The Mica

By Darwin Little

Zack Starr is a Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) agent embedded with US Homeland Security in Washington, DC. Zack's job is to find Canadian-based threats against America and stop them. He has found
nothing much worth pursuing, until now.

Zack's investigation into the murders of two American Mohawk Indians who were couriering cash across the border leads to a discovery.

The date of the attack is set. The scope of death and destruction will be unparalleled.
The result will be catastrophic for Canada and America. A hired team of killers is heading to a place called The Mica - Canada's most vulnerable high-value target and best kept secret.

As the clock ticks down to the date of the attack, Zack and his career-driven
supervisor, FBI Agent, Monica Stevens scramble to put the pieces of the
puzzle together that will stop the disaster.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781773705996

Book preview

Chapter 1

John Barker Jr. sat waiting in his car on a deserted gravel road a few miles outside the town of Hogansburg, New York. His thick fingers were drumming the steering wheel. He took a swallow from his third can of Bud. His eyes moved to the rear view mirror. In the distance he could see dust rising from the gravel road, a vehicle was coming. If it was the police, he would have a problem on his hands.

Barker was waiting for a man whose name was Joe Smoke. Joe was in his early twenties, a Mohawk who lived somewhere around Hogansburg. Barker had met the man twice before: once about a year earlier to agree on the terms of what the Indian would do for him, and then about eight months ago, when the first delivery of cash was smuggled across the border. Barker didn’t know much about Joe other than he was a smuggler and a criminal, which was what he needed.

A late model Ford F250 pulled up behind Barker’s rental and skidded to a stop in the dirt. The Indian hopped out of his truck and ambled toward the car. Barker drained his beer and rolled his six-one, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame out of the vehicle. He placed his white cowboy hat on his head and pulled it down low over his eyes.

Joe was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that promoted some rock band that Barker had never heard of. The Indian had jet-black hair with a thick ponytail that hung to the center of his back. He had a small frame but possessed a wiry build that indicated the Indian could take care of himself if he had to. A one inch scar under his left cheek was evidence that he had seen some violence in his past.

You’re late, Barker said.

I was working on my boat and lost track of time, the Mohawk replied, as though that made it okay.

Barker handed a locked briefcase and an envelope to Joe.

The Mohawk glanced at the contents of the envelope, which contained five thousand dollars in cash, and smiled. I get another ten thousand on delivery?

Barker nodded. Joe said nothing, he turned on his heel and headed back to his truck with the envelope and the briefcase. He jumped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, slammed the transmission into drive and sped away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake for Barker to breathe.

The big man stood by his car and watched the Indian drive into the distance. He reached through the window, pulled out another beer and cracked it open. Barker pushed the brim of his hat back and scratched his day-old beard. That briefcase contained one hundred thousand dollars in cash. If the Indian failed to deliver it, Barker would need to hand over another hundred thousand to the men on the other side of the border, and then find the Indian and kill him. No matter what happened, the Indian was going to die.

•••••••

Joe pulled his truck up to the dilapidated dock on the St. Lawrence River. He could see his cousin’s silhouette, sitting in their speedboat. Joe and his cousin, Robert, smuggled cigarettes from Canada to the USA three times a week. The cigarettes were illegally manufactured on the Canadian Akwesasne Mohawk First Nations Reserve with tobacco stolen from farms all over southern Ontario and Quebec. It was a booming business, and Joe and Robert were making a small fortune. Tonight they were going to make a small detour from their normal smuggling route to deliver the briefcase. The fifteen-thousand dollars was well worth the extra half hour they would need to spend on the river tonight.

Joe walked to the boat. He held the briefcase in one hand and the envelope in the other. He raised them both in the air and grinned at his cousin as he jumped from the dock to the boat.

Easy money, Joe said.

Nothin’s ever easy, Robert replied. He turned the key and the marine engine rumbled to life. Robert nosed the throttle forward and angled the powerful boat north up the river.

•••••••

Joe sat shivering in the passenger seat, studying the GPS unit. The darkened boat howled up the St. Lawrence River at almost forty miles an hour. The hull pounded against the waves as they powered their way toward the invisible Canadian border. The engine noise was too loud for any conversation with his cousin, so he sat hunched behind the windshield, straining to see ahead in the murky darkness. His cousin was perched on the back of the driver’s seat with his head exposed above the windshield. The cool night air blasted into Robert’s face; his long, black hair streamed wildly behind him.

