by Wolf Riedel
The three of them were sitting on metal folding chairs around a six-foot folding table. Near them soldiers were cataloging everything in sight. About fifteen feet away were five pallets each stacked four feet high; square bales of US cash. Papers were neatly stacked on the table and in front of them each had a pad filled with notes made throughout the morning. They had split up the task: Sal had concentrated on guns and ammo, Mark on drugs and Sage on anything else of interest. Four PFP officers had been working with them. Only one, besides Garza, spoke English and he had fulfilled most of the translation services.
“I think the drug tally is complete,” said Mark. “They still have folks and dogs back at the target doing more searches of all the trailers and sheds around there, but what’s been taken out so far has been listed and identified. There’s a humongous bunch of marijuana and cocaine which I’m told is all local or up from South America and of little interest to us. There’s also a fair amount of heroin as well; something like four hundred and forty kilos.”
“Four hundred and forty?” asked Sal raising his eyebrows.
Mark nodded.
“Interesting,” said Sage. “We’ve been looking through some paperwork and computer ledgers,” she said pointing at some spreadsheet printouts on the desk. “There’s no specific identification yet—they’re using a code system in the spreadsheets—but there is one agency from Florida that caught my attention as it showed up being credited for the supply of heroin as well as firearms and ammunition. There’s no indication as to the source of the heroin but basically ninety percent of it in the world originates in Afghanistan with the remaining ten percent coming from Burma and Columbia so the odds are it originally came from Afghanistan. I doubt though that this group would ship heroin from the US to the Zumas in Mexico so it looks to me like they’ve got two trade routes; one from Afghanistan to Mexico with heroin and one from Florida to Mexico with guns.”
“So this bunch are suppliers for the Zumas,” said Mark. “I presume you figure these are our boys in Tampa, the Los Paras?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “But I’m still looking for a definitive connection between the code in the records and our guys. So far it’s all circumstantial. The one other thing is that our guys, if it is our guys, are also consumers of the Zumas products because the records show that they get cash, marijuana, meth and cocaine in exchange for the guns and heroin. One final nail in the coffin is that the shipment dates seem to correspond roughly. Guns and heroin get credited basically monthly around the same dates as the other drugs and cash are debited. That could tie in with a ship exchange of product.”
“Good work,” said Mark.
Sage nodded. “We’ll keep looking to see if the name Los Paras comes up anywhere.”
Mark nodded and turned to Sal.
“Here’s the total for what they seized this morning: half a million rounds of ammunition and eight hundred magazines; two hundred and ninety-six rifles, of which one hundred and twenty-one are AR-15s, another hundred and two are G3s, M16s or AK-47s, the rest a mixture of odds and sods with a noteworthy four .50 cal Barretts and a dozen military class sniper rifles complete with scopes. There are two thirty-seven millimeter Deftec Multiple Grenade Launchers and one old Browning thirty cal machine gun. As far as pistols are concerned there’s a total of one hundred and ninety-four divided roughly as two-thirds automatic and one third revolver types. There’s a Mexican Army RPG-7 launcher with fifteen rounds as well as seventy-five M67 hand grenades.”
“M67?” asked Sage.
“Little round thing,” said Sal. “US Army designed them to look and feel like a baseball. They figured every American kid could throw a baseball so they’d be able to chuck these really well. Has an explosive charge inside and the shell is designed to break up into hundreds of small high velocity fragments.”
“These are American?” she asked.
“Yeah,” said Sal. “We built them but sold them to dozens of countries including Mexico. We’ll have to trace the lot numbers, but my guess is these were sold to and stolen from the Mexican army.”
“Is that all of the weapons?” asked Mark.
“Essentially,” replied Sal. “There’s a bunch of smoke and gas grenades, military pyrotechnics, a dozen bricks of C-4 explosive and a dozen sticks of dynamite.” He checked his list. “That’s it.”
“What about the AR-15s?” asked Mark.
Sal nodded.
