Speargrass-Vengeance: Speargrass Series, #2

By Dwayne Clayden

The justice system has failed the Speargrass Tribe.  Until Now.

 

Sheriff Franklyn Eaglechild is in the midst of an acrimonious Speargrass Tribal election, as opioids destroy the lives of tribe members.

Then he responds to his first murder—scattered bones. Soon, a second body is discovered. This one was more gruesome than the last.

 

At the same time, DEA Agent Riley Briggs is dealing with toxic fentanyl arriving in Montana.

 

Mexican cartels are taking advantage of the United States and Mexico border chaos by shipping pure fentanyl and Mexican-produced methamphetamine into the US in amounts previously unseen.

 

Acting on a tip, Agent Briggs intercepts a customized bus traveling through Montana.

What he finds inside the bus is beyond his worst nightmare.

Money Laundering. Drug Smuggling. People Trafficking.

 

What comes next can't be survived.

 

The thrilling sequel to Speargrass-Opioid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dwayne Clayden
• Release date: Nov 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989912171

Dwayne Clayden

Dwayne Clayden combines his knowledge and experience as a police officer and paramedic to write realistic crime thrillers. Crisis Point, Dwayne’s first novel, was a finalist for the 2015 Crime Writers of Canada, Arthur Ellis Awards. OutlawMC and Wolfman is Back are the second and third novels in the Brad Coulter Thriller Series. The Brad Coulter Series continues in 2020 with 13 Days of Terror. In August 2020 Dwayne released the first novel in a new western thriller series, Speargrass-Opioid. In his 42 year career, Dwayne served as a police officer, paramedic, tactical paramedic, firefighter, emergency medical services (EMS) chief, educator, and academic chair. Dwayne is a popular speaker at conferences and to writing groups presenting on realistic police, medical, and paramedic procedures. The co-author of four paramedic textbooks, he has spoken internationally at EMS conferences for the past three decades.

Book preview

Chapter One

Speargrass, Montana

The flames from a bonfire twisted up into the darkness. Wood crackled and embers blasted out in red arcs. The glow diminished and the dead coals floated harmlessly to the ground.

A piercing scream echoed through the trees. A dull thud, followed by another—a club hitting something hollow. Which is exactly what was happening. The club swung forward again, impacting the naked man’s stomach.

He wanted to bend over, curl up, but he couldn’t. A ten-inch fence post had been driven deep into the ground. The one-inch leather straps around his chest, stomach, pelvis, and upper legs held him securely to the post. A two-inch leather strap crossed his forehead, pulling his head back into an unnatural position.

He couldn’t see his attackers, and his head wasn’t back far enough to see the stars. Only the darkness of a new moon and the shadows of the ancient pines filled his vision.

The club passed from one person to the next, each taking a swing. No one spoke.

It wasn’t a ritual, but it was sacred. It was about taking control back. It was about power. This was only the first step, the first time. But there’d be others. Their message would eventually be heard, even though their voices weren’t. Actions speak louder than words. At least, that’s what they hoped. Enough was enough.

When the club had made a full circle, it was set aside. The dark, hooded figures stepped forward, one at a time, and punched the man in the face.

When they were done, they each wrapped their hands around his throat and squeezed until he was almost unconscious, then they released their grip. He’d gasp for air and when his breathing was under control, the next person stepped forward.

He tried to speak, to beg them to stop, but all that came out was a squeak. His breathing was labored all the time. Being choked repeatedly had damaged his trachea and voice box.

The leader pulled a branding iron out of the fire and pressed the burning metal to the man’s chest. Skin sizzled. The odor of burning flesh caused some to step back and gag.

The man overcame any damage to his throat and screamed. His cries reverberated through the valley, like an animal in intense pain. Which he was. An animal and in pain. That was the point.

He whimpered like an injured dog.

