Safe House (Foley & Rose Book 5)

Book summary

In "Safe House," a Federal Police Officer, Jackson Traynor, infiltrates an Australian drug syndicate with ties to Mexico, gathering evidence to dismantle it. After a personal tragedy, he's placed in witness protection, but his safety is short-lived. When his location is exposed, Detectives Russell Foley and Sam Rose from Northern Territory Major Crime are tasked with his relocation. Amidst a backdrop of hitmen and corruption, they navigate a perilous journey to keep Traynor safe, fighting for survival against mounting odds.

Excerpt from Safe House (Foley & Rose Book 5)

Six Months Ago 

They came for Jackson Traynor at three o’clock in the morning, the time it was believed most people reached the deepest phase of the sleep cycle. There were two of them. The raid was well planned and, up to the point of entry into Traynor’s home, it was well executed. From that point onwards, however, it all went to shit.

Jackson Traynor, more commonly known as ‘Jack’ to his friends and colleagues, was not at home; that was the first set-back for the intruders. He should have been home, all the research leading up to the raid suggested he would be, but sometimes plans have a way of going awry.

Jack did not sleep well. Having lived with chronic insomnia for many years, he was well acquainted with a pattern of poor sleeping. The night they came to his home in the pre-dawn hours was just another example of the hundreds of sleep deprived nights he had endured over more years than he cared to remember.

Jackson went for a run, something he did often when he couldn’t sleep. Before he left, he leaned over the sleeping body of April, his wife of fourteen years, and kissed her lightly on her forehead. Careful not to wake her, he climbed out of bed, dressed quickly in the dark, and crept silently from their bedroom. He moved quietly along the hallway and paused outside the door to his twelve-year-old daughter’s room. The door was slightly ajar; Jessica liked it that way when she slept. He pushed it open, just enough to get his head around the opening, and listened for a few seconds to the soft sleeping sounds coming from Jessica’s bed. Satisfied she too was sound asleep, he gently pulled the door back and continued along the hallway. In the small laundry attached to the kitchen of his home, he slipped into his sneakers and left by the back door, locking it behind him.

He found them when he got home, following an hour’s hard run around the perimeter of the suburban football ground at the end of his street.

He knew someone had been there as soon as he reached the back door. It was wide open. Jack never left it open. He distinctly remembered locking it when he left. In light of recent events relating to his most recent career, he was way too security conscious when it came to leaving the house late at night with his wife and daughter home alone.

He had a gun, one of two he possessed, buried under a pile of rarely used hand-towels in a laundry cupboard high on the wall above the washing machine. His wife knew it was there and, while not happy about guns in the house at any time, she accepted they were a necessary part of her husband’s profession. His daughter, however, did not know. As far as Jack was aware, Jessica never went to that particular cupboard. There was nothing inside she would conceivably need and, besides, she couldn’t reach it even if she wanted to. It seemed, at least to Jack, it was a safe place to keep it. His second gun, a Glock 9mm, he kept locked in the drawer of his bedside table, just in case he reasoned to his wife.

His heart racing, he opened the cupboard, reached in, fossicked under the hand-towels, and found the gun, a Smith and Wesson, 38 calibre revolver with four-inch barrel. He fumbled deeper in the cupboard, and found a box of ammunition, flipped open the revolver cylinder, and began loading six rounds.

It took time, too much time. In his haste, two rounds of ammunition slipped from his fingers, bounced noisily off the washing machine, and rolled onto the floor. Conscious his clumsiness may well have alerted any intruder, he quickly loaded two replacement rounds, clicked the cylinder closed, and stepped silently into the kitchen.

Jessica’s bedroom was the first room on the left, off the short hallway running through the centre of the house. The light was on and spilled from the room casting a dull glow over the portion of the hall immediately in front of the door. Further along the hall, on the same side, light also spilled from the master bedroom. At that hour of the night, these two peculiarities were so far removed from the norm that Jack almost called out but held himself in check. The gut feeling was stronger now. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

With his back to the wall and his heart pounding a staccato rhythm in his chest, he edged stealthily along the hallway, his eyes darting ahead and behind. He held the revolver in a two-handed grip, his finger outside the trigger guard, and the barrel tracking the movement of his eyes.

