The Crisp Poleward Sky Read online

  “Well, you can see how difficult this whole thing is,” said Ramirez. “Diaz has too much money to work with. And he spreads it around, which guarantees him some righteous intel.”

  “You have a leak?” asked Zeke.

  “Anything’s possible, I suppose,” said Ramirez. “What do you think? Remember when El Chapo escaped from prison in Mexico? In a mile long tunnel? Everyone in that prison was on his payroll. Had to be.”

  Zeke nodded.

  Ramirez thought for a minute. “But, no, I don’t think we have a leak in this office.”

  “So what’s your plan?” Zeke asked Ramirez.

  “Well, we need to move quickly on this,” said Ramirez. “Our latest information is that Diaz is in town, in Phoenix, for a transaction.”

  “As in buying boys and girls?” asked Zeke.

  “Yep. We think it’s a group from Honduras and El Salvador this time. They’re lured here with promises of a good job, maybe as a cook or a nanny, with a big paycheck. But once they arrive it all changes.”

  “How so?” asked Kimmy.

  “Lots of ways,” said Ramirez. “There’s usually a language barrier, and the traffickers take their identification papers and their money away, if they have any. So they’re told that they’re illegals in this country. Then they’re held somewhere, maybe a warehouse or a rental house, until their captors accumulate enough people for a bulk sale to someone like Diaz. Meantime, the victims of the sex trafficking are raped and locked up, degraded, and mostly given drugs to control them…”

  “So the victims aren’t all brought in for sex trafficking…” started Kimmy.

  Ramirez apparently disliked being interrupted by a woman. He said, over her, “Other than sex trafficking, there’s a big interest in human trafficking for labor.” He directed his comment to Zeke and ignored Kimmy, who just smiled.

  “Domestic work, agriculture, food service, landscaping…even street begging. They bring people in, control them, and threaten them with deportation and injury to their families if they don’t cooperate. It’s a pretty ugly business,” said Ramirez.

  “You said the attackers were ’gang bangers,’ said Zeke. “Where are they from?”

  “They’re not talking yet,” said Ramirez. He shook his head. “But Diaz would know where to find them. It looks like they’re all members of MS-13.” He paused for effect.

  “Mara Salvatrucha,” said Zeke. “The Mara’s. From California and El Salvador. You can confirm it by their tattoos.”

  “Correct, we’re working on that,” said Ramirez, sounding slightly deflated. “They’re all over. Drug smuggling, arms trafficking, carjacking, assault… They wouldn’t hesitate to accept a contract from Diaz to kill you.”

  “So what’s your plan for Diaz?” asked Zeke.

  “We’ve been surveilling the traffickers,” said Ramirez. “They’ve been accumulating victims in a house in west Phoenix. We’ve got a team watching it.”

  Surveilling? thought Zeke. Who says ‘surveilling’?

  “Apparently, they know you’re coming soon,” said Zeke. “They didn’t waste any time trying to sabotage your operation.”

  Ramirez looked slightly offended. “We won’t let that happen,” he said. “We’re going to move tonight.”

  “We’re here to assist,” said Zeke. “Your Director requested that we…”

  “We’ve got this,” Ramirez interrupted, with a sudden flash of anger in his eyes. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here.” He looked around the room. Then he said, “Look, I’ve gotta make a call.”

  * * *

  “The MS-13?” asked Kimmy. “I’ve never run into them.”

  “In from Southern California, with a growing presence in Arizona and in the northeast,” said Zeke. “They’ve made a move into Spain recently, but they’re not very prevalent in Europe, Israel or other parts of the Middle East.”

  “You said they’re from El Salvador?” asked Kimmy.

  They were sitting in the Cartel Coffee Lab, a small coffee shop near Ramirez’s offices. Zeke had an iced coffee and Kimmy was sipping herbal tea. The Bohemian atmosphere of the place complimented Kimmy’s persona. She fits right in, Zeke thought.

