Payback (27 page)

 

 

Hospital Corpsman First Class Jack Mahanani ran up the steps to his apartment in Coronado. As he opened the door the telephone rang. He hurried in and picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Is this the Reverend?”

“So you ran my plates. I told you not to do that.” He hung up. A moment later the phone rang again. He let it sound four times before he picked it up.

“Clancy's Bar and Grill, Clancy speaking.”

“Yeah sure. Mahanani, we know everything about you there is to know. Now don't hang up. I've made a deal for you. You will remain completely anonymous, no name, no testimony, no leak to the press, nothing. All you have to do is give us the names of the guys at the casino, the spots where you pick up and deliver the cars. That's it. Just to be sure we don't get an empty cupboard, we'll want you to make one more run, and that's the one we'll bust.”

“No way, Mr. DEA. You bust them on my run and they will know that I tipped you and they'll tell everyone in the ring. If just one of them gets away, I'm dead meat within twelve hours. Not a chance. I'll give you the names, and places. You set up a surveillance on the U.S. side. When you see a man drive in, leave his own car there, and take an older nondescript car out and drive to the border, you know you have a runner.”

“Might work, might not. What if it's a decoy?”

“Won't be. I ran a dry load last time out. They knew the inspectors were checking every six-year-old Chevy. They
pulled mine over and it came out clean. They won't do another decoy.”

“So when are you going to give us the names and addresses?”

“How about tonight? You know where I live. You probably have a man outside my place right now. Radio him to come up to my door and ask politely if I need a ride. Then we meet and drive to San Ysidro.”

“We'll need the name of the casino and the guys there who shanghaied you so we can have a team out there waiting for us to make a grab.”

“Cool, I can do that. Tonight. When will your man be on my doorstep?”

“In about five minutes. Look, Mahanani, we want to make this as easy as we can for you. We know you're a SEAL and good with weapons. Don't bring anything with you. Not even an ankle hideout. Okay?”

“Roger that. No bang-bang.”

“Good. Our man will drive down the Strand and we'll meet in Imperial Beach. You'll have to wait for us. You'll be riding with Hernando. He's a good man and speaks Spanish like a native. We'll see you in about a half hour.”

Mahanani said good-bye and hung up the phone. He looked over three small guns in the top dresser drawer. The little .32 automatic would fit nicely in a belt holster in the middle of his back. No, they just might frisk him. The DEA said no guns, so he would not take one. He checked his wallet. Twenty-one dollars in cash. He probably wouldn't spend a dollar.

He went to the bathroom, washed his hands and face, and checked his beard. No worry. By the time he had combed his dark hair, the front doorbell sounded.

When he opened the door he saw a Mexican with a mustache, wearing chinos, a tan shirt outside his pants, dark sunglasses, and a baseball cap. He took off the glasses and held out his hand.

“Jack Mahanani?” he asked in a pleasant voice without a trace of Mexican accent.

“That's right. I understand we're to take a ride.”

“
Sí, amigo.
I am Hernando. We take a trip to Imperial
Beach.” This time the Mexican accent was solid and sure. He grinned. “Sometimes I do undercover work along the border,” he said without the accent. “I can play it either way. Maybe I should have been an actor.”

Mahanani locked his front door and they went down the steps to a four-year-old Ford.

“Company car,” Hernando said. “I drive one of the new VW Beetles.”

They drove in silence past the Hotel Del Coronado, out the Strand, and past the SEALs' headquarters. Hernando waved at the complex. “Seems like they keep you guys busy over there,” he said.

“Some days we work, some days we train,” Mahanani said. He sat there trying to figure his odds of living through the night. If the raid went down without a hitch, and if they nailed at least five bodies at the casino, he would have a chance. He had decided not to call in and tell Harley that he was home but bushed and couldn't make a run tonight. Maybe he'd give him a call tomorrow afternoon.

Not calling tonight might be enough to throw suspicion on him, and they might not make a run tonight. But he often didn't call in for four or five days. He'd leave it like that. Taking down the guys at the casino would be the hairy part.