Jessica’s door was open. Bracing himself, Jack crouched low, and sprung into the room, sweeping the area with his eyes and the gun. Jessica was not in the room. Her bed was unmade, and her fluffy, pink slippers on the floor at the end of the bed immediately rang alarm bells in Jack’s mind. Jessica loved her slippers. She almost never left her bedroom without them on her feet; it was one of the little, endearing, childhood idiosyncrasies Jack loved so much in his only child.

Maybe she woke early, and climbed into bed with her mother, Jack wondered. She did that sometimes, especially when he was working the ridiculously long hours his job demanded. Accordingly, Jessica not being in her room would not normally be the cause for concern, but this was different, and Jack didn’t know why.

Jackson Traynor was a suspicious man. He had to be; his job demanded it. His mind replayed his movements from when he arrived home from his run. Finding the back door open was wildly at odds with the security precautions he was always re-enforcing in his family and, when taken in conjunction with Jessica’s vacant bedroom, the light burning within, and Jessica’s abandoned slippers, his instincts would not accept that what he was seeing was as benign as it might otherwise appear.

He stepped back out into the hall and moved towards the main bedroom. Outside the door, he paused and listened. He heard no sound from within. The whole house was silent. He glanced at his watch; the digital display read 3.55 a.m.

Slowly, carefully, and totally unprepared for what awaited him, he peeked around the door jamb, and glanced into the room.

April and Jessica Traynor were laying on the bed, on top of the covers, both naked, and both covered with blood, lots of blood.

Subsequent investigations would reveal both April and young Jessica were savagely raped, and then stabbed to death in what was forensically described as a frenzied, unrelenting attack. They died as a result of massive blood loss from multiple stab wounds to their respective faces, chests, and genitals.

Their assailant, or assailants, left the house as silently as they came, and Jackson Traynor’s life would never be the same again.

Detective Inspector Russell Foley fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone, flipped it open, and looked at the caller ID. His superior, Superintendent Cameron ‘Yap Yap’ Barker’s name appeared in the display.

“Cam, please tell me this call is not work related,” Foley answered.

“Hi, Russell. I wish it was the case. Where are you?”

“I’m in the shopping centre carpark. I’ve got my arms full of groceries, and I’m about to go home. Why, what have you got?”

“It’s complicated,” Barker said. “Can you come in?”

“It’s my day off,” Foley answered, sounding miffed. “But, what else am I gonna do? I live alone, television is crap, and I mowed the lawns this morning.”

“You don’t have any lawns, Russell. You live in a unit supplied by the department. How soon can you get here?”

“I need to drop my groceries off and change my clothes. Thirty minutes, okay?”

“Twenty would be better.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Oh, before you hang up, Russell, is Sam Rose working today, or is he under a woman, somewhere?”

Foley laughed. “Sam’s a one-woman-man these days, Cam.”

“Sarah Collins?” Barker asked.

“Yeah. They’re good together. I don’t think I’ve seen Sam this happy since he transferred down here from Darwin.”

“Is he working today?”

“No. I’ve got him on the same duty roster as myself. We’re having lunch together later. Why?”

“I’d like you both on this job. Can you bring him in with you?”

“Yeah, I can do that. I’ll pick him up on my way in. This sounds serious.”

“It could be,” Barker said. “By the way, you will both need to pack a bag.”

“Pack a bag? How long for?”

“I don’t know…a few days, at least.”

* * *

Russell Foley knocked on his partner’s door and waited. When no answer came, he knocked again, louder this time, and stepped back from the door. Finally, the door swung open.

Detective Sergeant Sam Rose stood there, naked save for a towel around his waist. Water dripped from his wet, ruffled hair. With a small hand-towel, he dabbed at water droplets running down his bare chest.

“It’s fortunate for you it’s me, and not a couple of the lovely Seventh Day Adventist ladies knocking at your door,” Foley remarked.

“I was in the shower.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s not lunch time already, is it?” Sam asked.

“No,” Foley said. “You need to get dressed and pack a bag.”

“Pack a bag? Where are we having lunch, Queensland?”

“We’re not having lunch. We’re going to work. Pack enough clothes for three or four days.”

