The Brown Recluse - Part 5

The Brown Recluse

Part 5

Fifty

“Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever.” 

Napoleon Bonaparte

Return of the General

I gazed out the picture window of the thirty-year-old safe house nestled on a tree-lined street in Richardson, Texas. Homeowners strolled by with dogs on leashes, some pushing baby carriages, or just strolling. Children raced down the street on skateboards. I sat away from the window, since I did not want to attract attention. My neighbors had never set eyes me and they never would.

I chose Richardson and this particular neighborhood with care. The ethnic population in University Estates West was disparate with a healthy number of Caucasian Americans and Asians with dissimilar ethnicity. A large Chinese church dominated the Western border of the community. Due to the diversity, and because most residents were hard-working adults, most hid behind their stockade fences during leisure time. Like my neighbors, I required privacy.

When I left China, I was the commander of over two million troops, had the support of two members of the military council, and looked forward to a secure future. Therein lays the rub. When I, General Ping Mu-yao of the People’s Liberation Army, began my sixty-first year, I evaluated my future and found it distasteful. My precocious nature would not allow me enough satisfaction with the life of a retired general no matter how comfortable. I required challenge, assets, and even danger to supplement my successes. The only way I could visualize such a future was to leave China and create a large wealth base. 

The incompetence of my associates caused my initial plan to fail forcing me to leave China prematurly with only a fraction of the funds I needed. I made my way to San Francisco, had plastic surgery, and began to chart my future. Previous business with my comrades in Beijing had netted us several million dollars, but when the PRC arrested and imprisoned my accomplices, their shares reverted to me. One of the first projects I assumed following my establishment in the US was to arrange for trusted military associates to join me in the US. Next, I arranged for the escape of my cohorts from prison and brought them to the US. Finally, I decided that the drug trade would provide a way for me to achieve my financial goals. Dallas would serve as my home base. As my operation developed, I chose to settle an old score with Billy Ray Calhoun and Feng Jian-mei, who, in my mind, had cost me tens of millions of dollars and retarded my financial growth for years.  

Now that my comrades of several decades were safely in the USA and in other domiciles around the Metroplex, I felt some degree of security. It was time to move into the next phase of our plan to root out the Hispanics and take over the North Texas drug trade. It would not be easy, but product procurement would not be a problem. As I recovered from surgery and got my fiscal feet on the ground in San Francisco, I worked out an arrangement with the West Coast tongs to buy Asian drugs. I would not compete with them but would add to their profit picture when they wholesaled drugs to my operation. It was win-win.  

Before making my escape, I put into execution one final phase of my plan. I launched Charging Tiger, an act of revenge against the Iranians just in case they had opted to insult my colleagues and me. The auxiliary PLA officer, who had performed the theft of the nuclear weapons and arranged Charging Tiger, flew a cruise missile within range of Iran, launched the weapon, and then he disappeared in a ball of fire. That part of the plan worked to perfection. The purge of Billy Ray Calhoun, his associate, and Hong Bin-zhuo did not. Never did it occur to me to abandon the latter portion of the plan, especially in light of the fact that Calhoun and Big Chang’s daughter lived only a few miles away. Finding Calhoun’s location through his on-line business dealings had proven to be a minor undertaking.

However, I did not allow for the competence of the Brown Recluse. She neutralized my agent with apparent ease, and was currently in the role of the predator, or so she thought. Planting a listening device in the Calhoun residence seemed a bit hazardous at the time, but it had already served a great purpose. I am aware that Lu is dead, Billy Ray is on his way back to Dallas, and their child will soon be in New York staying with Cloud McFarland. This latter bit of information alone made the risk worthwhile.

It is time to meet with my comrades, dissect the issues, and launch our plans. I can see no way for anyone to locate us due to the high number of Asians in the area. We will gain control of the drug trade. To do so, we must identify the current drug traffickers, and, generally, make life miserable for them.

*****

Fifty-one

“I find that the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have.”

Thomas Jefferson

Billy Ray

After getting over the shock of having Jian-mei and Marvin Ray in mortal danger, I called Hong Bin-zhou in London and described the events that had only just transpired in Dallas. Hong, a business associate, confidant, and close friend, served as a clearinghouse for several layers of worldwide intelligence gathering. I asked him to collect what he could on General Ping and his confederates. There was no question of whether Hong would use his resources to help. We had a history. 

Next, I called Maryanne Passeron at her home in the Rhone Valley of France. A former high-ranking officer in the Israeli Mossad, she grew up on a vineyard. When Victor Grindou, her first and only love, buried his wife, she resigned her position with Israeli Intelligence, married Victor, and moved back home to assist in the operation of neighboring vineyards and to help rear Victor’s two sons. While I was involved with the renegade oil deal, Maryanne and I were briefly lovers, and we developed a long-term friendship. Maryanne agreed to query her Mossad contacts about the general and to do whatever she could to help. I had no idea at the time as to the extent of her assistance.

I arranged for a flight to Dallas, packed, and left for Heathrow Airport. I had to wait four interminable hours for my flight, but I used this time to begin a plan of action to find and neutralize the general. Of course, Jian-mei would have something to say about the plan. Even though I am black belt, third degree, I am putty in the hands of my dear wife. She will do the heavy lifting in the physical department. She is expert in personal camouflage and most clandestine activities as well. I would not want to be the general when we find him.

While I usually sleep through most of the long flight to Dallas, this time was different. My mind returned to the events of less than three years ago when my beloved wife was an experienced assassin and I was her target. We were in Monte Carlo, a mega-deal with Chinese interests was imploding, and her orders were to remove any witnesses. I was one.

For reasons I will never quite understand, Jian-mei had a change of heart. She fought off her decades of training and, together, we joined the Israeli Mossad and turned the tables on her compatriots. Following our survival, Jian-mei suffered a mental collapse. I took her back to my home in East Texas, and we lived on the banks of the Sulphur River for the next year. Her behavior there ranged from lucidity to near insanity but gradually ameliorated as the months passed. During this time, we became partners for life and shared in creating Marvin, our first-born. After his birth during the second year on the river, we extended our range of activity to include a return to the oil business and limited travel. We moved into a condo in Houston but found that Jian-mei needed to be closer to the river, a place that represented security to her. Next, we settled in Dallas, and she adjusted admirably. I was near the airport, and she was near the river. 

Cloud McFarland spent considerable time in our midst, helping where she could, and solidifying her position as a family member. During Marvin’s early months, Jian-mei was still not emotionally stable enough for the full-time care of our child. Cloud came to the river, where she developed a resilient relationship with Marvin that we embraced.    

Soon the 757 settled onto the runway at DFW airport, taxied to the American terminal, and eased into the gate. I gathered my belongings and passed customs. One of the nice things about having comfortable wealth is that I can leave my Cadillac STS in convenient parking. I threw my luggage in the trunk and headed for downtown Dallas. 

As is my pattern, I called Jian-mei when I left the airport to let her know I was nearing home. We wasted little time chatting but would save that for my arrival. I pulled into the parking area of the high-rise condominium and passed my car to an attendant with instructions to bring up the luggage. I strolled to the elevators while taking in the spacious lobby of the building. Finally, I arrived home, held Jian-mei tightly until I had enough, and then picked up Marvin Ray. I took Jian-mei’s hand and we went to the living area. “I could use some coffee. How about you?”

“I am beginning to like that miserable stuff. You might at well make me a cup,” answered Jian-mei.

Marvin Ray pulled at my nose and ears, while I added the coffee and water to the pot. “So what happened when you called security?”

Jian-mei settled into a chair at the breakfast table. “As you might expect, security called the police as soon as they were informed of the situation. Patrol officers arrived within minutes, followed closely by a DPD detective sergeant from homicide. A crime scene team arrived soon afterwards. As the crime scene team worked, I gave the detective my version of what had transpired. He did not appear to disbelieve me but did ask me to repeat some aspects of the story more than once. He was curious about time, so I had to be careful with that. I haven’t had much experience in covering up killing someone. It gets more complicated than I had imagined.”

“What did you learn from the deceased?” I queried.

“Lu Dai-heng worked for the general through a Major Lee. He was in the PLA under Ping in China. Apparently, Ping brought over selected members of his command to work with him in the USA. Lu was a martial arts specialist, so when he saw the Brown Recluse patch, he knew his number was up. I was unable to learn the whereabouts of Major Lee. Their organization is highly compartmentalized, but I am certain both he and the general are in the Metroplex. Lu also indicated that the general was interested in the drug trade.”

That struck a nerve. “My old friend from Piney Springs, Richard McMichael, is the captain of the narcotics division of the Dallas Police Department. He might have a professional reason for helping us. We need him because the police and federal agencies have the criminal data bases, the manpower, and expertise to run down people like the general.”

Jian-mei rose to pour the perked coffee. She loaded hers up with sugar and cream. Billy Ray took his black. She said, “The first order of business is to find out how the general gained access to our home. Security has some explaining to do and some changes to make in their procedures. We might even have to hire some private protection.”

I sipped the coffee and decided it needed a zap in the microwave to bring it up to the temperature I prefer. If I could drink it, it was not hot enough. “Richard should have some suggestions along those lines. He will know a reliable security company.”

Jian-mei placed her cup and saucer on a low table. “Do you believe that the federal agencies will get involved?”

“I would not be surprised if the FBI is already involved, and if the general moves on the local drug trade, the DEA will not be far behind. We will need to get a lawyer on standby if your interview does not go well tomorrow, but I don’t see how it won’t. A Chinese national invades our home and attempts to take the life of a wife and child. The wife shoots him with his own gun. Sounds fine to me.”

“I am not concerned. I wrote down my timeline, memorized it again, and then destroyed it. I am ready.”

I gazed at that tall sexy woman and said, “Now that everything is under control, I could use some rest….if you know what I mean.”

Jian-mei rose and murmured, “You can join me in bed, but please keep in mind that I am still a virgin.”

“I understand. I have no intention of going all the way.”

Jian-mei glanced over her shoulder in a coquettish fashion. “Just so you know the rules.”

She encouraged her robe to slip to the floor.

*****

Fifty-two

“I begin by taking. I shall find scholars later to demonstrate my perfect right.”

Frederick the Great

Slick’s World

The large, single story building crouched within a stone’s throw of the Trinity River flood plain. It was on the south side of the unimpressive waterway. Dallas was on the north. The former Food Lion grocery store building had remained deserted for several years until its conversion into a combination strip club and domicile owned by Slick Contreras. 

Slick served as the self-imposed head of many illegal activities that concerned the black community of South Dallas. Slick’s father had been a smooth-talking Hispanic con man, but did not stay among the living very long after impregnating Slick’s mother. She remained alive until shortly after Slick reached his fourth birthday. Even at this young age, he already understood hardship, but after the heroin, driven woman got into one knife fight too many, his situation changed for the worse.

Slick moved from one foster home to another until he was old enough to run the streets. Soon, he established himself as a tough kid who would not quit. Beating him senseless had only temporary benefits, because young Slick just kept coming with his knife, a brick, or a two-by-four until his antagonist learned to avoid him. One abusive foster-father punched Slick senseless, and then he made the mistake of going to sleep. Slick cut his throat with the kitchen knife. The fifteen-years-old’s battered face got him off with a light sentence, plus an even more fearsome reputation. He soon went to work for Dread Conner, the current South Dallas crime boss. Slick ran numbers, collected from pimps, and on occasion did collections for Dread, who only chose Slick for the most recalcitrant customers. Once Dread assigned Slick to the task, they paid up, left town, or simply disappeared. 

As ambitious members of crime organizations are prone to do, a young Turk made his play by assassinating Dread. Slick quickly killed him and took over. He was twenty at the time. He decided that people should know where to find him, so he concocted the idea of using part of the old Food Lion store for his club and the rest for spacious living quarters for himself and selected personnel. Security was optimum, and even the police did not descend on the premises in force. Slick was always happy to meet with the authorities whenever asked. He knew that several layers separated him for any criminal activities, so he and his pricey attorneys were always available. He was accessible to his customers as well. During most weeks, he interviewed a succession of community members asking for handouts, customers who needed a little more time to raise the money, and get-rich-quick artists who wanted Slick to finance their schemes. On occasions, he did so and developed a series of legitimate businesses along the way. Everyone knew that when you took Slick’s money to go into business, you did not fail. Those who did resided in other states.

*****

I took some pride in how the citizens of South Dallas treated me. Beginning at noon on every Tuesday, I held court. People brought requests that ranged from money for doctor bills to $10 for a bottle of wine. I knew that a request would surprise me before the day was over. That was part of the fun. It never failed. However, I was unprepared for the shock when Red, my usher and chief lieutenant, walked into my office, and pitched a fat envelope on my desk. He grinned but said nothing. I picked it up and shook out a stack of bills in high denominations. A quick count told me that the envelope held about $100,000.

“Does this belong in the take?” I asked Red.

“Naw Slick. The take is fine. There is some Chinese dude out there. He stayed in line until it was his turn, and then he asked me to give you this envelope.”

I didn’t make quick decisions unless necessary. “You pat him down?”

“Cose I pat him down, Slick. Who am I, Bro?” Red looked hurt, but I knew he was faking. “He says he wants to talk to you. Wants to talk bidness. This money is to show he serious.”

It occurred to me that such a conversation would require some time. “Tell him to come back about 9:00 tonight. We can talk then.” I fished $25,000 out of the envelope and passed the remainder back to Red. “Give him this.”

“You da man Bro,” said Red. He picked up the envelope and strode out the door. I prepared myself for the next mooch. 

*****

By 4:00 p.m., Slick judged, provided for, or refused the last bequest. As was my pattern, I began counting the receipts from the previous night. I knew what to expect from each of my bosses, and if the take was short, I started asking questions. I was mostly into numbers and whores. The Mexicans had the drug trade sowed up. That was where the big money was, but they had the pipeline and the money to keep us down. I was doing all right, but a man never has enough. 

After the bookkeeping, I went into the club, got myself a little worked up, and scored some tang from one of the new girls. I had just finished a good piece of prime rib when Red told me the Chinese was here. My watch told me it was 8:50. Cool. Let’s parlay.

I strolled back to my main office and took my place behind the big bois d’arc desk. The Chinese came in a few moments later followed by Red and Shug. He was about 5’ 7”, casually but expensively dressed, and carried his stocky frame with a fluid motion. He appeared military. “What can I do for you?”

