Due Process

by Lyle O'Connor

  Donnie met with the girl, who told him she had been kidnapped along with others in the Czech Republic and they were prostituting to pay off their captures. In a not-so-proud moment in his life he filled the obligation his producers had put him in and broke contract with them. After realizing they were directly involved with these criminals, he systematically set out to assassinate his producers and directors.

  Through a contact he was introduced to Max a dozen years ago and had worked in Sweden, Finland, Czech Republic, Bosnia, and a half dozen other European countries. His primary targets were gangs operating in kidnapping schemes and child porn rings.

  Max called on me next. Reflecting on what the others had said, I wondered what I could bring to the table. We were all different with different stories, but with the same objective. I was silent for several seconds as I looked around the table, gazing, in turn, deep into the eyes of these men before speaking.

  “I don’t know the exact time I came to the realization society betrays us with false hopes and the conviction that superheroes are coming to the rescue of the weak, the young, the elderly and the innocent. There are no superheroes. No one is coming to their aid. It is incumbent upon us. From the religious faithful, to the Hollywood scammers, evil is portrayed as manifestations of demonic ghostly figures, night-stocking vampires and flesh-eating zombies. In reality, evil lurks in our neighborhoods, workplaces, and even in our own family members—left to natural progression, only morals stand between good and evil. The embodiment of evil is in all of humankind. When sadistic crimes are perpetrated on the innocent and vulnerable, by cruel and inhuman individuals or organized criminals, no sense of justice prevails. Mankind cheers in the fairy tales as the demons are cast out and vampires eradicated with a stake. Yet, when faced with the opportunity to destroy real evil, they lament and coddle the sexual predator with light punishment and attempts to understand and explain their aberrant behavior. Judicial liberals can join the psychobabblers in the netherworld as far as I’m concerned. It is nothing more than a Band-Aid over a terminal cancer. Cast out the demon, drive the stake, but shoot the bullet at the real evil. I have joined you, the Palatini, for one reason only. I will seek out those worthy of death and ensure it is administered properly and timely. I am not new to killing. Adjustments to our system of punishment were in order; I’ve made long-overdue modifications. As I applied these revisions, I caught the attention of Archangel; she brought me to Maximillian. I became convinced I could better serve as a member of the Society Palatini than as a lone crusader; so here I am.”

  The men were quiet. Max was first to speak. He began by passing out directions for each of us to review. It was the basics of any operation. In the military we had what was referred to as situation reports. The documents were an overview of what had been discovered and confirmed. In this case, each of us could choose to participate or not.

  The mission was a multipronged operation. If successful we would disrupt a child-porn production and distribution ring—an organization kidnapping and forcing poverty-stricken children into despicable acts against their will. Max would control central communications, logistics, and finances. Bludd, point man for the Op, has been on location in Port of Rio Grande, Brazil, for more than a year. He had located the group producing the child porn and relayed the message to Max. He had the names of producers and a local distributor for an overseas market. Max asked Rusty to work with Bludd. In Max’s view, due to Gunn’s previous circumstances with police, he would be better off out of country. Additionally the strike would require simultaneous hits on the two known entities in Brazil. While Bluud took down the producers, Rusty was the chosen asset for the distributor. Bludd acknowledged his appreciation, “Welcome aboard, mate, we’ll be staying on my boat The Hazard docked at the Porto Novo wharf’.”

  Next on the distribution trail were importers. Max provided Donnie with information needed to research and locate the source of circulation in the United Kingdom. He was provided a short list of potential names. Donnie was headed to Switzerland; one of several known destinations of the Brazilian DVDs.

  Max saved me for last. For a brief moment I thought and hoped to assist Donnie. He was a seasoned veteran of Palatini field work, an area I lacked. I could pull a trigger and not blink an eye, but an organized strike was beyond my current comprehension. My greatest fear was sitting in a cloistered little room waiting to be called into service. In the military we used to call it, “in the rear with the gear.” As important as reinforcements could be to an operation it was not for me. I had an itch and I needed it scratched.

