Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “So, for eight years you were on an adrenaline rush?”

  Manuel nodded. “It can be as addictive as sex or cocaine. I lived for the rush—I probably went out of my way to put myself in danger just for the high. I guess you could say I’m an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Are you feeling it now?”

  “Not yet.”

  Traynor settled back in the seat. “Let me know when it happens so I can be ready. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He grinned. “But stay on your toes—sometimes it hits quicker than lightning.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  When they reached the valley floor, Traynor got his first look at the hacienda’s security—and it was daunting. As the road leveled and they passed the farthest extremity of the wall, he saw a series of towers spaced at equal distances along the parapets. “Am I seeing correctly?” he asked.

  “Yeah, guard towers. In all probability equipped with machine guns.”

  “I believe that our friend Holy Toledo is more than a little paranoid.”

  “No comment needed there. Obviously this complicates things.”

  “Manuel, you have to be the king of understatement.”

  “I try. Either way, we got to adjust our strategy—and fast.”

  “I, for one, am open to any change in plans that won’t result in my death.”

  “What about mine?”

  “That’s your problem. I got enough to do keeping my own ass alive.” Traynor hoped Manuel knew he was joking. As in any combative situation, survival usually boiled down to the team that worked together the best. Manuel must have known he was kidding, though, because he was chuckling as he slowed before the heavy cast-iron gate that protected the compound’s entrance.

  There are two methods of mobile surveillance: foot and vehicle.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  26

  McMahon poured the last of the coffee from his thermos and sipped the bitter black brew. The early-morning sun peered over the crest of the peak behind him and warmed the night chill from his back. He glanced at his watch—five in the morning. Fatigue burned his eyes and he stood and stretched to alleviate the stiffness in his body. Several loud cracks came from his back and he groaned, “Gettin’ too old for this shit.” A man walked out of the house below, drawing McMahon’s attention. He peered through his binoculars and immediately recognized Vernon Skidgel.

  Skidgel sipped from a travel mug. He seemed to be searching the area, and McMahon dropped to his haunches behind a scrub brush. The sun was at his back so he did not have to worry about it reflecting from the binoculars, and as he peered through them, he intently studied his target.

  Obviously, the asshole must feel secure in his den, McMahon thought.

  One of the security guards came around the garage and stopped beside Skidgel, who lit a cigarette and listened as the guard spoke in an animated manner.

  McMahon had no doubt about what they were discussing; a member of the security detail was missing. After several seconds, the guard walked away and Skidgel dropped his cigarette to the concrete surface of the walk. He ground the butt with his foot and walked toward the garage.

  McMahon lowered the binoculars, letting them hang from the strap draped around his neck. He picked up the remote receiver from the ground and switched it on. The screen illuminated, displaying a large dot. He turned his attention to the garage and saw the door rise. Within seconds, a second dot split from the large one and began to move.

  He ran to his car.

  McMahon followed Skidgel as he drove into the San Fernando Valley. The tracking device made it easy, but McMahon still took extra caution in the event that his quarry had taken safety measures—such as having a member of his security team following at a safe distance to spot any tails.

  Skidgel turned into the parking lot of a restaurant and looked in all directions before entering. McMahon swore under his breath. It was obvious that a meet was taking place, but there was nothing he could do about it. Skidgel would recognize him immediately and panic. Still, it was important to learn who he was meeting. The only option left was to park along the street and observe the restaurant, hoping that Skidgel would exit beside this new player.

  McMahon saw a coffee shop across from the restaurant and turned into it, parking so he faced the restaurant. He went inside and kept his eyes glued on the establishment across the boulevard as he ordered a large black coffee and a bagel.

  A half hour passed before Skidgel exited the restaurant alone and McMahon faced a decision. Should he tail him or wait and see who followed him out? The decision was made for him when another man walked through the door and stopped beside Skidgel. They chatted for several seconds before the man walked away in the opposite direction. Skidgel remained in place and lit a cigarette.

  The transponder on his car would allow McMahon to keep track of Skidgel, so he opted to follow the new man. McMahon pulled out onto the street, slowly followed along behind his new quarry, and watched him get into a late-model Jaguar. He turned into the entrance of a gas station/convenience store and drove past the pumps, stopping at the exit and pretending to check traffic. His delay, as he allowed three cars to pass, raised the ire of one of the station’s customers. The frustrated customer honked, and McMahon waved at him as if they were acquainted. The car’s horn sounded again, but this time he ignored it. The Jaguar passed and McMahon drove out of the exit, cutting off a battered pickup truck so he could pull in behind his target. When they stopped for a red light, he jotted down the Jag’s license plate number to give to Angela.

  McMahon followed the Jag as it turned onto the Reagan Expressway and scaled Santa Susana Pass. When he crested the mountain, McMahon swore softly. “Shit, we’re heading into Simi Valley again … and I’ll bet that it ain’t coincidence.”

  They drove into the city, and in no time at all, he had an idea as to where they were headed. His suspicions were proven correct when the Jaguar turned into a driveway. McMahon slowed as he passed the familiar house and watched the door open. Celia Doerr appeared in the doorway, and the man took her in his arms. Neither the embrace nor the kiss they shared was platonic. In fact, they were all over each other like two lovers who’d been separated for a long time.

  Real-life mobsters are ruthless, treacherous, and deadly.

  —Paul Doyle, retired DEA Agent

  27

  They were led into a very large and elaborate vestibule. The armed guard escorting them said something to Manuel in Spanish. “Gracias,” Manuel replied, and the guard disappeared into the bowels of the house.

