See You in Saigon (8 page)

Ignoring his
pleas, Thao shoved Bao with his foot, knocking him onto his side then rolled
him onto his stomach before straddling him to hold him in place. Quickly, he
jabbed the needle into Bao’s neck and pressed the plunger then climbed off him
and removed the handcuffs.

“Holy shit,”
muttered Bao seconds later as the initial rush hit him.

He raised himself
unsteadily on his hands and knees and vomited then crumpled back to the ground
and lay motionless.

“Is that it?”
asked Scorpion.

“Should be,” Thao
replied. “That dose would have killed an elephant.”

“Pop the trunk.”
Scorpion ordered as he covered the short distance to their waiting car.

He returned with a
two gallon canister of gasoline which he poured onto Bao, soaking his clothing.
Setting the empty container aside, he grasped the dead man by the ankles while
Thao did likewise by the wrists. They moved closer to the destroyed barn and
swung the body, heaving onto the smoking remnants and within seconds, the
corpse was engulfed in flames.

Scorpion watched
it burn for a moment then said, “Let’s get going. We have some worse
troublemakers to find and deal with.”

* * * *

Chicago, Illinois,
8:04 a.m.

“I haven’t heard
of anything unusual on this end,” said Russell Foster from the third floor
study of his home in Chicago’s elite Gold Coast sector. “Might be a European or
Russian crew.”

“Not based on what
I know so far,” Scorpion replied, “But anything’s possible. Dig around and let
me know what you find.”

“Did you talk to
Pablo?” asked Russell. “I can call him if you want him to look around too.”

“The last I heard
from that idiot is an email almost two weeks ago,” said Scorpion. “Even his
voicemail is full now. Have you heard from him?”

“Only the email
you got which he’d copied me on,” Russell replied. “I simply thought he was
back by now since we received an RV shipment from Houston yesterday.”

“His boys know
their jobs so shipments keep on moving,” said Scorpion, “But the reason I have
you guys in place is to run the show and keep an eye on operations. Pablo’s
pushing his luck a bit too much with this little vacation stunt.”

“Let me see if I
can track him down,” suggested Russell. “It’ll be easier for me from here. I’ll
get back to you on him as well.”

They ended their
conversation and Russell refilled his coffee mug before settling into one of
the leather armchairs by the fireplace, his favourite thinking spot.

He was concerned
about his counterpart, Pablo, because even though they came from totally
different backgrounds, he liked and respected the man. While Pablo had come
from the streets of Los Angeles and been involved in gangs from a young age,
Russell came from old money on both sides of the family.

The only child of
Randall Foster III, Managing Partner of the prestigious
Foster & Blake
,
a fourth generation law firm, Russell had attended the best schools where he
had consistently excelled and everyone’s intention and expectation had been he
would one day join and eventually run the family business.

While in college,
Russell, a thrill seeker by nature, had taken to frequenting a few bars known
to be biker hangouts and, on one such occasion, had ended up chatting for a
while with none other than Jerry ‘Jazz’ Kovac, the founder and head of the
Devil’s Delight. The two men had gotten along rather well with Jazz being
impressed by the young man’s quick mind and Russell being awed by the outlaw’s
street savvy and survival instincts.

Not solely by
chance, other such encounters had taken place and during one of them, the
conversation had veered to drug use and, more specifically, drug distribution
at Russell’s school. The discussion had triggered Russell’s penchant for danger
and, within months, he had established relationships and agreements with anyone
dealing dope at school and become their sole supplier.

His secret,
illicit business had subsequently followed him throughout his studies at the
University of Chicago Law School during which time it had grown exponentially
as he expanded his distribution network to a number of other colleges and
universities across the state.

His field of
specialization being business law, nobody had questioned his decision to gain
some practical experience by starting up his own small chain of diner-style
restaurants catering initially to the student population. In fact, his father,
proud if his son’s initiative, had offered to invest in the venture but Russell
had refused, insisting he wished to do this on his own. A generous trust fund
made available to him as of the age of twenty-one virtually eliminated any
enquiries as to the source of his financing.

As a result of his
efforts,
Russell’s
had been a thriving going concern with six locations
by the end of his second year in university, ironically not only thanks to the
drug money being filtered through it but also because of a solid business plan,
good food and reasonable prices.

By the time Russell
had graduated in 2001, his business had grown to fifteen wholly owned and ten
franchised locations with a number of others on the way. He had also opened two
high-end restaurants under the
Foster’s
banner and
Chez Russ
, his
first nightclub. Though disappointed, his father had understood and accepted
his son’s decision when Russell had announced he would not be joining the law
firm, at least not in the foreseeable future.

Barely a month
later, Jazz had asked Russell to oversee drug distribution for the northern
half of the United States for the fully transformed Devil’s Delight. Russell
had readily agreed, hiding the illegal business behind his ever growing
RF
Holdings
empire over the years.

With only a
handful of people aware of the complete structure of the Devil’s Delight, the
gang had succeeded in remaining under the radar, still suspected of existing by
many in law enforcement but without a blip of evidence. The key to this success
was absolute secrecy which was why nobody in Russell’s legal life was aware of
his illegal one, not even Melissa, his wife of almost ten years.

The faint chiming
of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts, enough for him to vaguely wonder who
could calling on them this early in the morning. However, the question quickly
vanished as this was no concern of his – he had staff to deal with such
inconsequential matters.