They waited near a McDonald's in Imperial Beach for ten minutes before a Mercury Grand Prix pulled up in back of them. Two men got out and crawled into the Ford.

“We wanted a car that wouldn't be conspicuous,” the taller of the two agents said. “I'm Daniels and this is Ronkowski. Now what casino and who are we looking for?”

“The Casa Grande Casino, out from El Cajon a ways. The man who first contacted me is Harley. He's a member of the tribe out there. I don't know his last name. Seems like he's always near the front doors. The office man is Martillo.”

Hernando looked over at him. “Hammer? They call him the Hammer?”

“Right. He's the guy who sent three of his thugs to pound me around.”

“We have heard of Martillo. Rojo Martillo, he's sometimes called. The
rojo
probably comes from the color of blood, which he spills quite often. We know him and three or four
of the men he runs with. I wonder how he got a job at the casino.”

“He had strong Indian contacts last I knew,” Hernando said. He looked at Mahanani. “We ready to drive?”

“Are those the only names you have for us?” Daniels asked.

“Yes. Let's drive. Sometimes the cars take off from San Ysidro before seven o'clock.”

“It's only six-fifteen, Mahanani,” Daniels said. “You left all of your guns at work and at home, I hope.”

“Right. If it comes to a shoot-out, I don't want any part of it.”

“From what I hear, your special Platoon Three of Seventh does quite a bit of shooting,” Ronkowski said.

“We're professionals doing a job,” Mahanani said. “We don't like to mix with amateur drug smugglers.” He scowled. “You guys must also know what kind of toothpaste I use and when I go to the john.”

“Just about,” Daniels said. “We like to know who we're dealing with. We didn't compromise you in any way with the Navy or the SEALs. We know how to gather information without the people knowing they are helping us.”

“San Ysidro just ahead,” Hernando said.

“Take the off-ramp, then go down two blocks and turn left into Pismo Street,” Mahanani said. “The little garage has a rusted-out sign, a fence around it, and a wide driveway.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Hernando said.

“Just ease past it and go down to the end of the block,” Daniels said. “Park so we can see the driveway.” They had just parked, facing back toward the garage in front of a taco shop, when Mahanani pointed.

“Okay, that Pontiac just eased into the lot and parked where he's supposed to,” Mahanani said. “The driver's getting out of the car.”

The SEAL then saw that both backseat riders had out large field glasses and were tracking the man. He walked young, but Mahanani had no idea how old he was.

“Male, Caucasian, maybe thirty, wears glasses,” Daniels said. “Blue pants, light blue shirt, might have a tie on. He's just going into the Triple A Auto Repair shop on Pismo
Street. This is in the San Ysidro section of San Diego, about three miles from the Mexican/U.S. border.”

Mahanani looked back and saw Daniels lower a small tape recorder. “Helps my memory,” he said.

“When do you call the men to the casino?”

“We've had undercover people there for two days.”

“How did you know which one?”

“We talked to your cleaning lady. She said she was sure that was the one where you spent a lot of time and money. She showed us napkins and matchbooks and a flyer from the casino.”

“Fucking sneaky,” Mahanani said.

“Like you SEALs, we do whatever works. We go after the bad guys whole-bore with all our flags flying. Which is why you're here.”

“The paper with my pardon on it,” Mahanani said. He figured the DEA wouldn't give it up unless they had to. Daniels reached in his jacket pocket and took out an envelope. Mahanani opened the envelope, saw the stationery, and read the letter. He nodded, put in his pocket, and watched the kid walk into the garage door. The big door the cars drove into was closed.

“Don't try to tail him when he drives out,” Mahanani said. “Yeah, I know you're experts, but with one or two cars you don't have a chance. There might be two hundred cars all trying to get into Mexico at the same time. The smugglers give the drivers tips on what to watch for in case they think somebody is following them. It's a good ten-minute course and they say it works.”

“Somebody is coming out,” Hernando said. One of the Mexican men from inside came out the regular door and pretended to pick up trash around the lot, but what he really did was check out the street both ways. The DEA men dropped below the level of the rear seat, and Hernando and Mahanani bent down as well when the man looked their way. After a good check around, the man went back inside the garage.

