ZACA (Zack Tolliver FBI)

by R Lawson Gamble

  "Zaca is one great ride. It serves up everything I need for a page-turning read...settings that make the story come alive, great characters, an intriguing mystery and a dash of paranormal."

  Fiction Author Barbara M Hodges

  http://barbaramhodges.com

  ZACA

  R Lawson Gamble

  This is a work of fiction.

  Although the author has

  described some actual locations

  any resemblance to events or

  persons living or dead is

  entirely coincidental.

  Zaca Copyright © 2015

  R Lawson Gamble All Rights

  Reserved

  No part of this book may be

  used or reproduced in any

  manner whatsoever without

  written permission except in

  the case of brief quotations

  embodied in critical articles

  and reviews.

  Rich Gamble Associates

  Cover Design Copyright ©

  2015 By Digital Donna

  For Ann

  Table of Contents

  FORWARD

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY- EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TW0

  FORWARD

  There is a place where the mountains tumble one upon the other off into the far distance, peak after treeless peak. Steep ridges connect them and deep canyons slash them apart. The grassy summits are wreathed with black sage. No roads intrude upon this jumble of oak-filled canyons and steep-sided hills, only the ambling trails made by deer, coyotes, and bears. The local Indians believe the spirits of the ancients still travel these trails.

  These are not the high ranges of California's Sierra Nevada, towering and snow laden. These mountains are less than five thousand feet high. Little snow falls here, only in the rainy season, and then only on the highest peaks. The rest of the year it is dry. The meadow grasses turn brown, the creek beds fill with dust, and fallen oak leaves are crackly and brittle underfoot. The cattle here have never known the lariat or the branding iron. Bear fatten up on acorns, mountain lions prowl the ridges, and coyotes scout the dry slopes in search of ground squirrels.

  The San Rafael Wilderness is fifty miles deep and a hundred miles long, a barely penetrable refuge for wildlife­­––and for men who wish not to be found. Those who do venture here, to hike or to hunt, keep to the known trails and camps. No gold or other precious minerals were ever found in these mountains. The trees are sparse, only a few fit for lumber. There is water, deep in the hollows, for those who know where to look.

  Hundreds of years ago, these hostile hills provided a way for the Chumash Indians to travel around the Santa Ynez Valley and the mission, away from the zealous Spanish priests and the stern discipline of the soldiers. The sacred pyramid summit of Zaca Mountain, and in its shadow the black, bottomless waters of Zaca Lake have special meaning to the Chumash. Some say the lake's unsounded depths contain a passage used by their ancestors to migrate from the Channel Islands to their mainland home. In the old days, the Indians returned each year to the shores of Zaca Lake to perform ceremonies and to absorb the strong currents of energy they found there.

  There are legends about this mountain wilderness, stories about strange beings with powers beyond those of the strongest warrior, spirits that roam freely in the dark of night. Before venturing there, the Chumash always appeased the mountain spirits with gifts of bear meat, venison and fruit. Even today they don't tarry in these mountains. When they must travel there, they hurry. No one wishes to be caught beyond the shores of Zaca Lake, past the familiar shoulder of Zaca Mountain after the sun has set.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A horsefly buzzed him. He swatted at it. The distraction justified a stop, a momentary rest to wipe the sweat from his face with his silk bandana. The sun was unforgiving, the mountainside slope relentless, the prickly brush hostile.

  He adjusted the heavy holster where it draped against his damp chest, a clumsy pendulum that swung across his polyester wife-beater undershirt with each labored step. The Glock 22 pistol added little weight, even loaded. The true culprit was his embossed leather holster, a source of pride under most circumstances.

  Pedro the Pacifier was a freelance contract killer. The Mexican cartels kept him employed on a regular basis––one or another of them, it didn't matter which to him. His office was an untraceable post office box served for negotiations, a disposable cell phone for all other business. The writhing humanity of the inner city was his usual hunting ground.

  Not this, though. Not these dry mountains.

  Dust puffed with each footfall. The new Nikes were coated in it, ruined, encased in sweat-moistened adobe. No matter. His fee was generous enough to compel him to cross the border, the first time in his professional career. It would pay for a new pair of sneaks, and much more.

  He came to a temporary shelter. It surprised him. There had been no prior indication of its presence. Ahead, the leafy green of marijuana plants confirmed he was in the right place. He pulled out the Glock, checked the load, holstered it. The lean-to was empty; a rifle leaned against it.

  A dirt path led up among the young plants. The leaves brushed his shoulders as he walked. Their lush, skunky smell filled his nostrils. He saw movement up ahead among the plants.

  Pedro set his hat at a jaunty angle. "¡Hola," he said.

  A head popped up above the plants, the face a caricature of surprise.

  "Don't be alarmed. I am Pedro. I work for the cartel."