They cut the leather straps and let him fall to the ground. They dragged him away from the post, lay him on the ground, and tied other leather strips around each of his hands and feet. Four of them pulled the leather away from his body. Then the leather strips were secured to the ground with pegs.

His path was clear. He wouldn’t pass through purgatory. He’d go straight to hell.

The leader pulled a skinning knife out of its sheath.

Chapter Two

Mexico/Arizona Border

The men walked single file along a well-worn path through the darkness. They had chosen Sunday night for a reason. It was a new moon. No light from the sky to illuminate them. That was good. The only bad part was stumbling around in the dark. The coyote in the lead knew the path well and set a grueling pace. The men had been walking for weeks, twelve to eighteen hours a day, and were lean and strong. The heavy backpacks didn’t slow them down.

The surge of more than a thousand immigrants had marched from Guatemala along the west coast of Mexico through San Luis Rio, Colorado, to the Arizona/Mexico border. People joined and left the march along the way.

Customs and Border Protection teams from hundreds of miles away were brought in. It wasn’t near enough. Around Yuma, over nine hundred illegals flooded the border each day.

This group of twelve separated from the primary group, taking a different route.

They’d spent the day hidden in an abandoned house near Las Adelitas. Once darkness settled in, they were driven east and dropped off a mile from the Arizona-Mexico border.

Because of the surge of illegals during the day, there were no CBP agents able to work the night shift. The Arizona Governor had called up the National Guard, but they wouldn’t arrive until late morning tomorrow. By then, the immigrants and the backpacks would be far into the US.

They slipped through a gap in the unfinished border wall and hiked through the night, reaching state highway 195 before dawn. Two black passenger vans picked them up and continued north to Yuma. During the day, they hid in an old warehouse and were fed. They tried to sleep in the stifling heat. After dark, three customized buses, like rock stars use, entered the warehouse. The twelve men were separated into three groups of four and entered the buses for the three-day trip north.

Chapter Three

Speargrass, Montana

Monday Morning

Sheriff Franklyn Eaglechild followed a narrow path down a sandy bluff onto the flatlands between the hill and the river. Ember, his silver-and-black multi-breed dog, raced ahead, nose to the ground, searching for the smaller critters hidden in the tall green grass.

He jogged at a steady pace east toward the townsite.

In July, during a joint-task-force operation in Montana between the Drug Enforcement Agency and Franklyn’s Sheriff’s Department on the Speargrass Reservation, he’d hit rock bottom with his addiction to opioids.

With the help of an elder, Silas Powderhorn, Franklyn was on the road to recovery. Several days of detoxifying in a sweat lodge had been followed by days of a liquid-only diet—an herbal drink Silas provided that had been passed down for generations. It had tasted like wood bark and cow dung. When he didn’t have the energy to put one foot in front of the other, Powderhorn had led Franklyn into the hills and they hunted.

Powderhorn took down a white-tailed deer. After a week of no solid food, the meat tasted heavenly.

You are on the path to recovery, Powderhorn had said. Tomorrow, you will run. Meet me at the old campsite at 6 AM.

The next morning, Powderhorn, on an old Indian motorcycle, had led Franklyn through ten miles of hills and flatlands. It had taken Franklyn five hours. After fifteen minutes, his legs cramped. At an hour, he vomited for the first time. He hit the wall at three hours and wanted to die.

He didn’t remember the fourth and fifth hours. In the sixth hour, they hit the flatlands where the bison grazed on the sweet prairie grass.

The next few days had been a blur of exhaustion and unbearable pain.

He now completed the circuit on his own, and in under two hours. He’d lost twenty-five pounds of excess fat, toned his legs, and was in the best shape of his thirty-seven years.

The townsite grew larger as Franklyn jogged. Just past the new school, he veered right to the arena.

Franklyn had been renovating an old house until arsonists struck in the middle of the night, almost killing Franklyn and Ember. The house burned to the ground. Now Franklyn lived in his truck and camper parked at the hockey arena.

