Payback (7 page)

Mahanani laughed. “Sure. You use me for a mule and if I get caught, I spend ten years in a federal pen for drug smuggling. I know about those garages. I've heard stories and seen articles in the paper. Do I look like an idiot?” He stood.

“I'll take your keys to the Buick now,” Martillo said, his voice with a snap to it.

“So that's it. I either bring in drugs for you, or you take my Buick and give me a thousand in change.”

The dark Mexican shrugged. “Amigo, it is your car. Do as you wish. Take your time. No rush at all. You have two minutes to decide.”

“Shit. How much extra weight would be on the car? It couldn't be tilted or riding too low or it would be pulled into secondary inspection for sure.”

“My friend. We have been doing this for years. We know how, we know how much. There is never more than a hundred pounds in any one car. That's less than another passenger, and makes no change in the springing of the car or how it rides or how low it hangs on the frame. Believe me, we'd
be out of business soon if we started losing half of our mules.”

“How many do you lose?”

“Last year, only three. That was out of more than two hundred trips.”

“How many trips could I make before they became suspicious?” Mahanani asked.

“You would go in a different car each time, with different clothes. Once a week, maximum. For you it would have to be on a weekend. But that's when traffic is heaviest and the investigations are fewest. Ten trips and you would have four thousand paid off on your debt.”

“Ten trips. Fifteen to pay you guys off. Not counting the interest.”

“You make the runs, we'll forget the interest,” Martillo said. “Hey, we're the good guys. We'd like to work with you to get you out of debt. We don't want to take your car. We have the pink slip just for our own protection. Collateral. Now, what do you think about making your first run tonight? I'll go to San Yisdro with you to get your first car. After this you just report to Jose down there and he'll work you from there.”

Mahanani squeezed his eyes shut. He'd never so much as stolen a pencil or shoplifted a magazine. Now he was considering smuggling in dope, probably heroin or cocaine. He could get ten years easy. But if he didn't, he could be without his car. Yeah, not in jail, but bumming rides from the other guys and trying to explain how he lost his damn Buick. Fuck this whole thing. How did he get trapped into gambling in the first place?

“Hey kid, I ain't got all night. You want to take a run down to Mexico or not? Your call.”

“Let's go.”

 

A little over an hour later a new Cadillac pulled up to a decrepit-looking garage and used-car lot in San Ysidro, a run-down section of San Diego less than two miles from the international border with Mexico. Martillo honked the horn three times, and a garage door opened and a man came out wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“Yes sir, Martillo. We doing business?”

Martillo chattered with him in Spanish, then pointed at Mahanani and then pointed out the passenger's-side door. “When you get to the garage in TJ, honk three short ones, like I did. They will get you turned around in about an hour. Don't watch. Go to the café and have something to eat.”

As Mahanani got out of the car, he saw his Buick pull into the same lot and stop. A man got out of it, tossed the keys to Mahanani, and slid into the Cadillac, which promptly left.

“Hey, kid, come in here and I'll introduce you to your new wheels,” said the man from the garage. “You drive like Martillo told you to. No detours, no shortcuts. It's an easy place to find. I'll give you directions. Stop at the garage, go get a taco, and go to the garage, then drive back here. Beep your horn twice and I'll open up and you drive into the garage. Got that? You better. I can't hold your hand no more. Come on.”

The two miles to the border went fine in the old Chevy. Then when the Mexican border man waved him through into Mexico without a word or a glance, Mahanani felt better. The route was easy, down the main street that led off the freeway to Presidente, then down it three blocks to the garage, which he could see. There were no lights on. It was nearly ten o'clock. He beeped the horn three times, and a door opened up and he drove inside.

Four Mexicans stood there waiting for him. One took him by the arm. “Tacos around corner,” he said. It may have been the only English he knew. Mahanani felt strange as he walked out the door and around the corner to a small café. Inside he ate a taco, then had a second one. It took about half an hour. He retraced his steps and found the door he had come out locked. He knocked three times. A small panel in the door opened, and then the door unlocked.

“Early,” Jose said. They put him in a small office with a chair. Ten minutes later he backed the 1985 Chevy out of the garage. He could feel no difference in the handling. He retraced his route, and suddenly he was at U.S. Customs. A bored inspector looked at his car and scowled.

