Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One Read online

  “The gambler always comes at night. You can put your pistola away. It’s over,” Elmo said softly, studying Armondo.

  “It’s all about the money,” Armondo said, easing his pistol into his holster.

  “Tonight it was about revenge,” Elmo replied, quietly staring at Armondo, debating whether to kill him now and dump his body in with the Colombians.

  “Don’t look at me that way. You’re freaking me out,” Armondo said guardedly, sensing what Elmo was pondering. He knew what Manny had said and Elmo was his factotum responsible for supervising the business the hard way. Smiling, Elmo turned the ignition switch as the engine came to life in a roaring burst of power. Dual four barrel Holly carburetors began a spontaneous induction process of sucking in high performance octane and air into the cylinders with a powerful swoosh. The bored and stroked V8 engine burst to life with a series of sequential powerful explosions as each cylinder was compressing gas and air in a combustion sequence that rocked the car every time the accelerator was pressed to the floor. With the Hurst transmission gearshift in neutral, Elmo gunned the engine, listening to the muffler backfire as spark plugs ignited the compressed gas mixture. Gunning the engine, Elmo put on his sunglasses as burned gas caused the Hollywood Glass-Pack muffler to backfire in a series of pop-pop-pop-pop sounds. Slowly driving away, four-reserve hit teams escorted Elmo and Armondo to the Tijuana airport and their private plane. Elmo grinned, looking in the rear view mirror, confident that with his Pirelli wide-track slick tires he could outrace anyone. He didn’t need bodyguards, or so he thought.

  Later That Morning

  Sonora Mexico, Hacienda Nogales

  In the isolated desert location west of the Sierra Madre Occidental mountain range, Elena and Elmo were at the north lookout tower sitting under the gazebo enjoying a leisurely morning breakfast of huevos rancheros, tortillas, orange juice, coffee, and champagne. Elmo peered through binoculars watching iguanas race across the dry terrain chasing prairie rats running for their lives. Elena deeply inhaled the fresh desert air, admiring the vast cactus forest, and sagebrush filled scenery.

  “Ahhh this is great,” she said, stretching and inhaling the warm aromatic desert air.

  “To our success,” Elmo said, raising his champagne glass.

  “To our love. I’m glad your returned safe,” she toasted, raising her glass and sipping the cool sparkling champagne. Elena enjoyed Elmo’s passion and sense of warmth; he was strong, alert, tender, and attentive.

  “I’m happy to be back with you. I always miss you,” he said reaching over and kissing her lightly.

  “So, did you have any problems out there?” she asked, sorting through a pile of Life Magazines, the Spanish newspapers Imparcial, Economista, Financeiro, and Universal, as he set his glass down.

  “It went OK,” he replied half-heartedly, wiping the lipstick from his lips with a white paper napkin.

  “What happened?” she asked, selecting a Life Magazine with the Beatles on the cover.

  “Armondo was snorting coke before the job went down,” he replied, picking up the morning edition of Imparcial.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I did nothing. Just warned him of what Manny said.”

  “I don’t trust him. I think he’s out of control.”

  “What should I do?” he asked, setting the paper down.

  “Talk to Nick. It’s Nick’s problem. But ultimately it’s your problem and your decision. If things don’t straighten out, you know what needs to be done,” she advised, staring into his brown eyes.

  “I know. Okay.”

  “It’s a delicate situation. We can’t afford major mistakes or incur major financial losses over a bungled job. It’s dangerous,” she said seriously.

  “I know. Okay.”

  “Nick almost died out there,” Elena voiced sharply.

  “I know.”

  “That’s twice he’s been high during a job. Maybe more, we don’t know.”

  “I know,” he replied, rubbing his fist against his open palm.

  “Make it an accident,” she suggested, picking up another Life Magazine with President Lyndon Johnson, and his daughter Linda on the cover.

  “Okay. I understand. I know,” he replied, putting on his sunglasses, then poured himself coffee, while surveying the mountains, and organizing his thoughts. Elena returned to the magazine, sipping her champagne, turning each page looking at the pictures and reading the captions.

