by Don Easton
“I know, I feel the same way,” he replied, then glanced at his watch.
“What are you thinking?” Laura asked.
“About calling Ferg and meeting him to give him one of the GPS locators. It’s a little early, so if you like I’ll drop you off at your place and do it myself. You can call last night your shift for today and officially be on vacation.”
“Didn’t you tell me he lives an hour north of Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“We’re halfway to the border already. You’re tired, too. Call him. I bet he’s an early riser if he has to drive to Seattle.”
“You sure?”
“No problem. If we do that, by the time we’re done I can call home and sweet talk my better half into making me breakfast before I go to bed.”
Jack reached for his phone.
Ferg sounded cheery and didn’t seem to mind being woken up. “Actually, my alarm would have gone off in another fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of horses I need to attend to before going to work. Also, I was about to phone you.”
“Horses? I didn’t know you had horses.”
“Sure do. I’m looking forward to when my grandkids are old enough to ride. Your boys are. You should bring the family down sometime. Being a Mountie, I imagine you know a thing or two about horses.”
“Me? No way. I’d probably fall off and break my neck.”
“And you call yourself a Mountie. That’s sad,” Ferg kibitzed.
“I keep my horses under the hood.”
“Speaking of that, I’ve got an SUV parked in my yard with a shiny new fender.”
“It’s completely ready?”
“Yes. I picked it up last night. That’s why I was about to call you.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. The guy who backed into you paid for it and gave me cash to reimburse you for the tow bill. He doesn’t want his insurance company involved for fear his rates will go up.”
“That’s great news. Is there any chance you could have it brought to the border? My partner and I managed to get a tracker on Graves’s truck a few minutes ago. The reason I was calling was so we could give you a locator for the GPS.”
“No problem. I’ll drive it and have Betty take our truck. There’s a coffee shop a little south of our Customs office if you’d like to meet there,” Ferg suggested.
“Hell, no,” Jack replied. “I’m lucky to still have a job from last time. I think Ottawa is still considering whether or not to charge me with theft of auto.”
“I thought you might have gotten your ass reamed out,” Ferg mused.
“I did, but a couple of days ago I put in a formal request for permission. With luck, I’ll be able to come your way next week if need be.”
“No worries,” Ferg replied. “We’ll meet you at the border in an hour. If you’re not allowed in, you can chuck the locator over the fence.”
“What I’d like to chuck is our policy.”
“Ours isn’t much different, amigo.”
* * *
Jack introduced Laura to Ferg and Betty at the U.S. Customs office, but kept their meeting brief as they were both exhausted and wanted to get home.
After handing Ferg the locator, they each drove back to the office. Laura dropped off the car and got into the newly repaired SUV with Jack.
A short time later Jack parked in front of Laura’s house. “Think of me when you’re getting laid in Hawaii,” he said.
Laura cast him a sideways glance. “Don’t you wish.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked innocently.
“How are you spelling ‘laid’?”
“L-E-I-D,” Jack replied.
“Sounds to me like you L-I-E-D.”
“That’s good,” Jack replied. “I’m so tired I think it’s funny.”
Laura leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then reached for her door handle. She paused and her face became serious. “Can I really trust you to behave yourself while I’m gone?”
Jack gave his usual lopsided grin. “No worries. There’s not a lot left to do. Next time Graves makes a move I’ll notify Ferg and they’ll take him to his source.”
“Hopefully that’ll be the Coggins brothers and they’ll nail their butts.”
“That’d be nice. Either way, I’ll be pretty much out of it.”
“You’re never out of it,” Laura said dryly. “Hip-waders should be part of your daily attire.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Over the next couple of days Jack monitored Graves’s pickup truck movements over his laptop, but didn’t see anything to arouse his curiosity. A trip to a grocery store that Graves made confirmed that the GPS was working properly.
It was noon on Sunday when Roger called Jack at home.
“The name Zombie came across our wiretap,” Roger said. “Two of the Death Heads were chatting about him.”
“What are their names?”
“Lyon Downes and Jimmy Ferris. In the call Lyon said he just got back from meeting Zombie.”
“A couple of days ago Laura and I managed to get a tracker on Zombie’s, or I should say Graves’s, pickup. I can tell you that it hasn’t moved all morning.”
“Maybe Downes met him at his apartment or someplace close to there.”
“Maybe,” Jack agreed.
“Downes told Ferris that Zombie would bring them a six-pack of beer to the party in the next day or two. I’m betting they ordered six guns.”
“I’d say so,” Jack replied. “That’s great news. Love it when a plan comes together.”
“The thing is, I can’t spare anyone to watch Zombie at the moment. We think two from the United Front are going out to waste someone today.”
“Their targets wouldn’t be Downes and Ferris, would they?”
“We don’t know. It sounds like they’re planning to scout out a few places that the Death Heads frequent. Restaurants and the like.”
Jack briefly imagined the potential carnage for families having Sunday brunch at some restaurant. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Sounds like you’re busy. No worries as far as I go. I’ve got the tracker on and a bunch of ATF agents who are eager to take over south of the border. I’ll set up on Graves. If he goes south he might not be coming back — or if he does, he’ll be labelled a rat.”