“Where were you born?”

“Honolulu, Hawaii.”

“How long you been in Mexico?” he asked.

“Just tonight, playing tourist.”

“Anything to declare, booze, fur coats?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, move on.”

He was through, and trying not to feel the thrill of getting away with something. For a mile he kept watching in his rearview mirror, but no flashing lights came racing toward him. Yes, he'd done it, earned four hundred dollars, and he hadn't been caught. Of course, now he was a drug smuggler. He was shaking by the time he drove the two miles into San Ysidro to the garage. There he beeped twice and the door opened. Mahanani drove inside.

Jose grinned at him. “No trouble,
no problema. Sí.
Is easy, no? Your car's just outside.”

Mahanani nodded and hurried toward his car. He wasn't sure he could walk that far. He'd never committed a crime before in his life. Now he was a fucking dope smuggler. He sat inside the Buick for five minutes before he started it. By then he figured he could drive home on the freeway without wrecking the car. He was so hyped up he couldn't believe it.

He tried to calm down. He'd done it, and would do it again, and maybe he could get out of his IOU with the casino. But fourteen more trips? He didn't know. There had to be a better way. He could investigate. He would think on it. Gradually he calmed down. He eased off on the throttle, realizing he was passing everyone on the freeway. He was doing almost ninety miles an hour down U.S. 805. He slowed to sixty and moved into the right-hand lane. Better. Yes. He drove with the utmost caution to his apartment in Coronado. It had been a tough evening. How in hell was he going to get out of this one?

 

 

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock leaned back in his office chair and tried to relax. It had been a pounding twelve hours. He went over his talk with Admiral Kenner, who'd been in his office back in Little Creek, Virginia. Yes, he'd done everything right. He'd lit the fuse, and it would explode sometime tomorrow. Now all he had to do was get through this day. The three hours of sleep were getting to him. Strange, when he was twenty-one he could stay up all night and be fit and fighting the next morning. Maybe he was getting older.

He watched Ed DeWitt come in, and briefed him on what had happened. Then he gave him a copy of his report.

“Holy shit, Murdock. You ran into a rattlesnake nest up there. Any idea what it's about?”

Murdock told him the current theory about the North Koreans.

“Yeah, they're still pissed how we blasted them a year ago,” said DeWitt. “So is the operation on for sure?”

“Nothing is for sure until we hear it from the CNO, but I'd say it's about ninety-nine-percent go.”

“Regular training session today?”

“Let's keep it light, a five-mile run and a five-mile swim. While you're gone, I'm going to take a nap. I'm played out.”

“You earned it. We tell the troops about tomorrow?”

“Not until it's official. It could get stalled somewhere along the long chain of command.”

“Yeah, but it's a better bet when we start at the top.” Ed went out to meet the men as they filtered in. Murdock heard them groan when they heard about the five-mile run at 1000.
He stared at his computer until the screen went fuzzy. Then he turned it off, leaned back in his chair, and before he realized it, went to sleep.

Ed woke him when he came back in the small office grumbling. Murdock came up in the chair blinking.

“Sorry, Cap, didn't mean to wake you. We've got two men out with the flu. Both called in this morning and could hardly talk. We'll be short-handed tomorrow if we go.”

“We'll go, I'm sure of it. The idea of some foreign power having a secret facility on our coast really shook up the brass and the CIA. We'll be doing recon only, but there could be some opposition. Wouldn't be smart with all of the assets we're going to have prowling around the area. I'd guess we won't see anybody down there, just the damn dome. We'll need some underwater lights. Can you get us about four to take down? Some strong ones. I don't know where we'd requisition them.”

“Supply will know. I'll get them on it right now.”

“You about ready for your run?”

DeWitt grinned. “Cap, we just got back. You've been out of it for two hours.”

Murdock stretched and stood. “Then about time I get to work.”

“Yeah, lunchtime,” DeWitt said. “You up for that?”

They both laughed.

That afternoon Murdock went with the platoon on the five-mile swim. They did it on the surface without flippers or Draegrs. It was harder that way, a purely conditioning exercise. Jaybird led the way, and brought them in four minutes late, but close enough for a timed routine.

Back in the office, Murdock found a call waiting for him.

“Yes, Master Chief, what's cooking?”

