Lilac and Old Gold Read online

  Lilac and Old Gold

  A Zeke Traynor Mystery

  Jeff Siebold

  Copyright © Jeff Siebold

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Book cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design

  ISBN: 987-0-9979570-1-3

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Karin, my strongest supporter and my greatest love.

  Chapter 1

  Zeke Traynor answered his phone.

  “We need you up here, old boy,” said Clive Greene. “Midtown Atlanta. The action is about to start.”

  “Your timing is impeccable, as always,” said Zeke. “I can be there tomorrow.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “What’s up?”

  “Protection and a blackmail exchange,” said Clive. He sounded distracted. “Hold on for a quick moment.”

  The phone went silent. As an occasional operative for The Agency, Zeke was routinely employed for personal protection, counterintelligence and investigative work. Mostly, the clients were government agencies who coveted the level of deniability that Clive Greene and his Agency provided.

  Zeke had been standing on a pier somewhere on the west coast of Florida, enjoying the September sunshine and getting ready for some offshore tarpon fishing when the phone in his pocket had buzzed. He’d looked at the caller ID before he pressed the green “answer” button.

  Thirty-eight and fit, Zeke’s longish hair tended toward a lighter blond color in the sunshine. His eyes were surprisingly blue, a slate-blue color that he’d inherited from his father. It contrasted well with his present deepwater tan.

  Clive, on the other hand, was a picture of British aristocracy, tall and pale and immaculate. Zeke could picture him in the office, standing regally by the window with perfect posture, his formal clothing perfectly fitted.

  “I’m back,” said Clive. He quickly filled Zeke in on some of the details- their phone line was secure- and indicated that he would arrange transportation before Zeke reached the airport. “You’ll be flying out of Tampa, then?”

  “Yes. Will you be setting up an apartment for me?” asked Zeke.

  “I’ll have Sally get you the details. We’ll have just a short time to get set up. See you tomorrow.” The line went dead. That was four days ago.

  * * *

  The small man on the sidewalk, the assassin George, had plenty of opportunity to look around discretely. As he approached the campus coffeeshop he saw a blond man inside who was ordering at the counter; a younger man, thin, probably a student, sitting at a table wearing ear-buds and looking at his computer; and the barista, a small girl with dark hair and a black apron. But he wasn’t looking for these people. The fellow he was supposed to meet was a dark, Hispanic-looking man with black hair and glasses, Alberto Cruz. The man was supposed to be carrying a blue and gray backpack and wearing khaki pants and black shoes. He wasn’t visible in the coffee shop.

  There was a steady stream of vehicular traffic, employees and students leaving the campus for the weekend. On the street in front of the coffee shop, all of the traffic was heading east toward the campus exit and then onto the Interstate ramps. Along the near side of the two-lane street was a row of parallel parking spaces, most occupied by vehicles also facing to the east.

  George reviewed the possibilities and then his options. Perhaps his target was in the bathroom. Perhaps he hadn’t arrived yet. Perhaps something had spooked him, and he’d left. Or, maybe he’d lost his nerve.

  Stay away, catch a cab and be invisible was one option, and a good one if there were any cameras in the area. He was certain that there were, this being a college campus. Best to stay off their radar as much as possible.

  Or he could buy a cup of coffee and maybe find out a bit more about what was happening from the girl behind the counter, the barista. With that option he’d have a reason to stay around for a few minutes, in case the dark man was running late.

  And then he saw him, the dark man, up ahead on the wide sidewalk. He must have come from just inside the coffee shop. His hands were empty, and he was walking in a determined fashion away from George, angling toward the street and about to step off the curb to cross. Looking both ways first, he stepped out into the traffic lane.

  The dark man hesitated as a blue open-bed pickup truck drove past; he then took a quick step behind the truck and in front of a black sedan, crossing the street in the middle of the block.

  There is one other option, George thought. He could do what he was hired to do. He glanced to his left and nodded slightly at a parked vehicle with dark tinted windows.

  * * *

  There had been three people in the coffee shop, including the barista, when the dark man first walked in. He was a thick, barrel-chested man with Hispanic features, wearing khaki pants and black dress shoes. He stood in the doorway and looked around for a moment. Over one shoulder he carried a blue and gray backpack.

  The barista was cleaning some equipment behind the counter. The other two in the coffee shop were apparently patrons, sitting at separate tables. One was a student wearing ear-buds and watching something on a computer screen, and a second man, Zeke Traynor, was sipping coffee.

  Apparently not seeing who or what he had expected, the dark man set his backpack on the table nearest the door and turned back toward the front window and waited.

  That’s not Cruz, thought Zeke. Then, wow, avoid wearing black dress shoes with khakis, he thought with a smile. He glanced at the barista for a moment and then back at his coffee.

  As Zeke opened his tablet computer, a woman pulled the front door open and the dark man had to squeeze aside, making sort of a half turn to get out of her way in the aisle between the tables. She was remarkable looking, with thick brown hair pulled into a ponytail and large brown eyes. Her face was symmetrical, and as Zeke watched she looked over at him and broke into a fantastic, wide smile.