“Either way would be great. If my people get free, I’ll send them over to lend you a hand, otherwise let me know, will you?”
“You got it. Thanks for the info.”
Jack immediately called Ferg and gave him the details.
“Good chance he’ll be heading down to Seattle to pick ’em up,” Ferg noted.
“Very good chance,” Jack agreed. “That’s only about an hour and forty-five minutes south of the border.”
“I’ll contact my guys in Seattle to have a team on standby to head north and meet up with him at a moment’s notice. Who knows, he might lead us to the Coggins brothers.”
“That’d be perfect. It’d be nice if they were all busted down your way.”
“What do you want done with Graves? Let him go, or bust him?”
“He met with a member from a gang called the United Front this morning. It would be okay to bust him. I think the heat would go to someone in the United Front and not my guy.”
“Sounds good. We’ll play it by ear. If we catch him red-handed doing the deal we’ll take him down then. Otherwise, we may jump him as soon as he heads north again and take him down with the six he came to get. That would also give us grounds for a warrant to search wherever or whoever we figured he got them from.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Any time amigo. Any time.”
* * *
An hour later, Jack parked his SUV where he could watch Graves’s pickup. Except for when Graves made a short trip to a drive-through for fast food, there was no other activity for the rest of the afternoon.
At 6:30 p.m. Roger called. “I’ve some rather interesting news,” he sai
d. “My team took down the United Front boys … Downes and Ferris. Caught ’em each with a Kel-Tec 9mm pistol.”
“The ones the Death Heads were using were Glocks,” Jack noted.
“I know, but guess what; the Kel-Tecs we seized were stolen from the gun shop in Arkansas. The same store the FBI thinks was robbed by the Coggins brothers in Alabama.”
“No kidding!”
“It looks to me like Graves is playing both sides of the fence,” Roger noted.
“Pretty dangerous thing to do,” Jack replied.
“No shit. I’d be tempted to let the gangers on both sides know. They’d probably take care of him for us.”
“Except some innocent schmuck might get killed.”
“That’s the problem. So … give my people a couple hours to do the paperwork and then I can send them your way if you like.”
“Thanks, but it sounds like they’re busy enough. Except for grabbing a bite to eat, Graves hasn’t moved his truck all day. The tracker is working good. If he does head to the border, I can handle it myself.”
At 8:00 p.m. Graves went to his truck. Unlike when he went to the restaurant earlier, this time he crawled underneath first.
Stay out of your tool box, jerk.…
A moment later he finished his search and drove away.
Jack felt the adrenalin surge as he called Ferg to tell him what happened.
“I’m on it!” Ferg exclaimed. “Grabbing my coat as we speak.”
Jack heard Betty’s voice in the background say, “Again? You better not be making this up to keep from doing the dishes. If you come back with beer on your breath you’ll be sleeping in the barn!”
Jack smiled to himself, then ended the call. He then used his laptop to follow Graves, and thirty minutes later called Ferg to give him an update.
“Graves is in the lineup to cross the border,” Jack reported. “Looks like he’ll be about fifteen or twenty minutes judging by how many people are ahead of him.”
“Not bad for Sunday traffic,” Ferg noted. “My team’s on their way. I’ll call them and let them know. We’ll talk again once he clears. By then, I should be there.”
Fifteen minutes passed, then Jack called Ferg again. “He’s cleared Customs. You watching on laptop?”
“You betcha,” Ferg said, then muttered, “That’s right. Come to papa, baby, come to papa.”
“Good luck, hombre,” Jack said. “Wish I could be there to join in on the fun.”
“No worries. My guys are leaving the outskirts of Seattle as we speak. With the tracker, we’ll be able to gift wrap him for you.”
“He’s your gift, and I have a no return policy.”
Ferg chuckled.
“Happy hunting, and let me know how it goes.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-five minutes south of the border Ferg’s laptop revealed that Graves had exited the I-5 and was entering a small town called Ferndale.
He immediately notified his team, who were about an hour away, then narrowed the gap between his vehicle and Graves’s truck so that they were only a block apart.
Graves slowly drove past a bar called the Main Street Bar and Grill. It was the second-last building on the block. He turned right onto a side street.
Ferg followed and saw that the street was wide enough for vehicles to be parked nosed to the curb. He then spotted Graves getting out of his truck and continued past before parking farther down the street.
Graves walked back toward the main street.
Ferg quickly updated his team and followed Graves on foot. As he approached the corner, he noticed a bearded man sitting in a blue Dodge Ram crew cab pickup truck nosed up to the curb. The truck had a winch on the front and also a canopy on the back.
As he passed the front of the truck he was conscious of the man staring at him. Coincidence? He nonchalantly glanced around and memorized the plate. The buildings are commercial and closed for Sunday. Odd place to be waiting for someone.