He glanced at my boys and said, “I will waste as little of your time as possible. May I speak freely?”

“You can say whatever you like,” I growled.

The Oriental showed no emotion. “My name is Lee. I represent West coast people interested in doing business with you. It is our understanding that you already have businesses underway in South Dallas that produces significant revenue. It is also my understanding that the Mexico City drug cartel controls the local narcotics trade, which is worth tens of millions to whoever controls it. My people intend to take over the drug trade in the Metroplex and surrounding areas.”

I removed my sized fifteen shoes from my desk, placed my elbows on the surface, and leaned forward. “I don’t see that happening. I would have taken over the drug trade long ago, if I thought I had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting it done. The Mexicans have too many people and too much firepower. What makes you think you can do any better?”

Lee walked casually over to a modern-styled chair and sat down. He said to me, “Please have one of your people go to the black mini-van parked in front. My driver has a package for you to examine. When he returns, I will explain how our plan is not only possible but will develop without a flaw.”

I gestured to Red who stepped from the room only to return in less than a minute. Silence prevailed until a knock sounded. Red opened the door, took a package wrapped in green plastic from his courier and placed it on my desk. “Open it,” I instructed.

Red opened the parcel and removed an automatic handgun. He removed the clip showing me that it was empty. Then Red picked up a small matchbox. He slid it open and found it filled with a pure white powder. He licked the tip of his finger, touched it to the powder, and placed it back on his tongue. Then he said, “I guess this is Cambodian White?”

“That is correct.” Then Lee remained silent allowing my curiosity to formulate my questions.

“How many such pieces can you furnish?”

Lee’s gaze never wavered. “To start, one hundred. How many soldiers can you gather?”

I went into my deep thought mode. “I can put fifty out if I have to, but forty of them will be the real deal.”

Lee speculated. “That should be enough if we manage the situation properly. We have no plans for a pitched battle. Let me explain how the plan will work.”

I said, “Do that.”

The Chinese man relaxed to some extent and began. “If we didn’t need a partnership, I would not be here. We have access to product. We don’t have the soldiers to distribute the product and protect our market. You do. Here is how we will remove the Mexicans from control of the Metroplex drug scene.” Lee rose from his chair and began to pace. Red stiffened, but made no move. Lee continued. “If we can reach an agreement, we will systematically start an assassination program to remove the cartel’s pushers. After we remove a few, the rest will be afraid to work the streets. As we clear out sections of the area, your people can move in. Of course, the Mexicans will not take this laying down. You will need to defend your territory with the weapons we provide. You have the people to make this work. We have product and weapons. You make your money on the streets. We make ours by wholesaling the drugs to you. Any questions?”

I nailed Lee with my eyes. “How will we take on three hundred Mexicans?”

Lee returned to the chair. “We will not do it with firepower. We will get into their heads. We have specialists who can pick off their pushers from three hundred yards away with no sound involved. They use small caliber, silenced guns that break down rapidly for easy transport. They will scout out a spot with visual access to the target, and plan for a rapid departure. We figure to take out two or three pushers a night until we get their attention.”

I eased my six-feet, six-inch frame around in my chair. “Your plan interests me, but I need time to think about it. How can I reach you in a couple of days?”

Lee said, “My card is in my shirt pocket. May I get it?”

“Red,” I said. 

The muscular young man crossed the room, removed a card from Lee’s shirt pocket, and handed it to me. 

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, ending the conference.   

*****

Fifty-three

“Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.”

Napoleon Bonaparte

New York

Lee Pan-kie picked up a manila envelope from the desk of General Ping. He saluted, spun on his right foot, and strode down the hall to the garage exit. After locking the house door, he punched the garage door opener button. As the door noisily came up, he entered a small Toyota two-door sedan colored dark green. He backed out into the alley and began the journey to the giant DFW airport.

The General’s instructions were clear and detailed, as they always were. He had contacted a private investigator in NY City and hired him to gather information on Cloud McFarland. The material in the envelope included her address and place of business. Lee knew where McFarland liked to eat, listen to music, and socialize. 

Lee’s job was to complete the task of eliminating McFarland and the child of the General’s bitter enemies, Feng Jian-mei and Billy Ray Calhoun. The General wished for the parents to suffer the loss of their friend and child before he attended to them. 

Leaving the car in long-term parking, he checked in at American Airlines and waited for the flight to Kennedy Airport. As was his pattern, he sat in an aisle seat, and when his fellow seatmates settled into their places, he immediately drifted into a sound sleep. He woke to eat his meal, visited the toilet, and then resumed his sleeping. He woke up permanently when the wheels touched down at Kennedy. While the 737 was taxiing to the terminal, Lee began formulating his plan. Since it was after the dinner hour, Lee decided to complete the job as quickly as possible. He retrieved his travel suitcase from baggage claim, placed his suitcase in a locker, and got in line for a taxi. As he was waiting, a taxi stopped and a tall red-haired woman with a small child in her arms got out. She had several large pieces of luggage in the trunk of the taxi. Immediately, an attendant piled them on a luggage carrier. When they passed from view, his focus returned to the assignment at hand.

Lee made two stops before he approached Cloud McFarland’s apartment house. He entered a small knife shop and purchased a small, switchblade knife. Then he approached an employee in a jewelry story and bought a diminutive silver bracelet. He asked to have it gift-wrapped. 

Lee was certain that McFarland’s apartment would have security. He spent some time observing the building and the people who went in and out. It appeared that a service entrance went down a set of stairs. Lee returned to the business district and sought out a department store. He could find no work uniforms, but did find matching pants and shirt that would serve. Donning his new clothes, he returned to the apartment building and entered the service entrance. 

A member of the security staff challenged him immediately. “How can I help you?”

Lee answered, “I have a gift for McFarland in 1527.”

The security guard held his hand out and countered, “Just give it to me. I will see that it is delivered.”

Lee made no move to hand over the package. “The gift-giver insisted that the package be hand-delivered.”

“That is not going to happen. Either leave it with me or be on your way.”

Lee had to make a quick decision. He would try one more ploy to gain the fifteenth floor, or circumstances would demand that he take out the security guard. The latter option could complicate matters. He said, “The gift-giver also thought ahead. He was certain that security would be a problem, so he sent a couple of C notes to ease the passage. It will take me no more than ten minutes to deliver the package. It’s a win-win deal. What do you say?” While he waited for the guard to answer, he slipped his hand into his pocket and grasped the knife.

The guard didn’t wait long. He held out his hand, and announced, “If you take more than ten minutes, I will come looking for you. The elevator is down the hall.”

Lee passed him the money, smiled, and moved down the hall. He entered the elevator and punched in the numbers. When he arrived at the fifteenth floor, he stepped out, glanced at the apartment numbers, and moved down the hall to 1527. When he arrived, he placed the package as to be visible from the peephole and rang the doorbell. With his knife in his hand, he waited for Cloud McFarland to open the door. After about a minute, he rang again. Still, no answer. Lee removed a lock-pick set from his pocket and began working. Since this was an expensive apartment building, the locks were of high quality. It took him the better part of four minutes to open the door. 

Lee realized that he was time-challenged. He made a quick pass through the spacious apartment. He noticed a picture on McFarland’s dressing table. It was a picture of a woman and a child. He was stunned when he realized that he had seen them both at the airport. He opened a desk drawer and rummaged around. A scribbled note caught his eye. The words Chateauneuf du Pape jumped out at him. She took the kid to France, Lee thought. I can check the flights to Paris that were leaving soon after I arrived in New York. However, I still won’t know where she is in the village. We may need another private investigator.

Lee hurried back to the elevator and went back to the ground floor. The security guard was waiting for him. “So?” he asked.

Lee hesitated briefly and said, “The guy who sent this gift told me that McFarland might be in France. Do you have her forwarding address?”

“Not me,” grinned the guard.

 It became obvious to Lee that the guard had known Cloud was out of the country and had fleeced him out of $200. Lee smiled and left the premises.

*****

Carrying the same package, Lee approached a receptionist at the Top Hat Modeling Agency in uptown Manhattan at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. “Package for Cloud McFarland,” he muttered. The receptionist smiled and said, “Miss McFarland is not in at present. Would you like to leave the package with her secretary?”

“The gift-giver insisted that I hand-deliver the package. Could I speak with her secretary in private?”

The receptionist picked up a phone, punched in a number, and spoke briefly. “You can go down that hall. Carly will meet you.”

“Thanks,” said Lee and strolled down the hall. A willowy woman in her forties approached him. “Hi! I’m Carly. May I help you?”

“I am attempting to deliver a rather expensive gift to Miss McFarland. The giver insisted that it be hand-delivered. Money is no object. Could you provide a destination address?”

The woman smiled and said, “Sorry, but that is impossible. Her location is highly classified.”

Lee retrieved ten $100 bills from his pocket and showed them to Carly. “I stand to make a tidy sum if I am able to deliver this package within the next three days. The guy is filthy rich. There is no reason for anyone to know if you give me the address. You can take this, buy a nice designer dress, or go to Bermuda for the weekend.”

Carly stared at Lee for a moment, then wheeled and disappeared. Lee was not sure if he should run, but he remained in place. After no more than a minute, Carly reappeared and passed Lee, a folded note. He opened it and glanced at the contents. Then he gave Carly the bills and left.

Fifty-four

“In theory, there is no difference between theory and practice.

But in practice, there is.” 

Yogi Berra

Sniper

Patience was Daiyu Shan-ting’s primary virtue. She had lain in place since 4:00 a.m. and could go without moving for additional hours, no matter the conditions. If she had time to prepare herself, both mentally and physically, she could endure ceaseless rain, burning heat, or bitter cold without fidgeting. Her capacity for controlling her body for long periods and her intense concentration made her the ideal sniper.

    When Lee Pan-kie approached her and her husband, Xiu-song, with an offer to migrate to the USA and work for General Ping, they seized the opportunity. They were childless and content to spend the rest of their lives together in much the same manner as the past fifteen years, but living in the romantic opulence of the West was a powerful draw.

General Ping had recruited about fifty such specialists from the ranks of the PLA, surreptitiously moved them out of China, and then he transported them to the West coast of the USA. He placed most with the Tongs in San Francisco, but the he needed Shan and Xiu in the Metroplex because of their special skills.

The selection and preparation of her site had taken days to prepare. The initial phase of the operation was to select a target. Drug pushers for the Mexican Cartel selected a particular street corner or abandoned house and set up shop. They would continue to use the same spot unless the neighbors complained too much and brought the Dallas Police. A paid informant in the DPD headquarters usually warned the pushers to clear out before the police arrived, so few arrests ever took place.

Since this was to be the first in a series of pusher assassinations, Shan chose the ideal location. The shot of about 325 yards would be from a vacant lot covered in tall weeds and surrounded by other vacant lots or abandoned lodgings. The target moved back and forth no more than ten yards as he conducted his business. Buildings formed a tunnel from Shan’s site to the target. 

She had dug out and created a technically acceptable site covered by a Ghillie suit. She had covered her skin with dark dye so that she could pass for Hispanic at a distance. Her weapon was .223 with a moderate charge. A silencer reduced the sound of the blast to no more than 20 yards away. The scope was for daylight shooting. Shan planned the relatively simple attempt for dusk. Since the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, the time was near.

Shan relaxed, took her shooting stance, and aimed near the target. She waited for a lull between customers. The chance came soon, and Shan placed the crosshairs on the head of the pusher. She carefully squeezed the trigger, and the rifle jerked slightly. She made the conservative and highly practiced preparations for a long period of stillness, and began her vigil.

Within minutes, vehicles arrived at the downed man spilling out men. Those in positions of leadership examined the body and had it removed. Minions spread out and began searching the neighborhood. They searched every house and car carefully for about 200 yards from the place of the shooting. The police arrived about 11:00 p.m., and the cartel members began to clear out. By midnight, the police had taped off the corner as a crime scene with only a single squad c

Shan had not moved. She passed water into her Depends, stretched her muscles, and retained her vigil. At 2:15 a.m., she carefully rose into a crouch and began securing her equipment. After she accomplished this, she replaced the soil into her excavation and replaced the leaves and weeds to the best of her considerable ability. Only a careful examination would reveal that she had disturbed the ground.

She moved carefully through a large vacant and partially wooded area, and then made her way down alleys in a better neighborhood. She checked her luminous dial watch and waited four minutes hidden behind a storage shed. Then she moved to the street. As she arrived, a vehicle without lights drove up. She opened the door and got in.

Pedro Salazar strained for the finish line. Beneath him, his seventeen-year-old mistress, Eva Aguiler met his every thrust with one of her own. Within seconds of each other, they reached the crescendo of physical gratification and exploded in orgasm.

After a brief interval of recovery, Salazar considered the persistent knocking on his bedroom door. He rose from his bed, and accompanied with a residue of pique, he pulled open the door in his natural state. Javier Ortega stood there with a look of concern on his face. Salazar declared vehemently, “What are you doing disturbing me. Can’t you see we are resting?”

“A thousand pardons, Patron, but this is serious. One of our distribution bosses reported that a sniper shot one of our pushers in West Dallas last night. They used a small caliber rifle from a good distance. Our people saw no one nearby or heard anything. The boss and his people spent the night carefully searching the area and found nothing.”

Salazar motioned for Ortega to come in. He donned a robe and took a seat on a sofa. “Things happen when dealing with junkies. The pusher could have pissed off one of his customers. You have people to fill in. Just take care of it.”

“Yes, Patron.” Ortega wheeled and left the room. 

*****

An itch under his right arm plagued Daiyu Xiu-song, and he wanted desperately to scratch. He also knew that Shan-ting would not scratch under the same circumstances, so he remained perfectly still with the crosshairs trained on a large Hispanic male some 400 yards to the northwest. His target was leaning down into the window of a customized pickup truck doing business. When he rose, placing something in his pocket, the vehicle pulled away. The pusher remained motionless for the split second that it took Xiu-song to squeeze the trigger and watch his target slump to the ground. He rose, removed his Ghillie suit, and stuffed it into a small, black bag. He crawled from under an abandoned car and strode to a nearby street. On his way, he dialed a cell phone number, allowed it to ring once, and then closed it. By the time Xiu reached the street, an old sedan pulled to a stop, and he climbed in. The second shooting occurred two days after the first.

“Mr. Ortega is on line three, Jeffe,” proclaimed Isabel Delgado, Salazar’s girl Friday.

