“What do you think?”
“He’s married to your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“So what’s that like?”
“What, having Pat as a brother-in-law? It’s okay. He rides my ass a lot, but lately that’s been a good thing.”
“They are passing the interstate,” Owen said as they drove under the ten-lane overpass. “Where the hell are these guys…”
“Left! 441!” Joel yelled as he watched the white van through his binoculars.
“Look, I’m sorry for giving you a hard time earlier, you know, about him.”
“I’m the one who should be sorry. I should have told you, it’s just not what I wanted the other guys in the office to know. I guess I was afraid everyone would think I got the assignment because, well, you know…”
“I get it,” Owen replied.
“Right on 119th Street.”
“Shit. I think I know where they’re going. And you might want to get your brother-in-law back on the phone.”
“Shit, where is it?”
Miami’s Northwest 119th Street was a straight shot to the Hialeah train yards. Joel and Owen watched as the last of the three vans pulled into a concealed commercial depot that was adjacent to a set of tracks that were occupied by a hundred-car freight train.
“There is only one way we are going to be able to stay with this load.”
“You’re not suggesting…”
“Ever fantasize about being a hobo Joel?”
“Shit. I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“We are going to have to ditch the car behind this building,” Owen said, pointing to an abandoned warehouse on the other side of the tracks.
The two agents emptied the car’s trunk of their duty gear that consisted of two duffel bags, their Kevlar vests and two fully automatic assault rifles. They took cover and watched as forty-eight designer suitcases were unloaded from the white airport limousine passenger vans into a boxcar that was identified with the number 359.
•
Del exited the first van and walked over to the train’s engineer who greeted him warmly.
“How was the trip?” he asked.
“It was long. I’m glad to be on dry land. That damn tropical storm almost killed us.”
“Okay, well this is how we do this. You’re going to ride up front with me. We have a small cab with a bunk, a TV, a small fridge and a coffee maker. In the old days, all the creature comforts were in the caboose. Our newer, more modern engines combine the two.”
“When do you think we will hit Ocala?” Del asked.
“We have one stop in Orlando where we have to top-off our fuel tanks.”
“I thought these trains were electric?”
“They are, but the generators that provide the electric power are run by diesel engines and they burn a lot of fuel. All things considered, we should make our destination by 4:00 p.m.”
As the train started to inch its way out of the yard, Joel and Owen nestled into their boxcar that was fifteen cars behind unit 359.
“This thing is almost dead,” Joel announced, looking at the red blinking light on the bag phone.
“International Farms Corp. is the parent of Morada Boat Leasing. My guess is that’s where we’re headed.”
“It’s ringing, but I’m only getting Pat’s answering service,” Joel said with frustration. “I need for you to get a message to U.S. Attorney Pat Stephens. This is Special Agent Joel Kenyon, it’s an emergency. Notify him that we are departing on a train…Yes ma’am, a train. We are leaving Hialeah and headed north. We have confirmed forty-eight suitcases full of contraband, cocaine suspected, I’m guessing two to three thousand kilos on board. We suspect that the load is headed to Ocala, Florida. Target location is Inter… BEEEEEP,” the phone sounded as it shutdown with its battery completely exhausted.
“Is that it?” Owen asked.
“I’m afraid so. We can leave it alone for awhile and see if the battery will resurge enough to make another call, but I’m not making any bets.”
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me kid,” Owen announced, looking for a piece of gum in the back pocket of his worn blue jeans. “What the…?” he said, pulling out a small child’s pink sock. It was Monica’s and, as the household laundry had oftentimes mixed their clothes together, this was a classic example of how it was hard for him to leave his family behind on assignments like these.
“Even if you can get by the color, I don’t think it’ll fit partner,” Joel said.
* * * * *
Action
Pat Stephens sat in a crowded conference room with agents from the FBI and the U.S. Customs Office of Internal Affairs.
“All we have is a partial message. We think they are going to Ocala and that they are sitting on a major quantity of coke. The phone cut off in the middle of what sounded like International,” Pat’s assistant said over the speakerphone for all to hear.