  The face stared.

  "I have been sent to learn how you progress." Pedro stepped forward.

  The face showed alarm. "Who sent you? What is his name?"

  Pedro advanced another step. He was about three meters from his target. Perfect. "His name is"––in one swift motion Pedro pulled the Glock and fired––"Señor Muchos Pesos."

  A round hole appeared in the forehead of the face, a slight surprised look, and the head disappeared.

  Pedro went no closer; there was no need. He holstered the Glock, searched among the marijuana stalks for the shell casing. It was gone. Frustrating,
not serious.

  The walk back through the marijuana plants was pleasant. At the lean-to, Pedro picked up the rifle, a Henry. It looked like a replica. Nice weapon. He put it under his arm.

  Time to go. A smile teased his lips. One more arduous trek, a ride to the airport, and he'd be home for supper.

  What he saw next had no resemblance to anything in his experience. A creature blocked his path: bipedal, powerful rounded shoulders, ropelike musculature under translucent mahogany skin, lizard-like talons on large leathery hands, hate-filled red eyes in a reptilian face with a long snout and prominent nostrils. It exuded a moldering smell.

  Despite his shock, Pedro the Pacifier's instincts kicked in. It took two seconds to raise the rifle. The creature was on him in one.

  Pedro felt surprise––nothing more.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jesus shivered. The night air sagged around him like a damp cloak. His lips tasted of brine and chafe burned his inner thighs. His whole body ached as if he'd been beaten in a back alley by thugs.

  The panga rode gently up and over the swells and water slapped a hollow beat against the wooden hull. Jesus couldn't hear it––he heard only the thunder of the twin 250 horsepower outboard engines that roared on in his ears.

  Jesus Hermenegildo Romano did not notice his discomfort. His focus was on the black landmass before him, this coast of Central California. His dreams, his hopes for his family rested there.

  Jesus brought the blue glow of his watch close to his eyes. Two A.M. He was on the GPS marker. The signal must come soon, four quick flashes from a truck's headlights somewhere in that darkness. It would come once. If he missed it, it was over. He could not find the secluded rendezvous on his own. His choices then would be few, all unthinkable.

  The stillness felt strange after the relentless pounding of the waves against his tough little boat, hour after hour, all the way from Mexico. Few would attempt such a journey, but Jesus was a seasoned sailor, a fisherman accustomed to discomfort in rough seas. He fought waves and weather every day of his life to feed and clothe his family, even as his father and his father's father had done before him.

  Jesus had never before ventured on such a long journey in the little panga. Still, it was the perfect boat for the purpose––twenty-two foot long and deep hulled with room for nearly three short tons of cargo, narrow beamed for speeds over thirty-five knots, high bowed with a floatation bulge at the gunwale to minimize spray and increase buoyancy. The small boat rode low in the water and left almost no radar footprint. Best of all, he could drive it right up onto the beach.

  He waited. It was difficult to be still. Panic rose and he suppressed it. Time passed. Why hadn't they signaled? They would not desert him; they would not abandon this rich cargo. They would do all they could to preserve their investment.

  His mind wandered despite his anxiety. Images of his tear-cheeked Isabella, her brave smile, and his two little girls Juana and Ana Dominga flashed into his mind. His heart ached. They were his life and loves and he would do anything for them, even this sea voyage of five hundred nautical miles all alone in a small boat in the dark of night.

  There was no choice. The seas were warming where Jesus fished in Playa San Pedrito. The fish had migrated to cooler waters. More and more often his days ended with an empty boat. Without money from the sale of fish, his family could not survive.

  Raul's timing was perfect when he came to him from the Sonora Cartel and offered him work with enough money to support his family for many years to come. Jesus listened. Who would not?

  Now the wind picked up and the swells grew and the slender boat rode deep into a wave trough. The wall of water erased the smudge of land for several seconds and when the boat raised again a pinpoint of light twinkled and vanished. Jesus stared. How many had there been? Then another winked and another and still another in rapid succession: four in all...and then darkness. It was the signal. It would not repeat, but it didn't matter. Jesus had his bearings now. He turned the key and the outboard motors roared to life. The propellers thrust the small boat across the tops of the swells.

  By the time he saw the white phosphorescent breakers they were all around him. He down-throttled and the little boat tried to pivot sideways but he gave it just enough gas to skim the wave tops. He thought the beach must be close but had no way to know in the darkness, was not prepared when the bow dug deep into the sand and stuck. He flew forward like a rag doll. The soft cargo cushioned his landing but his right knee slammed against the gunwale with cracking pain. The motors roared on, the propellers flailed. He struggled to rise but then the motors went silent and he felt strong hands pull him upright. A whispered voice said, "Beinvenidos a los Estados Unidos, amigo."