  “Darling, I was thinking,” Elena said, breaking Elmo’s train of thought.

  “Yes, what about?” he replied, reaching for his aromatic, deep roasted coffee.

  “In Panama, we laundered fifty million dollars over a two year period. I think we should invest money across the border.”

  “Where across the border?” he asked, removing his sunglasses, picking up the binoculars.

  “The Del Mar race track, north of San Diego and the surrounding real estate corridor. We can build a resort near the ocean and condominiums. A clean place, no dirty money.”

  “What brings this on?” he asked, setting the binoculars on the table.

  “We have to be careful using dummy corporations. The Grand Cayman Islands and the Netherlands are very far away.”

  “Okay, so, what’s your idea?”

  “We need to start laying the foundation into newer fields. For example resorts, restaurants, auto dealerships. We need to do the math differently. We buy a lot of chemicals to make cocaine and black tar heroin. All the Feds have to do is start tracking bulk sales of ether and acetone. And bingo, instant trail.”

  “Good point,” Elmo said, picking up his champagne.

  “Law enforcement is applying pressure on growers and traffickers. That means a business slump for us. If the weather is bad that means a bad growing season.”

  “There’s plenty of reserves, maybe for a year,” he said confidently.

  “Then, if the peasant coca growers have a hard time selling leaf, then we would have a major price drop on coca due to oversupply, and then the leaf is stuck. Then we’re stuck. Game over.”

  “Okay. Then what?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “If the leaf is stuck, then the processing centers don’t open. If they are closed for business, we are closed for business.”

  “I think I see the result?” he replied, turning up his lip and shaking his head.

  “If the centers are closed, we eat a ninety percent loss of profits due to the leaf snag. Then, the peasants are losing money. And, growers need to break even, or we lose them.”

  “Okay, I’ll start looking for new investments. It’s a good idea. And, San Diego is a sleepy beach town, but, that will change once the State builds the new interstate freeway.”

  “I like this song.” She said, ignoring his response, turning up the volume of the radio listening to Love Me With All Your Heart by the Ray Charles Singers.

  “I like it too.” He smiled.

  “It’s a good song,” she said, nodding her head.

  “It’s a good song because I’m with you,” he replied romantically, reaching over to kiss her. “But your ideas never end; they mean more jobs for me.”

  “Your main job is satisfying me,” she grinned.

  “Will my duties ever end?” he grinned.

  “You like it. You know it. Just don’t wanna show it.”

  “I never said I didn’t like it. And, I’ll show it.”

  “Then crawl under the table and kneel between my legs,” she suggested, pulling up her thin summer dress, spreading her legs.

  “I can do that,” he replied, kneeling before her as the radio began playing What The World Needs Now Is Love by Burt Bacharach. Elena slumped back, relaxed in the oversized white wicker chair, inhaling the clean air, adjusting herself.

  “You look so nice,” Elmo whispered, kissing her slender perfumed thighs, slowly suckling his way to please Elena.

  “Take your time, be gentle,” she whispered, with her head resting against
the antique chair.

  “I’m always gentle,” he answered, kneeling before her, admiring her femininity.

  “No more talking,” she said, softly placing her hands on his head. Closing her eyes, she deeply inhaled and exhaled the fragrant hot desert air while terrified prairie rats ran for their lives as hungry iguanas raced after them.

  The Surprise

  7 September 1964. Tokyo, Japan. Gina and Sasha were home in the exclusive suburb of Seijo lounging in flannel pajamas, eating breakfast in the wooden kitchen nook, catching up on paper work as the smell of toast filled the air. Through the large bay window, sunlight was bursting through three window panels, nourishing pink and purple poppy flowers and activating chemical compounds while synthesizing the formation of carbohydrates in the chlorophyll tissues of each breathing plant. Gina was reading the South China Morning Post, the Hong Kong Daily, and the Japan Times all spread out on the table as her chubby long-haired Japanese Bobtail cat walked on top of the papers toward the window ledge.

  “Hey, Kilo,” Gina said, scratching his ribs as he purred. Kilo, an intelligent talking cat, could reach a whole scale of notes while enjoying human contact. “Good boy.”