“I broke all of those down and took serial numbers,” he said. “Fourteen appeared on Lewis’s list; all had been converted full-auto.” He checked his list again. “Of the remainder, thirty were unconverted standard AR-15s. The rest were conversions that sure as hell looked like the same parts that were in Lewis’s but not on his records. They’re either his but unrecorded or come from different straw purchasers with the same conversion kits. We’ll need much better forensic work on those to be sure.”
“Lot more work to do when we get home,” said Mark. “When we get a chance I’ll bring Sykes up to date.”
Sage and Sal both nodded.
A PFP officer working on the the captured computers at the table next to theirs let out a yelp.
“¡Senora!” he called over to Sage. “¡Esto es!”
Sage got up and walked over behind him and looked at the screen. Slowly she turned back to Mark and Sal with a wide smile on her face.
“Does that shit eating grin mean what I think it means?” asked Sal.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
They’d stopped for a lunch break and were working their way along the serving line. Mexican soldiers in combat uniforms and wearing hygienic white face masks and latex gloves served them their meals out of the plastic Cambro insulated food containers set up on tables in front of them. The line moved quickly: bowls of spicy chicken, tomato and macaroni soup; chicken enchiladas wrapped in tin foil; white rice; refried beans, a dollop of spicy ground beef; and more dollops of chopped tomatoes, shredded lettuce, guacamole and pico de gallo. At the end of the line was a table with small tortillas, a variety of hot sauces, plastic cutlery and cups and a large thermos full of something Kool-aidish. Against his better judgment, Mark led everyone back to their worktable to eat.
“Man I wouldn’t want to be anyone sitting near me when I’m finished with this,” said Sal.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” said Sage and moved her plate a foot or so further away from him.
Mark had unwrapped his enchiladas and had made himself two tacos with the ingredients on his plate when his Blackberry buzzed. He pulled it out and clicked the Send key.
“Winters,” he said. He listened for a second and then said, “Hang on Tony. I’m going to put you on speaker.”
He clicked the phone’s speaker control and put it flat on the table in front of him. Sage and Sal edged themselves closer to it.
“Go ahead Tony,” said Mark.
“How are you guys doing, boss?” asked the voice over the tinny speaker.
“We’re fine here,” replied Mark. “Just breaking for lunch and getting ready for a press conference. We’ll be heading home tomorrow night. We’re finding interesting stuff here but the big job is that we need to figure out a bullet proof way to preserve the chain of evidence of everything we’re finding. That’s going to take some time here. What’s up at your end?”
“The big news is Noda’s dead,” said DiAngelo. “Was hit this morning at zero one thirty. Single gunman came in through the bedroom window and put two in his chest and one in his eye. Tied up the wife and kids and was gone outa there in three minutes flat. No robbery no nothin’. Just a clean hit.”
“Like Lewis with a lot less collateral damage,” said Sal speaking around a mouthful of enchilada.
“Yup,” said Di Angelo. “The whole thing’s in the hands of the Hardee County Sheriff. We’ve got search warrants from the 10th Judicial Circuit down there for his home and workplace at the WalMart as well as search authorizations from his chain of command
as to his National Guard workspaces. Searches are just getting started and the crime scene guys down here are doing their thing in the house. Not sure what we’ll get though. The guy sounds like a pro from the way the wife tells it.”
“Anything else on the guys that tried to nab Cabello?” asked Mark.
“Yeah. Platt and Whitlock are helping us out there. We’re all dealing with the St. Pete Police cause Cabello’s house is there. The dead guy’s off to the District Six ME . . .”
“Doesn’t Hillsborough cover that?” Mark interrupted. He looked at Sage who was shaking her head back and forth.
“No,” replied DiAngelo. “St. Pete’s in Pinellas County and Pinellas and Pasco County are covered by the District Six ME. Anyway the cut won’t be done today and probably not tomorrow. No rush on it anyway. We know what killed him, a couple of CID issue nine mils. Scientifically it’s a no brainer, boss.
“Anyway we don’t have his name yet but the wounded guy is Alejandro Sandoval from Tampa. Platt’s got him down as an MQ-27 heavy lifter so the dead guy probably is too. Alejandro got hit in the leg. Nothing serious but hard enough to knock him down on his ass. He’s down in Bayfront getting stitched up and from what we hear has already contacted a lawyer.”