He stopped outside and turned on the hose. He let the cold water fall on his head and flow down his back. Ember barked at his side. When Franklyn felt cooled off, he knelt and held the end of the hose out to Ember. Thirst quenched, Ember lay panting under a tree in the shade.

Franklyn headed into the arena, showered, and shaved. He pulled his long black hair back and worked it into a low braid. Being the Sheriff limited your fashion choices. Tan uniform shirt, black jeans, and non-issue cowboy boots. The day he’d ordered new uniform shirts two sizes smaller was a milestone in his recovery. He pulled his duty belt out of the gym bag and clipped it to the belt on his jeans. He unlocked his pistol, inserted a magazine, and chambered a round. Last but most important was his signature tan Stetson.

Ember raced to the truck and jumped in when Franklyn opened the door.

Franklyn drove to the two-story brick Tribal Administration Building. Ember jumped out of the truck and went hunting for gophers. Franklyn headed up the front steps and into the lobby. He turned left at the huge bison head mounted on the wall, through the security door, and up the stairs to his office.

When he entered, his assistant, Paulette White Quills, was already at her desk, eyes focused on the computer. You’re late again.

I went for a run this morning.

Well, then you went late. Is this what I have to deal with in the future? You’ll be late for work every day?

Franklyn stopped at the coffeemaker and poured a large cup. He couldn’t function without Paulette. Not only did she keep him in line, but she ran herd on the deputies as well. She wasn’t much over five foot six and one thirty, but that didn’t hold her back. Franklyn might be the Sheriff, but Paulette ran the place. Once he’d let her glasses and ponytail lull him into thinking he was dealing with a schoolgirl. Only once. She could chew you out and leave you in a puddle on the floor. Then search for her next target.

That was her public image. Outside of the spotlight, she was a kind and caring person and watched over Franklyn like a den mother. She’d stood by him in his downward addiction spiral and was a big reason Franklyn got the help he needed.

Is there something pressing I need to attend to? Franklyn asked.

Not really. Paulette’s brown eyes stayed on the computer screen and her fingers flashed across the keys at her usual eighty words a minute.

Franklyn watched her as he sipped his coffee.

She stopped typing and glared. You need me for something?

Franklyn shook his head.

Then stop hovering over me. I have work to do. Why don’t you review the resumes for the vacant deputy position?

Chastised, Franklyn headed to his office, tossed his Stetson on his file cabinet, and set his coffee on his desk. He sat in his office chair, grabbed the file folders, swung the chair toward the window, and sat back with one boot against a credenza behind his desk.

Franklyn yawned and opened the first file: Scout Rider. He was a firefighter and really the only one of the three firefighters on the Rez who showed any interest in the job. He’d show up at fires in the middle of the night and on weekends when the fire chief and other firefighter wouldn’t be seen. There wasn’t much a lone firefighter could do, but at least he showed initiative.

Franklyn liked Rider but wasn’t sure he had the disposition to be a deputy. His file was on top because the tribal policy was to hire internally first. Second would be someone from the tribe, not currently working. Depending on their family genealogy, Franklyn could expect some pressure from the Chief or Tribal Councilors to hire the candidate. Sometimes their names appeared when they hadn’t even applied.

Franklyn flipped through the next files quickly. A drug dealer. A man with five impaired charges. Two with firearms prohibitions. And a sixteen-year-old, who was the best prospect.

The next folders contained candidates from off the Rez—some Native American, others not.

He discarded most candidates quickly. One candidate stood out from the rest. Blackfeet Tribe. On paper, he seemed perfect.

Paulette’s head popped through the doorway. She came into the office. Lefebvre needs you at an assault.

Well, isn’t that timely? Franklyn tossed the last file folder on his desk, grabbed his Stetson, and sprinted to his SUV.