“I don’t care if I’m making a final summation. If Joel calls me back, you find me,” Pat yelled.
“Yes sir.”
“Ma’am, this is Special Agent Robinson with OIA. Did they give any specifics as to how much product they were tracking?”
“All the message said was that they were tracking forty-eight suitcases and Joel estimated it to be between two and three thousand kilos.”
“Oh my god! They are headed into a gauntlet!” another agent shouted.
“I need a TAC team and will someone please find Chester Marks. I want to be airborne in less than ten minutes.”
“Hold on Pat. We can’t just rush up there. We don’t know where they are headed.”
“Get Florida Secretary of State on the phone and ask for the Division of Corporations. I need all listings for corporations with the name International and a home office of Ocala,” Pat ordered.
“Chester Marks is on his way up Pat,” an agent said from the back of the room while talking into a phone.
“How are we handling the Owen Sands situation?” OIA agent Robinson asked.
“As of now, there isn’t an Owen Sands situation. We have some investigating to do over the next few months, but the indictment is dead. Let’s hope for his sake that this bust goes down in his favor. It would certainly look good on his record,” Pat concluded.
“What are we doing in Tavernier?” Robinson asked.
“I want all access to EPIC, NCIC, FCIC and any other criminal databases blocked to all the agents of the Tavernier office until further notice and I want OIA to prepare a contingency staff to go down immediately and take over field operations.”
“What is it Pat?” Chester Marks asked, barging into the conference room.
“Are we ready to fly?”
“No. Weather is too rough for the 206. We are socked in for another twelve hours,” Marks explained.
“We’ve got a heavy Huey UH-1 you can use,” Robinson offered.
“I can fly left seat, but I need someone who’s rated,” Marks replied.
“Not a problem. I’ll put them on standby,” Robinson said, picking up the phone.
* * * * *
Approach
The rust-stained boxcar rolled across the steel rails as the flexible joints below clicked under its weight. The train’s speed decreased with every mile until it barely crept along the tracks. The late afternoon hours left the air wet with a light rain, typical for Florida, and a pungent odor of sulfur indicating that they were close to a paper mill. The rain seemed to make the stench more unbearable as it saturated everything in sight, including the interior of the already damp boxcar. Owen peered through a cracked opening in the boxcar’s side-mounted sliding door. A private train depot was in sight just ahead. An old, abandoned factory constructed of red brick and steel and several towering silos made up the dimly lit yard they were approaching.
While passing through the fenced entrance to the compound, Joel caught a glimpse of something familiar. There was a sign in the distance that read:
&
nbsp; NO TRESPASSING
International Farms Corporation
Cattle Management Division
Ocala, Florida
The vantage point only lasted a fraction of a second as the train passed by some stacked shipping containers that obstructed his view. Another hundred feet passed and both could see the end of the line, the place they had come over three hundred miles to encounter. Could it really be this easy? Owen thought to himself. Parked next to a dingy warehouse, the steamy mist from an exhaust pipe ascended skyward. A late model Land Rover sat by the entrance of the large brick building. Preoccupied by this, Owen let his head extend past the door’s opening. As the train progressed further, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, another person dangerously close. Instinctively, he jerked his head back into the car just in time as he watched them pass a Cuban man in his early thirties standing next to a fire burning in a discarded fifty-five gallon oil drum only ten feet away. The man was relieving himself and seemed to be mesmerized by the steam he created as the urine hit the side of the rusty drum.
The train slowed to a crawl and then came to a sudden halt. A sharp crash sounded as the momentum of the cars bundled up against each other and then again. Another shock was heard, this time in the opposite direction as the momentum was reversed. Owen peered past the opening to see the cars ahead. The tracks curved, giving him a good view of the entire train. The engineer jumped out of the engine with Del behind him and walked halfway down the line of cars, disappearing between two of them for a brief moment and then emerged, returning to the engine. The roar of the massive diesel motors broke the rain-drenched silence as black smoke erupted from the exhaust ports. The engineer increased the power as the engine and the first thirty cars inched forward. They gained speed as the train and the noise disappeared down the tracks leaving Owen, Joel, Del and twenty cars sitting motionless amidst the cluttered yard.