“Probably the MQ-27 duty lawyer,” quipped Sal.
“Actually no,” said DiAngelo. “Platt knows who all the regular mouthpieces for the gangs are. This guy’s not one of those. Platt’s checking him out.”
“How’s our guy?” asked Mark.
“Also at Bayfront,” said DiAngelo. “Also nothing serious and he should be released later today.”
“Anything else?” asked Mark.
“Nope that’s it for us.”
“If you haven’t got it already, Tony, I want a complete career profile on Cabello, Noda, and Silvera on my desk when I get back.” Mark thought for a minute. “Oh, yeah. And throw in a Master Sergeant Connor McLean—he’s Special Forces from Fort Campbell. SOCCENT should be able to expedite the McLean thing.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
“Speaking of Cabello, where is he?” asked Mark.
“He’s down in Bayfront, too,” said DiAngelo. “Fortunately for us he got roughed up and was knocked out cold during this so we took him there for treatment. We’re keeping an eye on him. The doctors are keeping him under for the time being and we’ll make sure he stays incommunicado until you get back.”
Sage looked at Mark and mouthed the word incommunicado? with raised eyebrows.
Sal leaned over to her and whispered, “We told you we know big words too.”
“Careful with that, Tony,” said Mark. “I don’t want it to look like we have him in detention and I can’t see any way that we can hold him if the doctors say he’s good to go. At the same time I don’t see how we can keep him from talking to any of his crew, even if he’s in the hospital he can probably get visitors and a phone . . . We need to get the search authorizations and warrants in place and executed before he’s able to get the whole operation covered up. Best thing we can do right now is to ramp up the electronic surveillance and find out who he’s talking to.”
“Shit. He’s sure to know we’re on him what with two agents there when he was taken.”
Mark thought for a second. “Does he actually know that it was CID guys? Can we still spin it that it was just two random cops from St. Pete’s serving a summons or something?”
“Jeez? That’s a stretch boss but I’ll see what we can do. Any chance you can get here earlier?” DiAngelo asked.
“Doubt it,” said Mark. “Too much here that we need to nail down but I’ll see what we can do.”
CHAPTER 49
W Spruce St., Tampa, Fl
Tuesday 20 Mar 07 0820 hrs EDT
Tuffy sat on the couch with his remote randomly flicking channels on the TV. He’d slept through the better part of the day before. That had left him to awaken just in time for a dinner of Popeye’s chicken that Sandy had brought home after school. The evening had been pleasant enough but after Sandy had gone to bed at midnight, he wasn’t quite ready for bed and stayed up watching TV. As he sat alone in the dark room with the glow of the flat screen he’d started to brood. He wasn’t ready to get back to sleep; the uncertainty of the situation was catching up and had left him stewing things over until the sun came up; his feelings crossing from frustration to anger and on to despair.
Sandy paused at the door on her way to her morning classes. She shrugged into the heavy backpack containing her books and called cheerily to him.
“Bye sweetie. I’m going now. There’s lunch in the fridge. Make sure Amber eats this time. She wouldn’t touch her breakfast.”
“Then let her fuckin’ starve. I’m not her maid.”
His concentration remained on the TV. The problem with basic cable in the mornings was that it was full of crap. He’d paused on and then flicked past yet one more bible thumping asshole who not only tried to convince the audience that the only way to salvation was to bestow a financial blessing on the asshole’s ministry by way of a bi-weekly payroll deduction but also to ensure that they left a generous provision for the church in their wills. And they call me a criminal, he’d thought.
Behind him he could feel the tension building as Sandy struggled to frame her next sentence. If I’m lucky she’ll just shut up and leave, he thought. I don’t need this shit.
Tuffy wasn’t lucky.
“Look we agreed to this,” she said. “She’s not going to die. Not this one.”
Tuffy flicked ever more furiously, by now on his fourth cycle through the available list of channels.