Chapter Four

Agent Riley Briggs pressed the accelerator to the floor. The nose of the vehicle lifted. God, I love this car. He swerved the dark-blue Dodge Charger Police Edition into the passing lane of Interstate 15 as the speedometer rose past one hundred miles an hour.

Briggs was a senior agent for the DEA in Great Falls, a veteran officer with stints in SWAT. He was toned and often a mean streak belied his loopy grin. At thirty-six, his dark-brown hair was showing touches of gray on the sides, although his three-day beard was light brown.

Just because it will go one hundred miles an hour doesn’t mean we should, Blake said from the passenger seat. Her green eyes were wide. Leigh Blake was Briggs’ partner and an FBI agent. Blake was five-four and not much over one hundred pounds. Many a criminal had underestimated the petite redhead. She was an expert in martial arts, marksmanship, and dirt biking.

Riley laughed. The engine isn’t even broken in yet. He kept the pedal to the floor. The speedometer passed one hundred and ten miles per hour.

I’m not comfortable with this, Blake said.

Tell your mom.

Seriously. We’re chasing a bus. It’s not like he’s going to beat us to the Canadian border.

No one wants to be second to the dance, Riley said.

What the hell does that mean? Blake held tight to the door. We’ve got units coming south from Great Falls. We’re heading north from Helena. There’s no way they are getting away.

True. And there’s no way I’m letting the Montana Highway Patrol make the arrest.

The Charger rocked as Riley flew past a semi.

The police radio was alive with MHP cruisers turning south onto I-15.

See, Riley said. The bees are heading to the honey.

You mean the flies are racing to the shit.

Yeah. That’s better. I like that. Riley used both northbound lanes and the shoulders as he steered the Charger through the winding curves of Wolf Creek Pass.

Blake had given up on complaining. Instead, she had a death grip on the handle between the door window and the windshield.

Somehow Riley found even more speed from the car as they exited the mountain pass onto a straight stretch of highway.

If only we had a helicopter, Riley said.

Sure, Blake said. I’m sure your Drug Enforcement Administration or my FBI would process a request. Maybe we should send requisitions in. You never know—we might get two choppers.

Blake. Riley glanced in her direction. Was that sarcasm?

Yes, it was. Now keep your fuckin’ eyes on the road. There’re lots of deer through here.

They rocketed past Cascade.

There they are, Riley shouted. They’re ours.

If we live that long.

Riley hammered the brakes as they approached the customized bus. The Charger decelerated like after a jet touched down and the pilot hit the reverse thrusters.

It’s like a tour bus for a rock star, not a motorhome, Blake said.

Riley had the Charger half on the highway and half behind the vehicle. The bus kept driving. Riley hit the siren a few times. The bus swerved but kept driving.

Son of a bitch, Riley said.

Looks like we’re going to need some backup. He’s not stopping with only us behind him.

We’re not waiting for backup. Riley backed away from the bus, then sped up. As he approached the rear of the vehicle, he veered left and shot past the bus. He yanked the steering wheel right in front of the vehicle and hit the brakes.

Riley glanced in the rear-view mirror as the bus rapidly increased in size.

Blake shrieked, Riley!

The sound of air brakes hissing and tires squealing on the asphalt was clear, even in their car.

Riley glanced at Blake. Her eyes were closed, and her lips silently moved. No doubt saying a prayer.

The nose of the bus dipped, then stopped inches from the Charger’s rear bumper.

Blake grabbed the mic. We’ve got the suspect vehicle northbound, three miles north of Cascade.

Let’s go. Riley swung his door open, stepped out, and grabbed a shotgun from under his seat. He racked the shotgun as he sprinted to the front of the bus with the gun trained on the driver.

Blake ran to the side of the bus and pounded on the front passenger door, her Glock held tight against her chest. FBI. Open the door. This is your only warning.

The moment of truth, Riley thought. Either they surrendered immediately or calculated their chances of escape and made a move.

