Contract to Kill (31 page)

If things fell through, having the counterfeit pesos was better than nothing, but laundering that much bogus paper wouldn’t be easy, and he’d have to warehouse it until he found a wholesale buyer. He couldn’t just drive across the international border with 300 million in bogus pesos. Mason knew Alisio wouldn’t be paying face value for fake paper. He’d likely be offering around twenty-five cents on the dollar in some form of goods or currency—but that would still be a huge number. Six million or so bucks would go a long way in securing a comfortable lifestyle for the three of them. If his heist succeeded, he might just end up with both the North Koreans’ fake pesos and Alisio’s loot. Not a bad day’s haul.

They arrived at the northeast cove of the marina and followed Michaels’s directions onto a street intersecting Harbor Drive. The property to their left held several three-story buildings, separated by a security fence. The place had a military feel, and Mason thought it might be a Navy facility.

He pulled to the side of the road and sent Darla ahead to give the dock area a quick reconnaissance. He told her to scan with both the thermal imager and night vision. The thermal imager wouldn’t detect people in cars with the windows up, but the NV might see them.

A few minutes later, she came up on the radio.
“Okay, the marina’s office is a small building about the size of a two-car garage. The gate to the dock’s ramp is locked with a card-key access and keypad. There are two security cameras. The first one overlooks the gate to the dock, and a second is mounted on the eave of the office, pointing toward the parking lot.”

“Do you see a white Econoline van?”

“It’s right where Michaels said it would be, near the north end of the parking lot.”

“Can the office camera see it?”

“Unless it’s a fish-eye lens, negative. It’s tilted down toward the area in front of the door.”

“Okay, find a place to park where you can see the driver’s side of the van. Let me know if you see anyone walking around or people just sitting in their vehicles. We’re coming in.”

His radio clicked.

Studying the area, Mason cruised into the marina’s parking lot. They passed a nice-looking restaurant called Jimmy’s Famous American Tavern. He’d seen its roof on the satellite images, but hadn’t known what it was. There were several dozen cars present, most of them close to the dock’s entrance.

“Where are Alisio’s slips?” Mason asked.

“Right there, the first three slots.”

“Why’s there only one boat?”

“Sometimes they get chartered. They go on overnight trips to San Clemente Island or wherever.”

Mason drove out of the marina’s parking lot and radioed Darla. “I’ve got your location. We’re going to sit tight for a few minutes near Harbor Drive.”

“There’s activity on the dock. Someone’s walking toward the gate from a boat near the end
.
”

“Keep eyes on him. Let me know if he enters the parking lot.” Mason knew people lived on their boats. The guy could be making a pit stop at the marina’s bathroom facilities.

Mason pulled into a small parking lot before reaching Harbor Drive and killed the engine. Michaels reminded Mason he’d promised to let him go once he had the duffel bags. Mason told Michaels that wasn’t their agreement. Michaels was going with them to the exchange location, as yet to be determined. Michaels tried to object, but Mason told him to shut up.

Twenty long minutes later, Michaels received his one-hour-ETA text from “Captain Phillips.”

Cute
, thought Mason.

“Hold the phone so we can see your response and move your fingers slowly. If you scare off Alisio’s boat, your usefulness to us is over.”

“Yeah, okay man, I get it.”

Michaels texted back:
In the van waiting
.

A few seconds later, a return text showed a smiley face.

Even though the text from Phillips came a little late, Mason wasn’t worried. Michaels had said the arrival times always varied. In the Escondido safe house, Mason had thoroughly grilled Michaels about the texts, about what was normally exchanged. He didn’t want Michaels sending a secret phrase or code alerting the fishing boat to trouble or a stakeout at the dock.

Mason drove back into the marina’s parking lot and stopped next to the van. His plan was to put Chip in there with Michaels. It had been a smart move keeping Michaels’s keys because the van’s key was on the set they’d taken at the nightclub. Mason told Michaels if he made a run for it or attempted to yell for help, Chip would zap him with the Taser. Chip also had a green light to kill Michaels if the guy tried anything funny. As a backup, Darla could nail Michaels if he opened the van’s door. Using the same subsonic .22 ammo, her bolt-action rifle wouldn’t sound much louder than a soft hand clap. Michaels assured them he wouldn’t try anything.

Mason ordered their captive to get behind the wheel and fasten his seat belt. Keeping the keys, Chip got into the back of the van and positioned himself out of Michaels’s reach, but where he could still fire the Taser’s prongs into the guy’s flesh within half a second of any trouble.

With Michaels and Chip squared away in the van, Mason parked several spaces distant, facing away from the dock. He didn’t want the SUV to look like it was spying on the action. It also allowed him to screen himself from view and make a quicker escape.

He checked his watch—fifty-five minutes to showtime.

Using field glasses, Mason monitored the approaching fishing boat as it crept through the water toward the dock. It looked to be forty or fifty feet long. He knew it was the right boat because it towed a small skiff. It didn’t appear to be a commercial tuna boat, more like a day-pass kind of craft. Unlike last night, the weather was dry and no wind blew. The boat cleared the end of the dock and turned straight toward them in the mirror-smooth water. Mason watched the distorted reflection of city lights create an ever-expanding V behind the boat. When the boat neared its slip, an Asian crew member untied the skiff’s towline and piloted the inflatable craft over to the dock. The fishing boat’s captain then maneuvered his vessel into its slip, and the crew member who’d piloted the skiff secured its lines.

A different crew member, also Asian, hopped off the boat, walked up the ramp to the gate, and retrieved a four-wheeled cart—like the ones used at Costco warehouses. Back on the boat, the skiff’s pilot began moving duffel bags to the dock.
Crazy
, Mason thought,
that each bag holds 30 million pesos
. The crew member returned with the cart and began loading the bags. So far, Mason counted ten duffel bags and three men. Two crew members and the captain.