  Dark shapes moved around the boat. Hands helped him over the gunwale. As his feet touched sand, he saw a shadow lift a bale and pass it to another shadow that moved away. He looked up. An outline of cliffs loomed above him. He breathed in and smelled the smell of a strange land and grew excited.

  A heavy bale was thrust into his arms and someone turned him and pushed him toward the cliffs. When he put weight on his knee, pain came in a wave and he gasped, but the knee held. He lurched forward, his legs not yet steady, his knee painful. He followed the silhouette in front of him. The sand underfoot felt dry and loose, then it was the firm footing of a beaten path, and steepness. He saw an area of lighter sky above and then he was ascending a narrow trail alongside an arroyo. The way seemed endless. Jesus was tired, his injured knee nagged. He slowed. He felt a poke from behind.

  "Keep moving, amigo," came an urgent whisper. "If we are seen the sheriffs will come and we will all go to jail and be deported."

  They emerged from the arroyo and came out of the shadows. Bright moonlight illuminated a pickup truck backed to the path. A man stood next to it and took the bales one by one and passed them to a second man who stacked them in the truck bed. Jesus handed off his own bundle and turned to go. A hand gripped his arm.

  "No, Señor, your work is done. Get into the truck."

  "But my boat..."

  "You can not return to your boat. Don't worry. Soon you will be able to buy many more boats. Hurry." The man turned away and took another bale.

  His mind fogged with wonder, Jesus climbed into the rear of the large cab. He sank into a soft seat that smelled of leather. He saw the glint of polished chrome. He marveled. He was conscious of his wet clothing, stiff with salt, and the smell of his unwashed body.

  Jesus had nothing to wear but the clothes on his back, no possessions, no money, no identification. He was a non-person in a foreign country. There was nothing to do but trust the men who brought him here.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The planting platform never slowed its steady, relentless pace. It threatened to creep beyond his reach at every step. On either side of him, workers moved as if choreographed: reach up, take the young plant, bend to the earth, scoop a hole, place the plant, pack it, step forward...repeat.

  Jesus' back ached. His knee stabbed at each bend. He longed for the end of the row, for the merciful pause while the tractor turned around. The sun bore down. Jesus was thankful for the hooded sweatshirt Jorge had loaned him. It was rank, stiff with dirt and sweat, but its shell-like outer skin deflected the sun's rays. It provided insulation from the cold of the early morning, yet vented the heat from his body during the day.

  Jesus was exhausted.

  The previous night, once the bales were loaded, the men had concealed the truck's cargo with crates of strawberries before melting away. Only Jesus and two other men were left in the vehicle. They drove to a storage facility somewhere in a sleeping city. A large Americano met them with a key. They unloaded the bales into the unit. They stacked cartons labeled Pesticides in front of the bales. The Americano locked it and left. The men got back in the truck, drove out of the city and into the night. They passed wide, flat moonlit fields. On they drove, and on, then turned off the main road into a tunnel of trees. The driver turned off the headligh
ts and slowed the truck. They crunched up a gravel drive to a long narrow building lit by a single bulb alive with moths. A man led Jesus from the truck into the building. They went down a long corridor with many doors. The man opened one of them and ushered Jesus into a small room with a chair and bunk beds.

  "I am Jorge," he said. "Give me all your clothing. You can wear this tonight. It is all you will need until morning." He handed Jesus a long woolen nightshirt, pointed to the upper bunk.

  Jesus climbed up, crawled beneath the blanket. He went right to sleep.

  Too soon it was morning. Every muscle ached when Jesus tried to move. His knee was stiff and painful. None of it mattered to Jorge. Merciless, he pulled Jesus down from the bunk, gave him a pair of baggy trousers, sandals, gloves, a bandana and a sweatshirt, then led him to a large room at the end of the corridor. Food steamed on a long table. It smelled wonderful. It tasted wonderful, the best breakfast Jesus ever had, but no time to savor it. A horn sounded. All the men rose from the tables, shuffled outside, and packed into the back of a flatbed truck. There were women in it. They rode to the fields together.

  At the side of the field, pickup trucks and SUVs drove up and the workers climbed out. Did they own their own cars? Jesus gaped. Another horn sounded. Jorge took his arm and tugged him toward a platform on wheels towed by a tractor. He showed Jesus what to do. The platform jerked and started forward. Soon Jesus was in an agony of soreness.

  There was no time to think so long as the platform moved. The only rest came in the five minutes it took the tractor to turn and face the next row, when Jesus could close his eyes and stand still. At last the tractor motor went silent. Everyone scattered toward the porta-potties and a shaded table that held drinks and snacks. Jesus stood numb, immobile. He felt a nudge, looked down into flashing brown eyes beneath a sweatshirt hood.

  "Come with me," the girl said. "We have only a short time to eat something and rest. You'll need the food for energy. It's a long day."