Salazar grimaced and picked up his desk phone. “What is it?” He barked.

“We’ve got trouble, Patron. The sniper took out another of our men last night. The search revealed nothing. We picked up a suspicious guy in the neighborhood, but he didn’t tell us anything before he died.” Salazar said nothing for a full minute. Ortega queried, “Jeffe, are you there?”

“Shut up. I’m thinking,” growled Salazar. “I want you to take two or three men, spread them out around our pushers, and grab the shooter. If this keeps up, we won’t be able to get anyone on the streets.”

“Jeffe as soon as the word got around, three of our people left their posts and disappeared. We are losing a lot of business.”

“Find those people and make an example of them. This is what I pay you to do. I will contact Mexico City and bring in some more soldiers. Now get busy,” exhorted Salazar. He slammed down the phone, stared at it for a few seconds, then picked it up and dialed.

A melodious voice proclaimed, “Garza Exports. How may I help you?”

“This is Salazar. Put me through, please.”

“Right away, Mr. Salazar.”

A short interval passed. Jorge Garza was famous for not playing games or wasting anyone’s time. “How can I help you, Pedro?”

“Patron, There are some problems in the Metroplex. Snipers have picked off two of our street people, and we need more soldiers to clean up the matter. Other pushers are afraid to work. We may have to move operations indoors, and you know that cuts down on sales. If you can send me fifty soldiers on a temporary basis, we can get this little difficulty repaired.”

“I will have the men in Dallas within three days. You arrange for their housing and pay. I don’t like the looks of this. I want you to keep me apprised on a daily basis. Is Ortega capable of handling this?” Asked Garza.

“Oh yes, Patron. Javier is the best. We will have this under control in a short time,” countered Salazar. “I appreciate your understanding and help in this matter. Goodbye.”

Salazar replaced the phone, screamed with as much force as he could muster, and began throwing anything he could lift.

*****

Xiu-Song made his next kill in the outskirts of Ft. Worth. After taking the shot, he lowered himself in the bed of the dirty, black pickup and it pulled away without lights. After creeping down a dark street for two blocks, the driver turned on the car lights and pulled into the busy traffic of a busy street. 

Shan-ting struck again on the same night. Due to the presence of vacant lots and abandoned houses, she chose to remain in her site until after the search by the drug people. Once again, they could not imagine that the shooter would be 400 yards away, so they did not expand the perimeter of their search enough. One of Ping’s men picked her up before at a preconceived location before daylight.

*****

Fifty-five

“Do, or do not. There is no try.”

Yoda

The Invasion

Lee Pan-kie’s eyes were severe slits. No expression marked his facial features. He sat across from Slick Contreras waiting for his full attention. Finally, Slick shooed his man Red out the door and settled his large, brown eyes on Lee. “What’s on your mind,” asked Slick.

“The Metroplex Cartel is in shambles. We took out seven pushers, and when they moved indoors, we shot five customers. That really got their attention. Except for isolated stations in West Dallas and Irving, they are out of business. It is time for you to move in,” exclaimed Lee.

“It’s about damn time,” declared Slick. “We are more than ready. My plan is to take it slow. For the next few days, we will only set up shop in black neighborhoods near projects. We have the firepower to protect our pushers if we don’t spread out too thin, and you have provided enough product for the short term. We will do business tonight.”

“Please remember that you must pay the full price for the product after sales. The one-third price we extended is only temporary. The pipeline will flow, as you need product. You take care of retail, and we will manage wholesale. Everyone gets rich.” Lee watched Slick’s face for any expressions that would give him a clue to his thinking. He saw nothing but suppressed excitement. 

“I understand. I understand. You got my half-mil. Doesn’t that prove that I’m serious?”

Lee forced a smile on his normally serious face. “It does. Just keep in mind that the Cartel is not dead. When they find you selling drugs in their former places of business, they will come at you with a vengeance.”

*****

“Wetbacks don’t scare me. I would have already had the drug trade if I had a supply. Now I got a source, so I will take it from here. Can you provide more ammunition for the chatter boxes?”

“We have unlimited supplies from China. In fact, we have more in our warehouse if you get low.” Lee rose from his chair, waved goodbye, and left the room out the back door. His was a common face to the customers and Slick’s men, but he didn’t want to have his altered face become too well known.

*****

Deep within the ghetto, three men stood on different street corners and waved small white papers at passing motorists whose cars contained young blacks. Before long, a car containing four young gang-bangers pulled to a stop. Communications occurred and money changed hands. The pusher delivered the China White, and the young men drove away. Soon, cars pulled over in rapid succession, and trade became brisk.

Before midnight, word arrived at the headquarters of the Metroplex Cartel. Ortega sent two carloads of heavily armed soldiers to remove the competition and teach them a lesson. Without fear, the Cartel soldiers drove straight for the pushers and opened up with automatic weapons. Slick’s people scattered. Hidden, highly trained people from the ghetto opened up with their own armaments and riddled Ortega’s men before they could recover.

Members of Slick’s gang checked the cars to see if they were drivable. Two were and soldiers drove them to a pre-arranged vacant lot. Then, cars backed up to the remaining two, hooked on, and pulled them to the same place. Other gang members swept up the shell casings and hid them. The remaining denizens of the neighborhood disappeared into the darkness, as Slick’s men drove away. Soon, flashing lights and sirens approached the neighborhood. When the police arrived, they saw little out of the ordinary at first glance. Upon closer inspection, they found numerous bullet holes and broken windows. When the DPD investigators woke up the people in the area and questioned them, nobody saw or heard anything.

The same scenario repeated itself over the following weeks. 

 

*****

Fifty-six

“Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious            stupidity.” 

Martin Luther King

Salazar

I watched the Patron as he referred to the handful of documents in his hands as if they contained vital information. I knew from years of experience that Salazar operated in a vocal world and knew only what people told him. I suspected that he was illiterate. To his credit, he possessed a prodigious memory and was not handicapped in any way. When it came time for spreadsheets and miniscule data, he passed the reading on to minions.

I stood at semi-attention in front of his large, teakwood desk. The Patron was a short, mildly obese man with a head of curly, black hair carefully coiffed. His once-handsome features were jowly, which gave him a petulant appearance. It matched his nature.

I served as Salazar’s chief-of-staff and operations officer for the North Texas chapter of the dominant Mexican Drug Cartel. Illegal drugs in our area were big business, and the Patron’s cut allowed him to live the good life in his mansion north of the Metroplex. 

The Chinese came out of nowhere. One day we were servicing our pushers and gleaning enormous profits. Then within a matter of weeks, snipers were killing our people, and our financial ink went from black to red. I tried everything I could think of to discover who was behind the killings and to do something about it. I loaded the selling points with our best, heavily armed soldiers, but they were impotent to stop the carnage. As the losses became important, the head of the Mexican Cartel became an unhappy man. When Jorge Garza was not pleased, no one was pleased.

Salazar blamed me, as he should, but there were limits as to what he could do about it. He had depended on my competence to run the Metroplex operation for many years. He also knew that if he gave a hint of aggression toward me, I would kill him and disappear. We were in the same boat. If he went down, I would quickly follow.

Salazar laid down the papers as if he had absorbed whatever information he required. He locked his eyes into mine; using a ploy of intimidation I had witnessed many times before and had used myself. Then he said, “Javier, the time for failure is past. We must find a way to do defeat the Chinese and blacks. We have the numbers and the resources. We must find a solution.”

El Patron got up from his desk, strolled over to a large window, and gazed out at the green pastures. Arabian horses frolicked along the stream that ran through the property. Owning such a ranch was his life’s ambition, and now it was threatened. I said nothing.

“Let us review what you have done. You increased security at the selling points, but the snipers continued to kill our pushers. Trying to locate the shooters, you used large numbers of our people in the neighborhoods to watch and listen. The snipers murdered our people to the point that we can’t get anyone to sell or anybody to buy. Your people heard nothing and saw nothing. Am I correct so far?”

“Si, Patron.”

Salazar pointed his finger toward my face. “Are my assessments correct to this point?”

“Si, Patron.”

“Your efforts to eliminate this situation have met with utter failure. As a result, Jorge Garza has blood in his eye. You know what happens when Garza loses confidence in a person. He gets crazy. It matters not that my beloved sister is the mother of his children. It is personal with him.”

Salazar continued, “I can only hope that we can make use of the man that Garza is sending to offer his assistance. You recall Jose Diaz. I found him in West Dallas and put him to work. He showed some promise, so I sent him to school at North Texas. When he completed his studies, Garza put him to work in Mexico City. He will do what I instruct him to do since he owes me. As I recall, he is quite good at managing physical matters. We will see how effective Garza’s man in at solving our local problems.”

The Patron’s capacity to spin reality was a constant source of amusement. Of course, I remembered Diaz. I found him in West Dallas, put him to work in the streets, and he showed immediate promise. I passed on the value of Diaz to Garza. He demanded that Salazar send the boy to school, and then he took him to Mexico City to work at the center of power. Somehow, Diaz’s coming to the Metroplex sent a chill down my spine.

*****

Salazar sat back down at his desk. He rested his small hands palm down and spread his fingers. “We have one more opportunity to regain control of the North Texas drug operation. Failure to do so will result in me being replaced, and of course, that includes you.” He opened the middle desk drawer and retrieved a small knife. He opened a blade and began cleaning his manicured nails. “Can you give me a reason for allowing you to continue as my operations officer?”

“Si, Jeffe, I can give you a reason. We have learned that it is impossible to locate the shooters with manpower alone. They are experienced professionals and use small caliber, silenced rifles.

We must resort to hi-tech methods. One of my lieutenants is a former army ranger. He is knowledgeable in the area of advanced weapons systems. He suggested that we set up heat detection systems in the areas of our few remaining sellers. No matter how silent or well hidden the snipers may be, the guns will produce a heat signature. Once we locate the shooters, we can have men ready to close in and capture them. Once we are able to interrogate a sniper, we will be in position to identify and combat our enemy.”

Salazar nodded his head slightly. He had depended on me to manage the drug distribution in North Texas for almost a decade, and he had nowhere else to go. “Perhaps your plan has some merit. Time will tell but I can promise you one thing. If you are not successful, Garza will make a move that may not include either you or me. Are we clear on that issue?”

“Si, Patron. We are very clear.” 

*****

Laredo Perez was a man of action. He despised nothing more than to spend time performing a tedious task, but the new patron had ordered it, and Laredo was not going to cross the Patron. He had already witnessed what happened to those who did.

 Both he and his partner, Paco Pena, wore camouflage clothing and sat quietly in a small wooded area near one of the few remaining active pushers operating in West Dallas. Pena held a heat sensitive scope to his eye and slowly scanned the surrounding area. Earlier, they had spotted a heat source at the window of a nearby shack. Perez used his communication microphone to send personnel to check out the place. The team reported that it was nothing more than a curious old woman whose only entertainment was to watch the surrounding vicinity. Since she presented no threat, the team leader encouraged her to continue and gave her twenty bucks for her trouble. 

Pena whispered, “I keep picking up a small source near that woodpile about one hundred yards out. You take a look.”

Perez took the monocular and swept the area. He saw a slight elevation in heat as well. “It could be a rabbit or a squirrel, or a mouse, but it could be a shooter. We have to take a look.” He spoke to the local team leader and said, “We have a possible near the woodpile in the seventh quadrant. I suggest you approach from behind. This could be a Chinese sniper, and they are very dangerous. Over?”

A voice answered, “Si, Jeffe. We will report back.”

Perez looked at the spot with his night vision binoculars but could see nothing but a grassy hump. He waited with more patience since his adrenalin was flowing. 

After about fifteen minutes, team leader called back and said, “Jeffe, you need to come and see what we caught.”

They hurried to the woodpile and found the team surrounding a small, Chinese woman. One of his men held a precision sniper rifle. The place where he had seen the slight grassy hump was a shallow depression in the ground covered by camouflage.

He turned to the team leader and asked, “Does she speak Spanish? Or English?”

“She hasn’t said anything so far. I get the impression, she may not speak either.”

“Okay.” Perez took out his cell phone and called Diaz. Fernandez answered. Perez spoke with excitement, “Jeffe, the Patron will be pleased with the high-tech instruments he ordered us to use. We captured one of the snipers. It is a woman, and so far, she has said nothing. She may not speak either Spanish or English, so the Patron may need an interpreter to help with the interrogation.”

Fernandez answered, “Outstanding, Laredo. The Patron will be more than pleased. This could get you a step up the ladder. Bring her here, immediately.”

“Si, Jeffe. We are on our way.”

*****

Shan-ting knew her time would soon be over when they grabbed her ghillie suit and jerked her upright. Hoping to die with a sense of dignity, she stoically endured the beginning of what she knew would be a painful and prolonged journey to death.

*****

Fifty-seven

“Against stupidity, the god themselves contend in vain.”

Friedrich von Schiller

The Deadly Olive Branch

My driver steered the Japanese-made economy car down the Richardson Street at a normal pace. We passed a large Chinese church with piecemeal parking lots extending deep into a vacant area at the back of the building. I wonder if religion would help me deal with the terror that dominates my life at present. I despaired that I will ever get over the months of prison. I was certain that escaping China and rejoining my comrades would eradicate the fear that possesses me, but the condition appears to worsen.

General Ping called this meeting at his safe house. In the past, we have always met at venues apart from our normal living quarters, so I cannot explain this departure from sound security measures. Perhaps the general felt that Yang Gu-jun and I needed a change of scenery, and I must admit that the drive across the Metroplex is pleasant. The neighborhood is well cared for, with the occasional exception. It is located near one of the nation’s high-tech centers, which accounts for the diversity of inhabitants. According to census data, more than eight thousand Chinese live in the suburban city.

My driver turned left off the street and moved down an alley. He pulled into a driveway and pressed a remote button to raise the garage door. Another car rested in the two-car garage, and my driver pulled along side. He got out, opened my door, and with great respect, ushered me into the back door of the house. General Ping and Yang Gu-jun waited in a large office area with smiles on their faces. Yang spoke. “The wisest and bravest of our team has arrived. I feel more confident already.”

I soaked up the buoyancy I always felt in the presence of my comrades. The fear retreated somewhat, and I retorted, “I am but an insect in the presence of such illustrious intellects to the extent that I am blinded by your brilliance.” Both men broke into laughter. 