The bags appeared to be heavy; the short man stacking them had to put his weight into the effort.

Then, as if merely moving the day’s catch, the guy wheeled the cart toward the ramp. Mason watched him struggle as he pushed the load up the slope, but he made it to the top and took a breather. The cart pusher looked toward the van, then at his watch.

“Here we go,” Mason said. “Chip and Darla stand by. Verbal copies.”

Both of them acknowledged hearing his transmission.

Mason lost sight of the cart pusher for a brief period when the office building blocked his view.

“I’ve got the cart pusher,” Mason said. “He’s entering the parking lot.”

“I’m right behind Michaels,”
Chip said.

“Darla?”

“I’ve got the van’s door in my sights. Standing by.”

The man pushed the cart along the wharf, then angled toward the office. When the cart pusher reached the parking lot, he stopped and turned toward the fishing boat.

The other crew member, and someone Mason hadn’t yet seen—maybe the captain—hopped onto the dock and began a fast-paced walk toward the gate.

“Two more men are walking toward the gate from the fishing boat. Chip, be ready in there.”

“
Copy
,” Chip said.

The newcomers went through the gate and assumed flanking positions next to the cart pusher. Mason cursed under his breath. In the safe house, Michaels had assured them that a single ROK man accompanied the goods, not three.
So who the hell are these guys
? Mason was tempted to order Michaels’s summary execution and just settle for the counterfeit pesos. Screw the later exchange. But still . . .

In thirty seconds, the cart would be at the van. He needed to make a decision. Fast.

Believing they had good tactical positions, plenty of firepower, and the element of surprise on their side, Mason decided to play this out. He wasn’t willing to write off the operation; he’d come too far to give up now. If this was a trap and Michaels had managed to warn the fishing boat’s captain, that dumbass had just signed his own death warrant.

The double escort didn’t seem to confuse the cart pusher. Clearly he’d been expecting them. They were dressed in casual attire and had dark coats on. Without a doubt, they were packing.

Mason knew the rear doors of the van were unlocked, and in twenty more seconds, those men were going to swing them open and see Chip holding a Taser on Michaels.

Even though Michaels couldn’t hear Chip’s ear speaker, Mason kept his voice low and calm. “Chip, they’ll be at the van in fifteen seconds. Stand by to shoot your way out of there.”

“What about Michaels?”

“Nail him with the Taser on my mark. Tell him to lean out the window and wave when they arrive. Darla, you take the shorter guy; I’ll take the other. Chip, you’re on the cart pusher. Confirm.”

Mason listened to the verbal copies.

“Ten seconds. Fire on my mark.”

Mason watched the trio approach the rear of the van. The men wearing coats kept looking around, but they didn’t seem overly tense. Maybe they weren’t expecting trouble after all. Maybe Alisio changed things without telling Michaels, but that was dangerous. Alisio must realize doing something like that could result in a friendly fire incident.

“Tell Michaels to lean out the window and ask about the extras . . . Now.”

Mason watched Michaels stick his head out and wave.

“Hey, man, who’s the new muscle?”

“Mr. Park wants them here.”

“Well he didn’t say nothing about this to me.”

“Mr. Park doesn’t report to you.”

“This don’t pass the smell test. I’ve never seen these guys before.”

“Shut the fuck up, T-Hat. You don’t need to know who they are.”

One of the men walked toward the passenger door. Just before Mason lost sight of him, the man reached inside his coat and pulled a suppressed weapon.

“Chip, you’re blown! Darla, engage!”

A soft clap pierced the marina.

In a bizarre solo dance, the shorter man spun, looked confused, then crumpled to the ground.

“Zap Michaels!” Mason flew out of the SUV and ran straight toward the van.

A giant bullwhip cracked. The windshield of the car behind him exploded.

Mason knew the sound. Someone had just fired a high-powered suppressed rifle. The supersonic crack of a passing bullet was unmistakable; he’d heard it many times.

Mason changed direction and ducked behind a pickup. “Darla, did you see the muzzle flash?”

“Negative
.
”

“We’re pinned until we take out that sniper. Focus on Alisio’s boat. I’m going to draw his fire. Stand by . . . Now!” Mason made a sprint toward the van, weaving between the sparsely parked cars.

Another crack echoed across the marina, resulting in more shattered glass. He stopped running and crouched behind a compact.

A third shot broke the passenger window above his head.
Shit!

“Darla?”

“He’s lying prone on the roof of Alisio’s boat.”

Mason barely heard the muted pop of Darla’s rifle.

“He’s down,”
she reported.

“Shoot anyone else you see on the boat.”

“Copy.”

Darla’s rifle discharged again.

“A second man is down. I don’t see anyone else.”

“Keep eyes on the boat for now.”

Mason knew they had to wrap this up quickly. Even though those high-powered rifle reports were suppressed, the bullets weren’t. Their supersonic bangs alerted the entire area. The harbor police and the SDPD could be here in minutes, maybe Navy MPs too.

The second gunman who’d joined the cart pusher still posed a threat.

“Darla, fire several shots into the sedan next to the van in . . . three . . . two . . . one. Now.”

The windows of the sedan shattered and holes appeared in its fender as Darla fired a shot every second.

Keeping the van between himself and the gunman, Mason sprinted over to the closest car and flattened himself on the asphalt. He toggled the laser and lined up on the man’s ankle.

The report of his pistol sounded like a hard-soled footstep. A string of Korean obscenities rang out. Mason gained his feet and rushed to the driver’s side of the van. In a crouch, he eased along its front bumper, extended his arm around the fender, and blindly fired along the van’s length.

Grunts of pain announced he’d scored more hits.