“It’s my day off,” Sam complained.

“I know, it’s my day off too.”

“Where are we going?” Sam asked again.

“I don’t know.” Foley shrugged. “Wherever it is, I’m going with you. Yap Yap wants to see us both, ASAP.”

Sam stepped back from the door, ushered Foley inside, and closed the door behind him.

“What’s the job?” he asked, rubbing the hand-towel through his hair.

“I don’t know that either. Yap will fill us in when we get there.”

“Bloody hell!” Sam cursed. “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an uninterrupted day off.”

“You can always quit and sell cars for a living.”

“Do car salesmen get days off?”

Foley shook his head. “Get dressed, Sam. Standing here grizzling about the job is not going to make it any easier. This is what we do. You love it, I love it, everybody’s happy, get fuckin’ dressed.”

“Bloody hell!” Sam mumbled again. He turned away and strode reluctantly along the hallway to his room.

Superintendent Cameron Yap Yap Barker ushered Foley and Rose into his office and indicated they should sit. He picked up a file which lay open on his desk.

“Thanks for coming in on your day off.” He looked first at Foley, and then at Sam. “We’ve had a job dropped in our lap, which I think you two are best suited for.”

“Sounds interesting,” Foley said.

“It is…kind of,” Barker said, tentatively. “First, I have to give you the back-story. It might make things a bit clearer.”

“Okay.” Foley nodded.

Barker referred to the file in his hands. “Does the name Jackson Traynor mean anything to either of you?” He looked up from the file, expectantly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Foley answered.

Sam shrugged. “No, not to me either.”

“How about the name, Miguel Alvarez?”

“I don’t think so,” Foley said.

Sam Rose shrugged again.

“Joaquin ‘El Chapo’ Guzman?” Barker asked.

“What is this, boss? Twenty questions?”

“Bear with me, please.”

“Guzman,” Rose said. “Isn’t he the South American drug king-pin?”

“Mexican.” Barker looked back at the file. “Guzman was extradited to the US a couple of years ago on international drug smuggling charges and is currently languishing in a maximum-security prison in the States. He was the head of the Sinaloa cartel, arguably the most powerful illegal drug trafficking organisation on the planet. Miguel Alvarez, his trusted lieutenant, is now believed to be the head-man in the cartel and personally oversees the ‘dark-network’ spanning the Asia-Pacific region, including Australia.”

“The ‘dark-network?’” Foley queried.

“These days, very little of the illicit drugs coming into Australia come directly from Mexico. Rather, they are smuggled through a network of countries in the Pacific, countries like Vanuatu, Fiji, and New Caledonia.”

“Isn’t this El Chapo Guzman character the dude who escaped custody a couple of times back in Mexico?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, that’s the prick. The Mexican authorities captured him some years ago, locked his arse up, and he managed to dig an elaborate tunnel and escape. He was recaptured a couple of years ago and extradited to the States. That’s when Miguel Alvarez stepped up to the plate and filled the void left by Guzman. It’s no coincidence that Alvarez’s rise to leadership of the cartel coincided with a sudden spike in illicit drug importation into Australia.

“A few years ago, Alvarez formed a somewhat uneasy alliance with Salim Ghandour, the head of a Middle-Eastern crime family, operating out of Sydney.

“At that time, the Ghandour family were the prime movers in the nation-wide distribution of illegal drugs imported into Australia. Alvarez wanted control of the lucrative Sydney drug market and Ghandour was not about to simply hand it over. When he subsequently lost a couple of senior associates to drive-by shootings, including his eldest son, and survived an attempt on his own life, all believed ordered by Alvarez, he decided it might be healthier to form a partnership with the Mexican.”

“Where does Jackson Traynor fit in all this?” Foley asked.

“Traynor is a Detective Sergeant with the Australian Federal Police, based in Canberra. He was attached to the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission as part of a Task Force raised to investigate international crime syndicates smuggling drugs into Australia. He spent almost two years working deep undercover as a member of Ghandour’s crime gang.

“Traynor worked his way up through the ranks of the organisation, to where he was a significant player in the Sydney drug underworld. He was the man trusted with the distribution of tonnes of illegal drugs smuggled into the country via the dark-network on behalf of the Alvarez cartel.”

