by Glenn Trust
Sams navigated around the islands at the mouth of the main creek and headed inland. At high tide, the water was deep enough to handle the trawler’s draft, but they had to work fast. Once the tide ebbed, they had only an hour or two before they risked being grounded in the mud until the next high tide.
Hundreds of small channels and waterways cut through the marshes. Some deep, some nothing more than paths where deer, feral pigs, and sea turtles made their way through to firmer ground and better foraging.
Sams spun the wheel to head into a no-name channel that cut off to the south out of the main creek. After a hundred yards, he cut the engine and let the Sara Jane drift to a small dock extending out ten feet from the shore.
The tiny finger of dry ground extending into the marsh had been selected with care, paid for through a third party who was paid for his services by another anonymous party, leaving no trail back to Ortega or Elizondo. Surrounded by the swaying saw grass, it was invisible, unless you knew where to look.
Sams wondered what would happen if some early morning fisherman out in his johnboat happened to come along. He put the thought out of his head and said a silent prayer that no unlucky soul would spot them.
As they neared the dock, Hermie and Paco bustled about the deck, readying the lines without waiting for orders. The Sara Jane drifted in closer, and they tossed the lines to a group of men waiting on the dock.
Within seconds and without instruction, they organized the work party. Hermie and Paco loosened the bindings around the bundles of cocaine. Three others joined them, leaping from the dock to the deck, and formed a conveyor line.
The shrink-wrapped, kilo packages moved from hand to hand to the men waiting on the dock. Another line relayed them to the panel vans. The drivers supervised, checking their manifests to ensure the count was correct.
As they loaded each van, the door slammed shut, and the driver behind the wheel pulled away from the dock, disappearing into the marsh. From there, they followed the narrow finger of dry ground inland to an unmarked gravel road. The gravel road led to a paved county road. Five miles farther on the county road intersected with Interstate 95.
The vans dispersed, some heading north, some south, to cities up and down the east coast. Others only went as far as Savannah and turned west on I-16 toward Atlanta and the markets farther inland.
The entire operation took less than forty minutes. Sams kept an eye on the time, anxious about missing the tide.
As the last van door closed with its load, Hermie and Paco retrieved the mooring lines and coiled them neatly on the deck. Moya nodded, indicating that it was time to go. Sams relaxed. They had more than enough time to get to deep water and avoid being left mud-bound as the sun rose.
By the time they made the ten-mile trip back out Fancy Bluff Creek to the sound and then along the coast to St. Mary’s, the eastern sky was showing a faint tinge of pink along the horizon. Stars still burned bright in the overhead blackness, but the sun would soon spring above the horizon and wash the world in a burst of morning light. He sidled the Sara Jane up to her berth at the St. Mary’s dock and cut the engines, letting his two new deckhands do the work of tying off without comment from him.
There was no celebration or slaps on the back over a job well done. Hermie and Paco nodded, respectful of their captain. Esteban Moya snapped something at them in Spanish, and they hastened to the pickup. Julio followed close on their heels.
An hour later, Tully Sams had dropped the four at the Brunswick airport. He stood alone in the parking lot and watched the small plane leave with them, soaring two hundred feet over his head as it climbed into the morning sky.
He lit a cigarette and watched until the plane was just a speck, dwindling in the distance. Mixed emotions nagged at him. The earlier thrill of accomplishment and elation he had experienced out on the water was replaced by something else.
What would the real Sara Jane think about the night’s activities? He knew.
Stubbing the cigarette butt out on the ground, he climbed in the pickup, muttering, “Too damn late for an attack of conscience now, Tully boy,”
38.
The Odds
“Do we have enough?” Travis looked up from the pile of notes and financial records he was sorting.
They had decided to wait a day, let everything percolate in their heads overnight, and give everything a once over with fresh eyes in the morning. Now, it was time to cut bait or fish with Luis Acero’s tip.
“I think so.” Sole nodded, sipping black coffee. “At least it’s time to let them decide if they want to follow up. We’re getting beyond a simple major crimes investigation. This is specialized … drug trafficking … international smuggling. If this pans out, a lot of agencies will want a piece of it.”
Huddled together in Travis’ cubicle, they made a list of agencies they should include in their briefing. The APD narcotics squad was a given. They were on the same team, and now that they had more confidence in Luis’ information, they could let him off the hook, at least a little.
Next on the list was the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. The GBI had an interest in any significant statewide criminal activity. They also had additional resources to allocate to the investigation if needed.
The DEA and FBI were included as a matter of routine. Crimes that crossed state lines or originated from international sources would involve them. There was no absolute proof that the investigation involved smuggling or transport of drugs to any location outside of Georgia, but with Sillman’s shrimp fleet in the mix, there was a strong possibility.
The final addition to the list was U.S. Customs and Immigration Enforcement. ICE had jurisdiction over people or material coming across the U.S. borders. They were experts at interdicting drug smugglers.