“A call came through channels from the CNO. It's a go tomorrow. He's lined up two destroyers, two missile cruisers, and an amphibious assault ship as well as two air-cushion landing craft. They will pull out of San Diego tonight and steam north, and be on station just off Santa Barbara in the channel at 0800. Your platoon will be airlifted from North Island in a CH-46 and land on the command cruiser. Then deployed via an air-cushion craft when ready. The ships will
be working a mock attack and maneuvers just off the tower. Aircraft from the amphibious assault ship will be working the area, and both towers will be included in the maneuvers so as not to attract attention to one.”

“When do we leave from North Island?”

“I talked to the Forty-Six pilot assigned to the run. You'll need an hour and fifteen minutes for the flight. If you take off at 0700, you'll get up there just after 0815 when they are ready to rumble.”

“We're out of here at 0630. Any restrictions?”

“No, full combat-ready. Don Stroh sends his regrets. He's on another assignment.”

“We'll struggle along without him.”

“All your men ready to go?”

“We'll see about the two who are out today with the flu. It might get better in a rush when they know we have an operation.”

“Let me know before you push off.”

Murdock went into the assembly room to tell the platoon. The men were getting on their civvies ready for the road.

“So that's the skinny, guys. Report here at 0500 and we'll get suited up and move out. We'll go in full wet suits and Draegrs, and half our ammo load. Doubt if we'll need our weapons, but we'll be ready in case. Any questions?”

“Yeah, you say it might be the damn North Koreans?” Howard asked.

“Speculation, but we don't think the Chinese would be that stupid. Anything else?” There wasn't. “Senior Chief, get in touch with Fernandez and Lam and see if they will be coming along on the ride, or if they still have the flu. That's all.”

Ten minutes later Jack Mahanani drove his Buick away from the Special Warfare section and into Coronado. He kept going, heading for the bridge into San Diego, then on toward East County. He was going back to the Casa Grande Casino. He wanted another run into TJ. If he was going to do it, he'd better get it done. Or if he was going to try to outwit them, he'd better figure out how.

He'd been thinking about a hundred pounds of cocaine. What would that bring on the wholesale level? He'd heard the price of drugs was down, but a hundred pounds should
still be worth well over a half-million dollars. He'd heard coke was going for twenty thousand a kilo. What he could do with that kind of money. Yeah, and how quickly he would be dead in a lonely stretch of the Borego Desert. Must be some way. What could they do, go to the police? No, they had their own way of dealing with thieves. He shivered. Hell, he had to figure something.

He just made it in the door at the casino when Harley nailed him. It was as if he had been waiting.

“How'd your ride go last night?”

“Good, except the tacos gave me heartburn.” They both grinned. “I want another ride tonight. Have one scheduled?”

“We don't schedule. We go whenever we get a driver. You want to go, you got a ride. You have different clothes on, good. Why not wear a hat too. Every little bit helps.”

“I'll get one. I go back down to San Ysidro?”

“Right. You're not packing a hideout, are you?” Harley moved in close to Mahanani and patted him down. If he'd had a wire-recording device on, Harley would have found it.

“Okay, Jack. I'll call Jose and tell him you're coming. Give it three hours before you come back this time. They can check by computer to see how long your license-numbered car was gone. They don't like twenty-minute stays in the country and then a drive out. The car will be clean and hasn't been driven across for six months. They check on that too. Just be casual. Don't act drunk or they'll pull you over and hold you. Just nice and easy.”

“Sure, yeah, and me looking at ten years if I get caught. I must be nuts. But it's a try. Hell, I can only die once, right?”

“Yeah, right. But you sure as hell better not blow our operation while you're getting dead.”

“No sweat. I'm gone to Tijuana.”

He drove to San Ysidro the same way he had the previous night, and found the garage with Jose there. The second time around, it seemed routine. Hell, he was a dope smuggler, a candidate for the big house. Jose checked him out and handed him the keys. His wheels for this trip was a 1992 Ford Taurus. The paint job was still good, and it only had one dinged rear fender. It had some junk in it, including some stuffed toys and a kid's game. After the short drive to the
border, he went through the Tijuana gate, and the Mexican guard waved him on through without stopping. They liked the American dollar the tourists brought with them.

He made the turn on Presidente Avenue and pulled up to the same garage. Three beeps with his horn, and the garage door rolled upward and he drove inside. The same Mexican came over as he stepped out of the car.