  “The gang was started in L.A. by refugees from El Salvador and Honduras. Mara means “gang” from the word ‘marabunta,’ which is some type of fierce ant. The Salvatrucha guerrillas fought in the Salvadorian Civil War all through the 1980s. That name stayed with them: ‘Mara Salvatrucha’. MS-13.”

  “Why 13?” asked Kimmy.

  “From the 13th letter of the alphabet, ‘M,’ for Mara, ‘gang.’ Most all their tattoos are symbolic, and somehow result in symbolic 13’s,” said Zeke. “They’re very proud of the symbolism.”

  “These are bad boys?” asked Kimmy.

  “Their motto is ‘Rape, control, kill,’” said Zeke, “and they do. So, yes.”

  Kimmy’s expression turned grim.

  “How do you read Ramirez?” asked Zeke.

  “Macho,” said Kimmy. “For him, it’s about pride and respect. And he has to be right, be in charge.”

  “Which can get in the way of reality,” said Zeke.

  “Do you think he sees the leak?” she asked. She took a sip.

  “Probably not. Maybe in a general sense,” said Zeke. “But he wouldn’t want to admit it to himself, despite what he says.”

  “So we work around him?” she asked.

  “We do our jobs, and we make sure he doesn’t get in the way.”

  “And tonight?” asked Kimmy.

  “You heard the man. Tonight we observe the raid.”

  Chapter 2

  Zeke reviewed the file. The house was a one-story structure with a neat dirt yard and a shingled roof. Most of the houses on the street looked similar, even identical. Built by the same developer, he thought.

  There was a carport and a brick accent wall, and a large cactus in the middle of the front yard. Strings of Christmas lights were still hanging from the fascia board. There was no activity evident.

  Zeke studied the pictures of the house, taken from the front and side, as well as the aerial close-up provided by Ramirez’s team. He could easily approximate the layout of the house, and his estimates were confirmed by a builder’s blueprint.

  “It’s small,” said Jose Fernandez, Ramirez’s second in command. Fernandez was a Unit Commander in DHS’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency. His team had been preparing for the takedown.

  “How many are inside?” asked Zeke.

  “We think there are as many as fifteen people crammed in there,” said Fernandez. “We’ve been watching for a while. Only two people ever go in and out of the house, but from what they bring with them, food and such, and the frequency of their visits to resupply, we think there’s a crowd in there.”

  “When do we do it?” asked Zeke.

  “We moved the schedule up after the attack on you. We go tonight,” said Fernandez. “But you’re not part of it. You observe only.”

  Zeke looked at Fernandez. “Ramirez’s orders,” he said, and shook his head.

  “Have you been with this agency long?” Zeke asked Fernandez.

  “Since before we worked for DHS,” said the Commander. “So, yeah.”

  Zeke nodded to himself. “Diaz won’t be at the house, though.”

  “No, we’re not lucky enough for that. He’ll make the payoff remotely, and the illegals will be transported to his people and put to work. Diaz won’t dirty his hands,” said Fernandez.

  “We won’t be able to convict him then,” said Zeke.

  “No, unless we can flip one of the handlers or one of the transporters.”

  “The ones that are hands-on with the victims?” asked Zeke.

  “Right. But it hasn’t happened yet.”

  * * *

  Six heavily armed ICE agents exited the black SWAT truck in a single-file run, stocks on their shoulders, rifles up and pointed along their line of sight. The truck was parked in the driveway of a
suburban ranch home, and they edged along the side of the house and into the back yard. The owner’s black poodle was barking frantically from inside the house.

  “Target is directly behind, over the hedge,” said the Team Leader into his com device. “On my count.”

  The team of ICE agents assembled on the near side of the hedge, crouching to leave no profile. When they were in position, the Team Leader called, “Stand by.”

  At 4:23 AM, on Jose Fernandez’s signal, which was a double click on his open radio microphone, a buzz-buzz sound, all hell broke loose. The six armored ICE agents, who were wearing steel helmets and face paint and carrying Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns, stormed the three entrance doors of the small bungalow in Glendale. Two of the agents breached the front door, which led directly into the living area and was closest to the bedrooms. Two agents entered through the kitchen door, located under the carport. The remaining two agents entered the house through the rear sliding glass door, which also gave access to the kitchen. They met at a small round table that was littered with dirty dishes and empty plastic cups.