They were approaching the drop coordinates and Joe struggled to see any signal from the shoreline. A thick cloud blanketed the sky, blotting out any light from the stars and the moon. The shoreline blended into the inky blackness of the river.

In the distance, a faint light blinked three times on the remote shoreline. Joe reached over and tapped his cousin on the shoulder and pointed in the direction from which the signal had come. Robert pulled back on the throttle and steered toward the shore. Both cousins glanced at each other. They knew there was a large amount of cash in the briefcase, but double-crossing the Texan could be bad for their health. They would make the delivery and be happy with the fee they had been offered.

Robert killed the engine, and the boat glided to a stop in the gravel a few feet from shore. The sound of the water lapping against the beach was all they could hear in the still spring night. Three Middle Eastern men were standing on the shore, wearing long, heavy coats. These were the same three men Joe and Robert had delivered a briefcase of cash to eight months ago.

Joe grinned at the sight of the men waiting on the shoreline. It was a cool spring night, but these desert dwellers looked like they were dressed for a winter blizzard.

One of the foreigners pulled the boat up onto the beach. Joe hopped down to the gravel shore with briefcase in hand.

You have ten thousand for me, and this briefcase is yours, Joe said, his eyes shifting from one man to the next.

The man who had brought the boat ashore reached under his jacket and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. The wooden stock was crudely cut into a handgun grip, the barrel shortened by two feet. The entire length was no more than two-and-a-half feet, easy to conceal under the cumbrous jacket. The man’s two associates followed suit with shotguns of their own.

F…u…c…k, Robert said from his position in the boat behind Joe.

The smile disappeared from Joe’s face, and he raised his hands in a confused surrender.

The man in command had a handsome face, and even in the darkness, his deep brown eyes sparkled with life. A diamond stud glinted in his left ear. His long, black hair was slicked back and hanging to his shoulders. He offered Joe a perfect Hollywood smile.

Joe began to relax when he saw the smile, there had been a misunderstanding, and everything would be okay.

The blast from the shotgun punched a six-inch hole through the center of Joe’s chest. He careened backward to the boat and bounced off the hull, into the water. The two other gunmen pulled their triggers a split second after Joe was hit. Robert’s head and chest exploded in a red mist.

The sound of the blasts echoed across the water and then there was quiet again. The three men said nothing. The leader watched his two men struggle to throw Joe’s corpse into the boat. They pushed the expensive machine adrift on the St. Lawrence River.

Bahaar kneeled down, dialed in the combination to the briefcase and popped the latches. Opening the case, he felt a sense of relief at seeing the neat bundles of American cash. The Iranian had come through again. The final preparations could now be made.

He closed the case, stood and peered into the blackness around them. The shoreline was deserted. He smiled at his men. It was a beautiful spring night in Quebec.

Chapter 2

Agent Zack Starr was sitting in his cubicle at eight fifteen a.m., sipping his morning latte from Starbucks. His feet were resting against his desktop as he leaned precariously backward in his office chair. He was reading a report about a double murder of two American Mohawks in Quebec. The men were suspected of being involved in a smuggling operation that had gone bad. Smuggling was nothing new in that part of the country: the Mohawks had been ferrying illegal goods across the border for decades. Murder was not common in this kind of activity. Most smugglers thought of their work as a victimless crime. Competition amongst the smugglers rarely lead to violence, they all seemed to work together to thwart Government intervention.

The email from the Quebec Provincial Police was superficial. The investigation had not lasted long before the detective in charge gave up. Zack twirled his wooden pencil like a helicopter blade on the tips of his fingers and tried to imagine the circumstances around the Mohawks’ murder. He was looking at the yellowing ceiling tiles suspended above him. On impulse, he threw his pencil upward and the tip imbedded in the cheap roofing.

Shit, he mumbled. How the hell am I going to get that down?

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Monica Stevens appeared while he was staring at his dilemma stuck in the ceiling. She raised her eyes slowly to look at the pencil and then back down to focus on Zack. She wasn’t smiling. He jerked his feet from his desktop and sat up straight.

Top of the morning to you, Agent Stevens, Zack said with his best Irish accent.

Are you Irish?

No.

I didn’t think so. I can see you’re very busy finding new reasons to requisition a pencil. I don’t suppose you’ve had time to read the report on the Mohawk murders?