The bus jerked forward a few feet toward Riley, then stopped. He fired over the bus, racked the action, then pointed the shotgun at the driver as he sidestepped toward the passenger side so he could see both the driver and Blake.

Hey, asshats, Blake said. You’re lucky my partner was in a good mood. Now open the fuckin’ door.

The only sound was from the vehicles whizzing by.

Open the door now. If your nose so much as wiggles, his next shot will not be high.

There was a hiss, and the side door opened.

Blake peeked inside. Driver, stand. Hands on your head. Now slowly exit the bus.

Blake backed away from the side door. Sirens sounded both north and south.

A lean man with thinning white hair in his late sixties stumbled out the door. His body shook like he was having a seizure. Please. It’s just me and my wife.

Turn and face the side of the bus, Blake said. Keep your hands on your head and kneel.

Riley moved to the side of the bus with clear sight of Blake and the driver.

Blake stepped back to the bus door. Passengers. Come out one at a time. Hands on your heads.

Earl. What’s going on? A lady, also late sixties with a full head of white hair, stood at the top of the steps. Earl. Help me. I’m scared.

Just do what they say, Libby. Come kneel beside me.

Ma’am, Blake said. Slowly exit the bus.

The lady held tight to the railing as she descended the steps.

A Montana Highway Patrol cruiser headed south, veered into the median—dust and gravel flying onto the northbound lanes—and skidded to a stop beside the bus. Two troopers got out, a man and a woman.

Riley glanced at the troopers. Ah shit. The male, Brian Gibson, was a pain in the ass. One of those cops who really got off on being a cop and was always over the top. His sandy hair was closely cropped under his cap with a sparse blond mustache.

He worked his way around the bus, like he was the SWAT team raiding a meth lab. On his way to the passenger side, he crossed in front of Riley’s shotgun. For a nanosecond, Riley thought, friendly fire. But he raised the shotgun while Gibson stalked his prey, only to find Blake had it under control.

Gibson, cuff the man, Blake said.

Gibson glared at Blake. A smile curled Riley’s lip. Gibson hated taking directions from women, and especially from Blake.

Gibson’s partner, Faith Bennett, rounded the bus, an amused look in her alert brown eyes as she watched Gibson’s antics. Bennett was Gibson’s opposite. She was a calm, common-sense cop who didn’t put up with his shit. She could be counted on to do the right thing.

What do you need?

Cuff the lady, Blake said. I don’t want Gibson near her.

Bennett nodded, long brown ponytail bouncing.

I’m going inside to have a quick look. Riley held the shotgun at his side, barrel pointed to the ground, and stepped into the bus. He stared, wide eyed. He knew he’d stepped into a bus, but the interior did not resemble a bus, more like a living room. To the right was a tan leather couch with throw pillows. In the center, a coffee table. To the right, two recliners. On each wall, over the furniture, hung LCD TVs. The windows were covered by expensive blinds. To the other side of the couch was a small dining table with facing white leather benches that would seat four. Directly across was a small kitchen, sink, stove, oven, microwave, and a two-door fridge/freezer. At the back, the foot of a bed was barely visible.

Riley’s eyes darted from one side to the other. Had their information been wrong? Now he prayed the old guy didn’t have a heart attack.

Riley exited the bus and called to Gibson. Open the outside storage compartments.

Gibson opened the three storage doors, and Riley checked each one. He ducked as he peered into the first one. Two suitcases, two sets of golf clubs, and two lawn chairs. The second held two coolers, the first containing beer, the second soda and a selection of fruits. The third compartment contained flats of water. Riley worked his jaw back and forth. The inside was what you’d expect from two seniors on a road trip. He rubbed his whiskers with one hand and rested the butt of the shotgun on the ground.

He stood for several minutes facing the bus, unmoving. His eyes roamed from front to back. It was a good and very reliable tip. Yet nothing here screamed drugs, cartel, or money smuggling. It was exactly what it seemed to be. A retired couple touring the US.

