See You in Saigon (9 page)

“Yes?” he said,
answering the call.

“
Buenos días
,”
said Chico. “Sorry I’m late, boss. There was an accident on the I-5 just
outside San Clemente. A semi jackknifed and flipped and blocked the whole
damned road. Traffic is moving again now so I should be there in about
forty-five minutes.”

“That’s a relief,”
Emilio replied. “I was getting worried.”

“I would have
called you a lot sooner,” said Chico, “But the damned phone I had went dead on
me and I didn’t have a charger. I picked a new phone to call so you wouldn’t
get too freaked out.”

“Thanks for that,”
said Emilio. “Now, drive safe and get your butt over here.”

“On my way,” Chico
replied. “Like I said, about forty-five minutes. I’ll call if there are any
other problems.”

* * * *

On the I-5 near
San Clemente, California, 7:18 a.m.

Chico cut the
connection and said, “I did my part. You damned well better come through with
yours.”

“You have nothing
to worry about,” replied DEA Special Agent in Charge, Dean Wilcox, “As long as
you don’t screw up before this is over.”

A trusted member
of the Locos Niños gang since it had been formed in Los Angeles years earlier,
fifty-seven year old Chico Diaz had been driving most of the runs from the RV
centre in San Diego since they had started in 2010. Early on, he had gotten
into the habit of going for breakfast at a 24 hour truck stop located right in
the Otay Mesa industrial park which was where he had met Rosaline.

The curvaceous,
dyed-blonde, forty-four year old waitress had struck his fancy and he had
quickly come to learn her favourite pastimes were getting drunk, stoned and
laid. Chico had wasted no time in letting her know he could supply her with a
steady flow of marijuana and cocaine in exchange for sex and they had been
partying together regularly ever since.

As per usual
practice, upon leaving the RV centre that morning, Chico had driven to the
truck stop where he had prepared a package for Rosaline – a couple of ounces of
marijuana and half an ounce of coke – and gone into the diner to drop it off.
Upon his return to the RV, he had suddenly found himself surrounded by a dozen
armed men sporting DEA windbreakers.

Once handcuffed
and seated in the back of a black Suburban, Chico had been joined by Special
Agent in Charge, Dean Wilcox, who had informed him his future could turn out
rather well or quite badly, depending on Chico’s willingness to cooperate.

As it was, Chico
had been found in possession of massive quantities of illegal substances and
would most likely spend the rest of his life in prison. The seizure of the RV
and its illicit cargo was completely by the book with the DEA team exercising a
warrant issued by a federal judge based on information provided by a credible
witness. In other words, Chico had a better chance of getting struck by
lightning on a sunny day than of wiggling out of this dilemma through some
legal loophole.

However, Wilcox
had continued, if Chico was willing to cooperate and help the team infiltrate
the warehouse in Long Beach, the future looked much brighter with an immunity
and witness protection package on the table. The decision had been entirely up
to Chico but he’d had little time to make up his mind. However, in the end, it
had not been long before ‘looking out for number one’ had outweighed ‘honour
among thieves’ or, in this case, drug runners.

* * * *

Long Beach,
California, 8:04 a.m.

“We’re about three
minutes away,” Chico announced, slowing the large vehicle. “Do you want me to
stop?”

“No, just keep it
slow and steady,” Wilcox replied then called out to his five men onboard, “ETA
three minutes. Stand by.”

“You’re sure there
isn’t someone up on a roof somewhere keeping an eye out?” he asked Chico though
his own scouts and the surveillance plane had reported all was clear.

“I’m positive,”
Chico replied as they crawled through the industrial sector. “Keeping it low
key is the best way to stay invisible.”

“And how many men
inside?” Wilcox asked, not for the first time.

Chico sighed.
“Five, like I told you, including Valdez, speaking of which, I gotta call him
before we get there.”

“It won’t be
long,” said Wilcox before turning to his men. “Let’s do it. Three on the roof.
The other two covering the sides.”

“Like I said,”
Chico volunteered, “Once I drive in, all five should end up on the passenger
side where the door is.”

“I got that,”
Wilcox replied as he watched two of his agents boost the other three through
the roof hatches. “Okay, make your call.”

Chico hit redial
on his mobile and was connected seconds later.

“I’m coming in,”
was all he said before ending the call.

Wilcox moved
further back into the RV as they approached a T-intersection. The RV came to a
full stop – the agent had noticed Chico’s impeccable driving habits – then
turned right.

“This is it,
folks,” Wilcox murmured in his collar mike as he gazed at the building through
the tinted window to his side.

To their right was
a single level warehouse complex consisting of five distinct units, each with
its own walk-in entrance and sectional roll-up door. As they approached, the
roll-up door of the furthest unit began to rise and was fully open by the time
the RV arrived, allowing Chico to drive right in. As soon as the rear of the RV
had cleared the entrance, the door began its descent, fully closing seconds
after Chico cut the engine.

Outside, a black
Suburban pulled up in front of the warehouse and four agents spilled out and
got in position, covering the exits should anyone try to make a run for it. At
the same time, another Suburban with three additional agents was doing likewise
to keep an eye on the back on the building.

Inside, as Chico
opened the RV’s door, Wilcox watched as five men approached, recognizing Emilio
Valdez from photos as the man in the lead.

“Nobody on the
left side,” one of the agents inside the vehicle confirmed.

“I’m happy you
finally made it,” said Emilio as Chico stepped down through the open door.

“It’s been a bitch
of a morning, boss,” Chico replied, a touch of sadness in his tone. “I truly am
sorry.”

Emilio laughed.
“Don’t worry about it, amigo. In the end, it’s not a big deal.”