Holy shit, this woman is on top of everything. I was just going over that now, he said.

What do you think?

If they were killed smuggling cigarettes, it’s a matter for the local police. If they were killed for other reasons, it might fall to us. It could be worth a follow-up to see what the circumstances were. The report is light on detail.

Agreed. Why don’t you call the FBI field office in New York and see if they’re looking at this? If you think it has merit, check it out. Don’t spend too much time on it unless you get the feeling there’s more to it than cigarettes. Let me know.

Got it, will do.

She nodded, glanced at the roof again and then turned away.

Zack watched Monica march back to her office. He nodded his head in appreciation: smart, aggressive, unmarried, attractive and all business. She was the senior officer responsible for the US Homeland International group to which Zack belonged. When she spoke, everyone listened. Her career was on the fast track. She was going places.

Zack looked up at the pencil and smirked. He wasn’t too sure where his career was going. He was the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS) liaison agent embedded with the US Homeland Security Department in Washington, DC. His role was to provide assistance in investigations that affected Canada and the USA. In fact, many countries from around the world had liaison personnel working on his floor, with a singular focus on helping to counter international crime and terrorism.

Zack was a five-year veteran of CSIS. He had worked in two different embassies as an analyst and surveillance agent. At the age of thirty-one, he had had an unremarkable career with Canada’s security service. His cubicle was located on the fifth floor of a nondescript six-story concrete and glass building on the corner of 7th Street and Virginia Avenue in Washington.

Each day he sat in his cubicle and pored over reports of interest that had been emailed to him from CSIS, Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), and Provincial and Municipal police forces across Canada. His job was to look for anything unusual, or any patterns that might indicate a new threat or crime that needed to be communicated within the Homeland Security apparatus. There were many more reports than time to review them. When Zack got too backlogged, he would simply delete his older, unread email and pray he had not missed something critical.

He searched his phone list and called the FBI office in New York. With any luck at all, he would find a reason to get out of the office and do some real work.

Chapter 3

Barker hated flying. Even in the larger seats of American Airlines business class, his body wouldn’t fit. He had just stepped off a direct flight from Dallas to Calgary. It still felt like the sides of the seats were digging into his thighs.

He wanted to keep a low profile during this trip. Although there was no hiding the record of his entrance into Canada, he wanted his electronic footprint to be untraceable for the balance of the journey.

The Canadian Boarder Service officers were all dressed in Gestapo-looking uniforms and wore bulletproof vests. The vests were just for intimidation. How was anyone supposed to have an undetected gun at this stage of the journey?

Purpose of your visit? the stone-faced, female boarder service officer asked.

I’m on vacation, ma’am.

Do you have any weapons or contraband in your luggage?

I have a huntin’ knife. I’m going camping in the wilderness, and I just might need it, he said in his relaxed drawl.

The matron paused and looked at Barker for a few seconds. Have a nice day, she said and pounded a stamp into his passport.

Barker rented a truck at the airport and stopped at a Mountain Equipment Co-op store on the way out of Calgary. The retailer was advertised as selling everything the outdoor enthusiast would need. He wanted to buy a few supplies for his trip. He purchased the highest powered binoculars in the store and a warm jacket, gloves and hiking boots. He paid cash for everything.

It was a four-hour drive from Calgary to the town of Revelstoke where Barker stopped for the night. The town had a population of eight and a half thousand people and survived on logging and tourism. From Revelstoke, it was an hour and a half’s drive north on Highway 23 to the Mica Dam. He would spend the night in Revelstoke and leave first thing in the morning to spend the day completing his final reconnaissance at the Mica.

Chapter 4

Zack’s plane touched down at New York’s JFK Airport on the short-hop flight from Washington. FBI Agent Stan Williams met him at the airport. Stan was a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound, thirty-year-old African American, who had ten years of field experience. The two agents shook hands and then pushed their way through the crowds at JFK. They left the airport and hopped into a parked FBI vehicle located just outside the main terminal.

During their phone conversation yesterday, Stan had said he was heading to Hogansburg to interview a girlfriend of one of the deceased Smoke cousins. Stan was happy to have the company for the drive north. The two agents had an animated conversation on the way, covering a wide range of topics not related to the case.

As they approached their destination, the discussion turned to the reasons for Zack’s interest in the case.

