by Glenn Trust
“Business.” Garza nodded and gave one of his rare smiles, the perfect Latin hidalgo—gentleman.
The officer flipped through the passport one more time, stamped and recorded the arrival of Tomás Hernández within the sovereign borders of the United States, and waved for the next person in line to step forward. Garza picked up his carry-on bag and walked to the customs inspection area where he placed the bag on a conveyor that ran through an x-ray machine scanning for contraband. There was none. Alejandro Garza traveled light, relying on local contacts for anything he might need to fulfill Bebé’s assignments.
As he stepped through the doorway into the main terminal, the noise level increased. People scurried to the security lines to catch trams to the concourses, hurried to baggage claim or searched for their traveling companions.
Garza paused for a moment and stood holding his bag in his left hand. He eyed the crowd of people waiting to greet arriving international passengers. A man he had never seen before, but whom he knew by reputation and from a photo that Bautista Ortega had sent to him, lifted a placard that read ‘T. Hernández’ printed in large block letters.
Esteban Moya recognized Garza at once. There was no handshake, no greeting, formal or otherwise. Moya turned to lead Garza through the terminal and to his car parked in the short-term lot.
They did not speak during the drive to Ortega’s office. Garza went through messages on his phone, all from Bebé Elizondo, while Moya made his way through the early evening traffic.
Moya might as well have been alone in the car. He kept his eyes on the road, not daring a glance at his passenger. At least, Garza had not ordered him to some secluded place where no one would hear the bullet he put into Moya’s brain, a possibility he had considered as he waited for Bebé’s fixer to arrive.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time but was only forty minutes or so, they arrived at the shopping center. Moya pulled around to the rear and used a key to open the back door of Ortega’s taqueria.
El Toro waited behind his desk and stood as they entered. Beads of sweat glistened on his broad forehead. His nerves made him look less like a toro—bull—and more like a steer headed to the slaughterhouse.
This visitor was far different from the police investigator. Even a hard-nosed detective would not harm him. The law would not permit it. Alejandro Garza was under no such constraint. Bautista Ortega, the bull, swallowed and extended his hand.
“It is good to see you, Alejandro.” Ortega hoped a familiar greeting would lighten the tension. It did not.
Ignoring the outstretched hand, Garza looked around the small office selected a chair, and sat, taking his phone from his pocket. Esteban Moya standing just behind exchanged a concerned glance with Ortega then took a seat in the only other chair in the room.
“I am instructed,” Garza began without preliminaries, “to resolve the business issues that have arisen here in the last few days.”
“Everything I have here is at your disposal. Just tell me what you require, and I’ll have it done.”
“You will do nothing,” Garza said, his eyes boring into Ortega. “You have done enough.”
The lump in Ortega’s throat grew until he thought he might choke. “I only meant to say …”
“There is nothing to say. I will correct the problems here, and then I will return to Mexico.” Garza’s eyes were small black daggers piercing into Ortega. “You will never see me again. If you do …”
He left the threat hanging in the air. Ortega’s eyes widened with understanding. Moya remained deathly silent, hoping not to receive any attention from their visitor. It was an empty wish.
“I will require one person to assist me.” Garza turned his head to look at Esteban Moya. “This one.”
“Yes, yes … of course,” Ortega stammered. All pretense of being El Toro, the bull of Atlanta, had faded. His only wish now was to survive the night.
Moya’s eyes widened, but his mouth remained shut. He fought down the desire to plead with Garza to allow the honor of assisting him to fall to another.
“Is there something else that … may I, uh … ask …”
“You may ask nothing. I require nothing else. I will advise you when my work here is completed. Until then, stay out of my way.”
Ortega remained mute, giving only a nod, acknowledging the instructions that were, in reality, a warning. Garza rose, looked at Moya then turned to the door. “Come with me. We have plans to make.”
Moya followed Garza from the office without chancing a backward glance at the man who had been his boss until this moment. Bautista Ortega placed his sweating hands on his desk and tried to will them to stop trembling.
42.
You’re In
Coffee and the ubiquitous box of doughnuts sat on the side table where the investigators stood chatting. Yeah, cops like doughnuts. Doesn’t everyone?
Sole had picked these up on the way in from a Krispy Kreme store where the ‘HOT NOW’ light burned bright. The attendees ransacked the box, and poured coffee into Styrofoam cups, consuming it in various shades from black to light tan.
Sole watched from one end of the conference table while everyone got through their hellos and morning chatter. He nudged Travis, seated beside him.
“See. I told you,” he whispered.
“What?” Travis looked up from the notes in the briefing file open on the table before him.
Sole nodded at the side table, and Travis understood, widening his eyes in semi-exasperation. “You never give up.”
“Nope.”
It was nothing really, just part of an ongoing—and inane in Travis’ opinion—discussion about the curiosities of human behavior. Sole maintained that the blacker the coffee, the plainer the doughnut selection. He contended that those preferring their coffee watered down with milk and sweetened were predisposed to take the glazed and cream filled ones.
“See,” Sole nodded, grinning.
“You’re obsessed.” Travis shook his head.
“On the contrary, I am an observer of human behavior.”