  Max handed me my directions. A quick scan assured me of action. I was likewise on the distribution trail, right here in my own backyard.

  “America is one of the largest importers of child pornography,” Max said.

  “This industry exists because of consumers. They are no less guilty than those kidnapping or committing the atrocities we see on the DVDs. They all share equally in the responsibility.” I had to agree. Bludd didn’t spend much time looking over the documents; he had assisted Max in their preparation. This was his operation; he and Rusty were point of the spear. If all else failed the Brazilian leg of the operation had to go off without a flaw.

  Max dismissed us, “Shall we retire for the evening and meet tomorrow after we’ve had a good look at the paperwork?” Each of us received info on a specific target. In the reference material it was apparent the common denominator was pornography. With the exception of those in Brazil, these were not people who normally associated with one another. Although my and Donnie’s operations were on different continents, a measure of coordination had to occur. The last thing we wanted was a disruption on the distribution legs without getting the source. The action was more than an interruption of the industry. This was intended to be an out-and-out extermination.

  My American target, Lou Cypher, was a second-generation millionaire a couple of times over. For his daddy’s business sake, after the old man died, Lou had sold his interest in the company to the board of directors. At forty-two-years-old and with no apparent ambition, he cruised about in the Gulf of Mexico on his 103-foot Broward motor yacht. Max included recent photos of both Cypher and his boat, Thai Tannic.

  The profile showed his vessel, when in port, was tied up in the Galveston Bay marina. It was also apparent that the likelihood of making a hit at the marina was slim at best. He was rarely there. Over the past year, Cypher had moored his boat as far south as Aruba, but more frequently was tracked from Cozumel north along the coastline to Galveston Bay. His current location along the barrier islands appeared to suit his needs. He lived alone on his yacht, employing a small crew only when he docked or traveled out of the Gulf area. His crew consisted of a pilot, mechanic, and dock hand who worked out of the Galveston marina.

  By all accounts, Cypher was heterosexual with a preference for petite Latina women. He appeared to be more of a recluse than socialite. There was no indication his interest in child pornography was anything other than for distribution. He was known to distribute Ecstasy in small quantities, probably from a Mexican source. Financial needs were not likely a motivating factor for Cypher. He was a risk taker for the thrill of it.

  The next morning at the Palatini meeting we rehearsed our options. It was a great feeling to once again enjoy the camaraderie I’d known in the military. We were instructed, once in place with our targets and a solution determined, to contact Max. As point of contact, he would initiate the “Go” order at the appropriate time. The dominos had to fall in order. Bludd had primary responsibility for first strike in the mission. If Donnie or I jumped the gun, word might trickle back to the source making Bludd and Rusty’s job more difficult. Unlike my earliest days of hunting prey on my own, this was taking on considerably complexity. The part that motivated me most was the finale, where I busted a cap on my target. It was always my favorite part.

  We continued our cohesion the remainder of the day, dwelling mostly on the mission options. It felt good to talk t
hrough the scenarios and listen to inputs. Before leaving, Max asked all of us to check in daily with updates. Back in my suite, I called Anna, “How are things in your neck of the woods?”

  “I’ve been busy. There is a lot of information, not privy to the general public, becoming available. I think it will interest you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Remember Brandon A. Ware, the retired MCSD Detective?”

  “Sure, of course, how could I forget?”

  “He is now a self-employed private investigator. My source was unusually direct with the impression Ware gave him. Ware had a score to settle. He was disgruntled over the FBI’s handling of one of his cases. He believes he holds the answer and intends to finish what he started.”

  “Okay, I hate to tell him he’s going to have to wait if it’s me he wants. I have other business of my own to take care of.”

  “Walter—I’m going to be incommunicado for a bit. I will be traveling to help out a source search through some material.”