“That’s the
problem,” said Chico, looking up to the roof of the RV where the three agents
appeared, aiming their guns at the five men. “It
is
a big deal.”

“He’s right,” said
Wilcox as he stepped off the RV followed by his two other men, his gun trained
on a shocked Valdez. “Gentlemen, I’ll ask you to raise your hands in the air,
turn around and slowly move to the wall.”

* * * *

Toronto, Canada, 11:09
a.m.

Silver muttered
under his breath as he inched forward on the 401 in his Bentley Continental GT,
cursing the traffic and wishing he could open up the powerful V8 rumbling under
the hood. At this rate, he would never make it to the condo in Mississauga and
back to his client’s penthouse on Pier 27 for their noon lunch appointment.

Traffic started
picking up and he willed himself to relax. After all, it wouldn’t be the first
time he was late and his client was never offended when it happened. Silver
simply enjoyed the monthly get-togethers which consisted of a repast of
gastronomic delights followed by an afternoon of debauchery with a handful of
damsels to tend to the two men’s wanton desires.

While his
Chicagoan counterpart, Russell Foster, had begun distributing drugs for the
Devil’s Delight in college, Peter ‘Silver’ Silverberry had started shortly
before his tenth birthday, delivering nickel and dime bags for Keg Keegan who
lived one floor up in the same apartment block. By the time Peter had started
high school, he had been selling a pound or more of marijuana weekly as well as
most anything else his growing customer base asked for. Finding what they
wanted was never a problem since, by then, Keegan headed the Toronto chapter of
the Devil’s Delight.

Upon completing
high school, there had been no need to consider further education, his future
having already been decided as a member of the Devil’s Delight. The next few
years had been exciting and lucrative as Silver had ascended the echelons to
become Keegan’s second-in-command at the age of twenty-four.

A year later, in
1993, Jazz Kovac had begun to implement the foundation for the gang’s eventual
transformation, the first step being to increase formality and organizational
structure. Consequently, he had assigned Keg Keegan to oversee all Canadian
activity and Silver had assumed leadership of the Toronto chapter.

Relations had
gotten rocky a couple of years later when Keegan had opposed Kovac’s plans but
Silver had managed to maintain diplomatic relations with both parties all while
clearly showing his support for the planned transformation. The internal
conflicts had ended in late 1997 when Keg Keegan had had an unfortunate
encounter with a car bomb. Within a year, the Devil’s Delight in its previous
form had ceased to exist and, in recognition of his efforts and support, Silver
had been asked to run operations in Canada, a responsibility he had assumed
ever since.

Early on, Silver
had founded a bogus property rental firm through which he had acquired a number
of residential properties and vacation cottages over time which served as
stash-houses, thus avoiding to keep large quantities of drugs or cash in any
one location. Phony paperwork demonstrated a steady stream of rental revenues
allowing the regular laundering of some of the drug profits.

Traffic had
lightened up somewhat along the way, allowing him to make up some of the lost
time and he arrived at the condominium tower on Dundas Street West a couple of
minutes past eleven-thirty. As he parked in the underground garage, he thought
he might make it on time if traffic was good to him on the Q.E.W. and the
Gardiner. After all, all he needed to do was grab three kilos of coke, which
was already weighed and packaged, and he would be on his way.

He hurried to the
elevators and was pleased to see one was waiting at P1, his level. Within
seconds, he was on his way up to the sixteenth floor and was strolling down the
hallway to his unit a minute later, keys in hand. Another thirty seconds and
the two Medeco deadbolts were unlocked – one could never be too careful – and
he entered. He locked the door behind him and turned to the alarm keypad,
punched in his code then paused.

Though not
absolutely certain, it seemed as if the movement sensors had not been activated
before he disarmed the alarm. The indicator lights had not been on… or had
they? He would check once he rearmed the system on the way out and determine
which of his people had last been here if there was a problem. With the
inventory and cash kept in any of the stash-houses at any given time, proper
setting of the alarms was an absolute requirement. For now, he would simply
have a quick look around to make sure everything was in order.

He made his way
down the central hallway, looking into the en-suite storage space, bathroom,
bedroom and kitchen as he went. As he reached the open-air dining and living
area, he glanced toward the dining room to his left then turned to the living
room… and froze. A man in a suit accompanied by three uniformed constables
stood waiting, their hands resting on the butts of their holstered pistols.
Piled on the living room’s center table was what seemed like the complete
inventory of drugs currently stashed in the condo.

“So happy you
could join us, Mr. Silverberry,” said the suit. “I’m Inspector Adler. Please
raise your hands in the air.”

“What the hell are
you doing in here?” Silverberry demanded, ignoring Adler’s request.

“Hands in the
air,” Adler repeated as he and the uniforms drew their weapons.

With a sigh,
Silverberry complied, glancing over his shoulder in the direction he had come
from as he did so.

“Don’t even think
about it,” the inspector warned. “I have two men outside the door now and,
anyhow, if you try to run, I’ll shoot you before you get to it. Now, lean up
against the wall, hands wide and spread your legs.”

Sighing again,
Silverberry got into position then asked, “Would you mind telling me what this
is all about?”

Adler laughed as
he signalled one of the officer’s to tend to their prisoner. “You’re under
arrest for possession of illicit substances with intent to sell.”

“What? You mean
that stuff?” Silver retorted, gesturing toward the living room table. “That’s
not mine. I’m as shocked as you are to see that in here.”

“Sure thing, Mr.
Silverberry,” Adler replied, “And I’m guessing you’ll be even more shocked when
we find your prints on a bunch of the stuff here and in the other properties
around town your company owns. I’ve got teams tearing each one of them apart as
we speak.”