“That about covers it.” Travis looked at the list he had printed in neat block letters. “When do you want to do it?”
“Soon as possible,” Sole replied. “Set it up for tomorrow.”
“Okay, why not? I figure we’re either going to look like heroes or fools.” Travis’ face twisted into a wry smile. “I’d say right now, it’s a toss-up.”
“I think it’s better than that. I figure the odds are sixty-forty we won’t come out of this looking like a couple of chumps.” Sole shrugged and grinned at Travis. “What’s the problem? You worried about your future here in Major Crimes?”
“Worried about both our futures. I’ve become attached to your surly ways.” Travis smirked. “But mostly, I don’t want to end up checking parking meters and chalking tires for the next twenty years.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Sole said. “It’s all automated now … meter checkers drive these cute little cars with cameras and tag recognition technology built into an onboard computer. Just drive up and down the block and the computer reads the tags of the parkers who have overstayed their welcome. Really high tech stuff. You’ll love it.”
“Thanks, asshole.”
39.
Pray
“You see what problems your incompetence has caused me!” Bautista Ortega glared across the desk in his small office in the taqueria.
The Americans have an expression. La mierda rueda cuesta abajo—Shit rolls downhill. Now, a heavy load of it was rolling right down from Elizondo, to Ortega to land squarely on Esteban Moya’s ass.
He lowered his head to avoid eye contact with El Toro. The man was in an evil mood, and no good could come from challenging him, even by attempting to defend himself from his wrath—especially by trying to defend himself.
Just back from overseeing the transfer of Elizondo’s first shipment, he was exhausted. There had been no time to rest since the plane from Brunswick had landed.
The first order of business was to contact his network of dealers and reassure them that their supply problems would soon end. He managed to reach all by cell phone on the drive to the taqueria—except one. Luis Acero was nowhere to be found.
“Any idea who I have been on the phone with today?�
� Ortega roared, his rage building as he recalled the conversation with Bebé Elizondo. “He is sending someone to correct your mistakes?”
Moya lifted his eyes and ventured a one-word query, “Who?”
“Garza is coming.” Ortega let the name hang in the air between them, watching with satisfaction as fear crept into Moya’s eyes.
“Is it so bad that he must come?” Moya whispered, more to himself than to Ortega.
“You tell me.” Ortega placed his beefy arms on the desk and leaned toward Moya. “Detectives visited Sillman and that peacock of an assistant … Bettis.”
“All they had to do was say they knew nothing. There is no evidence. They remained silent, right?”
“What do you think?” Ortega spat back at him. “A peacock and an aging rooster with his tail feathers falling out. The detectives came with their questions, and they stood there with wide eyes and their dicks in their hands.” He shook his massive head. “They might as well have said they had made a deal with Elizondo.”
“Still,” Moya ventured mildly. “There is no …”
“Are you fucking listening?” Ortega roared. “They didn’t have to give them proof. Everything they said … everything they didn’t say … the way they swallowed, stuttered, the sweat on their faces … it was all proof … enough at least for these detectives to keep digging.”
“Yes, but what the detectives are thinking is not …”
“He came and visited me!”
“Who?”
“A detective.” Ortega leaned back in his chair like a balloon with the air escaping. “He knew.”
“That is what he said?”
“He didn’t have to. I could tell. We looked each other in the eye … mano a mano … this is not one to trifle with.” Ortega nodded. “He knows. He will keep searching until he finds something.”
“What was his name?”
“John Sole.”
“I’ve heard the name.” Moya nodded. “But he doesn’t work in narcotics.”
“So you feel he will just walk away because he is not a narc?” Ortega smirked.
“No, not that, but because he is not a narc, it may take him time to put things together.”
“We don’t have time. Garza arrives tomorrow.”
“Then we must plan,” Moya said, leaning forward with more confidence now that he had survived El Toro’s initial tirade.
“There is no time to plan. It is out of our hands now. That is why Elizondo is sending Garza to clean up. We can only hope he doesn’t tell him to clean us up.”
There was no talk of running. Escape from Alejandro Garza was impossible. Even if they evaded him for a few days or weeks, he would find them. When he did, the punishment for running would be even more severe than standing and accepting their fate.
“You will pick him up at the airport tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Moya nodded. “And then?”
“And then we do whatever he fucking tells us to do and pray it will be enough to satisfy Bebé.”
40.
It Had All Been Said
Sole walked in, and his world righted itself again. He was always amazed at how just walking through the front door brought everything into perspective.
“Dad’s home!” Bobby looked up grinning from the floor beside the hall closet. He sat with his back against the wall lacing up his sneakers.
“What’s up, sport? Jog time?”
“Yep, and you’re just in time.” Shaye came to the bottom of the stairs, turned around, and bent over propping a foot on the third step as she tied on her Nikes. “You’re home early. You can join us.”
“I shoulda stayed late,” John sighed, smiling.