I don’t know, Zack said. People don’t get killed smuggling cigarettes. It just seems to me there could be more to this.

Maybe, Stan acknowledged, but you’re dealing with criminals and when money’s involved, there can always be violence.

Okay, I’ll give you that. To be honest with you, I was looking for something to get me out of my cubicle. Even if it’s a one-day investigation, it gives me something to investigate. I haven’t been in the field in over a month.

Stan nodded and smiled. I understand. I couldn’t stand to be chained to a desk all day. The thing I love most about this job is that I’m never in the office. It’s not always exciting and doesn’t always lead to anything concrete, but I’m out in the world looking for answers, and that’s what I joined up for.

They drove in silence as they approached Hogansburg. Zack pondered the usefulness of his current position at Homeland Security. He was beginning to think he should never have taken the transfer to Washington. He’d been working in Dubai when the Washington posting had come up eight months ago and he had jumped at the opportunity, thinking the action would be nonstop. Wrong.

The two agents pulled up in front of a small, well-kept bungalow on the outskirts of Hogansburg. The home was maybe thirty years old. The homes surrounding it were of the same vintage but didn’t show the same pride of ownership. Two newer-model cars and what looked to be a brand-new truck were parked at the house.

An attractive young Native American woman opened the front door as Zack and Stan approached. She was in her mid-twenties, fit, with gleaming, long black hair that hung down her back and touched the waistband of her jeans. Her swollen red eyes betrayed the forced smile she gave the visitors.

One of you must be Agent Williams? I’m Tina Swamp, the woman said.

Stan extended his hand and gave a disarming smile. As he shook Tina’s outstretched hand, he nodded at Zack and said, This is Agent Starr from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service.

A look of surprise crossed Tina’s face, followed by annoyance. She cocked her head. I thought the Canadian investigation was over? I wouldn’t even call it an investigation, for the effort that was made.

Zack understood the woman’s frustration as he recalled the Provincial Police detective’s half-hearted report.

No, ma’am. We’re still following leads to see where they take us, Zack replied, which was true on some level.

Tina led the two men into a well-furnished living room. Two large vases of fresh cut flowers sat on end tables, framing an oversized leather couch. Three heavyset Native American men were sitting on wooden kitchen chairs that had been positioned in the living room for this discussion.

These are my uncles, Tina said.

She didn’t introduce the men, and Zack sensed they were ill at ease in the presence of the two agents. Stan and Zack took a seat on the couch, facing the three men. Tina sat on the edge of a fourth chair in front of them. She took a deep breath. Her lip began to tremble, but she appeared determined to get her story out.

Joe and I have lived together for a few years. He’s been smuggling cigarettes from Canada with his cousin for the entire time I’ve known him. He wasn’t murdered for smuggling cigarettes. He smuggles with my uncles, who live on both sides of the border. She pointed to the three men, who began to tense up in their seats. Joe and Robert never showed up for the cigarette pickup on the Canadian side the night they were killed.

Do you have any idea what might have happened? Zack asked. He looked from her to her stoic uncles. The men didn’t say a word.

Joe and Robert were killed delivering a package to the other side of the border. They were going to be paid fifteen thousand dollars for the delivery. They had made a delivery once before for the same guy.

Did Joe know what they were delivering? Drugs? asked Stan.

It wasn’t drugs. It was American cash, or at least that’s what it was last time. The Texan assured Joe it wasn’t drugs they were delivering, and if he was caught with the package, he would get a slap on the wrist. Joe concluded it would be a delivery of cash again, Tina said.

Texan? Stan asked.

Joe met with the guy a year ago at a bar in town. He didn’t know how the guy found him or how he knew he smuggled cigarettes. He only said the guy was from Texas; he was a big guy. He wanted a package taken over the border and would pay cash for the delivery. The guy had told Joe it was a large amount of cash, and if they didn’t deliver it as promised, he would kill them. Joe made a delivery about eight months ago, and he was doing it for the same man the night he died. He left around suppertime to go meet the guy, and I never saw him again.

Tina’s resolute facade cracked. Tears welled up in her eyes and then poured out over her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders vibrated as she began to sob.

The three stone-faced men sat looking at Tina, their eyes reflecting the shared guilt they felt for the woman’s pain. One of the men stood up and walked over to his niece. He kneeled down and put a beefy arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The room was silent as the men let Tina’s emotions run their course.

As Tina became quiet,