Ping announced, “Perhaps a taste of rice wine will fade our radiance to the extent that you can open your eyes with some degree of comfort.”

Colonel Lee retrieved the bottles of wine in ice buckets and moved them into another living area. We rested ourselves in comfortable chairs. The conversation moved from the present to amusing anecdotes from the past, often interrupted by giggles and laughter. We truly did enjoy each other’s company.

Gu-jun opened up the business meeting with an update of the status of the drug war. “At first, the snipers wreaked havoc with the physical and mental status of the Mexican Cartel. Recruiting Slick Contreras have proven to be a wise move, and revenue from the sale of China white is proving substantial. However, Salazar is beginning to fight back with some losses to our core combatants. The loss of Shan-ting is a major setback, so it behooves us to strike a major blow in return. The general has a plan that sounds not only plausible, but also brilliant in its simplicity. General?”

As was his pattern, General Ping rose and moved about the room. He used his high-pitched voice to the lowest possible octave and gestured to make his points. “Colonel Lee will make contact with a cartel soldier with a message to Salazar inviting him to call a cell phone number. Lee will invite the cartel to a meeting for the purpose of combining forces and providing China white to the cartel organization. Part of the proposed bargain will be to cut out Slick’s people. Once the meeting is set up, we will kill all of the cartel attendees.”

I had not been privy to any of this plan, so it is possible that my cohorts will have suspected that I am not myself. So as not to raise unnecessary suspicion, I asked, “How will we destroy the opposition?”

The general smoothed his dyed black hair and said, “We will provide the cartel with three warehouses in the Love Field area from which to choose at the last minute. We have an ample supply of plastic explosives, so we will prepare all three for demolition. We will limit attendees to no more than a dozen people from each side.”

“How will we protect our own people?” I asked.

Ping could not prevent a smile from forming on his lips. “Actually, our people will not attend. We will deliver a dozen homeless men to the site. When everyone is in place, we will detonate the explosives and take out several of the leaders of the Mexican Cartel.” Ping chortled with glee. “We will reduce the welfare bill for the City of Dallas at the same time.” We all laughed at the irony of the ploy, even though mine was a bit forced. 

*****

The cartel’s usual set-up consisted of the seller working from a corner where the cars could come and go with all possible quickness. Guards armed with automatic weapons lounged a block away in each direction. Dressed in faded jeans and a dark green tee shirt, Lee Pan-kie, approached a guard with caution. He wore dark sunglasses to hide his Oriental eyes.

“Hey man,” Lee intoned while still ten yards away from the guard.

The guard had watched his approach with interest. “You want to do business, the man is down that street,” he said, pointing to the selling corner. 

Lee stopped. He raised his hands and said, “I have a message for Ortega. If you deliver it to him, there is a c-note in it for you. Interested?”

By this time, the guard had his weapon in hand. “What kind of message, Dude?”

“It’s in my pocket. It’s just an envelope with a note inside. Is it okay for me to get it out of my pocket?”

The guard covered Lee with his machine pistol and said, “Sure man. Go for it.”

Lee carefully retrieved the envelope from his back pocket and handed it to the lookout. Then he stepped back and waited. 

The large, brutish Latino looked it over carefully. “Where is my c-note, Dude?”

“It’s right here in my front pocket.” He reached in and took out the bill. He handed it over to the guard who appeared more than happy to get the tip. Lee concluded his remarks with, “It is very important that Ortega gets this message.” 

The big Latino leveled the gun at Lee. “You talk funny. You are one of them Chinese, aren’t you?”

Lee stood his ground. “Take a look at your belly, amigo.”

The guard glanced down and noticed the dancing red spot of a laser gun sight. He slowly raised his hands. “Man, I don’t want no trouble. Why don’t you go on about your business?”

“Good idea, Amigo,” said Lee. “I suggest that you stay completely still for about five minutes.” Then he turned his back on the guard and strolled away.

The guard could not take his eyes from the red spot until it disappeared a minute later.

*****

Salazar sat astride his prized quarter horse as the rotund chief of the North Texas drug cartel impatiently waited for Ortega to conclude his business so that he could get on with his ride. He passed the note back to Ortega and said, “What do you make of it?”

Ortega smiled inwardly. He knew Salazar expected him to read the note out aloud. There were times when he was almost certain that Salazar could not read at all. He read the note and commented, “Our sales are down eighty percent. We must do something to stop the bleeding, Jeffe. What can it hurt to meet with them?”

Salazar’s horse danced in place. The fat man responded, “They have nothing we need, except their absence. Don’t promise anything. Just learn what you can and report to me. In the end, we must eradicate them to a man.” Having said those immortal words, Salazar gave his horse his head, and he galloped away.

Ortega watched him for a moment and thought. If that foolish man were not Garza’s brother-in-law, he could not get a job pushing on the streets.

*****

Ortega stationed himself on the top floor of a building two blocks from the warehouse entrance along with four of his top soldiers. All were heavily armed. Much had happened since he had used the phone number from the note. 

Someone answered the phone on the second ring. “Yes?”

Ortega responded, “We have decided to meet with your people. We can meet in Irving at 10:00 a.m. on Thursday. That gives you two days to check out the meeting place.”

“I don’t think so,” answered the Chinese. “For the sake of mutual security, we will meet you at one of three locations in the Love Field area. You may choose which one of the three. Thursday at 10:00 a.m., will be fine.”

“I don’t like this. Too much can go wrong,” said Ortega.

“I understand. There is no hurry. Check out the meeting places. To provide additional comfort, you will not have to choose among sites until thirty minutes before the meet. I believe we can make some concessions that will bring an end to this conflict.”

“Do you speak for Slick?”

“We speak for Slick.”

Ortega made a decision. “All right, set the meeting for Thursday. We will bring ten people. We expect you to bring no more than that. Meanwhile, we will check out the sites.”

“Excellent. I am sure this meeting will bring profit to us all.”

Ortega sent people to verify the security of the three warehouses. Even after finding no apparent problems, he still did not trust the Chinese. He decided to send a low-level negotiating team to start the proceedings. If matters progress well, he would negotiate a substitution for one of the soldiers and take his place. He doubted that matters would reach that point, so he was content to wait.

The Chinese arrived in a couple of old vans about five minutes early. They milled around for a minute, and then made their way to the warehouse entrance. The vans pulled away. Ortega noticed that one of the Chinese did not walk very well. At precisely 10:00 a.m., the cartel members departed their Cadillac Escalades and went inside.

Ortega communicated with one of the cartel team on his cell phone. “What is happening?”

“Nothing is happening. They are just sitting there. Some of them are drinking from paper bags. They don’t look like Chinese to me.”

Ortega had a flash. “Pedro. Get the hell out of there. It’s a setup.” Even before he finished his sentence, a dull roar overcame the city sounds, and debris flew from windows of the warehouse. “Goddammit,” shouted Ortega. He watched for a few more seconds, and then said, “We are out of here.”

After driving several blocks from the scene of the disaster, Ortega felt his phone vibrate. “Ortega here,” he said.

“I suppose our efforts to negotiate fell a bit short. Perhaps you should consider moving the cartel out of the Metroplex. There are plenty of other territories, and it would be much healthier. Don’t think your little ranch to the north is risk free. You might pass that on to Salazar. Adios, amigo.”

Before Ortega could vent his rage with a response, the phone went silent. He screamed invectives using English laced Spanish all the way to the ranch. Though he did not know it at the time,  his fate was sealed.

*****

Fifty-eight

“If you are going through hell, keep going.”

Sir Winston Churchill

Captain McMichael

Richard McMichael, captain of the narcotics division of the Dallas Police Department, ushered Billy Ray and Jian-mei Calhoun into seats in front of his modern desk. High-tech equipment covered every unused space against the walls. The large picture window behind him reflected the meteorological situation of the day.

“Billy Ray, when have you been down home?”

Billy Ray looked into the familiar face of his lifelong friend from deep East Texas. “Things have been a little tight up here in Dallas, but to answer your question, Richard, we haven’t been to the Sulphur since all this mess started. How about you?”

Richard shuffled some papers on his desktop as he said, “Nancy’s folks are in bad health, so she is spending more time there than here. I have to get down there at least every other weekend as work permits.” He tapped the hard, clear plastic desk with a fingernail. “Anyway, here is how I see this situation at present. You may see things differently, and I don’t have to tell you that I value your opinion.”

Jian-mei spoke in a controlled voice. “Richard, we appreciate your personal attention in this matter, and we won’t forget it.”

“Jian-mei, most of what I have done is routine police work. Without the information you have provided on the General, we would be in worse shape than we are, and we are in dire circumstances as it is.” Captain McMichael rose from his chair and strolled over to freshen his coffee. “Anybody want a refill?”

Billy Ray nodded and held out his mug. Jian-mei sipped her coffee but shook her head.

McMichael continued. “The Metroplex has never experienced a full-scale drug war before, and our people are in a reaction mode. Someone gets killed, and we go running across town to set up crime-scenes and interview witnesses. Everyone is afraid to talk or to come forward. We know the major players. Slick Contreras is leading the black contingent. The General is commanding the Chinese. Pedro Salazar represents the Mexican Cartel in this area, but he is so far removed from the action, we are never able to tie him in with normal operations.”

Billy Ray rose and stretched. “If the General’s operation could be taken down, the blacks wouldn’t have anything to sell. The Mexican’s would be back in the saddle. At least it would be business as usual.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said McMichael. The Dallas PD is putting together a task force, with help from the feds and concentrating on finding the general. It includes people from the FBI, DEA, and HLS. That’s a lot of firepower. If the General makes any kind of mistake, we will be on him like stink on guano. There is a large Asian population in the Metroplex, but it’s manageable.”

“I have a request,” said Jian-mei. “If you are unable to grant it, I will understand.”

“Jian-mei, I know what is at stake here for you and Billy Ray. If there is anyway I can work with you, I will.”

Jian-mei’s eyes became steely. “If you get your hands on anyone who might have important information, let me question them in a private setting.”

“Whew!” McMichael breathed. “That’s a tough one, but if there is any way, I will do it. We have to shut down this war, and we all need to take some risks, even me.”

Billy Ray asked, “How are you going about this?”

“We are contacting the business and church people in the Asian community. The leadership will ask their people to keep an eye out without attracting undue attention. We are checking out any lead we get. If something looks hot, we will be in touch.”

“If you find the general, and we are successful, I will personally shut down Slick,” said Jian-mei in a low voice.

“Jian-mei. You scare me,” smiled Captain McMichael.  

*****

Fifty-nine

“When you do the common things in life in an uncommon way, you will command the attention of the world.”

George Washington

The Expediter

The 1985 Ford F-150 pickup hummed along I-35 East, slowly but inexorably passing through the gaudy energy of Dallas northward toward the Red River valley. The months of dirt build-up all but obliterated the faded original paint. One hubcap was missing on each side, but the tires showed deep treads. No blue smoke escaped the twin exhaust pipes, which was the only indication that something was amiss with this old truck. Beneath the dirt and apparent lack of attention, dwelt a rebuilt, precision vehicle. The driver and owner had provided everything needed to enhance the performance of the truck, though the improvements hid beneath the filthy cover of the motor and transmission. All suspension parts were new and capable of supporting the 140 mph speed of which the pick-up was capable. 

The interior resembled the outside in its decline. Thin, ragged upholstery covered the seats and insides of the doors. Faded paint under a layer of filth covered the dash. A crack marred the passenger side window.

The old Ford attracted no attention. Older cars, trucks, and small buses packed with Hispanics, often-illegal aliens, were a common sight on the streets and highways of North Texas. They were going to work, coming from work, or seeking work and were as much a part of the local scene as the stripes on the road. In this case, two dark complexioned Hispanics rode in silence, as they made their way north. 

The driver was a small, wiry man. His attire consisted of faded jeans, a western shirt, and a straw, western-styled hat. He resembled hundreds of thousands of young men from south of the Texas/Mexican border who migrated to North Texas for the construction work.

The man’s name was Jose Diaz. He was twenty-four-years old and in no way physically imposing. Once again, looks were deceiving. The squalor of West Dallas had molded the man from early childhood. When he was old enough to gain the trust of the drug traffickers, he began putting food on the family table by first running errands for the pushers, and then becoming one. Circumstances forced him to defend himself on occasion, and he took a life at the age of thirteen. It was not to be his last killing. Soon after, the thin youngster from the barrio began serving as the number one assassin for the local patron, Pedro Salazar. All the while, he continued attending school, excelling in academics, and, eventually, having to make a difficult decision. Offers of academic scholarships to attend various universities began arriving. When he approached Salazar about attending a university, the boss laughed at the idea. However, the head of the Mexican Cartel, Jorge Garza, had followed the career of Diaz for several years. He saw something more in Diaz than did Salazar, and Garza instructed his under boss to send Diaz to Mexico City for an interview. Piqued at losing his valuable employee, Salazar had no choice but to adhere to his boss’s instructions.

After a short meeting with Diaz, Garza came to a decision. He would support Diaz’s education if he would choose a field of study that would be of benefit to his business. In addition, Diaz must agree to relocate to Mexico City following his education, and work directly for Garza. Diaz agreed and left for the University of North Texas. He completed his course of study in international finance within three years. He returned to Mexico City at the age of twenty. He designed a financial empire for Garza, using the most modern techniques and headed up the money laundering aspect of the business. When needed, he made final arrangements for selected individuals at the behest of Garza.

When it became evident that stopping the Chinese/black consortium, that was gradually taking over the illicit drug trade in the Metroplex, was beyond the capabilities of Pedro Salazar, Garza promoted his protégé, to the leadership of the Metroplex cartel. All Diaz had to do was eliminate Salazar; his right-hand man, Ortega; and eradicate any other competition. After Diaz had seized power, his real task of regaining control of the drug trade would begin. 

A few miles past Denton, Diaz took a farm-to-market road east for a few miles, and then turned back north on a private blacktop road. After entering a grove of scrub oaks, Diaz drove up to an impressive gate and stopped. A uniformed guard approached the vehicle, at which point Diaz lowered the driver’s side window. The guard looked at Diaz, consulted a picture in his hand, and raised his cap from his head. “Welcome, Jeffe. We were expecting you. Please drive about two hundred meters to the main house.”