  The entry was anything but quiet, and anything but orderly. The front door burst open and the ICE agents crashed into the small living space yelling commands and screaming, pointing their floodlights and their weapons everywhere.

  Tense, the team leader waited, listening for gunfire, shouts or radio communications.

  “I have five souls in the rear bedroom,” said a voice over the radio. “Had to knock a padlock off the door.”

  A moment passed.

  “Check that, six souls, female,” said another voice. Then, away from the radio he said, “Restrain them.”

  “Clear,” called another voice. “Living room and kitchen are clear.”

  “Hall bathroom is clear,” another contributed.

  “Six souls in the master bedroom,” said another voice. “All female, all Hispanic.”

  The Team Leader heard frightened voices speaking rapid Spanish, pleading for mercy. “Please don’t send us back,” he heard a woman’s voice calling out, over and over again.

  “Anyone else in there?” he asked. “Are we clear? Are we secure?”

  “I have five more souls locked in a spare bedroom,” said another voice.

  The house was only 1,600 square feet in size and had a total of five rooms and two bathrooms. It took less than four minutes for the team to secure the premises and begin the process of restraining the frightened women.

  “Aye, Skipper,” said one of the agents over the radio. “No bogeys, seventeen souls. We’re clear.”

  Within thirty seconds, everyone present was subdued, restrained with zip ties and lying face down in rows on the floor. A more thorough search confirmed that there were seventeen people in the house, mostly teenagers and young adults, and all female.

  * * *

  Across the street, Zeke and Kimmy had observed the action from a car parked in a neighboring driveway.

  “That’ll disrupt the transaction,” said Zeke, “but Diaz and his contacts won’t be touched. They’re too smart to be caught with the victims.”

  “Doesn’t seem right,” said Kimmy. “Any chance one of the handlers will flip on him?”

  “Flipping on Diaz would likely be a death sentence,” said Zeke. “But if they stay quiet and do their jail time, they stay alive, and their families are cared for financially.”

  “So how do we get to the guys at the top? The Director of DHS hired us for Benito Diaz, not these low level guys, right?”

  “Yep. Let’s start with what we have. Benito Diaz won’t be happy about this raid. And I’m thinking it may keep him in town longer than he’d planned.”

  * * *

  “The local guys wanted the takedown themselves,” said Zeke. “Wouldn’t let Kimmy and me help out.”

  Zeke and Kimmy were sitting in Zeke’s room, sipping hotel coffee from paper cups. Zeke was talking with Clive on a secure cell phone, his speakerphone activated.

  “They wouldn’t? That’s odd. The Deputy Director contacted me personally. He implied that the southwest offices of ICE were cowboys. A bit out of control,” said Clive.

  “That’s an accurate description,” said Kimmy. “The Special Agent in Charge here is making up the rules as he goes.”

  “Hmm,” said Clive. “Well, no harm, I guess. How about the assassins who met you at the ICE offices? Anything there?”

  “Four are in custody,” said Zeke.

  “Four of eight?” asked Clive.

  “Well, yes,” said Zeke with a small smile toward Kimmy. “They were outnumbered.”

  “Quite so,” said Clive.

  “How did they know about you, do you think? About your arrival?” Clive asked.

  “The timing was almost perfect, so they must have been waiting for my arrival at the airport, then saw me deplane and meet up with Kimmy.”

  “Had Kimmy been to the DHS offices prior to your visit?” asked Clive.

  “I had not,” Kimmy said. She’d hopped up and circled the bed and was standing at the window. “I talked with Ramirez on the phone, but just to let him know that we were planning to visit.”

  “So you think there’s a leak in the organization?” Clive asked.

  “Almost certainly,” said Zeke. “Benito Diaz runs a well oiled machine. He undoubtedly has law enforcement on his payroll. Federal as well as local, I’d guess.”