“Whatever,” Travis smirked. “Who’s winning out today?”
“Black coffee … plain doughnuts.” He nodded at the group, like a professor lecturing a class of freshmen. “These are seasoned cops, experienced in the ways of the world and the benefits of early morning caffeine to focus the mind. Too much sugar is a distraction and detracts from the experience.”
“Good God. You’ve actually given this some thought.”
“I told you … I am an observer, recording the facts as I see them.” Sole lifted his head and looked down into Travis’ coffee cup. “So, what shade of tan would you call that in your cup? Is that ecru?” The grin widened on his face. “Looks like ecru. I know because ecru is the color Samantha wanted her bedroom painted.” He nodded. “Yep. That’s ecru.”
Travis lowered his head in exasperation. “Jesus, give me strength.”
Sole chuckled and stood to get everyone’s attention. The clock showed eight AM. “Okay, everyone. Let’s get started.”
Chairs scraped across the floor. Papers shuffled. Everyone gathered closer, coffee cups and doughnuts positioned on the table, notepads, and pens extracted from pockets and held at the ready. Heads turned toward Sole and Travis.
“This won’t take too long, but could be important.”
“Better be,” a burly man with long blond hair and arms covered in tattoos grumbled.
“What’s the matter, Chuck? Get you up too early?” Sole grinned.
Chuck Rayburn represented the Atlanta narc squad. “Damn right it’s too early. Worked all night.”
“Getting old is a bitch, isn’t it, Chuck?”
“Fuck you, Sole,” Rayburn growled.
“Not if I get a running start.”
Laughter broke out around the table. Rayburn leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head, his broad face breaking into a satisfied grin. Sole nodded. It was a good start, with everyone loose, primed and read
y to hear what they had to say.
“Let’s get to it.” Sole picked up his notepad. “We have a reliable tip that a senior state politician may be involved with a suspected drug dealer.”
He paused and looked around at the faces. There were nine, including Travis and Sole.
Besides the Atlanta narc squad, DEA had sent along a representative. ICE had two people there and the GBI one. In typical FBI fashion, the Special Agent in Charge was not impressed by their invitation and had responded that the DEA agent present would brief him later.
“How senior?” Bill Lance, the GBI agent, asked.
“Before I get into that,” Sole answered, “I need everyone here to understand this is confidential … need-to-know basis only. If word leaks out, the investigation goes to hell. Worse, people could die.”
Heads nodded around the table. No one here would be talking.
“I’ll have to brief the FBI SAC,” Gene Cusins, the DEA representative, chimed in.
Fuck the arrogant FBI pukes, Sole wanted to respond, but instead said, “Make sure they understand the need for confidentiality.” He added one small dig. “No headline-grabbing here. They want credit later, fine … who gives a shit at that point, but the Bureau best not queer our investigation.”
Everyone present had experienced it. They did all the leg work, took all the risks, and put the case together only to have the FBI take it over at the point they were ready to make an arrest. Most were philosophical about the FBI’s tendency to steal the show at the end of a big case. With a senior politician involved in this one, it was a sure bet they would grab headlines if charges were filed.
“I’ll do my best.” Cusins nodded and smiled.
“All right,” Sole continued. “The investigation involves Senator James Sillman.”
He had their attention. The chatter ceased, and all eyes focused on him.
“Our CI reported his senior aide, Wilson Bettis, had a meet with Bautista Ortega.”
Pens moved across notepads.
“Sillman knew?” Chuck Rayburn looked up from his notes.
“We’re convinced of it. We interviewed both alone. Bettis almost swallowed his tongue trying to explain. Sillman looked like he might have a stroke.” Sole nodded. “They’re dirty.”
“Corroboration?” Bill Lance asked.
“I met with Ortega. He wanted to play cat and mouse. Standard stuff, but despite his denial, he wanted to know who reported the meeting. That and the fact that he was more intent on finding out what we knew than he was worried about giving it away confirms there is something to it.”
Sole gave them the case history. He reviewed the reliability of the intelligence Luis Acero had provided in the past, the lack of video evidence and how Acero identified Wilson Bettis at the press conference with Sillman.
Travis picked up the briefing, reviewing Sillman’s financial situation and the possible motive for the contact with Ortega.
“Holy shit,” Chuck Rayburn muttered.
“We’re in,” Bill Lance said.
“Us too,” Cusins added. “We need to set up surveillance on Sillman’s fleet of trawlers. If they are being used, we should be able to figure out how it’s being done … interdict a shipment and take them all down at once.”
They spent the next hour planning the surveillance and joint operation. Ice would have officers working with DEA and the GBI on the interdiction ships. DEA already had a close working relationship with the Coast Guard and would bring them into the loop when they were ready to move out on the water.
The meeting was wrapping up when Sole spoke.
“We want to stay in.” He looked at Bill Lance and Gene Cusins.
“Me too,” Rayburn chimed in.
There was no evidence that Sillman had committed any crime within their jurisdiction. The investigation had expanded across the state and into the territorial waters of the United States. Sole and Travis had done their job, but they weren’t about to just walk away, and as the resident narc on the team, Rayburn naturally wanted a piece of it.