A moment later the drive-in door lifted and a six-year-old Plymouth eased out of the building and angled toward the driveway and the street.

“Same guy we saw leave the Pontiac,” Daniels said. “We may have a go here.” Mahanani realized that Daniels had switched to a foot-long handheld radio.

“We're on duty here at Gamble One,” the radio speaker said. “I asked somebody where Harley was and she pointed him out to me. Told them I was trying to sell them a new type of soap for their rest rooms. He usually hangs out around the front doors. Once I saw him turn around a guy who looked like a street person. Another time he greeted a well-dressed woman and escorted her through a door marked employees only. Not sure where it goes. We're loose. So far I've lost only about ten dollars on the slots. I've got one with a good view of Harley.”

“Stay with it. Could be two or three hours. We can't strike too fast. See what you can find out about three big guys who are used for punishment purposes.”

“Roger that, Rover. Will do.”

While the radio chattered, Mahanani watched the faded Plymouth sedan drive down the street a block and turn the corner toward Interstate 5.

“How long will he be gone?” Daniels asked, looking at his watch.

“They tell their mules to stay in TJ for at least three hours. The inspectors don't like over-and-back trips, cars that they can remember.”

“But the inspectors on the U.S. side don't see the U.S. cars going in on the Mexican border,” Ronkowski said.

“You're right, but they still tell their drivers three hours,” Mahanani repeated.

“So,” Hernando said. “We have time for a leisurely dinner in a good steak house.”

The other two DEA men laughed.

“Right, Hernando. You're our chef. You get to hike to the nearest fast-food place and bring back enough fish sandwiches, burgers, and milk shakes for all four of us. Get a move on. I missed lunch today and I'm starved.”

“I tried,” Hernando said with a grin, and opened the door and closed it silently. He vanished down the street away from the garage to where a strip mall showed.

Three hours and a Big Mac and strawberry shake later,
Mahanani saw the six-year-old Plymouth pull up to the driveway and edge in slowly.

“Same license number,” Daniels said, a note of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

“Wait until the rig is inside for at least ten minutes,” Mahanani said. “Let them get it opened up to where the drugs are.”

“The driver?” Ronkowski asked.

“Up to you. Let him walk or take him down, but do it quietly half a block down.”

“Hernando, go now and grab the young man as he drives. We'll need him as a witness.” The Mexican man left the car quietly and ran down the street and beyond the garage.

Daniels checked his watch. “Let's go,” he said.

“Remember, there's that regular door in front and a door in back that's usually open,” Mahanani said. “I'm staying here. There's a phone in the small office and probably a radio somewhere. Most men I've seen there are three.” He watched the agents get out of the car. “When do you call the casino?”

“After we find the drugs and make the bust. Then we radio for them to close in. They have eight guys in the place and will do it quietly.”

Mahanani nodded at the two DEA men, and they walked quickly down the street the half a block to the garage. He saw one at the front door and the other one vanish. A few moments later the man in front sprang into action.

DEA Agent Daniels took a deep breath, hefted his Glock fourteen-round automatic pistol, pulled the door open, and leaped inside. He heard the back door open at the same time.

Immediately in front of him was the old Plymouth that had been backed in. The rear seat had been taken out and the false floor had been pulled up showing bags of something.

“Hands in the air and don't move, you're all under arrest.” One man jolted deeper into the building, which held two other cars being repaired. A second man lifted his hands. The third drew a weapon from his back pocket and snapped a shot at Daniels.

Another pistol barked from the back of the building, and the shooter screeched in pain and anger and crumpled to the floor. He didn't move again. Ronkowski rushed up and put
his foot on the shooter's outstretched hand, which still held the pistol.

Daniels ducked behind the Plymouth and looked for the third man. He heard him behind the third car, but couldn't see him. A shot blasted into the sudden stillness of the garage, and Daniels reeled backward with a bullet in his shoulder. He ducked farther behind the car.