Shaye was a fitness addict, and her addiction had spread to the kids. With an afternoon off from the department, they were heading out on a jog around the neighborhood streets. They never followed any precise course. They just ran until Shaye thought they’d sufficiently exerted themselves for the day. Sufficient was a moving target and could range from a couple of miles to six or seven, depending on time and schoolwork waiting for them.
Sole walked up behind her firm, round bottom as she tied her shoes. A hand sliding along the tight fabric of her bike shorts, he bent over and whispered in her ear.
“I can think of another way to get our workout in.”
She swatted his hand away, finished tying her shoes and turned to face him. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, teasing him by letting her breasts under her sports bra rest against his chest. Electricity surged through the fabric, and he took a deep breath to quell the stirring that arose in him.
“Later.” Shaye smiled and backed away.
“You are a tease,” he said, face twisted in disappointment.
“Geez. You guys get a room.” Samantha came down the stairs in her running clothes, her face twisted in a grimace at her parents’ public display of intimacy. She pushed past them and went to the front door. “You coming today, Dad?”
Sole looked at his family. There was evil in the world. Sometimes it was hard to see past it, but Shaye banished it from their home.
“I’m coming.” He jogged up the stairs. “Give me a minute.”
By the time he trotted down in shorts, tee shirt, and his running shoes, Shaye had the kids out in the front yard doing warm-up stretches. “I’m ready,” he said, trotting up to them. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t you think you should warm up first, big boy,” Shaye said, bending over in a side stretch.
“Naw. Let’s get this over with.”
“Suit yourself.”
Shaye led the way down the street. As they reached the corner, five houses down the block, John was puffing, wondering what he had gotten himself into. When they hit the three-mile mark, she took pity on him.
Lifting a hand, she jogged in place as the others pulled up beside her. Samantha followed her mother’s example, keeping her legs pumping up and down. Bobby stood with his hands on his hips breathing heavy. Sole jogged up last and bent over, hands on knees, panting.
“What’s up Marine,” Shaye taunted. “What happened to Semper Fi, Do or Die?”
“Yeah.” John nodded, sucked in some air and looked up. “I’m working on the dying part right now.”
Shaye laughed. These were the days she loved, together as a family. The kids were growing faster than she and John liked, especially John. Soon, they would move on with their lives, but the memory of days like this would hold the family together.
“You two go on home,” she said. “Dad and I will walk the rest of the way.”
“Okay, Mom.” Samantha turned and started off at a sprint, calling over her shoulder. “I’ll race you, Bobby.”
“Not fair!” He took off down the block after her. “Cheater!”
Samantha laughed and turned on more speed.
“They’re showing me up,” John said, standing up straight but still puffing hard.
“It’s all about conditioning.” Shaye patted the bulge over his waistline. “Something you could use a little more of, Mister.”
“This?” John patted his belly. “Emergency rations.”
She laughed and took his hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you home, old man.”
He nodded, grateful for her mercy. “I feel old.”
They talked about the kids, about, the weather, about nothing. It was good just to be together. John put his arm around Shaye and pulled her close, savoring the feel of her thigh against his as they kept pace together.
They made dinner together. The kids did their homework. Shaye got the salad and vegetables ready. John grilled burgers on the back patio.
The talk during dinner was small, about the little things that, in reality, are big things, the things that added up over time to make a life. His mother had given him that understanding although it had remained buried somewhere inside until he met Shaye. Now he understood.
Samantha chatted with them about her friends' problems and a boy she met in English class. She spoke lik
e an adult, with ideas and thoughts of her own. He couldn’t repress a smile at how grown up she sounded.
“What are you grinning at?” Samantha stopped mid-sentence, her fork halfway to her mouth.
“Nothing,” he replied, the smile widening. “Everything. The day … being here with you all.” He shrugged. “It just makes me smile.”
Later, when the house was quiet, and they lay in the dark with the night folded around them, Shaye turned and slid a bare leg over him.
“I promised you something before our jog. Remember?”
“I do.” He turned and held her bare body against his under the sheets.
“You ready to collect, big guy?”
“I believe I am,” he said.
His hand slid down to touch her. She moaned and spread her legs, pulling his hand deeper between them.
They made love like two people accustomed to the touch of the other. There was no hurry. Rushing would have cheapened the moment. The seconds and minutes flowed around them, sensuous and delicious, their passion building, moving in unison until they shuddered in each other’s arms.
After, they lay touching, awake but not speaking. There was no need. It had all been said.
41.
Stay Out of My Way
Tall and lean, dressed in a business suit, with the shirt collar open and no tie, he could have been an affluent South American, arriving in the U.S. to oversee his business ventures and investments. In fact, Alejandro Garza arrived at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to see to the business affairs and investments of his employer, Juan Manuel Elizondo.
He passed unchallenged through immigration. The Customs and Immigration officer who scanned his passport asked, “The reason for your visit to the United States, Senor …” The officer flipped back to the identification page of the forged Argentine passport. “Senor Hernández?”