Trey was thrilled when he looked in the paper bag and saw the latest compensation in the undercover operation. “Two keys is a big score. Congratulations.”
Jake briefed both agents as to how it went down in Yeong’s office and then looked at Brian. “With Tommy’s prior drug conviction, it’s a double-up. He’s looking at a twenty-year minimum mandatory sentence just for making the introduction. Yeong’s looking at a dime.”
Trey handed the bag back to Jake, who grabbed an ink pen from inside his Range Rover and began initialing and dating both packages of meth and the paper bag.
As Brian was observing the ritual, Jake said, “Chain of custody… Allows me to tell the twelve upstanding citizens who decided not to avoid jury duty that these are the kilos of ice I just obtained from Yeong and Tommy.”
Brian nodded.
“Any idea who his butt boys were in the restaurant?” asked Trey.
Jake shook his head. “Not yet. He didn’t introduce any of them or call them by name. I’m not even sure they spoke English. I just know when Yeong raised his voice they jumped and got ready to pull on me.” Jake took a long draw of his Dr Pepper, then added, “I almost feel sorry for Tommy. He’s such a dupe. I can’t believe he took me to Yeong. Tommy’s looking at the big two-o and he never even touched the product.”
“Mandatory ten and twenty years,” said Trey with a broad grin. “I love those federal sentencing guidelines. Makes all the paperwork worthwhile.”
Jake feigned offense. “Paperwork? How about the possibility I could have caught bubonic plague just walking through the restaurant? That place is a C for crying out loud. Is that what you mean by ‘worthwhile’?” Then, failing to get a rise out of Trey, Jake paused, took another sip, and added, “By the way, Yeong wants an exclusive on my border-crossing contacts. It’s all on the microchip. You will note Yeong is willing to pay me a lot more for my services than the Bureau.”
Trey refused to bite at Jake’s provocative banter in the presence of a new agent. “That’s a huge step. How do you want to handle it?”
Jake shrugged. “I downplayed it and told him I’d have to think about it. If I were really a crook it makes sense. I’d want to limit my exposure. But Reid and this contract killing may cut everything short. We may not have much of a window in which to operate and I really want to move on to Park. When you get to the office, download the audio, weigh the stuff in this paper bag, do a field test on the contents, and let me know the results. Yeong claims it’s the highest-quality meth Asia produces, so I assume it will test positive. But let me know, especially the weight. I’ll call Tommy tonight and tell him how pleased I am with the product, and assuming the weight is good, I’ll say I want to meet with Yeong right away to discuss this new business relationship. It will at least get us one more recorded meeting and maybe give you a chance to identify his spear-carriers.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was a little past nine when Jake made it home. The wood-frame structure was old and lonely, tucked away in the Malibu hills five miles from the ocean. Two bedrooms and a bath gave him just enough room to house what few belongings he had. He didn’t mind the solitude; in fact, he preferred it.
He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, turned on the TV, and quickly scrolled through the cable news shows in an effort to catch up on what was happening in the rest of the world. On every broadcast, the hot news was all about how a new nuclear nonproliferation agreement with Iran would guarantee “peace for our time.”
Jake noted FOX News Channel was the only place where reporters and commentators questioned the wisdom of the UN-sponsored international agreement. Both Megyn Kelly and Sean Hannity pointed out that the nuclear weapons deal with the ayatollahs in Tehran was remarkably similar to the 1938 Munich appeasement deal with Adolf Hitler.
As he prepared for a few hours of sleep, Jake picked up Katie’s Bible from the table beside the bed. It was still opened to a verse in Job: “Man’s days are determined. You have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed.”
Katie always said Jake lived like he believed those words; taking risks as if God ordained his bravery, knowing no matter what he did, his final day was part of God’s plan. But there were times when he wondered whether he was taking reckless chances or actually living under the watchful eye of God.
There was no doubt in Jake’s mind the verse brought Katie comfort, knowing her life and Jake’s were in God’s hands. A set of his best friend’s dog tags served as a bookmark for the opened page; a thin layer of dust on both…
Jake stared at the words he’d read so many times and said to himself, I believe in You, Lord, but why do You let terrible things happen to those who love You and those I love?
While brushing his teeth, Jake’s undercover cell phone rang. He activated the internal recording device and answered.
“Yeah.”
“Jake?” said the voice.
“Maybe. Who’s this?”
“It’s Daniel Reid. We met earlier today.” He said it as if Jake must have so many contract killings lined up he wouldn’t remember the morning meeting at the pier.
While rinsing his toothbrush, Jake said, “So, did you change your mind?” Always give the target a chance to back out. They seldom do, but it precludes a successful entrapment argument at trial.
“No. I just need to meet you earlier,” said Reid.
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes, of course. Can we meet at noon instead of three?”
“Sure. Is there a problem?”
“No. I just found out I have a court appearance downtown at one thirty and there’s no way I can make it to Santa Monica by three.”
“I’ll see you at noon, same place as this morning. Bring the money and all the four-one-one.”
“I’ll be there with everything you need.”
“Perfect,” said Jake with a double meaning… a counterfeit contract killing and an all-but-certain criminal conviction for solicitation to commit murder.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The music was loud, almost deafening. It was enough to make an audiologist cringe, but then again loud enough to make him rich when these same young people sought hearing devices in a few years.
In the 1990s the rave parties were reserved for abandoned warehouses with word-of-mouth advertising, makeshift lighting, and boom boxes. The police fought hard to shut them down for a variety of reasons, mainly the guaranteed drug usage. Overdoses were as common as heartburn after eating at a skid-row restaurant advertising “Mom’s Home Cooking.” Now the parties were mainstreamed, with professional promoters using social media to draw more than ninety thousand fans to venues such as the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.
Sophisticated sound systems, laser light shows, and fog machines were the norm, with some clubs featuring top-name entertainers. The day of the week didn’t matter. Weekends or weekdays saw crowds lining the streets to get in. The drugs were still common: ecstasy, crystal meth, K-water. All that and more, easy to obtain with just a nod, a smile, and the exchange of a few “Jacksons.” Oddly enough, the petit dealers at these events preferred twenties to hundred-dollar bills. Even street thugs, pimps, and hookers know “Benjamins” are the most common counterfeits.
Jenny, H. Daniel Reid’s pregnant paramour, loved the party scene. She was a regular at big-name clubs in and around downtown Los Angeles. Tonight she was at her favorite nightspot, planning to waste just a little more of her life. The atmosphere and the drugs were intoxicating, a welcome relief from the self-loathing she felt — and the tears she occasionally shed.