“Hola.”

“Yeah, hi, where is there a better restaurant than the café?”

“Better eats?”

“Right.”

“Two blocks down. Good eats.”

“I'm supposed to wait three hours this time.” The Mexican nodded, and Mahanani waved and headed for his dinner. He hadn't been a fan of Mexico, almost never came down here. He'd gotten drunk here once a year ago, and had nearly never made it home. That cured him of TJ. He walked to the restaurant, tried to read the Spanish menu in the window, but gave up and went inside. He had a steak with all the side dishes and two bottled Cokes. He couldn't even risk drinking a beer, and he wanted something bottled so he didn't get food poisoning. The steak was good, and he meandered back to the garage. The Taurus sat outside, so he knocked on the door and the Mexican man nodded.

“Car ready, but wait two hours.”

Mahanani had no trouble with that. He crawled in, pushed the seat back as far as it would go, and reclined it. He could stand a two-hour nap.

It was almost three hours before one leg cramped and woke him. The sleep had left him groggy and bleary-eyed. He walked around the car a dozen times; then he was ready. He drove carefully, but had trouble keeping his mind on the road. His stomach growled and he quickly felt ill, but he didn't know why. Maybe the flu bug the other guys had. He shook his head. It was only three or four miles; then he'd be back in his own country and in his own set of wheels.

It took all of his concentration to find the border. He drove up to the tenth open inspection gate, and waited ten minutes to get up to the man. The border guard started to wave him through, then stopped and came up to the window.

“Sir, are you all right? You look a little strange.”

“Got the flu coming on, I think, but I can drive.”

“You could pull over into secondary inspection and have a half-hour nap. Would that help?”

“No, I had some coffee, I should be okay. I don't have far to go, just into Imperial Beach.”

Mahanani blinked and stared wide-eyed at the border guard. “Yeah, I'm doing better now. Just some gas, I think. Thanks for the help.” He let his foot off the brake, and the car rolled ahead. The guard hesitated, then waved him on through. Mahanani was sweating like a marathon runner in July. That had been so close. If they'd pulled him into secondary inspection, the drug-sniffing dog would have roamed around his car automatically, and he'd have been busted and on his way to Chino State Prison for ten to fifteen. Shit, what a fucking close call.

He was still sweating, his stomach growled, and his whole gut felt like it was going to explode. A mile down the road there was a little turnout, and Mahanani pulled off the freeway and opened the door quickly. He vomited out the door before he could get his feet on the ground. He retched three times, then shook his head. Maybe it was the steak. He wiped his mouth and wished he had some water. But he did feel better. It had been a bug of some kind. He closed the door, sat there for five minutes while his stomach settled down, then started the engine and drove away into the traffic with no trouble.

Ten minutes later he delivered the car to Jose, and received a receipt for four hundred dollars. Jose looked at him sharply. “Why did you take so long to drive six miles?”

“What do you mean? I came right here. Oh, I had to pull over and throw up. I guess I had some bad food. There's still some of the vomit on the edge of the door. Take a look.”

Jose did. “So, be careful what you eat down there. Take a few McDonald burgers with you the next time. Don't ever stop once you leave the garage. We have you on a clock. Just a warning.”

Mahanani climbed into his Buick, found the can of Coke he always kept in the tray, and drank half of it. Then he drove back to Coronado with no trouble. Damn, there had to
be some way to beat them at their own game. Just thinking about that half-million-dollar cargo he had transported made him ready to invent all sorts of plans. Something had to work. Now he knew they had him on a clock from the time he left the garage until he beeped for Jose. They would know how long the wait time was at the border. One TV news channel gave the wait time every ten minutes. Not even a long holdup at the border would get him off the hook. No time to stop on this side and stash the goods. Oh, sure, if he tried that, he'd be dead before he could get back into his Buick.

But he kept thinking about it. How in hell did he get out of this mess, stop being a fucking mule, get his Buick pink slip back, and pay out his IOU at the casino? A thought crept into his mind, but didn't seem to make sense. Did the casino management know that these two men were working a drug-smuggling operation? He shrugged. How could they not know? They were making millions off the gambling, but a few hundred thousand on the side from drugs wouldn't hurt. Top management over there had to know.