“I didn’t agree to fuck all,” he bit back. “This was your idea from the very beginning and not mine.”
Behind him the silence lasted for a minute. An all too short minute.
“You went along with it.” Her voice was pleading now. “Let’s talk about it when I get back home tonight.”
Tuffy didn’t acknowledge her, even when she came over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
He heard her footsteps recede across the floor followed by the gentle closing of the door behind her.
He sat back on the couch and threw the remote across the room where fortunately it hit a curtain and dropped to the floor without breaking. The channel was left on a female talk show host interviewing a doctor about how to deal with stress. While Tuffy was perceptive enough to understood that the topic was actually applicable to his present situation, he quickly dismissed both participants as entertainment fluff artists that really had no solutions for real problems. Mental health as entertainment. What a concept.
He walked over to the door to Amber’s room and checked the padlock. Through the door he heard a quiet sobbing. It had hardly ever stopped since she got here.
Much of his confusion as to what to do was based on the fact that he had no idea whether the girl would ever be any help to anyone in identifying Tuffy as either the doer of her parents or the individual who kidnapped her from the whorehouse. He’d worn a balaclava both at the time he’d taken her and every time he’d been in her presence since but he had no recollection as to whether or not either of the two girls had ever had a decent opportunity to see him in Ocala. He was pretty sure they hadn’t but Amber had certainly seen Sandy since he’d brought her here. That in and of itself was a major problem because there were people around here, not members of the raza, who would be able to identify him as a known associate of Sandy’s.
More and more the options that he could see were narrowing. He didn’t like any of them and had just resolved to ignore them and to find the TV’s remote when his cell phone rang.
The call had been another summons to come see Meraz at his house in an hour. Tuffy found it interesting how often Meraz had invited him to the house. He took it as a sign that he had been accepted into the inner circle and pondered just how quickly they’d have him hit if they found out about the girl.
Meraz met him at the door. Hernandez stood just behind him in the foy
er.
Tuffy took the hand Meraz offered him.
“Gordo,” he said and nodded to Hernandez. “Jefe”
“Good to see you Tuffy. C’mon in.”
He led the three through the house and out to the back deck overlooking Old Tampa Bay. A set of white rattan chairs were grouped under a large umbrella around a low rattan and glass table set with coffee cups, sugar, cream and a coffee press.
Hernandez waved Tuffy into a chair.
“¿Café? We just put on fresh batch.”
Hernandez slowly pushed the plunger on the press down to the bottom and turned to Tuffy who nodded. Hernandez poured them all a cup. None of them added anything to their coffee. Tuffy took a sip of the hot brew savoring its deep aroma. It was dark, rich and flavorful. He didn’t get this type of coffee around Sandy’s house or even at his mom’s.
Tuffy looked out on the Bay. The breeze was moderate but coming behind him from the east. Above, puffy clouds moved gently and, while the high was supposed to go to the mid-seventies, it was barely clearing the mid-sixties and humid. The breeze cut through his cotton shirt and brought him a noticeable chill. Two houses down from Meraz’s, a thirty-foot cabin cruiser’s rumbling diesels torqued up as the boat started to pull away from its moorings. It slowly lumbered past them on its way to the Bay.
They waited for it to pass with Meraz giving a wave to his neighbor as he sailed by. Tuffy noticed for the first time that the Meraz’s dock was relatively tiny compared to those of his various neighbors and that there was currently no boat tied up there. He wondered if Meraz wasn’t a boater or fisherman or whether whatever boat he owned was out being serviced or doing some type of business.
As was usual, Meraz took the lead in the conversation while Hernandez sat back and watched the interplay.
“We’ve gotten word that we lost one guy in St Pete’s and the other one’s in the custody of the cops. Our lawyers can’t find him and the cops are saying he’s already got a lawyer.”
Tuffy’s eyebrows went up on that one. The deal they all had was that the raza would provide you with a lawyer free of charge when you needed it. To have your own meant you were paying a lot of cash for a mouthpiece. Why would anyone do that? Not for a good reason for the raza that’s for sure.