A moment later he rounded the corner where Graves had gone, but could no longer see him. The only place open was the bar, so he paused to quickly jot the licence plate number of the pickup on his wrist, then headed toward the bar. As he opened the door, Graves literally brushed past him on his way out. He was with another man — clean-shaven with short brown hair, Ferg noted. He looked to be about thirty years old.
Ferg continued inside the bar, then glanced around briefly to make it appear to anyone watching that he may have been looking for a friend. He then went back outside.
The door to the bar was slightly inset from the building and he was able to peek around the corner in time to see Graves and the other man turn right at the side street where Graves had parked his truck.
Okay, the guy in the Ram … is he a lookout or not?
Ferg kept to the shadows and crept up to the corner and took a peek. The man with the beard was still in his truck, but Graves and the clean-cut looking man had continued on past his truck, as well as Graves’s own truck.
Do I follow or stay put and risk losing them? He grimaced as he looked at his wrist, then called in the licence plate number to the truck. The answer he received told him he couldn’t walk past the Dodge Ram truck again. The plate was registered to a red Chevy sedan. Oh yeah, they’ve got counter-surveillance.
Ferg’s next call was to his team, who reported that they were thirty minutes away. “We don’t have thirty minutes,” Ferg replied. “The deal is happening now.” A flash of light caught his eye. “Hang on, the yahoo in the Ram flashed his headlights. Wait … yup, it’s what I figured. The guy in the Ram gave them the all clear. Graves and the clean-cut guy are walking back toward him.”
Ferg watched as the man with the beard got out and went to the back and opened the rear door on the canopy as Graves and his associate joined him. Perfect.
Ferg then whispered into his phone. “I gotta go. The deal is happening right in front of me.” As he pulled out his weapon, the bearded man handed Graves a backpack from out of the canopy. While the three men were distracted looking at the bag, Ferg scooted up the street toward them — his soft-soled rubber shoes not betraying his approach.
“Don’t move!” he yelled. “You’re under arrest!”
Three faces turned and gawked. He partially crouched behind them in a shooter’s stance, levelling his pistol straight at them. “All of you! Hands in the air!” He motioned Graves with the muzzle of his pistol. “Drop the bag! Do it!”
The bag landed with a clunk from the guns inside and all three raised their hands.
“Lace your fingers over your head and drop to your knees!”
The three men slowly started to comply.
Ferg’s aim was steady. He’d made many arrests in his career and hadn’t become complacent when it came to maintaining an acute focus of every eye movement or unspoken signal that their faces might portray.
It was only at the last second that his thoughts were diverted by a truck rapidly approaching from behind. By then, it was too late.
Ferg’s body was impacted with the grille first and then flung in the air. His first instinct was to protect his head and cup his arms around his temples, but he was too late. The back of his head hit the windshield and he heard the crunch of glass as it spider-webbed out from the back of his skull. Next came the squealing of tires as the driver applied the brakes. The momentum sent his body flying off the hood and tumbling down the road.
Despite multiple broken bones he was still conscious, and, for a moment, still in shock as his brain started to process the pain. He heard the driver get out and run toward him. For a brief moment he thought … or hoped … it was an accident.
A balding man of about sixty looked down on him. His face … I’ve seen it before.
Another man, also sporting a beard, appeared beside the older man.
“Where the hell were you?” the older man asked the new arrival.
“Across the street like I was supposed to be. I only had one car to hide behi
nd and, as you can see, it’s a little farther down.”
“Too far to get a good shot in,” the older man surmised.
“Yeah, I seen he had his gun out. I was gonna wait until he was busy handcuffin’ them, then make my move.”
The three other men’s faces appeared over him and the older man looked at them. “He’s still alive,” he stated, then looked down at Ferg.
Christ, he’s holding a pistol with a silencer. He’s going to kill me. Betty, I’m so sorry. I love you so —
The older man spoke to him. “Y’all didn’t think I’d let you arrest my boy now, did you?”
Ferg didn’t reply. His breathing was laboured and came in shallow, painful gasps.
The man then looked at Graves and gestured to him with the silencer on the muzzle of his gun. “You led ’im right to us.” His words sounded matter-of-fact.
“I did everything I was supposed to,” Graves protested.
“They obviously know about you,” the older man stated.
Graves shrugged and looked at the others. “I don’t know how,” he replied.
The older man cleared his throat. “You understand that a man has to protect his family, don’t you boy?”
“What? No! I’d never tell —”
A hole appeared in Graves’s forehead and blood squirted out the back of his skull. His body landed with a thud beside Ferg. The older man stared down at the body. “May the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”
He then looked at Ferg. “And may he have mercy upon your soul, as well.”
Chapter Thirty
At 10:00 p.m. Jack was about to watch the evening news with Natasha when he received a call. “Washington area code,” he said as he grabbed his phone.
“Finally,” Natasha said. “You’ve been antsy ever since you got home.”
“Ferg!” he answered.
“This isn’t Ferg. It’s Ray Schneider. I work for Ferg.” There was a long pause before he asked, “Are you Jack Taggart?”
“Yes.”
“Where the fuck are you?” he asked angrily.
“Home … in Canada. What’s going on?”