Diaz said nothing but touched his forehead with his index finger. He moved the truck slowly forward through the gate and wound his way through the trees to the residence. It was a large house built from Texas stone and covered by a gray tile roof. Several buildings squatted in the distance. Heavily armed guards patrolled the area. A tall, impressive guard approached the pickup, opened the driver side door, and said in classic Spanish, “Senor Diaz, Senor Salazar awaits your pleasure. May I care for your lady?”

Diaz spoke in Spanish as well, but his version more resembled the campasino, mostly by choice. “She is not my lady. See that she has food and comfort until I require her services once more. What is your name?”

“I am Miguel Fernandez. I serve as Mr. Salazar’s captain of the guards.”

Diaz peered deeply into the eyes of Fernandez. “Please direct me to Mr. Salazar’s office.”

“As you wish, Jeffe.”

Fernandez strode up the steps to the front door, entered, and passed through a large lobby area to an imposing oaken door. He knocked, opened the right-side door, and ushered Diaz into a massive office area. Four guards stationed themselves at the four corners. Pedro Salazar sat behind a massive desk flanked by Javier Ortega. Salazar immediately rose and approached Diaz with his arms outstretched. “Jose, we are so glad to have you back.” Salazar enveloped Diaz in a fatherly hug and then held him at arm’s length. “You have not aged a day. You still appear to be one of the young ones running in the streets.”

Diaz eased himself from the grasp of Salazar and stepped back. “It has been many years since I have run the streets, Senor Salazar.”

Salazar clasped his hand together and gestured Diaz toward a chair in front of the desk. “Please be seated. You remember Javier. Of course you do. May I inquire of the health of the Patron?”

Diaz seated himself in the designated chair, and answered with a thin smile. “Mr. Garza is well and extends his best wishes. He is hopeful that I may be able to contribute to the solution of the problems in North Texas.”

Salazar reseated himself behind the great desk and assumed his place of power. “While it is just a matter of time until we bring the blacks and Chinese under control, I have no doubt that you will provide some skills and assistance that only Jose Diaz can supply. You will be a potent weapon against those who would interfere with our business in the Metroplex. Since I learned that you would be joining us in our battle, I gave much thought to how you could best help our cause. I have designed a plan that will rid the area of our unwanted competition. Here is what I want you to do.”

*****

Foolish man. I thought. He expects to use me as a tool to clean up his own ineptitude. Little does he know he is looking into the eyes of death.

Fear of injury or death does not lend itself to taking lives. Since I place no real value on myself, my life is not important to me. I assumed that attitude early in life when my crack-head mother took away any semblance of pride from my own self-image. That personality quirk did provide a sound psychological basis for assassination. I never felt fear in dangerous situations.

The dynamics of killing are always as complex or simple as the perpetrator wishes to make them. When Jorge Garza ordered me to eliminate Salazar and Ortega, there was little doubt that one or both of them would suspect that my mission to the Metroplex was for that purpose. These were not stupid people. They were, simply, incompetent. To make matters worse for them, they underestimated me. 

I knew they would not go quietly into the night. Salazar would surround himself with his guards and his right hand man. I would need to take their lives in the lion’s den, which made little difference to me. A fearless, determined killer can overcome most defenses. 

I had only one ally when I entered Salazar’s stronghold. He was in place and had a specific assignment, but he could not save my life if matters imploded. 

Salazar would not have dared search me for weapons, but the only gun I possessed was strapped to the calf of my leg, and guns gave me little comfort. I knew that my blades had always served me well.

I sat in a relaxed position as Salazar droned on about the problems with the Metroplex drug operation. He laid out a series of extenuating circumstances that had resulted in the business losses reaching over eighty percent. Not once did he suggest that bad management had anything to do with it. He never explained how he allowed an enemy, small in numbers and resources, to overcome the long-established cartel organization. Salazar was a figurehead. He was not a warrior.

Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, I deemed that the time was ripe. With only the slightest of movements, I slipped one throwing knife from each sleeve. They were eight inches long with a point at both ends. I depended on my hand speed and hundreds of hours of practice to defeat Ortega. He was the most dangerous. The second knife was for Salazar. I should be able to deliver both in about one second. If my throws were successful, what happened next would depend on the guard captain. If he was as intelligent as reported, he had already decided what he was going to do under these circumstances. If he made a move to shoot me, he would die at the hand of my ally, but we would have little chance against the remaining guards with automatic weapons. 

To distract Ortega, I raised my left hand as if to interrupt Salazar. I made my throwing move with my right hand, transferred the second knife to the same hand, and let it fly as well. Both blades found their target. They protruded from the heads of both men. Ortega’s sank deep into his left eye. 

Both men crumpled to the floor. I did not move. Any further action was up to the captain of the guards. Silence permeated the room. Finally, Miguel Fernandez spoke from the back of the room. “Would you like for me to clear the room, Senor Diaz?”

I relaxed to an extent, but attempted to conceal it. I rose from the chair and faced Fernandez. “That would be appropriate, major. Assign someone to advise Mrs. Salazar of her husband’s demise and arrange for her to return to Mexico.”

“Si, Patron. Please do not consider me remiss, but I am only a captain.”

“You are now a major. Your decisions today warrant a promotion and more responsibility, but we will discuss that later. I expect the sub-bosses to attend a meeting at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow. Spread the word.” I sat behind the giant desk, began rifling through the drawers, and throwing worthless papers on the floor. The news would soon spread that a new patron had taken over.

*****

Sixty

“You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the consequences of avoiding reality.”

Ayn Rand

Needle in a Haystack

Sergeant Michael Tong eased into a curbside parking space in front of a well-kept lawn. A small ranch-style house sat about forty feet from the street. This was the last stop on his project of checking leads for the narcotics division of the DPD. Normally, he worked homicide, but top management in the DPD attached anyone without a hot assignment to the narcotics task force assigned to find the leaders of the Chinese drug connection that had turned the streets of the Metroplex into a battle zone.

Tong glanced at the final worksheet to refresh his memory and plan his approach. The mother of a ten-year-old girl had called in to report that her daughter was skateboarding down a neighborhood alley, when she saw an older man get out of the back seat of a car. She noticed that the man’s hand did not look real to her. Tong expected nothing from the routine follow-up. He left his division headquarters at 9:00 a.m., assigned to a neighborhood section in Garland inhabited by mostly Asian races. He had not seen the early morning television bulletin describing one of the suspects as having a prosthetic eye, hand, and foot. 

He got out of the unmarked car, tried to stretch the pain from his lower back muscles, and decided that at fifty, he might bypass the early morning basketball games at his district gym. He touched the doorbell and waited. Appearing to be in her early thirties, a woman opened the door. Sergeant Tong flipped open his badge case, and said, “I am Sergeant Tong with the Dallas Police Department. I am here in response to your call.”

“Please come in,” the woman said, stepping back into the entryway. She led the way into the living area and gestured toward a winged chair. “Please have a seat. I am Shirley Strickland. Can I get you some coffee or a soft drink?”

Tong declared, “Thank you, no. I will try to take up as little time as possible. We are checking leads in search of a middle-aged Chinese man who might live in your area. I believe your daughter saw a possible suspect.”

“Yes, Marjory is in her room. I will get her.” Strickland left the room and returned shortly with a young girl in tow. “This is my daughter Marjory. She can tell you what she saw.”

Sergeant Tong smiled at the obviously nervous young woman. “Just have a seat, Marjory. I want to ask you about the man you saw yesterday. Would you mind?”

Marjory Strickland spoke clearly and with energy. “I didn’t think anything about the man until we saw the news at noon and learned that one of the people the police were looking for had a false hand.”

Tong interrupted, “Excuse me, Marjory. What is this about a false hand?”

Shirley Strickland broke in and said, “It was on the news at noon. There was a news bulletin that said to be on the lookout for an elderly Chinese man who had a prosthetic eye, hand, and foot.”

Tong took out his cell phone, said, “Excuse me for a second,” and punched in a speed-dial number. After a couple of rings, a voice in the narcotics division of the DPD answered. Tong identified himself to the desk sergeant and asked, “Was there new information about the Chinese perps we are looking for?”

After listening for almost a full minute, Tong broke the connection and turned to the girl. “Marjory, please tell me exactly what you saw?”

“I was riding my skateboard down the alley behind the houses across the street. I saw a car pull into the drive behind the garages. By the time I got there, an Asian-looking man was getting out of the back seat. I glanced at him as I passed and noticed that his right hand looked really weird.”

Tong asked, “Can you describe the hand?”

Marjory looked bewildered, but said, “It just looked weird. It was darker and looked a little shiny.”

“Can you describe the man?”

Marjory looked even more worried. “I just glanced at him. He looked older. He had black hair and was kind of small. He wore a dark suit.”

Sergeant Tong was pleased. “Marjory, you did great. Now here is what I want you and your mother to do.”

***

Captain McMichael instructed the lead detective on the Drug Interdiction taskforce to approach Judge Dan Hampton for a search warrant to enter the suspect’s residence.

“It’s weak, Captain,” said Lieutenant Wilkinson.

“I know it’s weak, Lieutenant, but Tong believes that it is righteous. We are getting nowhere on this drug war, so we need a break. Tell Dan that I need this. He is an old Piney Springs boy, and has done a few things for us in the past.”

Wilkinson scratched his shaved head and offered, “Maybe you should call him, Captain. He might listen to you quicker than me.”

“Maybe you are right.” McMichael picked up his phone, scanned his phone numbers, and dialed. “Good evening. This is Captain McMichael with the Narcotics Division of the DPD. May I speak with the judge?” McMichael sat with patience, which was how he did everything. After a while, Judge Dan Hampton came on the phone.

“What’s going on, Richard? How is Louise’s mama doing with that cancer?” he growled.

“She’s just about gone, Judge.” McMichael stated. The doctors haven’t been able to do much for a long time. It’s a short time thing.”

“I know you didn’t call up to pass the time of day. What can I do for you on a professional level?”

McMichael paused briefly and said, “Judge, I don’t have to tell you that we are having a drug war here in the Metroplex, and law enforcement is not having much impact. This Chinese bunch has got it in for Billy Ray and his family, and they keep trying to take them out. The task force looked for any older Chinese people who surfaced in the Asian enclaves across the Metroplex. We got some additional information from the CIA pertaining to one of the suspects. He lost his eye, hand, and foot in an explosion back in China. We located a ten-year-old in a Carrollton neighborhood who had seen an older Asian man with an odd-looking hand. We need to get a search warrant right away. I know this isn’t much to go on, but can you help us, Judge?”

Judge Hampton grunted, the spoke, “You are right about one thing. This isn’t much to go on, and it could be my ass if this goes wrong.” The phone was silent for a few seconds. Then the judge declared, “What the hell. You and Billy Ray are home folks. Go on in there, and see what you can find.”

*****

Silence and line of sight was the key for the task force strike team as they gathered in the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Well-trained personnel approached the neighboring houses, and when they found someone home, they directed them to safety. When everyone was in place, the S.W.A.T. team surrounded the house in a well-rehearsed manner and charged the front door with a battering ram. Unable to use flash-bangs or gas, they rushed into all rooms in the house behind their shields with weapons extended. One guard attempted to draw his weapon, but quickly saw the error of his ways and dropped it. Zhao Ming-juan remained in his recliner, a petrified look on his face. When S.W.A.T. team personnel tackled him and threw him to the ground, he began to sob.

*****

There is no need for this violence, this pain. I never would have attempted to avoid arrest. I am a law-abiding citizen, even in a foreign country. I don’t know if I can withstand the pain if they torture me. I could not in the Chinese prison, and I doubt that I can in this one.

However, I must keep in mind that I was one of the most powerful men in Middle Kingdom. I struck fear into the hearts of the ruling body of my great country. I must think rationally. I must plan. The laws of this soft nation do not allow torture. They will attempt to break me with words, and I know about words. Words cannot harm me. 

Perhaps I have survived the worst part. After they put me in chains, they did not harm me again. They spoke to me numerous times, took my fingerprints, and placed me into this empty room. If they are going to make me suffer, it will come soon. If not, I will say nothing no matter what they say. I can manage this. My comrades will be proud of me.

Who is this person? He speaks in Mandarin.

“Mr. Zhao, I am Sergeant Michael Tong. I need to ask you a few questions, but first I must Mirandize you for legal purposes. I know your name and your native tongue, so please respond. Do you understand me?” The powerfully built Asian man waited patiently for me to speak. He would be disappointed.

After awhile, he continued his interrogation. “I am giving you your Miranda rights. After I complete this simple task, you may request an attorney to represent you in our judicial system.”

Tong continued to speak in legal terms for some moments, and then asked me if I understood what he had said. I remained silent.

“Mr. Zhao. We are aware that you and your associates escaped from mainland China and are in the Metroplex to over drug trafficking from the Mexico City cartel. We know that you are responsible for much violence and many criminal acts. If you co-operate at this time, it will go much better for you in the courts. If you refuse to help us, you could end up with a death sentence. Now, Mr. Zhao, where is General Ping and Mr. Yang?”

I wonder if they would really make matters easier for me if I told them what I know, but, truthfully, I know very little. Since the repositioning, I have no idea of the location of my comrades. We all decided that it would be best if only Ping knew our locations. I agreed. Therefore, I can offer them nothing. I have read that even a death sentence in Texas usually results in long legal proceedings that last many years. It is better if I keep quiet. 

The interrogator was patient, but I waited him out. He repeated the question; waited some more, and then he left the room. Soon, a tall, uniformed officer entered. He had piercing gray eyes and dark red hair. He leaned over the desk, rested his hands on the surface, and invaded my personal space in a disgusting manner. After some time, he said, “Let me assure you, Mr. Zhao, we will learn what you know. I don’t know what you may have heard about American justice, but matters are different in Texas.” Then, the officer retrieved a small piece of paper from his pocket. When I saw the picture, I lost my breath and felt the release of my urine. It was a picture of a spider. They were going to turn me over to The Brown Recluse. Tears ran down my face, and I lost my composure.

*****

Sixty-one

“Only two things are infinite. The universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former.”

Albert Einstein

Combat

Diaz squatted next to Fernandez watching one of Slick’s busy South Dallas pushers distribute his wares to motorists. Both men had disguised themselves to blend in with the black neighborhood. The new chief of the Metroplex drug cartel and his second-in-command had located at least three backup guards during their thirty minutes at the scene. 

“We will need to knock out the guards before attacking the seller,” whispered Diaz.