  “Meow,” Kilo responded, settling in the recessed ledge of the window, slowly moving his stubby tail back and forth, meowing at tiny brown tree sparrows nervously fluttering their wings, chirping nosily and constantly shifting positions.

  “Listen to this,” Gina suggested. “American planes are bombing North Vietnam. Two-hundred thousand more troops ordered into war,” she said, pausing to sip her green tea, staring at the headlines.

  “Feel sorry for those guys,” Sasha replied, sorting notes and papers, shrugging half-heartedly.

  “Here’s another one. Demonstrators in San Francisco are holding signs advocating “Do You Own Thing” and attend a “Be-In.” She laughed, shaking her head

  “What’s a Be-In?” Sasha asked, narrowing her eyes, biting into her buttered, thick sliced toast.

  “I don’t know. I think it’s some kind of massive social therapy? Maybe hippies taking LSD together.” She answered with a wide smile, taking a deep breath.

  “LSD huh,” Sasha grunted in disapproval, sipping her coffee.

  “Listen to this. More than five hundred bullets were fired in an early morning ambush. Colombian Nationals were gunned down while leaving the Agua Caliente casino in Tijuana, Mexico. Sixteen men were killed in the early morning massacre.” She said, rubbing her mouth.

  “Nick and the Nogales family. It has to be them. No one else in that area can carry out that big of a hit,” Sasha said confidently, shifting in her chair, with a pensive expression.

  “Trouble up ahead with the Mexicans and Colombians,” Gina said, clearing her throat, taking mental notes.

  “We need to be careful. Just keep a low profile,” Sasha said, sipping her coffee, leaning back, and rubbing her stomach.

  “I agree, don’t let greed get in the way.” She replied, with a serious demeanor.

  “That’s right. We just maintain our territory, nurture our network, maintain our contacts, and keep it simple and insulated. No new business for a while.” Sasha suggested frowning, moving the toast around in her plate.

  “I agree. Stable and productive,” Gina answered, turning the page. “Listen to this one. A new drug called Methadone has been discovered to help heroin addicts kick the habit.”

  “Best way to kick the habit is don’t start the habit,” Sasha suggested, spreading blueberry jam on her toast.

  “The pharmaceutical companies are in bed with the American Government. What a bunch of crooks.” She suggested, gritting her teeth.

  “I agree,” Sasha said, biting her toast and turning the black round knob on the large Rolodex.

  “The first problem is to get the addict to take the Methadone. The second problem is to get him out of the crime-heroin cycle.” Gina suggested, stirring her soup with chopsticks.

  “People like heroin,” Sasha chuckled, scrutinizing the Rolodex cards, updating intelligence data, removing old cards and tearing them in half.

  “Heroin and cocaine, is a $110 billion dollar a year enterprise,” Gina said, sipping miso soup with pieces of tofu and seaweed.

  “And growing. New York spends $600,000 a day on heroin. They’re not switching to Methadone,” Sasha smirked tearing a card in half and throwing it into a brown paper bag.

  “Methadone is not a good business product.” Gina griped, shaking her head, blowing on the soup.

  “It won’t last,” Sasha replied, shaking her head.

  “Cops will never stamp out heroin use.” Gina replied, examining at the headlines.

  “What do you mean?” Sasha asked, slowly turning the alphabetically sequenced cards.

  “American cops can’t infiltrate Asian gangs; the gangs speak too many dialects. How can they crack our communications network?”

  “Through informants, turncoats, crooked cops, Asian-American undercover agents, spies, you name it,” she replied, then sipped her coffee as Gina slurped her tasty soup.

  “Listen to this, and I quote: “Politics are interfering with U.S. and Chinese cooperation in drug enforcement.” What a joke! If the governments can’t agree, then law enforcement doesn’t exist. We’re fine,” Gina said, sneering, lighting a cigarette.

  “Don’t forget the crisis team. Don’t get over-confident. New York cops seized eight hundred pounds of our heroin. And each kilo is marked and has a destination code.”