He returned his
focus to the issues at hand, starting to make a mental list of people he might
initially contact to find information for Scorpion but was interrupted once
again, this time by a knock on the door.

“Russell?” said
his wife as she entered his study, concern and fear etched in her expression.
“There are men here to see you. Police. What’s going on?”

“What? Police?”
Russell exclaimed, bolting to his feet and noticing two suits and two uniforms
in the hallway beyond the door. “What the hell are you doing in my home? You
can’t come in here without a warrant.”

“I’m Lieutenant
Lou Cano,” said one of the suits, stepping forward with his identification in
hand, “And we do have a warrant, Mr. Foster. We’d like you to come with us to
answer some questions.”

“Russell, what’s
going on?” Melissa pleaded. “Why is the police here?”

“I’m not going
anywhere,” Russell retorted, ignoring his wife. “You’ll have to arrest me first.”

Cano shrugged.
“Suit yourself. Russell Foster, you’re under arrest for possession of heroin
with the intent to distribute.”

“What?” Melissa
exclaimed, her face blanching upon hearing the words.

“You have the
right to remain silent,” Cano continued. “If you refuse that right, anything
you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of—”

“I know my damned
rights,” Russell snarled. “I’m a damned attorney.”

“In a court of
law,” Cano resumed. “You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking
to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the
future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before
any questioning, if you wish.”

Russell laughed
though his stress was obvious. “Oh, please, this is ridiculous.”

“If you decide to
answer any questions now without an attorney present,” Cano went on, “You will
still have the right to stop answering at any time until you speak to an
attorney. Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to
you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”

“Of course not,”
Russell snapped and turned to his wife. “Call my father.”

“What do I tell
him?” asked Melissa, panic evident in her tone. “What’s this all about?”

“Tell him we’re
going to hit Chicago with the biggest damned lawsuit the city has ever seen,”
Russell replied then glared at Cano. “And when it’s all over, this douchebag
won’t be able to find work as a security guard. Now, if you’ll give me a
moment, I’m going to go change.”

Cano stepped
forward, blocking the way as he eyed Russell’s cashmere sweat suit.

“No need to
change, Mr. Foster. You look fine as you are and you’ll be more comfortable for
the long day ahead,” he said, pulling out a set of handcuffs. “Now, please turn
around and put your hands behind your back.”

* * * *

Long Beach,
California, 7:16 a.m.

Back in 2001,
Emilio Valdez had been skeptical when Pablo Martinez, head of the Locos Niños,
had announced they would be moving away from the street gang scene and adopting
a much more subtle approach in their business dealings. Emilio had argued that
much of their credibility came from their street reputation and the fear they
instilled but Pablo had disagreed, stating credibility and reputation were
worth nothing if they landed one in prison or six feet under. Being careful and
staying out of sight much more guaranteed long-term survival than being a tough
guy screaming for the spotlight.

Pablo’s logic had
been valid and Emilio had gone along, particularly since it had been suggested
he would assume leadership of their crew once Pablo moved to Houston to work
more closely with their new suppliers. Not once in the twelve years since had
he regretted the changes they had made. Gone were the days of sporting colours,
street fights and drive by shootings.

Instead, he now
managed a smoothly running distribution network with a well-established
customer base and a consistent supply of high quality product, all under the
guise of a short and long-term warehousing facility in Long Beach. Deals were
made over the phone, in fine restaurants or in his comfortable office, not in
dark alleys or rundown bars. Computers were used to manage records and payments
were made electronically to offshore accounts, a far cry from when bundles of
cash had changed hands in dingy dives with the ever-present danger of a violent
double-cross.

All of this had
provided a high-end lifestyle with an ocean front home in Belmont Heights,
luxury cars, exotic vacations and beautiful women. It also allowed him much
leisure time as he generally didn’t need to invest sixty to seventy hours per
week as did many of his friends and acquaintances who worked in the real world.

He rarely was at
the warehouse early unless business warranted his presence, which was the case
that morning as a sizeable shipment was on its way. Such shipments had started
a little over three years ago, shortly after Pablo had informed Emilio, in
confidence, of the completion of a tunnel built by the organization he now
worked for.

Spanning some six
hundred yards, seventy feet below ground, the tunnel started beneath a
warehouse in Tijuana and ended under a RV service and storage centre in the
Otay Mesa district of San Diego. Hydraulic elevators at either end were
concealed under concrete slabs which were mechanically slid aside when
required. The tunnel itself was equipped with lighting, ventilation and an
electric dual track rail system for automated trolley displacement.

Shipments were
typically brought through the tunnel across the border overnight and
transported, generally by RV, to Emilio’s warehouse. For the sake of
expediency, such runs were made early in the morning when traffic was light.
Once at the warehouse, the shipment was unloaded, quality and quantities were
verified then everything was repackaged according to waiting orders, some to be
picked up and others to be delivered.

The incoming
shipment which had yet to arrive, eighteen hundred pounds of marijuana and a
little over four hundred pounds of cocaine, had left San Diego shortly after
five that morning and Emilio was growing a little concerned since the drive
should take somewhat less than two hours at this time of day. Though he
realized there could be a number of reasons for the delay, Chico Diaz was
dependable and normally called if he was held up along the way.

As if in response
to his thoughts, his Bluetooth chirped in his ear.