  “Same for me, I’ll touch base with you when I can.”

  There was more I wanted to say or should have said, something deeper or more meaningful, but the timing wasn’t right—it never seemed to be right. I went to bed thinking about Anna and Ware. It was an odd combination of thoughts to sort through.

  Max provided a last known location on the Thai Tannic. He had filed a float plan for the waters of Corpus Christi about a week before. From Cypher’s profile, there was nothing unusual about him remaining adrift in an area for weeks at a time. When he moved to a new area, customarily, he filed float plans with the U.S. Coast Guard. Unusual was a recent case of his boat appearing off the northern coast of Aruba having failed to follow his normal pattern of filing.

  Max offered to assist with arrangements for my stay in Texas. I gave him my druthers for a rental vehicle and the Galveston area to stay in. He promptly provided both. Before saying goodbye, Max had the vehicle rental delivered to the hotel. The gray four-door Chevy Blazer was the type vehicle I had asked for. It wasn’t fancy, but it had air-conditioning. If you’re a northerner visiting the south, you appreciate the option.

  The Galveston waterfront hotel overlooked the marina where Thai Tannic berthed. In the event he headed for port I wanted to be close enough to capitalize on the opportunity. Otherwise, it was a four-hour drive south from Galveston to the general vicinity Cypher was believed to be in.

  Padre Island was long and touristy with more than one motor yacht in the waters. The open seas presented an entirely new challenge. Getting close to my target on his yacht without cover and concealment would be awkward. I am an ambush predator. I like to remain hidden until I strike.

  I made calls the first evening to locate a private charter vessel. Money was no object. I needed an inconspicuous boat that would not bring attention to my activities. I found such a craft in Port Lavaca. The twenty-one-foot 1970s model Bayliner was well maintained, unlike Captain Crusty, the salty old sailor piloting it. His name wasn’t really Crusty; I just called ‘em like I saw ‘em.

  At my initial meeting with Crusty, I quickly learned how to read him. What he thought of me was written all over his face. It was clear he found me a nerdy nitwit probably incapable of tying my own shoes and I was okay with it.

  “You say you want to do some sightseeing, mister?”

  “Yes sir, I’m a writer, here’s my card.” I presented him with one of my many bogus business cards. “I’d like to locate some really big yachts in the Gulf, take pictures, that sort of thing.”

  Crusty thought for a minute before answering, “Usually a few down along Matagorda and Padre Island. We’ll go on the Gulf side of the barrier islands and see what we can find. The bigger yachts cruise out there.”

  I leaned back in the quarter bench and let my hair blow in the wind. Padre Island is part of a long land mass referred to as the barrier islands along the coast of Texas and Mexico. We cast off at Port Lavaca and headed south for about an hour before coming up on a mega-yacht. We circled around it a couple times while I took pictures and scratched notes from Captain Crusty’s repertoire. We traveled south for another hour before we came upon another yacht. This vessel was anchored with a number of smaller crafts around it. With all the activity going on it was easy to slip in close. Crusty said she was over 150 foot in length with the name “Poor Boy” etched into the bow on both sides. After a few photos it was time to leave the party-goers to themselves. Crusty asked, “If you don’t mind I’d like a couple of those pictures?”

  “Do you like the yacht?”

  “I like the girls trying for a suntan without lines. Whoooaaahhh,” Crusty hooted, followed by a raucous laugh.

  We traveled farther south, and came across another yacht. As we pulled close to it, Crusty slowed the engines, saying, “Here’s a smaller one about hundred-footer.” As we slowed to a drift fifty yards away from the craft the name was easily identifiable, Thai Tannic. I pulled my camera out to take pictures as we slowly circled the boat.

  The decks were almost fully enclosed by windows except on the bridge level and a small section on the afterdeck. I took pictures and made notes before giving Crusty a nod to continue on our way south along the coastline. When we completed our tour for the day I made sure Crusty was able to transport me every other day in search of additional yachts, a primary feature in furthering my plans.