  “Shake ups and shake downs; it’s all part of the business risk,” Gina said calmly, reading the headlines. “Here’s an interesting story, this is under older unsolved cases, listen to this. “Six jewelry store guards in Hong Kong’s Kowloon district were beaten up, and two were seriously hospitalized buy a drunk and vomiting deranged holdup man who escaped on foot. Police are offering a reward for the suspect who was wearing a black suit and tie.”

  “A bad night for the guards,” Sasha replied, staring at a card.

  “Six guys against one deranged man? I don’t think so. That drunken guy had to be pretty badass. That doesn’t make sense. Those guards are well built and pretty tough,” Gina said shocked, looking away from the article, contemplating the scenario, watching the sparrows.

  “Do we have any aspirins?” Sasha asked, feeling light headed. “I feel sick to my stomach.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just feel nauseous.” She replied, feeling fatigued.

  “It’s not like you to be sick. I’ll get the aspirin.”

  “Meow,” Kilo fretted, turning to look at Sasha.

  “I’m okay Kilo.” She assured him, closing her eyes.

  “Here we go,” Gina said, with a probing gaze opening the bottle. “How many?”

  “Four,” she grunted, holding out her hand, swallowing them with orange juice.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, tapping her ashes into the Noritake porcelain ashtray.

  “Just a stomach ache. I’m okay. Let’s change the subject. Tell me about your boyfriend.” She asked, clearing her throat.

  “No more boyfriend, just friends.”

  “Did he have any information?”

  “He mentioned that U.S. Navy Seal teams were going into the Phoenix program which is run by the CIA. Their job is to identify VC members and kill or capture them.”

  “So they’re assassination teams.”

  “They gather intelligence. But they recently killed three regional level officers of the VC. Those guys were Generals.”

  “Dangerous game out there,” Sasha replied, rubbing her stomach. “Anything else?” She asked as she began feeling over heated.

  “I brought back a brief case with Top Secret documents taken from a downed helicopter carrying the Vietnamese judge. He was going to testify at the Los Angeles Grand Jury investigation.”

  “Man, we have to be so careful.” Sasha replied, rubbing her moist, warm forehead, organizing papers.

  “Low profile, remember?” Gina sa
id unfolding a piece of paper and reading the message.

  “That’s my idea, but, the desire for money overrules caution in this business,” she replied, picking up a receipt from the cluttered pile of papers.

  “Some wholesalers can’t control their greed,” Gina said unfolding a tightly folded paper.

  “That’s not us,” she replied, placing a receipt in a cigar box marked miscellaneous.

  “Look at the headlines. The Mexicans are selling black tar heroin and it’s run by freelance operators,” Gina stated, then paused to closely read the note. “What’s this?”

  “What is it?” Sasha asked, sipping her orange juice.

  “My God, it’s dated 29 June 1964. Addressed to Fleet Command Post, Chu Lai, Vietnam. Doctor Rita Rios, Army Captain, report to Admiral’s Flagship. Multinational Crisis Response Team forming. Waiting to interview you.”

  “Huh? Let me see that,” she said, reading the message, then closed her eyes, smelling the paper.

  “Look familiar?” Gina asked, anxiously inhaling her cigarette.

  “It smells of sweat. Man, we collect so much crap; I forget where this stuff comes from.”

  “Did you search anybody lately?” Gina asked, clasping her hands, leaning forward.

  “Not lately.” She answered, with a quiver in her stomach.

  “Well, when was the last time? Gina asked seriously, as Sasha began recollecting the skirmishes she carried out.

  “Remember those two Army guys at the camp? I searched their pockets and quickly put this note in my pocket.”

  “They were Marines.” Gina countered, smirking.

  “No they weren’t.”

  “Anyway. It’s our biggest lead,” Gina answered, with a concerned look.

  “This gal had to be working with the other two.” Sasha stated, drawing her head back with sudden clarity. “I remember now, when the Doc was going into the tunnel he whispered, good-bye Rita, or something like that.”

  “They’re working together. If they’re drugging, they’re hugging,” Gina replied, convinced.