“Si, Jeffe,” answered the tall, muscular Fernandez. He had watched as his new boss, fearlessly, dispatched his former boss and his lieutenant in their own stronghold. He was impressed with the efficiency of the man, and nothing he had seen or heard from Diaz since had done anything to dispel his confidence in the small man at his side. He knew that the drug war would pick up in ferocity, but he also knew that Diaz would win.

Diaz took a few shots with his digital camera and signaled Fernandez that it was time to leave. They strolled a couple of blocks through alleyways, until they reached a deserted street. Their nondescript auto sat guarded by their driver. All three men entered the car, and left the area.

*****

Two nights later, the corner in South Dallas was crowded with people. A brisk trade was underway for China White. The price was cheap, and the customer base felt safe and secure. The primary pusher had just reached out to take several greenbacks from the hand of a young man in a black Escalade, when a small red spot appeared on his face. The opposite side of his head erupted in a cloud of pink flesh and bone. He dropped to the pavement.

The people crowded around the intersection were momentarily stunned. Panic dominated the scene, and they began running in all directions. Then, automatic weapons fire opened up. When the terrorized people realized they were running into the source of the bullets, they changed course only to find that death was coming that that direction as well. Within seconds, bodies littered the pavement. As quickly as the reign of destruction began, it stopped. The screams of the wounded broke the sudden silence.

Survivors were only too happy to call the DPD and medical services. Flashing lights soon revealed the presence of squad cars and a plethora of ambulances. The police found everyone eager to help in any way, but learned nothing on which to build a case. One minute they were enjoying the evening and the next, they were running for their lives. Eleven people were DOA at area hospitals. Three of the wounded died of their wounds within the next twenty-four hours.

Two nights later, a similar incident occurred. Slick’s people struck a retaliatory assault on the cartel in West Dallas with limited results and some casualties. The cartel was ready for them. 

Because of these three open acts of criminal warfare, law enforcement in the Metroplex combined with state and federal agencies to form the most powerful taskforce in the history of the state. The heads of incumbent beaurocrats rolled, and their replacements all professed to have solutions. A positive result of the carnage was that the illicit drug trade temporarily shut down. That left more people available to find Ping. 

*****

Sixty-two

“Problems worthy of attack prove their worth by fighting back.”

Paul Erdos

The Weak Link

Since citizens of the entire Metroplex suffered from the fallout of the drug war, the area police were working together to breakup the criminal stranglehold. The first break came from a suburban city near Ft. Worth, when undercover operatives checking out Chinese immigrants in cooperation with Chinese community leaders located Zhao Ming-juan due to his obvious infirmities. While his missing eye and artificial foot were not excessively noticeable, it was difficult not to note a prosthetic hand. A neighborhood child noticed Zhao exiting his car on one of his rare appearances in public. She passed the novelty on to her mother who read the fugitive’s description in the newspaper. When information from Zhao was not forthcoming, McMichael gained custody and arranged for Jian-mei to interview him. It was necessary to keep Zhao on the move to avoid the lawyer with a writ of habeas corpus in his hand. After all, no charges were pending.

McMichael arranged for Jian-mei to interrogate Zhao in an isolated room deep within the bowels of the DPD. There was no camera, no microphone, and no witnesses. Jian-mei entered the small room and quickly noted the essence of fear in the eyes of Zhao. Since he was an intelligent man, he realized that his antagonists could not actually harm him. The sight of this tall, beautiful Asian woman did nothing to cause him concern, until she shared with him that she was the Brown Recluse. His resistance crumbled, but he felt that he must make an effort to resist. 

When he refrained from any reaction, Jian-mei applied a series of non-marking, but very painful procedures concentrating on nerve bundles. She sat calmly while the older man stopped screaming and was able to control his breath. Zhao was not a strong man, and he immediately succumbed to her persuasion and told what he knew.

By the time the authorities developed the limited information into something of real value, the general discovered Zhao’s arrest and moved his operations to a new safe house. Not realizing the extent of the task force moving against him, Ping soon found that Yang Gu-jun had fallen into the hands of the Dallas Police Department as well. The General knew that Yang was made of sterner stuff, and he failed to yield any additional facts even after Jian-mei tested his resolve until he passed out. Unfortunately for the Calhoun’s, Yang had broken no laws. His papers were in order, so the only thing that kept him in custody was the absence of a writ of habeas corpus. Billy Ray knew that it was just a matter of time until McMichael had to release Yang. The same applied to Zhou. 

*****

That left Ping. The task force had reduced the possible number of older Chinese, who were unknown by other members of the community, from thousands to five. Jian-mei chose the most likely and proceeded to stake out the dwelling in Richardson. She watched the rear of the house since the garage was there, and late in the night, an auto backed out of the garage and started to leave the premises. The only peculiar thing was that one person sat in the driver’s seat and the other sat in the rear seat. The configuration represented the sort of arrangement used by the military where high-ranking officers were involved. 

  Moving her car into a blocking position, she leaped out only to face the silenced handgun of Major Lee. While Lee kept her occupied, Ping left the car and ran back through the house. A bicycle stood ready for just such an emergency. Ping opened the front door and rode away. He quickly fled up an alley, down a side street, and into another non-descript house in the neighborhood. He unlocked the front door, entered, and dropped the bicycle. Then he quickly passed through the house to the garage, entered another undistinguished car, and backed into the alley. He was beginning to feel more secure when the Brown Recluse crashed her elbow into the passenger side window and shattered it. However, Ping had his foot on the accelerator and with the forward momentum of the car, and a fortuitous hedge alongside the alley, Jian-mei was unable to maintain her grip on the car. She crashed to the pavement. Leaping up, she pursued the car, but was unable to close the gap.

Jian-mei called Richard McMichael on her cell phone and described the general’s car and last known direction. He put out an APB on the car, but again, Ping’s planning expertise allowed him to slip through the net. He rented another car, drove for fifteen hours to Denver, where he flew to New York. Maddened by the Calhouns, his only motivation was the destroy them, and the best place to start was with their son.

*****

Sixty-three

“Against stupidity, the gods themselves contend in vain.”

Friedrich von Schiller

Kidnapped

Billy Ray stood at a stop light across from the Dallas Police Department headquarters in downtown Dallas waiting for the little white guy to appear on the crossing sign, signifying that he could safely cross the street. He reviewed his just concluded visit with Richard McMichael and was satisfied with his old friend’s progress. He was immeasurably pleased that a member of the task force had located one of Ping’s inner-circle. Units were on the way to make the arrest. While the streets of Dallas dictated when law enforcement personnel could work on the special project of finding the head of the Chinese snake, the priority was as high as could be expected considering the ongoing drug turf war. 

When the light changed, Billy Ray strolled across the street and walked toward the beige colored STS Cadillac. He fumbled in his pocket for his car keys, but saw movement in his peripheral vision. Responding to the advanced training received from Jian-mei, he moved to his left and brought up his arms in a defensive posture. He felt a sharp sting in his back, but continued his turn as powerful hands grabbed his arms. Billy Ray was strong. He jerked from the grasp of one of his assailants and followed with a swift blow to his jaw with the heel of his hand. The man went down. Billy Ray, using his superior size and strength, slammed the other man into the car, but his vision began to blur. Quickly, he lost contact with reality and slumped to the pavement.

The standing assailant quickly scanned the lot for witnesses. He could see no one, even though the streets contained the usual traffic for the time of day. He helped his associate to his feet and immediately realized that his jaw was broken. He said, “You are injured, but we must complete our assignment. Help me get Calhoun into the van. We will get medical help for you soon.” The other member of the team nodded his head, retrieved the van, and helped get Billy Ray into the vehicle.

As the men drove north to the suburb of Richardson, Billy Ray gradually regained consciousness. Plastic restraints hampered his movements. An Asian-appearing man sat near with a formidable knife. He could see the distortion of the man’s jaw line. Billy Ray could account for that deformity and for the grimace of hatred on his assailant’s expression. 

Seeing that Billy Ray was awake, his attacker smashed him hard across the face with an open hand. The driver, who was in charge of the operation, spoke sharply to his partner who delivered no more blows.

While still on U. S. 75 north, Broken Jaw placed a blindfold across Billy Ray’s eyes. Soon the van left the freeway and began a series of turning maneuvers, including driving around in circles on parking lots. When the kidnappers were satisfied that Billy Ray could no longer judge any direction or location, they drove to the safe house and pulled into the garage. When they arrived, the driver spoke in accented English. “We can do this one of two ways. You can remain uncooperative with a severe price in physical discomfort, or you can cooperate with much less distress. What is your choice?”

Billy Ray was a professional negotiator. He knew how to use leverage and how to act when the other person had the advantage. He was definitely the low man on the totem pole in this situation. He said, “You tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

The Asian man smiled and opened the door to the van. Two other men entered the garage and produced hand-held, automatic weapons. Billy Ray stepped out of the van, and followed directions to the interior of the house. The kidnapper gestured to a wooden stool. After he seated himself, one of the Asians replaced the plastic restraints with metal handcuffs connected to chains. Bolts attached to the floor provided anchors for the chains. Then, all of the Asians left the room, and Billy Ray looked around at his prison.

*****

I concluded that this room was, most likely, a former master bedroom due to its size. There were no pictures on the white plaster walls. Three bright bulbs, of high wattage, hung from a chandelier. Sound absorbing panels covered the wall that faced the outside of the house. Noise, such as my screams, will not reach the neighbors. A loud, disconcerting noise interrupted my considerations. The status quo continued for two hours, and then matters deteriorated.

A stocky man entered the room, stood in front of me, and proceeded to begin slapping me hard around the head. The treatment continued for what seemed to me a good ten minutes, though it was less. Confused, I resorted to my professional expertise, and attempted to negotiate. Talking was not easy. I blurted out, “Hey, wait a minute. Can’t we talk about this?”

If the kidnapper had heard me, the force and frequency of his blows did not show it. Unable to impact the brutality with my pleasing personality and command of reasonable dialogue, I fell back on the training of Jian-mei. I withdrew into myself and concentrated on dealing with the blows. After a bit longer, they began to fade along with my awareness. At some point, the blows ceased. I hardly noticed.

Gradually, I could focus my vision once more. After a few minutes, my tormentor came back into the room and began pounding me in the chest and back with his balled fists. Once more, I felt the full force of the blows, because I could not protect myself by rolling with the punches. Again, I lost consciousness. When I could see again, I found that I had lost time. I also noticed that my bladder had emptied, but that was the least of my worries. My body was a storehouse of pain.

A grim, middle-aged Oriental came into the room followed by another Oriental man of about the same age. The former placed a chair in front of me and took a seat. He did not speak for several minutes.

The man uttered in a high-pitched voice, “Do you know who I am?”

 I knew who he was, but damned if I would give the son-of-a-bitch the satisfaction of letting him know. I said nothing but stared into the eyes of my foe.

Disconcerted at the lack of weakness on my part, he continued, “I am General Ping. In case you don’t recognize my name, I will explain how you came to my attention. You and the bitch-whore you live with, cost me my future. You callously took the fruits of my intelligence and labor away from me and took it for yourselves. You almost cost me my freedom, and you did take away the freedom of my closest comrades. The damage you forced on my comrades and me is immeasurable. You took away our lives and left us with nothing. Now do you know who I am?”

I had no other way to answer the General, so I collected as much blood as possible in my mouth and spit it across the space separating the two men. The General’s countenance made a mercurial change. “Give me a knife,” he screamed, lunging from his chair.

The other older man assessed the situation. He moved to the General and placed his arm around his shoulders. He spoke in a moderate voice, “Dear Comrade. Would you please listen to the council of an old friend before you dispense with this round-eye?”

*****

Ping continued to stare with venom at Calhoun, then slowly but surely, he regained his composure and allowed Yang Gu-jun to maneuver him to the adjoining room and into a comfortable chair. Yang said nothing for some time, but then uttered in Mandarin Chinese, “I will always respect the decisions of my oldest and dearest comrade, and I will do so without trepidation. Please allow me to point out some considerations. We must deal with the Brown Recluse. We must deal with their bastard offspring. We must deal with the Mexico City cartel, and to make matters worse, word has just reached me that our most prized comrade, Zhao Ming-juan, was taken into custody by the Dallas Police less than an hour ago.”

The blood drained from Ping’s face. He whispered, “How did that happen? We were so careful.”

Yang answered, “We do not know at this time, but perhaps we have his ticket out of jail in the adjoining room. A dead Calhoun is worth nothing to us. Alive, he is a factor in our favor. Would you agree with that premise, Ping Mu-yao?”

Ping said nothing for several minutes. Knowing his patterns, Yang allowed him to process the information and come to a logical conclusion. Finally, he nodded and retired to another room in the house. Yang proceeded to instruct the subordinates as to how to treat Billy Ray Calhoun.

*****

The pain was unforgiving. I could not shift my position due to the chains, and I could not maintain an erect posture, because I lacked the strength. I sat slumped over on the rock-hard stool until is occurred to me to remove it. The chains allowed me just enough room to rise off the stool and kick it away. Then I slumped onto the floor and found myself no better for the effort.

I expected Ping to return at any moment and cut my throat, but, frankly, I didn’t give a damn. I was giving in to an abbreviated future when a mental picture of Marvin followed by one of Jian-mei, and, finally, one of Cloud interrupted my self-pity. Besides, as the time passed, it occurred to me that perhaps a change of plans had transpired. By that time, whether survival was a good thing was about fifty-fifty.

The minutes of my extended life turned into hours. The pain from the countless blows gradually receded to a dull ache. Localized pain in my left rib area told me that there was likely a fracture. Fortunately, my collarbone had survived. I could not stretch out on the cement floor, but could lie on my back. Just as I had found the most comfortable position, two men entered the room and placed me back on the stool. They tightened the chains so that I could not remove the stool again. In doing so, I could no longer sit up straight. To compound my attitude, my captors ignored my requests for water. By this time, I was getting really pissed.

*****

Sixty-four

“The only difference between me and a madman is that I’m not mad.”

Salvador Dali

Controlled Rage

I stood at the large window facing north. The downtown view of Dallas usually brought back thoughts of Macau and my youth, but this was not a good day, or week for that matter. Our old enemy, General Ping, had put his prodigious intelligence to the task of taking our lives. I knew he would not stop. This contest of wills and minds was to the death. While I felt that our son, Marvin Ray, was relatively safe, the only way we could ever enjoy the peace of a normal life was to find and destroy that man. Irritation crept into my usually composed demeanor. I felt fear for one of the few times in my violent life. To compound matters, Billy Ray had spent most of the day with his boyhood friend, Richard McMichael, at the Dallas Police headquarters. I anxiously awaited his return for the latest intelligence report. When the phone rang, I assumed that it was Billy Ray letting me know he was on his way home. It was not.