His eyes wandered back to the rear compartment. Always a good idea to carry lots of water. He wandered to the third compartment. Not just a few flats, but at least ten flats of twenty-four bottles. That really was a lot of water. Why haul that much? You can buy water at any store. Heck, every city and town had a Walmart with cheap water.

What’s up, Riley? Blake asked.

He didn’t answer.

Blake shoved his shoulder. Hey. You figure we screwed up?

Riley slowly shook his head. Something isn’t right.

Yeah, no shit. We just scared the crap out of a nice old couple.

No. That’s not it. His eyes narrowed. Too much water.

What? Blake stared at him. Water?

The compartments are the wrong size. He spun away from Blake and sprinted into the bus.

Riley headed into the living room. Each step was slow, and he put his weight onto his feet. He reached the bedroom and turned to retrace his steps.

Blake stood by the driver’s seat. Riley, have you gone completely batshit crazy?

Riley glanced at the front of the bus.

Blake glared, hands on her hips. Something you want to tell me?

The compartment doors are big, but the compartments are too short. In here, my head almost touches the roof.

Oh my god. Blake’s hand flew to her mouth. Did you finally hit puberty?

Whoa. Sarcasm again? This is a very tall bus. But the math doesn’t work. He took a step and stomped on the floor. Another step, another stomp. He knelt and examined the carpet. No seams. He crouched low and stared toward the front of the bus. He pulled out his mini-Maglite and shone it under the couch and chairs. Boom.

He jumped to his feet and dragged the couch away from the wall. He reached down, grabbed a corner of the carpet, and pulled. It easily lifted, the Velcro crackling.

Blake wandered over to see what Riley was up to. She glanced around him. No way. She was staring at a metal ring flush with the floor.

Riley grinned. Oh, yeah. He grabbed the small ring and pulled. A section of the floor lifted and swung on hinges toward the wall. A foul odor exploded from the opening. Body odor. Ripe, sweat saturated, and urine tinged. Riley shone his Maglite into the opening. Several red eyes peered back.

Rather than continue the search of the bus in the middle of an interstate highway, Riley had it towed to Great Falls to a secure warehouse. The driver and his wife were transported separately. They loaded the four stowaways into two cruisers and took all six to Great Falls.

With the driver, his wife, and the four stowaways in separate jail cells, Riley and Blake joined the crime scene unit and their search of the bus.

They donned the white Tyvek suits with hoods, put on latex gloves, and taped the cuffs of the suit to the gloves. They slid white booties over their footwear, then taped the suit at their ankles. Finally, they donned safety glasses and respirators.

The precautions were necessary in the new world of forensic searches and deadly opioids. Whether accidental or planted by the criminals, exposure to even a minute amount of pure heroin or fentanyl could be fatal.

So, looking like the cast of extras in a pandemic movie, they waddled to the motorhome.

The crime scene techs had already descended on the inside and had dismantled huge sections. The concrete floor outside the bus was crowded with recliner chairs, couches, cushions, pillows, laundry, the door to the oven, a microwave, four big screen TVs, and a fridge—all packed in evidence containers to be processed later. A tech handed Riley a stack of license plates. He flipped through them as Blake leaned close.

Damn, Blake said. Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington State, and Alberta.

Smart, Riley said. Change the plates to match the state they’re in. Cops are less likely to stop a local vehicle.

Another team was working on the outside of the bus. They had removed the storage doors, and the spare tire lay on the floor with a tech cutting the tire open. That looked interesting, so Riley stopped to watch. Blake headed into the bus.

Despite the mask, the odor of burning rubber was strong. Once the tech had a foot of rubber cut out, he stopped. Riley peered over his shoulder. The tire was filled with bundles of paper money inside plastic bags.

Riley wandered to the other side of the bus. A tech was on a creeper under the frame. An electric drill sounded intermittently. A metal panel hit the floor with a loud clank. The tech whistled. He