“I don’t have a problem with that.” Lance nodded and looked at Cusins.
“Me neither.”
“What about the FBI,” Sole asked.
Cusins looked around the table, gave a shrug and grinned. “Seems they missed the party. I’ll brief the SAC today, but don’t worry. You’re in.”
43.
These Will Do
Alejandro Garza lifted the Glock 19 from the table, held it in a one-handed grip, old-style military stance, arm straight, level with the shoulder, feet at a forty-five degree angle to the target and sighted along the barrel. Esteban Moya wondered where Garza had learned to shoot. The stance looked awkward and clumsy.
Garza stood for several seconds, sighting along the barrel towards the plate-glass window in Moya’s condo. He was a statue. Moya could not even detect the rise and fall of his breathing. After thirty seconds, his motionless stance no longer looked antiquated. It was menacing.
Garza remained like that, almost trance-like as the seconds passed. Moya was about to ask if all was well when Garza turned the pistol over in his hand and checked for the serial number. It had been removed with a power grinder to make it unreadable.
It was a routine precaution, but given enough time, the American FBI would take the pistol to their forensic lab, apply chemical reagents and recover the serial number. That was why the pistol would vanish once they completed their work, rusting away in the silt at the bottom of the Chattahoochee River. Nature would accomplish what they could never do.
Garza thumbed the magazine release button, dropped it into his hand, and laid it on Moya’s dining room table. A brisk pull on the Glock’s slide ejected the round in the chamber. It landed in his open palm, and he placed it beside the magazine.
Pivoting with the grace of a dancer, he held the pistol straight out in front in a two-handed point and shoot combat stance. Moya marveled at the fluidity of his motions contrasted with the statue-like posture of a few seconds earlier.
Garza squeezed the trigger, allowing the firing pin to fall on the empty chamber. Moya blinked. The metallic click echoed louder than expected in the silence.
Relaxing, Garza placed the pistol on the table. “We will use these.”
He motioned to the Glock and a Beretta Model 92-F nine-millimeter pistol.
“These others are of no use.” Garza’s arm swept over the assortment of assault rifles and machine pistols spread out on the table.
Esteban Moya’s personal armory was impressive and included two Tec-9 machine pistols, an Uzi, an AK-47 and two AR-15s. None were legal. No firearms registrations existed, and no background check records named the owner. Two had come to him thanks to the ATF’s Fast and Furious gunrunning operation, intended to aid in identifying illegal arms dealers but which had only added to the arsenals of the cartels.
“Are you certain?” Moya asked, eying the assortment of weapons. Compared to the other weapons, the two pistols looked like toys.
“I’m certain,” Garza said, eyes like flint.
“But,” Moya hesitated. “Why not make sure that …”
“We are not here to fight a war,” Garza explained quietly. “We are eliminating a problem. Excessive force could draw attention.” He nodded at the pistols, putting the issue to rest. “Leave these out and put the others away.”
“As you say.” Moya nodded, taking the hint that the discussion of weapon choice was concluded. “May I ask how we will do this? I suppose we must make an example.”
“We must only end the problem. There should be nothing else left behind, not even an example.”
“But I thought … I mean in Mexico …”
“This is not Mexico,” Garza said. His voice was quiet, but his eyes remained intense, signaling Moya to pay attention. “It is true; in Mexico we might torture then hang a body from a bridge or lamp post with a warning not to cut the body down. This would be a threat to others, an example not to interfere with Los Salvajes.
”
“That is what we intend, no?” Moya ventured. “To set an example … send a warning?”
“As I have said,” Garza continued as if he were lecturing a dim-witted student. “We are correcting a problem, not making an example or sending a warning. Who would we be sending a warning to?” He shook his head. “Besides, such tactics do not work here. People here rely on the government authorities and the law for their safety. In Mexico, authority does not always come from the government. The one who has the power is the one with authority, the one who makes the law for the people. That is who they follow. To do otherwise is foolish and dangerous for them.”
Moya nodded without speaking, asking no further questions that might annoy Alejandro Garza.
A pistol in each hand, Garza dismissed the array of weapons on the table. “These will do.”
44.
Satisfying
“You don’t really buy into this bullshit, do you?”
FBI Atlanta Bureau Special Agent in Charge, Chester Fields, looked from Gene Cusins to Bill Lance and back to Cusins. The scowl on his face turned to incredulity when how realized they did, in fact, buy into the bullshit.
“We work closely with Atlanta PD,” Cusins replied. “Their work is solid. They buy into it … so do we.”
“And you?” Fields threw a sideways glance at Lance. “You are going to step off into this … swamp … for lack of a better word? This is quicksand, the kind of shit that sucks you under and sends you to law enforcement purgatory.”
“Only if we’re wrong,” Lance said. “I know the Atlanta Major Crimes Unit. They are pros. John Sole is a solid cop. If he thinks Sillman is dirty, I’d bet on it.”
“Would you bet your career on it?” Fields smirked. “That’s what you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing is my job. We have a solid tip on criminal activity. We will investigate.” Lance shook his head in disgust. “The GBI ... the Georgia Bureau of Investigations … it’s what we do … investigate.”