Mahanani drove. It was a short trip to the border, then through Mexican customs with hardly a slowdown, and into the border city of almost a million people, all scratching to survive. He turned into the right street and saw the garage with the same door open. He’d used it before. Something didn’t feel right this time, but he couldn’t figure out what. He drove into the garage, walked out the back door, and came around the end of the alley to the street and then to a cantina he’d noticed on the last run. The Tecate beer wasn’t bad if it was cold enough. It was.
He spent the next four hours over two beers, then some burritos at a good restaurant. He hoped that they didn’t make him sick this time. Then he walked around the tourist-trap areas, turning down fantastic offers of fake Rolex watches and good-looking diamonds. When he went back to the garage through the back door, the one Mexican who could speak any English shook his head.
“Not ready,” he said.
Mahanani had not seen where they hid the drugs in the car. He didn’t want to know. But now he watched as two men fastened the rear seat back in place in the Chevy. Did they hide the drugs in the seat itself, or a compartment under the floor? He had no idea, and he still didn’t want to know. Just knowing it was somewhere in the car was enough.
Chino. He shivered every time he thought of that state prison up by Los Angeles. Maybe he should dump the car this side of the border and walk across? Sure, and get sliced up by the Hammer while two of the big guys were holding him down. They would think he had ripped them off for the five hundred thousand dollars worth of coke. Not a chance he would try that.
“Okay,” the Mexican lead man said, and handed Mahanani the keys. The engine started on the first try, and somebody pushed the garage door up. Mahanani drove out of the garage, turned left, and headed for the border.
There was an hour wait to get across. Not unusual. He wished he had a book to read. It would make the time go faster. He inched ahead in line and chose inspection gate ten as his lucky number for the night. It was fully dark by then. Maybe they would be tired, or sleepy, or their drug-sniffing dog might be off his feed.
At last he came up to the inspector, who asked him where he was born.
“Hilo, Hawaii,” Mahanani said.
“Yeah? Hey, I’ve always wanted to get over there. Maybe next year. You have anything to declare?”
“Not a thing. Just a little cantina hopping.”
The inspector nodded. His phone rang and he picked it up. He listened for a moment and said something. When he looked back at Mahanani, he frowned.
“Sorry to bother you, but your car has been selected for a random inspection at the secondary lane. Would you pull over there, please? Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”
“Randomly selected?” Mahanani’s voice was strange, his blood had thinned out to nothing, and his heart hammered in his chest. Maybe he should cut and run? Ram through the barrier and slam down the freeway at 130 miles an hour. Maybe…
“Shouldn’t take more than five minutes, sir. Now if you would please drive over to the secondary inspection lane. We’re a little stacked up tonight.”
Mahanani nodded and touched the gas. He steered into a lane where a man motioned to him, and stopped when a second inspector signaled.
“Sir, would you step out of the car?”
Mahanani got out feeling pure terror grip him. Nothing in the SEALs had ever been so frightening. He wasn’t sure that his legs would hold him up. To his surprise they did. He was busted. Shit, there was not a fucking thing he could do about it. He stood beside the hood and waited. A handler came up with a dog that sniffed around the sides of the car, then stopped at the back and barked twice.
“Could I have your car keys?” the inspector asked. Mahanani reached inside and took out the ignition key. He noticed there were five keys on the ring like most key rings had. The inspector thanked him and opened the trunk. The dog jumped in and sniffed around, then jumped out and continued on around the car.
“Sorry about that, sir. Queenie thought she smelled something in your trunk. Nothing there.”
Mahanani felt like he was going to wet his pants. He took the keys and held them, not sure he could get back in the car and find the ignition. The dog made another circle of the Chevy. Then he and the handler moved to the car behind them. A second inspector had been in the backseat, crawling around, checking under the carpet flaps, and behind the seat and under the cushions. At last he slid out of the car and closed the door.
“You’re all set, sir. Just a routine random stop. Sorry for your inconvenience.”
Mahanani stepped into the Chevy, fumbled to get the ignition key in the slot, and started the car. An inspector waved him out into the traffic lane, and he accelerated gradually.
He couldn’t believe it. He was out and home free. They had checked the car, the dog had done his thing, and they hadn’t discovered the drugs. How had the Mexicans done it? He was going to watch them tear this car down and dig out the drugs. He had to know where it was and how they hid it. Most of all, he wanted to know how they had fooled the usually reliable nose of the drug-sniffing dog.
The trip into San Ysidro lasted ten minutes, even in the traffic, and when he pulled up to the garage there, the door was open. He drove in and saw the door drop behind him.
Harley leaned against the Coke machine working on a reefer. He was high already.
“Well, I see our man made it across. No problem?”
“Secondary inspection, the dog and everything. How did it get through?”
Harley chuckled, took a long drag on the reefer, and held the smoke in his lungs until he nearly passed out. Then he exhaled it and grinned.
“Oh, damn, what a good hit. How did you get through? Because this Chevy was clean as a bishop’s daughter. There were no drugs in it. You ran a decoy. Yeah, you still get paid. Our contact at the border told us they were checking six-year-old Chevies tonight. Almost every one that comes through gets the secondary inspection. So we sent them a virgin.”
Harley laughed. “Hey, Mahanani, you still look a little green around the gills there, boy. You have a real scare down in that secondary lane, I bet. How come you didn’t try to make a run for it? We had a driver try that. Turned out he had a piece with him and shot at the guards, and they blew him away before he got twenty feet down the lane.”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was a dry run. I almost shit my pants down there when that damn dog came up. Then he barked and I knew I was down and out.”
“Didn’t tell you because it takes all the fun out of it. Hey, it cost me four hundred bucks. I’m entitled to a little fun for that kind of money. Now take your damn Buick and get out of here. If you’re still in town in three days, give me a call at the number I gave you before. We should have another load for you, a real one. Now take off.”
“Or you’re gonna have me beat up again?”
“If I think it might help, damn right. Get out of here. And no gambling. Your water has been shut off.”
Mahanani kicked the tire of the Chevy and swore under his breath as he walked out to his faithful Buick. He jumped in and spun gravel and dirt from the rear tires as he slammed out of the small lot to the street and headed for the freeway on-ramp.
“Damn them. Goddamn their fucking eyes. I’ve got to get them good. Now how in hell do I do that?”
He stopped talking out loud, mindful that there could be a bug in his car. They just might do that. His thoughts raced from one diabolical plan to the next as he drove carefully on his way home. He didn’t need a car crash.
Could he do something that would work, that would get him out of his debt, and let him stay in SEALs? Also, he didn’t want the drug ring hit men to come after him with Ingrams spitting lead. What he had figured out before still seemed the best. Tip off the DEA about the operation, and let them know both locations, and then have them be there when he brought in a load. At the same time they would have to take down Harley and Martillo out at the Casa Grande Casino east of town. It could be done. The DEA had the troops. Then they would find out if the casino knew anything about the drug mule train. He bet none of the operators or management there knew of this side game that Martillo had. Now, how to contact the DEA?