“Two years!” Foley said. “Must have picked up some pretty good intelligence over that time.”

“What he didn’t learn wasn’t worth knowing,” Barker explained. “He knew it all, identities of the major players, both here in Australia, and in Mexico. Names, dates, places, dollar values; he had enough intel to blow the whole organisation apart, including the Pacific connection.

“I am informed by our Federal police colleagues that Traynor was pivotal in the interception, and seizure, of over three-hundred-and-fifty million dollars of cocaine and amphetamines, smuggled into Australia through the dark-network by associates of Alvarez’s cartel, and bound for Salim Ghandour’s distribution network.

“The information, supplied by Traynor, resulted in the arrest of all of the key players, both in this country and a couple of Pacific countries. Simultaneous raids on a number of residences, warehouses, shipping containers, aircraft hangars, and sea freighters, in three states, blew the syndicate wide open. The Feds seized six million dollars in cash, not to mention several luxury homes, yachts, and cars.”

“I’m guessing Traynor would be keeping a low profile these days,” Foley supposed.

“And looking over his shoulder a lot,” Sam added.

Barker placed the file back on his desk. “Traynor is due to testify against the Ghandour family and its connection with Alvarez’s Sinaloa cartel in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, his testimony will result in a lot of people going to prison for a very long time, including Salim Ghandour, his only surviving son, Hakim, and a number of high-profile cartel associates here in Australia. Word on the street is Miguel Alvarez and Salim Ghandour are not happy campers. Our Federal counterparts believe there are two contracts out on Traynor’s life, one ordered by Alvarez, and one by Ghandour. They believe Alvarez sent two professional hit-men over here to take him out.”

“All the way from Mexico?” Sam asked, incredulously.

“All the way. They went to his home in the early hours of the morning, but he wasn’t home…he was out running.”

“Running, in the middle of the night?” Sam asked.

“Traynor is an insomniac,” Barker explained. “Has been for years, apparently. He often went running when he couldn’t sleep.”

“So, they missed him?” Foley guessed.

“Yes…and…no. They missed Traynor, but his wife and twelve-year-old daughter were at home asleep when the baddies came. They brutally raped both, and then stabbed them to death. Traynor found them when he got back from his run.”

“Shit!” Foley exclaimed.

“Shit, indeed.” Barker nodded.

“How do the Feds know it was the Mexicans, and not Ghandour’s crew, who killed his family?” Sam asked.

“Traynor is certain he knows who it was.” Barker referred again to the file on his desk. “He says Alvarez has one particular dude he uses when he needs someone taken care of. Bloke by the name of Rodolfo Herrera, a Mexican of Spanish descent. Those who move inside the international drug trade refer to him as ‘The Wolf.’”

“What about the second bloke?” Foley asked.

“Mostly, Herrera prefers to work alone. Intel suggests he is a clinical, methodical killer. He gets the job done, quickly and cleanly, and gets out just as quickly and cleanly. It seems this might be the first time he has used an accomplice, a bloke by the name of Ignacio Vargas. Vargas is a particularly nasty piece of work from a small village south of Mexico City. According to Traynor, he likes to use a knife, and almost always includes a sexual component when he kills, and doesn’t much care if the victim is male or female.”

“Charming,” Sam commented.

“How did these two toe-rags get into Australia?” Foley asked.

“False passports,” Barker answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “That’s not difficult given the circles in which they move. Besides, they’re both clean-skins; not so much as a parking ticket between them back in their home country.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Sam commented.

“It’s common knowledge that the Mexican authorities don’t have the best track record in regards to corruption. You want a clean record, greasing the right palm will get it for you. The international drug cartels talk about millions like we talk about weekend milk money. Our Australian authorities didn’t even know they were in the country until after they arrived.”

“Where are they now?” Foley asked.

Barker shrugged. “It seems they disappeared within an hour or so of arriving. The Feds have no idea where they went.”

“Where is this Jackson Traynor dude now?” Foley asked.

Barker sat back in his chair, paused, and exhaled loudly. “That’s where you and Sam enter the picture.”

“Why do I suddenly regret asking?” Foley said.