Del walked over to the Land Rover and got in. Ten minutes passed before any more movement was noticed. Then Del and Gus Greico embarked and walked over to the burning barrel. At the same time, a large sliding door located on the face of the warehouse slid open exposing the interior of the structure. At its base pushing as hard as humanly possible was the muscular frame of another worker wearing overalls and tall cowboy boots. The building was unlit with the exception of a series of skylights. Toilets, sinks and other porcelain fixtures were stacked in rows along the walls. Parked amongst them was a diesel tractor-trailer. The massive flat-nosed cab with an aerodynamic windscreen affixed to the roof towered almost fifteen feet high. Gold in color, the truck shined as though it had been taken care of. The trailer was a refrigerated type with a diesel-powered compressor attached to the front.
Del helped by pushing the door the rest of the way open and joined the other two standing by the drum. Gus Greico spoke with a brisk, arrogant tone.
“I went by Ocala Peterbilt to raise hell about that fucking starter.”
“Be careful - they are the only shop who will work on this thing with such short notice,” said the man in the overalls.
“Yeah, but twelve hundred dollars for a starter? Come on.”
“Word is, Gus, twelve hundred isn’t so bad. Besides, they detailed the cab for free.”
“Okay, but I want the old one. I’ll keep it for posterity.”
•
Owen sat back against the wall inside the car. He then took his hand and wiped it against the moist metal doorframe embracing his tense face. He looked over at Joel who was looking through the binoculars.
“What are they doing?” Owen asked.
“Standing around talking. I think they are ready to offload,” he paused. “Wait. All three men are walking towards 359.”
Owen tensed up as he secured the Velcro straps that held his Kevlar vest in place while Joel pulled the slide on his Beretta, loading a round into the chamber.
“I want you to wait until they get at least twenty bags out and in the warehouse. This way we can file a forfeiture motion against the property instead of just the train. Besides, after they manhandle those bags, they will be pretty worn out and that will give a tactical advantage,” Owen explained.
“Wait. What the fuck is this?” Joel said, pointing to the open warehouse door where a fifth man was driving a small forklift towards the other four by car 359.
“At least they’re efficient,” Owen replied sarcastically.
As the men unloaded the suitcases from the boxcar to the forklift, the agents squatted down and prepared to make their move.
“Hey, what the…?” the forklift driver yelled, pointing in Joel’s direction.
“Shit! We’ve been made!” Owen shouted as he bolted out the open boxcar door. “FREEZE! FEDERAL AGENT!” he yelled.
Joel followed with a Ruger mini-14 automatic rifle drawn to his shoulder and pointed at car 359. The four men who were standing by the forklift scattered like ants while the Land Rover sped off, spinning loose gravel in all directions.
Del was the first inside the warehouse, finding security in the cab of the large Peterbilt truck cab. Gus Greico took a position behind some crated toilets. The other two scattered to the back of the large building. The rain started to fall again. Owen felt relieved thinking it would help conceal their position. But what had started as an afternoon shower turned into a downpour. Joel tried to keep his eye on the fleeing men but had trouble seeing through the sheets of water flowing from the top of the boxcars. The rain saturated his clothes, vest and weapons immediately. In the meantime, Gus Greico had moved over next to the open warehouse door, standing under the generous overhang trying to keep from getting wet. Joel approached from his blind side, keeping the mini-14 pointed at the man’s head.
“Freeze,” he said calmly.
Greico put his hands in the air while Joel walked him to a large closed bay door, handcuffing him to the door’s handle.
“Follow me,” Owen whispered as the he entered the warehouse.
The two darted around stacked pallets as a burst of gunfire rang out from behind them, striking a stack of sinks at the base. The entire load came crashing down with one striking Joel on his knee. He dropped to a seated position in a great deal of pain. Owen grabbed him underneath his armpit and brought him back to his feet.