  “So you’re planning to interrogate them? The assassins?” said Clive.

  “Yes, after they’re arraigned tomorrow morning.” said Zeke.

  “By that time, I’ll be on a plane back to D.C.,” said Kimmy. “I’m returning tomorrow.”

  “Quite so,” said Clive. “Good.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” said Zeke.

  “We’ll be very interested in the outcome, old boy,” said Clive.

  * * *

  “It’s a real uphill battle,” said Jorge Ramirez. “These guys aren’t going to say anything against Benito Diaz.”

  Zeke nodded. They were waiting in a small, concrete block room with a single window and a metal door. The window was a mirror on the inside, and the door had a small glass area, about five feet off the ground and center, to allow the guards to determine who was on the other side before they opened it.

  Ramirez and Zeke stood at the heavy aluminum table that was centered in the room, but positioned toward the back wall. A single aluminum chair was bolted to the floor behind the table. The chair was empty. Two more portable chairs sat empty across the table and a video camera on a tripod was positioned beside the far end of the table.

  “You think we’ll get anything from the Mara’s?” Zeke asked, watching Ramirez.

  “No, I don’t,” said the Agent. “We’ve been through all this. They won’t give Diaz up. They won’t give anyone up.” He was blinking rapidly.

  Zeke nodded and looked away.

  “These guys are all liars anyway,” said Ramirez. “They don’t know what the truth is. You know they’re lying because their mouths are moving, you know?”

  Zeke said, “Sure.”

  “Look, we’ve interviewed these guys already, and we’re going to interview them again, anyway. And I can tell you from experience, they won’t say anything. They’re scared to death of Diaz,” said Ramirez. “They know he’ll flay them with a dull fish knife.”

  “He’s a bad dude,” said Zeke, mostly to himself.

  “He is. And as bad as the Mara’s are, they’ve got two reasons not to give him up,” Jorge Ramirez continued.

  “How do you figure?” asked Zeke.

  “First, they know all about the repercussions, the fallout from Diaz’s fury. It’ll touch them, their families, their brothers in the gang…everyone. A total scorched earth approach.”

  “What’s the second reason? Asked Zeke.

  “Financial. They know that talking would be the end of their financial arrangement with Benito Diaz. And honestly, he makes them a lot of money.”

&nbs
p; Zeke said, “Makes sense.”

  “I’m not sure what you think you’ll be able to get out of this. We’ve done everything there is to do. They just won’t talk. It’s a waste of time.” He stared at Zeke intently.

  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” said Zeke. “We can cancel all of this. You’ve convinced me there’s nothing here.”

  Ramirez paused for a moment. Then he visibly relaxed and a small smile crossed his face. “OK, sorry to waste your time,” he said, and he moved to the door and rang the bell that called the guard.

  Zeke said, “I’d like to interview one of the women from the raid last night, though. One of the victims.”

  “Sure,” said Ramirez easily. Then to the guard as he exited the room, “We’re closing this down. Cancel the interviews with the Mara’s. Bring us one of the vic’s from the raid instead.”

  The guard nodded.

  * * *

  “She doesn’t speak English,” said Agent Ramirez. “Should I get a translator for you?”

  Zeke was sitting across the aluminum table from him, waiting for one of the victims to be brought into the small room for questioning. The video camera was still on a tripod next to the table, and there was a manila folder in front of Ramirez on the table with a DHS/ICE stamp on the front of it.

  “No worries,” said Zeke, absently.

  “You speak Spanish?” asked the agent. “Street Spanish from El Salvador?”

  Zeke smiled. “Sure,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Ramirez. “Vea.”

  “Yep, for real. Vea. I speak fluent Arabic, too.”

  “Huh,” said Ramirez, and he looked away, suddenly disinterested.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and a uniformed female ICE agent escorted a girl into the room. The girl was thin and angular and had short, black hair. Her features gave the impression that there was some Indian blood in her lineage.

  She sat, and Ramirez said, “Hola, Rosita,” in a condescending tone.