I recognized Richard’s voice immediately. He said, “Jian-mei, I have some really disturbing news. They have Billy Ray.”

I felt as if my heart would stop. “What do you mean they have Billy Ray?”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t have details. Billy Ray left here soon after 3:00 p.m. on his way home. About 4:30 p.m., we got a call from a cell phone that Ping had Billy Ray, and that he would be willing to trade him for Zhao. For your information, we took Zhao into custody soon after Billy Ray left here.”

Jian-mei swallowed then spoke, “What do you think happened? How did they get him?”

Richard remained silent for moments, and then answered, “I can only speculate. His car is still in the parking lot, so I assume they took him there by force, drugs, or both. Billy Ray would not be easy to take.”

“Do you have any leads?”

Richard spoke with more energy, “We got a hit on Ping’s car in a Richardson neighborhood, but it could be any one of a dozen houses. All we know is that it is a green, late model Toyota Camry. We can’t get warrants without more probable cause. We may have to step outside the box if we locate the right one in a hurry. Any suggestions?”

Jian-mei thought for a moment, and then she said, “I need a flexible cable camera and a small portable drill. I will find the car when it becomes dark. Where can we meet?”

Richard paused, gave the matter some thought, and said, “I will be on the southwest corner of Main and Ervay in two hours with the equipment. Do you need backup?”

“Backup would just get in my way. Besides, there is little question that I will break a few laws along the way. See you at 7:30 p.m.”

*****

I broke the connection, and then I allowed the anger to surface. For several minutes, I removed my defenses against such a situation, and allowed my alter ego to return in full bloom. I needed the Brown Recluse without restraints. I will deal with my sanity later.

Retrieving a backpack from the deep recesses of my large closet, I swiftly removed selected items including a dark, camouflaged latex suit, complete with head covering, a weapons belt, and dark rubber shoes. In the way of weapons, I had throwing stars, a wooden dagger, a lock picking set, and a silenced Walther PPK. I added a small, but powerful flashlight, sensitive listening equipment, and a night vision apparatus.

Next, I covered my face with dark makeup that was multicolored to help blend in with the surroundings. Unless a person was exceptionally alert, I was almost invisible. A hooded garment needed to get out of the building completed my ensemble. At no time did I allow myself to dwell on the fact that I may have already lost my one true love. 

Since our condominium was already in downtown Dallas, I needed but a few minutes to reach our agreed rendezvous point. When the time came, I checked the hall for other residents and slipped into the stair well. As fortune would have it, I was able to reach the garage level without incident. I entered my gray CTS sedan, backed out of my parking slot, and made my way to the streets. We lived on a few blocks from my destination, so I wheeled onto Main Street and headed south. As good as his word, Richard waited on the corner of Ervay. I slowed and opened my passenger side window. When I slowed to a stop, Richard tossed a bag into the car, and I sped away.

Soon, I merged onto US 75 north and headed for Richardson. Dusk was barely falling, so I had plenty of time to check out my equipment. Richardson had wisely included a city map, so I found the street in question and made my way to the neighborhood. I drove down the street once, and then I retreated to a strip mall where I waited in a secluded area.

It took all of the patience I had to wait until the moment arrived when I would begin seeking the house with the green Camry. I had already located a place to leave my car, so I did so and made my way down the alley of an adjoining lane and finally into the alley of the target street.

My plan was not without risks. A middle class neighborhood such as this would use safety features to protect their property. I eased around the fence of the dwelling at the end of the street, and a movement sensitive lighting system turned on. I noticed that small windows graced the garage door, so I took a chance, dashed for the windows, pointed my flashlight into the interior of the garage, and noted that there was no green car. I quickly blended into the dark alley and the light soon went out.

The next house was not so easy. No windows were available, so I crouched near the door, drilled a small hole through the metal, and put the camera feed through the opening. The camera came equipped with a light, so I quickly checked this house off my list. 

I checked three more houses using the same technique, but the next one yielded the prize. A green car rested alongside another, equally innocuous, dark colored car. I passed around the perimeter of the house listening. I located the sound of voices in a front room and planned my entrance accordingly. I would enter through a window, locate Billy Ray if possible, then deal with what came next. First, I needed to bring Richard McMichael up to speed and have his tactical unit arrive after if finished my work. I made the call.

*****

The Brown Recluse had just removed an outer window screen when she heard the garage door opening. Her plan became obsolete. She raced around the house as the car was pulling out of the garage. She could see a driver and one person in the back seat.

She slammed her heel into the driver’s window and smashed it. Just as she was about to extinguish her prey, he produced a silenced handgun. She had no choice but to avoid the gun, but that gave Ping some time and he didn’t need much. While his driver kept the Brown Recluse momentarily occupied, Ping leaped from the car and ran back through the house. A bicycle stood ready for just such an emergency. Ping opened the front door and rode away. He quickly left the street and fled up an alley, down a side street, and into another non-descript house in the neighborhood. He unlocked the front door, drug the bicycle inside, and then he passed through the house to the garage. Ping entered another commonplace car and backed into the alley. He was beginning to feel more secure when to his dismay; the Brown Recluse crashed her elbow into the passenger side window and shattered it. However, Ping had his foot on the accelerator. The forward momentum of the car plus some shrubbery broke Jian-mei’s tenuous hold on the car, and she crashed onto the street. She leaped to her feet and gave chase, but the car had too much of a lead and Ping sped away. Mandarin expletives erupted from her mouth.

On her way back to the first house, Jian-mei speed dialed Richard McMichael. She described the general’s car and last known direction. Captain McMichael who put out an APB out on the car, but again, Ping’s planning expertise allowed him to slip through the net. He rented another car and drove fifteen hours to Denver. Maddened by the Calhouns, his only motivation was to destroy them, and the best place to start was with their son. 

Ping did nothing for several days, and then he drove to New Orleans, flew to New York, and soon resumed contact with Colonel Lee. Lee contacted the private detective agency he had charged with finding Cloud McFarland. The agency had performed admirably. McFarland was believed to be in a well-known village in the wine growing region of the Rhone Valley. Ping possessed the name of her benefactor in France, so it was just a matter of fine-tuning the details of the plan and executing it. This time, he would not rely on sub-ordinates.

*****

Jian-Mei charged back through the front door of Ping’s first house and began systematically searching the rooms. She flipped on the light in a small bedroom and her eyes fell on her husband. Billy Ray slumped on the stool with a forced bow in his back. He lifted his eyes and forced a bloody smile. Jian-mei pressed his battered face into her breasts and held him for a few moments. Then she assessed the chains removed a small file from her belt. After the first link was breached, Billy Ray was able to rise up enough to take some of the pressure and pain away. Within minutes, she had the remainder of the chains sawed through, and Billy Ray was free. She helped him to lie on the floor and even after she heard sirens from the approaching police, she call McMichael and requested an ambulance. She did not leave Billy Ray’s side for the next forty-eight hours.

*****

Sixty-five

“Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake.”

Savielly Grigorievitch Tartakower

Slick Bows Out

Richard McMichael sat beside Jian-mei in a waiting area at the Baylor Hospital in Garland. Three days had passed since Billy Ray’s abduction, and he was rapidly recuperating. Richard glanced at his large hands, then he turned his face toward his closest friend’s wife. “What is the prognosis?”

Jian-mei spoke with some degree of contentment, “The contusions on his face are healing nicely. There is a hairline fracture in his right cheekbone and left eye socket. Of course, there is nothing to be done for either other than giving him time to heal. His bodily bruises look worse than they are though they must have caused him considerable pain then Ping’s men were working him over. He has two broken ribs that will require time as well. My major problem is that he keeps wanting to have sex in the hospital room.”

Richard smiled. “Billy Ray’s gonads have always been a source of concern. Richard shifted on the sofa and continued, “Just as soon as he is ready to travel, I suggest that you both go to France and take care of business there. We cannot assume that the general will not find Marvin Ray. Meanwhile, the drug war is still in full bloom and will continue as long as Slick contests the territory. We would be better off with him out of the picture and the Mexicans back in business. Then we would only have one organization to combat. Slick has no real connection to the China white source, so his supply will run out eventually. Without you getting personally involved, do you have any ideas about how we can hurry this process?”

Jian-mei remained silent, went over to a water fountain and took a drink. She returned to her seat and said, “Give me a few days to think about it.”

Richard could see that he may have made an error in judgment. “Now Jian-mei, please don’t do anything drastic.  You have taken enough risks already. If something happened to you, I could never forgive myself to say nothing about Billy Ray.”

Jian-mei patted Richard’s hand. “You are not to worry. I just want to think the matter over, and then I will give you my thoughts.”

A worried look covered Richard’s face.  He knew that Jian-mei had just lied to him.

*****

Slick’s churning hips rose to a crescendo before he froze in the ecstasy of the moment. The small, black pole dancer beneath him squealed in bliss, her eyes closed, her mouth open. 

After the moment had passed, Slick lifted himself up and moved slowly to the large shower in his private  bath. He adjusted the water temperature to hot, but not too hot, and stepped in, yielding to the pleasure. When the flowing water lost its allure, he soaped himself thoroughly with the water turned off. Turning the shower back on, he removed the residue of the soap and his lovemaking with a washcloth. When his body was clean to his satisfaction, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower onto a large towel. After drying himself, he removed a pair of jockey shorts, short yellow pants, and a tan pullover shirt from the appropriate drawers and put them on. Finally, Slick observed himself in a full-length mirror, liked what he saw, and paced back into his large, well-lighted office area. 

His weaved leather shoes lay where he had kicked them off earlier. He had his left shoe on when he noticed the presence of an elderly black woman dressed in the neighborhood garb of cotton pants and matching pullover top straight off the rack at Wall Mart. The woman made no effort to speak, and Slick could see both of her hands. They contained no gun. Since she offered no immediate threat, he pulled his other shoe on, slowly drifted over to his desk and sat down. “What you want, Mama? You know Slick don’t put up with this shit.”

The voice that came out of the mouth of the tall woman, in no way resembled the rest of the package. Slick did not hear the local patois he expected. He heard musical English with distinctiveness he did not recognize. “We need to talk, Mr. Slick. I will only take a few minutes of your time, and I mean you no harm.”

Slick’s euphoric interlude quickly faded away, and anger took its place. “Lots of folks need to talk to me, and we have a special day set aside for that to happen. This is not that day. Now get your stupid ass out of my club before I put some major hurt on you.”

Slick rose from his chair and moved in the direction of the woman. She made no effort to comply with his wishes. By this time, his irritation had reached the level of rage, and he reached out to grab her by the arm. Having no idea what happened during the next instant, he found himself lying flat on his back with a sharp pain in his left wrist. When his vision cleared, he brought up the arm and saw the misshapen bone. Raising his eyes, he peered into the almond-shaped eyes of the woman who squatted close beside him.

“Yes, Mr. Slick, your arm is broken. Before you can call for help, I can break several more bones in your body, so I suggest that you try to relax and listen carefully to what I have to say. Can you do that?”

The pain in his arm increased. Slick knew that this woman could deliver on her threats, and wanted to live to fight another day. “I can do that,” he murmured.

The woman rose, moved away a few feet, and settled back on the carpeted floor. She spoke in a rich, feminine voice. “As you know, Mr. Slick, the drug war has become, more or less, a stalemate. You can’t sell drugs because the Cartel kills your pushers. They can’t sell drugs because the Chinese kills their pushers. People are dying, and nobody is selling drugs. Is this making sense?”

Slick moaned slightly and nodded his head to the affirmative. “You Chinese, ain’t you?”

Jian-mei answered that she was.

“The Chinese are my business partners. Why have they sent you here?”

Jian-mei rose, moved to Slick’s massive desk, and helped herself to a glass of water. “I am not here representing the Chinese. To the contrary, when I find the Chinese leadership, I will kill them all. If I represent anyone other than myself, it is the police.”

“Are you going to bust me?”

“No, but I am going to put you out of business, at least the drug business.” Jian-mei replaced the water glass and stood in the middle of the room. “I will give you one opportunity. It begins when I walk out of this room. The police would prefer that the Asian drugs stop. They can’t do much about the Cartel, but they can stop the Chinese. With no outlet, they will move on. All you have to do is go back to the business you had before the Chinese came.”

Slick managed to lift himself to a sitting position. “What if I tell you to get laid?”

Jian-mei smiled coldly. “Then I will have to visit you again. You will never see me come and will never see me go. Is that what you want?”

Slick’s bravado overcame his pain, and he said, “I can have ten men in here in seconds. There is no way you can survive. How about you leave, and we will forget this ever happened.”

Once more, Jian-mei smiled. “I thought we had already had this conversation. You are correct in that I might not survive, but the odds are good that I would. You, for certain, would not survive. If you like the odds go for it.”

Slick stared at Jian-mei for several seconds, dropped his head, and murmured, “Back like it was?”

“You got it. You blow off the Chinese and its business as usual. So what do I tell the cops?”

Slick looked up and rumbled, “You tell them that Slick is out of the drug business. This shit is way too complicated anyway.”

Jian-mei said, “Our business is concluded. Check your watch. I will leave from the back door, and I need five minutes, not a second less. You might want to check on your two guards from the back. They are both in the small room off the hall.” Jian-mei moved to the back exit, stopped, and said, “Nice doing business with you, Mr. Slick.”

It never occurred to Slick to interfere with the woman’s exit. He sat quietly for ten full minutes, called Red, and told him to arrange for him to get his arm splinted at Methodist Hospital. Red was in a state of shock and fully expected Slick to fly into a rage, but he did nothing of the sort. Slick spoke quietly, “Call that Chinese Dude and tell him we are done with the drug business. Pull our people off the streets. Our other businesses are cool. You listening, Red?”

“I’m listening Slick.”

*****

Sixty-six

“In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our       friends.”

Martin Luther King Jr.

Showdown

I rang Lee Pan-kie and ordered him to my room.  Soon, a light knock sounded on my hotel room door.  I opened the door to a middle-aged, Chinese man, dressed casually.  After I closed the door, he saluted and I responded. 