  Back in Galveston I reviewed the photo images taken with my digital camera. From my perspective, the most vulnerable area was the stern. Two decks were accessible from the entry point. The main level had a set of double ladders on either side of the stern from the swim deck to the afterdeck. The upper deck next to the bridge was a weather deck and would be accessed by ladders amidships. The craft appeared anchored about a mile from shoreline off Padre Island. The area had a lot of activity on the inter-coastal side, but considerably less on the Gulf side where Cypher moored. As my plans advanced I realized the need for a skiff to reach my target. I set out to find suitable sources.

  Locating armament for the operation was first on my agenda. Houston newspaper classified advertisement sections were full of guns for sale. No identification, ATF forms, or questions—just cold hard cash and walk. What more could you ask for.

  I located an accumulation of weapons for sale in the Gulf Gate area. I was suspicious of the ad, but decided it couldn’t hurt to look; in the end it turned out to be a private collection. I purchased from the assortment an older model 870 Remington pump action 12-gauge shotgun and a mint condition 9mm Model 17 Glock without any modifications. Sure, I paid top dollar but they were worth every penny. I followed up by purchasing buckshot and hallow points at a local retail store.

  Every other day for the past week and a half I’d had Crusty cruise the Padre Island coastline in search of yachts. By doing so, I was able to keep an eye on Cypher’s whereabouts. Soon Crusty and I would part company.

  I discussed my options with Max during the evening call. As I discussed my next move, he related the other Palatini were a “go.” Donnie was “eyes on” target, meaning he was ready to take out his assigned target anytime the word came down. Bludd indicated he and Rusty were twenty-four hours from takedown. Essentially it meant they needed a little time to coordinate their efforts on a local level. With one day’s notification they could set the domino effect into motion. Max concluded, “We are ready.”

  I knew he wasn’t including me in the picture. If Bludd determined he would lose the opportunity he would call it into action. Donnie would more than likely get his target and I would make it happen on my end—I was confident I could carry it out efficiently. I was ready; all I needed was the word to proceed. I would promptly dispatch my target and disappear. Except for blood trails on an abandoned yacht, it would be as though I never existed. As eager as I might be, I had to keep in mind Lou Cypher was a target of secondary importance.

  During my travels with Crusty I frequently spotted boats for sale in the marinas. I exercised diligence recording boat
types, prices, and phone numbers of all likely candidates for future use. There was never a doubt I would need to secure a vessel of my own and move Crusty out of the picture. Being an avid outdoorsman I had operated various small craft in lakes and rivers. I had a good idea of what I was looking for.

  Phone calls turned up a prospective purchase meeting my criteria. The seller of the fourteen-foot Zodiac was located on the outskirts of Port Aransas. This was an area north of Padre Island and not far from the Thai Tannic. On the phone the seller stated that his craft, boat trailer and a pair of older 25hp Johnson outboard motors went as a package. I had to be prepared for the what-ifs; two motors would minimize the possibilities of a single larger motor failing during the operation. It would be difficult to explain to the Coast Guard why I was drifting aimlessly near a murder scene. Two outboard motors were necessary.

  We set a time and location to meet. He chose the Port Aransas marina. I was waiting when he pulled in with the Zodiac in tow. We dickered over the price and eventually settled on the asking price. I outfitted the Blazer for towing and picked up a trolling motor. The electric MotorGuide unit was an inexpensive accessory to what I perceived would come in handy. Approaching the yacht in the dark of night with a 25hp motor running defeated the purpose of sneaking in under cover of night. I preferred the inaudible hum of a trolling motor for the final assault; if I kept the revs low there would not be any noise from the propeller cutting through the water. My approach would be silent. Like many of the other items on my list I doubled up on what I could. If one fully charged deep-cycle marine battery was good for trolling, two was a better idea. While I was thinking in pairs, I added two extra gas tanks to my list.