Del started to panic as he turned the key and pushed the starter button for the large tractor-trailer. The sound of the diesel truck starting engulfed the brick building but, much to his dismay, the truck had no air pressure as it hadn’t been started in days. All Del could do was sit there and wait. More gunfire rang out from the back of the building as the two agents broke away from the safety of the crates to confront it.
Joel held a tense stance with his gun pointed at the forklift driver who made a sudden move to spin towards him, armed with an automatic handgun. Then he fired a round hitting him in the chest. The lead slug penetrated just above his left shirt pocket, the force of which put him back against the wall as he slid down to the cold concrete floor. Joel’s eyes stayed fixed on him and he was surprised to see that there was no blood coming from the chest. Did I miss? he thought to himself. There was a hole in the shirt. Did he have a vest? The man just sat on the floor in a seated position with his head and torso falling between his outstretched legs.
Joel looked with disbelief, still seeing no blood. He relaxed his stance dropping the tip of the automatic rifle a few inches. He watched the motionless body slump over itself. Suddenly, without warning, the man twitched and his arms moved slightly. Startled, Joel discharged his weapon again, this time striking him in the forehead. Three more shots then rang out and filled the acoustic structure with thunder, striking the man randomly in the shoulder, leg and abdomen. Blood flowed in all directions. The body was live with movement, jerking around to a lying position on its side like a snake that had just been beheaded. Massive convulsions started as blood-red brain matter was mopped over the gray concrete floor and the man’s drenched hair until the movement stopped.
The man with the overal
ls and cowboy boots dove from behind a pallet of steel drums, knocking Owen to the ground with his automatic rifle flying from his grip and sliding under another pallet filled with crates. Owen immediately rolled over pulling his Colt .45 sidearm. The man grabbed Owen in an embrace with the nickel-plated gun caught between them. Owen held his grip as he tried to wrestle the gun away from him. And then, while Joel stood staring at the man he had just killed, a partially muffled shot rang out.
Owen froze as the sounds around him were replaced with a high-pitched tone. Joel ran through the building towards the shot with his gun pointed ahead of him.
“Down on the ground,” he yelled as the younger agent rounded the crate.
The man let go of Owen and turned to face Joel who was directing him at gunpoint.
“Down, motherfucker!” Joel yelled, squeezing the gun tighter against his shoulder.
The man with overalls and cowboy boots dropped to his knees, exposing Owen who stood staring at Joel, as Joel looked back at him in shock. A bullet had ripped through the front part of Owen’s throat, through the bottom of his right jaw, taking with it half of his ear. The bright red blood was sharply contrasted against his face that was white like a stripped beach towel on Florida sand. Owen fell back against the stack of crates while Joel cuffed the prisoner’s hands behind his back.
Owen peered from between two crates just in time to see Del inch the truck cab forward. The trailer stayed stationary though as it dropped off the rear of the Peterbilt tractor. With a loud crash, the forty-foot-long box struck the hard floor. Del gunned the accelerator as black smoke rose to the ceiling. All eight tires on the rear of the truck seemed to spin simultaneously on the slick concrete as the rig spun in a complete circle. It then took a heading straight for Joel and Owen.
Still over a hundred feet away, Joel knew they only had seconds to move. He grabbed Owen and headed for a standard six-foot-high entry door that was built into a larger twenty-foot-wide bay door. It was locked but the metal sheeting around it was bent and loose around the doorframe. Joel pushed the panel as far as he could and managed to create a twelve-inch gap. Owen was the first to squeeze through the small opening, limping from the pending shock of his body’s blood loss. The noise of the revving diesel engine got louder as the massive, angry truck approached. Del was driving through crates filled with plumbing supplies as he gained on the two. The sound of the approaching truck was almost deafening. The truck, in a blind rage, rolled over Joel’s cuffed prisoner, tearing his prone body in two.
Mid Ocean Page 41