  She was wearing tight, black leggings and low boots. The top of her leggings was covered by a bright yellow, tailored silk shirt that fell to her hips. The shirt was cut like a man’s dress shirt, but wi
thout the tails. She looked around and then walked directly to Zeke’s table.

  “I’m Tracy,” she said.

  “Hi, Tracy,” Zeke replied. He closed his tablet and looked at her. Her makeup was subtle, skillfully applied so as not to attract attention, to deemphasize her wide-set eyes and full lips.

  Zeke knew that she was 29 years old and that her full name was Tracy Johnson. And he knew she carried a Glock 26 in her purse- a gun made mostly of a light polymer. It had a five and a half pound trigger pull and held ten 9-millimeter rounds plus one in the chamber. But they weren’t hollow point rounds; government agents don’t load hollow point bullets. Hollow points leave ugly wounds, and there’s too much risk of media criticism in the event of a shooting.

  And, Zeke knew that Tracy worked for the Feds. More precisely, he knew that she worked for the Secret Service. Alberto Cruz had told Zeke all about Tracy. He wasn’t surprised that she was there in the coffee shop for the exchange.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” she said, “but I’ve lost my dog, and I’m searching all the shops and stores around here to see if anyone has seen her. She’s a Labra doodle, about 35 pounds...”

  Zeke was already shaking his head. “No, haven’t seen any stray dogs today...” he started. He also knew that Tracy was allergic to dog hair.

  “...and has sort of yellow, curly hair. Oh, you haven’t? I’m asking everyone,” she continued, already looking around the room for someone else to query. “Are you from around here?” she continued.

  “I live just over there,” Zeke waved in the general direction of the front of the coffee shop. Tracy looked that way and nodded.

  “But,” he said. He looked at her eyes, playfully, until she felt the silence and looked back, returning his gaze.

  “Yes?”

  “Leave me your phone number, and I’ll call you if I see your dog.”

  She hesitated, and then gave him an impulsive smile. “I’ll do that,” she said. “Be sure to call.”

  Tracy jotted her name and number on Zeke’s coffee receipt, handed it to him and headed to the other occupied table.

  When Zeke looked again, the dark man was moving. The backpack was still on the table, but its owner with the black dress shoes was walking out the door. He can’t be going for long, thought Zeke; he left the backpack. But the dark man didn’t slow after he was out the door. Instead he turned right, east, with some speed and kept on walking with a purpose. In a moment, he was out of Zeke’s sight.

  Chapter 2

  Zeke jumped up and grabbed the backpack as he stepped out of the coffee shop into the cool air. He turned right, semi-jogging to close the distance between himself and the dark man. He spotted the black shoes and khakis as they left the curb, and then they paused and stepped behind a blue pickup truck. They were heading away from Zeke, at an angle across the street.

  Zeke passed a small man who was standing on the sidewalk near one of the coffee shop’s outdoor tables. He was about five feet tall and was looking away from Zeke, tracking the dark man crossing the street. As Zeke passed him on the sidewalk, the small man turned and looked past Zeke and nodded slightly. He had the stature of a student, but the face of a mature man. Then his eyes returned to Zeke’s face, focused, appraising. He never blinked. The absolute focus and the force of the small man’s gaze gave Zeke a sudden icy feel. Like an emotional thermocline, thought Zeke as he passed the man.

  Zeke hurried along. His direction vectored him at an angle of interception that would cross the street while gaining on the dark man. He glanced left as he stepped into the street and started to call out at the same time. Almost silently, a yellow SUV – a late model Cadillac Escalade – whipped out into traffic and passed in front of him. Zeke felt the breeze and power of the accelerating vehicle, and it forced him to step back up on the curb.

  The Escalade entered the lane at a run and, without slowing, smashed into the rear of a black Honda sedan while the dark man was between it and the blue pickup truck. The impact was loud and felt powerful to Zeke. The dark man screamed in pain. The Cadillac had tinted windows and no license tag, and it continued to push and grind mercilessly against the rear bumper of the Honda. The dark man continued to scream as he fell backwards, his knees shattered.

  The dark man’s legs were smashed, trapped between the Honda and the pickup truck’s rear bumper. He was lying back in obvious pain, his head on the hood of the car and facing the sky but seeing nothing. He flailed his arms beside his head. Each push of the Cadillac further crushed bones and flesh, and Zeke could see that the man’s knees were bloody and twisted at awkward angles.

  Suddenly, the Cadillac driver reversed his direction, creating just enough clearance to steer left into the empty oncoming lane around the sedan and the truck. As he passed the Honda, the SUV stopped abruptly, and the passenger-side window dropped. Two silent shots hit the dark man collapsed on the hood, each one making his head jump. He jerked and lay still. Then the driver accelerated around the truck, turned right at the next corner and was gone. The incident had taken less than thirty seconds, and what was left in the street were the two black dress shoes and a river of blood.