I spoke in a low tone, “Please be seated Colonel Lee.”  He did so, but sat with his back straight in a military manner.  Colonel Lee and I have shared the vicissitudes of our lives for decades.  He first came to my attention when I commanded the Northwestern Army of the People’s Liberation Army of China.  He achieved a record high score on his Captains exam, and it occurred to me that he could be of use.  I carefully managed his career, used him for special assignments until he gained my trust, and then I charged him with my most sensitive assignments.  Colonel Lee never failed to do his best, and his preeminent was very good.

“Please give me a report.”

Colonel Lee retrieved some notes from his jacket pocket, glanced at them, and began his extemporaneous statement.  “Sir, I must appeal to you to allow me to complete this operation for you.  Your value is too great to lose your life in a project that I can perform for you.”

I peered sternly into Lee’s eyes.  “We have had this conversation, Colonel.  It is not that I don’t trust you to execute the task.  On the contrary, you have proven your abilities countless times over the years.  I choose to do this mission personally, because I need the satisfaction of destroying the people who have given me so much pain.  They took away our fortune and our future in Monte Carlo, and now they are doing it again.  I cannot tolerate them any longer.  I desire to watch them die.  I long to watch them suffer.  I must do this myself.

“I want you to stay in Paris until the mission is completed or I have failed.  Should the latter happen, I expect you to return to Dallas, gather my people, and retire to California.  Yang Gu-jun will assume leadership of the group, and I expect you to serve him as you have me.  Are we clear, Colonel?”

I never expected to see tears in the eyes of Lee Pan-kie, but I saw them then.  “Yes General,” you are clear.”  He appeared confused for a moment, and then he completed his operational report. “I made arrangement for a car and driver to deliver you to within a kilometer of the vineyard. You will have a cell phone to contact me should you find the need or call the driver after your mission is complete. He will remain within a few minutes of the pickup point, so you will be able to leave rapidly.” Lee opened a valise and removed a silenced Walther PPK and a slim, switchblade knife.   “Here are the weapons you requested.” Lee pulled a wallet from the valise and placed it on the table.  “This contains 1000 Euro dollars as you ordered. Is there anything else?”

“There is nothing further, Colonel Lee. You should not concern yourself. Recall that I am a warrior. I will complete this mission and return before the week is out. Have the driver meet me out front at 1400 hours. You are dismissed, Colonel.” 

Colonel Lee saluted and walked out the door. 

*****

I slept in the car until the driver wakened me twenty minutes from our destination.  I changed into my camouflaged suit, performed a final weapons check, and reviewed the maps. My watch read twenty-one hundred hours, forty-six minutes. With a minimum of stops, we had traveled the approximately six hundred kilometers in just under twelve hours. 

The target vineyard lay northwest of Chateuneuf du Pape. Side roads allowed us to approach within a kilometer of the property. At that point, I slipped silently into the rows, reconnoitered the area, and went down for the night behind a storage shed several hundred meters from the main house. I was grateful that no dogs appeared to be in the area, but it would have mattered little. I prepared for any eventuality.

Early the next morning, the inhabitants began to stir. A stocky man casually opened one of the sheds near the house and began to remove tools for the days work.  A woman came out in animated conversation with the man. She finally approached the man, hugged him, and they retired to the dwelling. Enjoy your breakfast, I thought.  It will likely be your last. 

After almost an hour, a tall, redheaded woman came out of the house carrying an infant.  She would be Cloud McFarland. The child would be my target. After this mission, I would be done with the Calhoun family for at least a year.  I would have the satisfaction that they both must live the rest of their abbreviated lives with the knowledge that I had killed their child. Soon, McFarland and the child returned to the interior of the rambling house. 

If matters progressed smoothly, I could dispatch the child and adults in a timely manner, call my driver on my cell phone, depart the area, and return to Paris.  The man and woman came out once again, gathered up their tools, and strolled away down the rows.  If they continued their initial path, I could approach the house with little hindrance.

Carrying the tools of my trade in a backpack, I made my way down a long row, well hidden from prying eyes.  Finally, I reached a large out-building, slipped inside, and considered its value to my plan.  Had events demanded, I could have spent a night or two there, but I could see no reason not to initiate the mission immediately.  Unless I had completely miscalculated, only McFarland and the child would be in the dwelling.  The other two were so far away, noise would not be a particularly important problem.  My only concern was whether I could safely leave the area without dispatching the man and woman.  I suspected not.

I considered the layout of the house and decided that entering through the kitchen would be best.  I suspected that it was unlocked, and I soon found that to be the case.  I moved silently inside and waited in silence.  I heard sounds coming from the back of the quarters.  They sounded like McFarland and the child.  I glided slowly toward the hallway, my silenced weapon at the ready.  Surprising, McFarland emerged from a room and started up the hall toward me.  When my presence registered, she paused in a state of shock.  I fired at her torso, leaped toward her, and struck her with the butt of my weapon.  She slumped to the floor.  I heard sounds emanating from the child. 

I swiftly wheeled into the room only to find myself gazing into the stone-cold eyes of the Brown Recluse and a large, blond-haired man.  The child lay on a bed in the large room.  Good, I thought.  I can increase the level of my satisfaction.

*****

I suppose it was his age, but I knew immediately that the man facing me was the General.  How incredibility stupid, I thought.  He also believes that because he has a gun in his hand, he has control of the situation.

The General was unaccustomed to the speed of hand-to-hand combat.  After he controlled the shock of seeing me, he began moving the silenced handgun in my direction, but the edge of my foot was already on the way.  It struck his gun hand, and the weapon went flying.  He stared at his broken hand, reality dawned, and the essence of fear crept into his eyes.  I intended to take his life, and he knew this.

I felt Billy Ray’s hand on my arm.  “Wait,” he murmured.

“What do you mean wait,” I cried.

Billy Ray tugged on my arm, moving me out of the way.  “He belongs to me.”

Then I saw behavior from Billy Ray that surprised me. I had never witnessed anything from him other than kindness and love.  He smashed a straight right fist into Ping’s face.  The General’s feet cleared the floor as he crashed to the floor. Billy Ray then proceeded to employ a large percentage of the blows from his feet and hands that I had taught him over the past year. Ping screamed for a short time, but the trauma and broken bones began to overcome his body’s capacity to survive. Eventually, he was silent. In his rage, Billy Ray did not notice.

Marvin Ray lay on the bed suffering a fit of laughter. The more Billy Ray lashed out at Ping, the more Marvin laughed. That and my vocal efforts gradually broke through and Billy Ray appeared to emerge from his emotional state.  He proclaimed, “Where is Cloud?”

He looked into the hall and saw her. She did not move, and blood soaked her waist.  When Billy Ray straightened her, she moaned. “Get Maryanne. We need an ambulance. Now!”

I raced outside, spied Maryanne and Victor, and sprinted toward them. Maryanne looked up from her work, dropped her pruning shears, and ran to meet me. “The General came to kill Marvin Ray. He shot Cloud. We need a surgeon.”

Maryanne grew up on a neighboring vineyard. She knew most of the residents of the village and most knew her. She dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and began giving directions to the ambulance service. Within ten minutes, Cloud was on her way to the local hospital.  Billy Ray was in the ambulance as well.

A love existed between Billy Ray and Cloud that I did not completely understand, nor did it make me uncomfortable.  Cloud was important in my life as well.  She was family. 

My job was to take care of Marvin Ray.  Maryanne and Victor took over the care of the General.  They quickly removed him from the room before the ambulance arrived, and placed him in another area.  After the ambulance left, Victor took a backhoe from the barn, dug a deep hole near the back of the property, and there he placed the general in his final resting place.  During the process, Victor transplanted a small tree onto the spot. 

After we managed the immediate concerns, we drove to the hospital.  Billy Ray met us in the lobby, his eyes red with tears.  I took him in my arms and waited for him to describe the situation.

“She will live, but her condition is critical due to the loss of blood.  The surgeon repaired the path of the bullet, but he could not repair where it ended.  It crushed her spine.  She will be a paraplegic.”

It seems so unnecessary, I thought.  Why did she have to pick that time to get a cup of coffee?  “We will take care of Cloud.  When she is able to travel, we will take her to the River.  That log house is the best hospital of all.”

Maryanne hugged Billy Ray.  Victor stood and watched the rest of us.  He commented, “We must get the boys now that the danger is past.”

“Victor, we will never be able to repay you and Maryanne,” I remarked.

Maryanne proclaimed, “We must keep you alive.  You are the only rich Americans we know to visit in the USA.”

*****

Lee Pan-kie chose his words carefully.  “Yang Gu-jun, the general insisted on carrying out the mission against the Calhouns personally.  After not hearing from him for two days, I contacted the driver, who was waiting to extricate him from the South of France. He had heard nothing. I told him to wait two more days, which he did.  We still heard nothing from the general.  I fear that he is lost.”

Yang sat silently for several minutes.  “There are contingency plans for such a situation.  General Ping is irreplaceable.  We will continue as planned.  Even though Zhao is in custody, they have no proof of wrongdoing.  The authorities must release him.  You will continue to work with Slick Brock as usual.  I will need to go underground for the time being, but I will continue to control the purse strings and manage the flow of product.”

Lee remained at attention.  “I understand completely, Yang Gu-jun.  I will serve you and Zhao Ming-juan with the same loyalty as I did General Ping.”  He bowed and left the room.     

Sixty-seven

“There are no facts, only interpretations.”

Friedrich Niezsche

The Healing House

Maryanne Passeron Grindou drifted between sleep and listening to the drizzling rain as it splashed on the roof of the large log house. Her husband, Victor, made the nest warmer, as he hugged his pillow to his face.  She lay for a few moments watching him sleep. She noticed the thick salt and pepper hair, the oversized nose, the weathered skin where well-earned lines deepened.  Maryanne had adored Victor for a long time, and her affection for her mate grew stronger as the years passed. 

Having come wide-awake, Maryanne carefully rose from the bed, found shorts and a top, and dressed. She heard a commotion from outside the house, so she sauntered out to the covered porch. Her step-son, Victor III, chased his brother, Pierre, across the wide lawn and into the surrounding forest. They were both soaking wet and oblivious to the rain. 

Maryanne yelled at the retreating figures, “Sortez de la Pluie, S’il vous plait.” She knew they would ignore her, and she laughed at their antics. They were both in their early teens, and were good boys, wonderful boys. They worked hard on the family vineyard in the Rhone Valley of Southern France and deserved to blow off steam on their visit to northeast Texas. They had not previously experienced forests such as these on the Sulphur River or wildlife in such abundance. 

Maryanne had never attempted to replace their mother in any way, but as the years passed, her relationships with her stepsons grew toward her assuming that role. She treated the boys with respect and love, and they reciprocated with a profusion of the same.

She withdrew from reality and enjoyed the moment only to sense the presence of someone else.  Jian-mei appeared at her side with a cup of steaming coffee in each hand.  The tall Chinese woman handed a cup to Maryanne and said, “Good morning.  Did you sleep well?”

Maryanne took the welcome drink and sipped.  “I seem to sleep here better than anywhere else in the world.  The insect sounds and occasional coyote howl seems to act as a sedative.  Victor is still snoozing away.”

Jian-mei gazed out into the rain.  “I see the boys are out chasing deer again.  They are such amazing boys, and so handsome.”

Maryanne smiled and said, “How could they not be with that father of theirs, and to add to the mix, their mother was a beautiful woman.  She was a good woman, even though she spent many years as the wife of my man.”

“Matters have a way of working out.  Who would have thought I could ever love any man, much less a round-eye like Billy Ray,” Jian-mei mused. 

The boys strolled out of the woods, finally succumbing to the chill.  They both waved at the women on the porch and broke into a lope.  Victor and then Pierre declared, “Bonjour, Maman,” and kissed Maryanne on the cheek as they passed into the house.  “Bonjour, Jian-mei.”

  “I am so lucky,” murmured the Frenchwoman, as an unexpected tear rolled down her cheek. 

“I feel the same way, almost constantly.” Jian-mei placed her arm around Maryanne and gave her a brief hug.  “This was a pleasant interlude.  We will miss having you and your family around.  Billy Ray will not run in the woods with me, as do the boys.”

“There is forever work to do on the vineyard.  School will begin before we know it.  Without our neighbors, we could not have spared the time, but it is so wonderful here that any sacrifice is worth it.”

Jian-mei sipped her coffee once more and poured out the remains.  “Please keep in mind that even if you can’t find the time to vacation here, we will continue to visit your place.”

“Understood,” laughed Maryanne. 

A commotion broke out within the house.  Squealing with excitement, Marvin Ray crawled out of his bedroom and made rapid progress down the hall.  Cloud McFarland, in her sleeping clothes and mounted on her manual wheelchair, followed close behind, yelling at the baby at the top of her voice.  Sleep for the occupants of the Sulphur River retreat disappeared in an instant.

Curiosity forced Maryanne and Jian-mei to investigate the uproar.  They found Cloud on the floor, reaching under a bed containing a sleepy and puzzled Billy Ray, attempting to grasp the laughing Marvin.  She yelled in triumph, “I’ve got you.  You will never escape.  Come out of there.”

Cloud carefully dragged young Marvin out from under the bed, took him in her arms, and hugged him with all the love she could generate.  Then, Marvin hung on to her neck as she pulled herself back into the wheelchair, made her way to the kitchen, and began preparing breakfast.  No one questioned the relationship between the two.  It was what it was.  When Cloud was in residence, they were a pair.  She assumed the role of the mother, just as she had when the baby was first born and Jian-mei was not capable of the task.  Marvin Ray readily took on the role as the son.  He adored his parents, but Cloud was Cloud. That sharing alone was principally responsible for Cloud dealing with the fact of her paralysis. She refused to allow her infirmity to interfere with her life with Marvin Ray, and he declined to allow it to happen. She spent as least four months of the year with the Calhoun family and her presence was highly valued.

Soon, all members of the household gathered at the large polished table. Cloud allowed Jian-mei to pour coffee, prepare the jellies and jams, and set the table, but after moving to her custom power chair with the elevating seat, she prepared the bacon, eggs, and biscuits and served them hot. After taking her place, and with Marvin Ray snuggled in her lap, she instigated the ritual that launched their meals. Each person grasped the hand of the one next to them, closed their eyes, and allowed their thoughts to go where they would. Marvin’s always went to the food.

*****

…”Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

William Shakespeare