, encouraged by this response, said, “It would be an opportunity to eliminate him. After all, he has been responsible for ruining our mortars and taking our cocaine.”
“And he has closed down one of our new tunnels. One we thought would be most profitable,” Tatouage added. “I agree that he must be eliminated.”
“How will you do it?” asked Lopez.
Tatouage thought for a moment. “We will use our informers. We will get word to Traynor that I am personally moving drugs through the tunnel, that I am supervising the work myself. And then, when he comes to stop me, I will kill him.”
“But Tatouage, you don’t need to be there. We can lure him using your name, and then kill him without risk to you. You are too important,” said Lopez.
“Oh, no, I would not miss this. And I want to fight this Traynor face to face. It will be payback for the trouble he has caused, for the losses we have suffered. No, Tatouage will take care of this Americano.” He was working himself up again, getting louder as he spoke.
Juan Lopez just nodded. “I’ll set it up,” he said.
Chapter 22
The narco-sub moved silently through the ocean, barely below the surface as the late day sun reflected off of the water. “An hour more or less,” said Humberto to himself, looking at the electronic display. It looked like smooth sailing.