  * * *

  Tracy was talking quietly on her phone and looking out the window as it happened. She heard the crash from the impact of the Cadillac and the Honda, and she heard the screams and the continued revving acceleration of the SUV’s engine. She left the building and recognized the victim almost immediately. It was the same man that had stepped aside as she entered the coffeeshop minutes before. She hung up and dialed 911.

  Most witnesses were frozen in place. Nearby drivers stopped their cars and grabbed at their cell phones. Pedestrians were processing the scene, but most seemed to have no good idea of what to do. The action in the previous half-minute was too horrific to understand, too violent to react to, yet too intentional to misunderstand. People began backing up, moving, turning away, as if distance might insulate them from the horror of what they had just witnessed.

  Zeke moved quickly toward the accident and made his way to a point where he could see the victim. The two bullet holes in the dark man’s head confirmed to Zeke that he was dead. The man lay silent and motionless. His brown eyes stared blankly at the sky.

  Zeke moved back to the sidewalk, and as passersby began to talk with each other about what they had seen, he calmly walked the short distance to the corner and turned south on Cherry Street toward his apartment.

  * * *

  That escalated quickly, Zeke thought. He went over the events of the past ten minutes in his mind as he walked back toward his apartment. He’d arrived at the coffee shop thirty minutes early and enjoyed a cup of coffee while waiting for Alberto Cruz to arrive with the backpack. His job had been to protect Cruz.

  Zeke Traynor had the wiry look of a snowboarder or a wrestler (which he had been in High School), and the easy smile that comes with self-confidence. At just a bit more than five foot ten, he was still in great shape, and he wore his blond hair a little bit longer than was currently stylish. His slate blue eyes were a gift from his father, and his economical movements were the result of his training.

  While waiting in the coffee shop earlier, he’d finished his first cup of coffee, smiled at the young barista and pointed at his empty cup. She nodded and Zeke jumped up, grabbing the cup as he strode to the counter. He’d never really gotten into the “Tall, Venti” lingo, but the coffee was good, and the atmosphere was pleasant enough this Friday afternoon.

  “Tell me your name,” Zeke said to the barista, as he waited for the refill.

  “I’m Susan.” She handed back his full coffee cup. The fragrance from the coffee was a floral enzymatic odor, and Zeke found it very pleasant.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.” Her glance stayed on his eyes a half second longer than normal, but that happened to him fairly often.

  “No, I’m new to this area, Susan. I just moved in down the street.” He looked out the window and could see the Enclave in th
e distance, a transit-oriented high-rise of new loft apartments, its corner just visible from the coffee shop. He looked back at Susan. She was a thin girl with jet-black hair and pale skin. Not unattractive, but preoccupied serving coffee at this moment. “Call me Zeke,” he said. She was ringing up his refill.

  Truth be known, Zeke had moved into the loft apartment for its location, near Georgia Tech and Olympic Park, and central to Midtown Atlanta. The physical move was fairly straightforward, since he’d rented all of his furniture, and brought only a few essentials, including a couple of good books on his tablet. Zeke most always travelled light.

  Wearing casual jeans and a polo shirt, Zeke looked younger than his 38 years. Susan was shorter than Zeke by several inches, but she had a long, thin look and a pleasant face. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail.

  “Great coffee,” Zeke said to her. Caffeine is great, he thought, but the polyphenols are miraculous. “You know, this stuff gets better and better the more research they do.” He looked around the shop. “It has antioxidant phytochemicals in it that do all kinds of cool things,” he said to no one in particular. Makes it a deal at two dollars a cup, he thought.

  Susan handed Zeke his receipt, and said, “Have a nice day.”

  He smiled without showing any teeth, and returned to his table.

  It was then that the dark man had arrived.

  Chapter 3

  So, where did the blond fellow go who took the backpack? George had seen him leave the coffee shop with a backpack that matched the description of the one he was to take from the dark man, and make his way past him toward the corner. After watching the accident, George ran to the corner and saw him in the distance. He followed the blond man for a few blocks and watched as he used a key to gain access to an apartment complex through a side exit door. He still had the bag slung over his shoulder, and he was carrying a tablet computer.

  George was a professional. That’s why he’d been hired for this exchange. That, his relationship with his employer Jefe, the head of the cartel, and his knowledge about Alberto Cruz. George blended well and took pride in his logistical skills and awareness. Waiting for the blond fellow to re-emerge from the apartments, George had backed across the street and taken a position that allowed him to see the entrances on two sides of the building. A third side was an alley, and the fourth was the rear, or north side of the building. If the blond fellow exited to the north, there was still a good chance that George would see him, once he’d walked a couple hundred feet away from the apartment building. To the north, the road widened and then the campus opened up into a tree-lined grassy area, a commons, which provided a better line of sight than the areas near the buildings.