by Jeff Siebold
The SWAT team watched as the elevator slowly descended and the silver doors slid open. Ferman Khoury was in the cage, along with one other man, a large Arabic-looking man, obviously a bodyguard.
“Step out of the elevator,” yelled the SWAT Team leader. “Separate yourselves, and keep your hands where I can see them!”
The men stepped apart calmly.
“Down on the ground,” screamed the agent. “Get on your faces on the ground!”
* * *
Zeke knocked once and let himself into Clive Greene’s spacious office.
Clive looked up. “We found the connection,” he said without preamble. He was sitting in a wingback leather chair sipping tea. Sally sat next to him.
“It didn’t make sense that the AK-47’s on the narco-sub were loaded on in the United States,” he continued. “They’ve been made by the same Russian manufacturer since 1949.”
“Kalashnikov,” said Zeke. “In Moscow.”
“Precisely,” said Clive. “So, we thought, why route the weapons through this country?”
Sally chimed in. “But a couple of years ago, the company opened a manufacturing facility in the U.S.”
Zeke nodded.
“According to the serial numbers, the AK-47’s on the narco-sub were manufactured in Pompano Beach, Florida at the Kalashnikov USA assembly plant,” she continued. “It’s between Interstate 95 and Lighthouse Point, on the Atlantic Ocean side of the state.”
“So you think Ferman Khoury arranged for the weapons to be trucked to the West Coast, and then loaded onto the sub? After the cocaine was offloaded?”
“His fingerprints are all over this,” said Clive.
“It’s consistent with Julia Conners’ statements,” said Zeke. “What did the FBI find out?”
“They found the truck driver that transported the weapons to Carlsbad. He admitted to picking them up in Pompano and trucking them across country to California. Said it was a special order, a point to point delivery.”
“Set up by Ferman Khoury,” said Zeke.
“After they arrested Ferman Khoury, they searched the brownstone units,” said Sally. “There wasn’t much in the way of records, but they searched his cell phone and found calls to quite a few international numbers. Several to Mexico, some to Russia, some to St. Martin. And, most damning, two calls to Pompano Beach, Florida.”
“He’ll be going to prison for quite a while,” said Clive. “Unless he makes a sweet deal with the feds.”
“I’m not sure what he has to deal with,” said Zeke. “But you never know. The man trades in information as well as weapons.”
“Well, we’ll see that develop, I’m sure. But for now, the source of the guns has dried up,” Clive announced. He sipped his tea and smiled.
* * *
“This has been a wild ride,” said Tracy, picking at a peel and eat shrimp. “There were more connections than anyone thought.”
Zeke nodded from across the table. “In retrospect, it’s credible. But it didn’t seem so while we worked through it.”
“There aren’t that many places where you can buy automatic weapons, when you think about it,” she continued, dipping the shell-less shrimp in cocktail sauce, and then popping it into her mouth.
They were seated in a second floor restaurant in downtown Savannah, overlooking River Street and the Savannah River. It was a warm, sunny day, and Tracy wore crisp white shorts and a red cycling jersey that read, “Life is a Beautiful Ride.”
She started on another shrimp.
“In the states, in these quantities, you’re right. Ferman Khoury was one of the few arms dealers who hasn’t moved offshore,” said Zeke. “We connected with him because we were keeping an eye on Julia Conners, the woman who tried to have us killed.”
“During the pawn shop-money laundry thing a few months ago,” said Tracy.
“And Khoury was also selling weapons to the Mexican cartels on the West Coast. She found that out and traded that information for a lighter sentence when we arrested her,” said Zeke.
“Sort of a coincidence, but not really,” said Tracy.
“Sort of,” said Zeke. “But it’s a logical connection.”
“And Khoury had the AK-47’s transported across the United States…”
“He did. The weapons were manufactured in Florida, so they weren’t subject to customs or a border crossing. He bribed the plant manager. They loaded the guns on a truck, drove it to the West Coast, and loaded them on the narco-sub,” said Zeke.
“And then they were on their way south to Mexico.”
Tracy was busy peeling another shrimp. “These are good!” she said. Then, “I almost lost you in the tunnel with the Tattooed man.”
“Tatouage, yes, that could have gone either way,” said Zeke. “He was clever.”
“I’m glad it worked out as it did,” said Tracy, still fiddling with her shrimp.
“We stopped him. He’s in prison.”
* * *
“The Cappy Askew thing was odd,” said Tracy. “And it was very scary for awhile there.”
“The toughest part of that investigation was finding the motive. We had four inmate deaths, then five, with no seeming connection between the victims.”
“That was tricky,” said Tracy.
“Until we figured out that all four…well, all five deaths were killings of men involved in the same Devil’s Disciples drug house robbery. Then we had motive big time. Revenge and respect.”
“Did they ever find out who ordered the killings?” asked Tracy.
“Cappy was unbalanced. He gave up the name of his contact with the Devil’s Disciples in a rant, a guy he called Falcon. We tracked him down. His real name is Bobby Falcone, and he’s been in and out of prison his whole life. We found him in the Red Onion Virginia State Prison. He’s serving time on a drug charge.”
“That’s a super-max prison, isn’t it?” asked Tracy. “I read something about it not too long ago.”
“It’s a prison for the worst prisoners. Falcone was transferred there because he refused to follow the rules at Greenville Correctional Center where he was incarcerated earlier. Red Onion’s a tough place,” said Zeke.
“And Cappy acted alone?” asked Tracy.
“He did. He used his position as a trustee to get the access he needed, and he killed all five of the men by himself,” said Zeke. “But the longer it went on, the more unhinged he became. He left a witness in the last killing.”
“Bo, you said. O.Z.’s guy.”
“Right. I suppose Cappy intended to kill Bo, also, but it wasn’t well thought out.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s over. We can concentrate on us now,” she said.
“That sounds wonderful,” said Zeke, moving his chair around the table to sit next to Tracy.
“It does,” she said, and she kissed him.
“And our relationship,” she said. “It’s exciting!”
“It is,” said Zeke. “I can’t wait to see where we go from here. It’s all good, as long as I’m with you.”
She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes. “It’s all good,” she said.
# # #
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About the Author
Jeff Siebold loves a good mystery. A life long reader, he has embarked on a personal journey in creativity designed to contribute to the delight of mystery readers everywhere. He plans to continue writing as long as there are stories to be told!
Jeff and his wife Karin live on a barrier island in North Carolina, not far from the Cape Fear River (made famous by one of his favorite authors, John D. MacDonald). They have three college-aged children and two unruly dogs.
sp; Jeff Siebold, The Sienna Sand