  Once he was gone, Traynor asked Manuel, “What’s up?”

  “He’s off to inform his lord and master that we’re here.”

  “I thought we had an appointment with the great man and were expected.”

  “We do and are. This is just a game to put us in our place.”

  Traynor felt his anger growing again and swallowed hard, as if it were an odious hors d’oeuvre that had to be eaten in order not to insult the host. Manuel must have sensed his mood, because he looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t worry,” Traynor said, “I’m cool.”

  Rather than belabor the point, Manuel nodded and said softly, “Keep in mind these people are usually paranoid—they have to be to survive. Our every move and gesture is probably being monitored.”

  Trying to remain inconspicuous, Traynor scanned the room as much as he could without moving his head. Manuel whispered, “I’d bet on the painting.”

  Playing the role of a curious guest, Traynor strolled across the spacious foyer and stopped before a monstrous portrait of a Mexican don. The resemblance to Toledo was apparent. He noticed that one of the eyes seem to glisten and knew he was looking at a camera lens. Still playing his role, he said to Manuel, “Who you think this is?”

  Before he could reply, another voice said, “Jose Maria Esteban Toledo, my grandfather and patriarch.” Traynor turned. Toledo and his armed guard walked out of one of the h
allways that ended in the antechamber. Toledo was dressed as if he were about to dine with the president of Mexico. He wore a tuxedo, complete with cummerbund. “In his time, he was nobleza, nobility—a king among men. He built this ranchero and hacienda when this valley was nothing but desert.”

  Traynor kept his response to a polite. “Very impressive.” Still, he wondered how old Jose Maria would react if he knew what his grandson was doing to fill the family coffers. He looked back at the imposing portrait and studied the eyes. They appeared reptilian, cold, and lethal. Traynor supposed the old man would probably approve of anything his grandson did—so long as he grew the family’s sphere of influence.

  Toledo motioned with a sweep of his arm. “This way, gentlemen, if you please.”

  Traynor found Toledo’s politeness patronizing but kept his contempt hidden. For as long as he could remember, he’d hated hypocrisy and those who thought he was too stupid to see through it. Here was a man who acted as civil and proper as one would expect the wealthy to be, but made his money dishing out misery and death. Traynor was really looking forward to bringing him down.

  They followed him along a wide corridor. The walls were adorned with expensive artwork and the carpet was so plush it felt like they were walking on thick velvet. Traynor couldn’t help but think that it was a shame that they were fouling it with their street shoes.

  At the corridor’s end, Toledo stopped beside a door and once again made a genteel sweep of his arm to guide them into the room. It was as breathtaking as it was massive. Leather chairs and couches were placed throughout, all facing the largest fireplace Traynor had ever seen. The hearth alone must have cost more than the average American home. It was constructed of white marble and the mantle held a collection of fine china vases. A number of firearms were mounted on the wall a few feet above the mantle—some antique and some modern. There were enough guns there to stock an arsenal.

  Toledo noticed where he was looking and said, “Are you interested in firearms, Señor Traynor?”

  “I wouldn’t call knowledge of weapons an interest as much as a professional requirement.”

  Toledo smirked at him. “So you’ve used them in your work?”

  “Both used them and have had them used against me—sort of an occupational hazard.”

  “Ahhh, so were you in the servicio military?”

  “Yes, and I was a member of the police as well.”

  Toledo stiffened and gave Manuel a stern look. Before he could say anything, Traynor injected, “My superiors did not understand when they caught me with my hand in the cookie jar.”

  Toledo turned his attention from Manuel back to Traynor. “Cookie jar?”

  “I was caught taking money from drug dealers for being blind to their activity.”

  His face lit with understanding. “I see. Soborno, or bribery as you call it, is a necessary part of doing business in my country also.” He dismissed Traynor as just another crooked cop and turned to Manuel. “And you, Señor Vegas, are you also familiar with firearms?”

  “For several years I was employed as a mercenario. Weapons were the tools of my trade.”

  Toledo looked as if he wanted to pursue Manuel’s background further, but instead turned the conversation to business. “I have been in touch with my partners and they want to know more about your proposed project.” He noted their empty hands. “You have brought the money, no?”

  Manuel did not even blink when he said, “No.”

  “No?” Toledo was obviously not amused.

  “No. You must pardon me, Señor Toledo, but with this amount of money, we do not feel comfortable driving around with it. After all, this is not our country.”

  Toledo reddened and Traynor knew he was upset. The man’s reaction was so strong that it was evident Manuel had made the correct call in leaving the money behind. “I find it hard to believe that two men—of whom one is a trained mercenario—would be afraid to transport money.”

  “As trained professionals, we have also learned to minimize risk.”

  Traynor was not sure how Manuel’s answer went over, but Toledo’s eyes changed and like those in his grandfather’s portrait, became reptilian with a glassy, lifeless appearance. Traynor glanced at the wall and wondered whether or not any of the weapons hanging there were loaded—not that it mattered. His luck was such that if all the guns were loaded except for one, that would be the one he grabbed.

  After several tense moments, Toledo seemed to get his temper under control. However, he was not about to let them off the hook until he made his point. “Gentlemen, I must say that if we are to do business, there must be trust between us.”

  “Like having armed guards on your walls with their weapons pointed at us?” Manuel was not above throwing a barb of his own.

  A sinister grin spread across Toledo’s face. He knew that Manuel had him. “I guess we are at a stalemate.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Traynor said. “I’d rather say that we’re just cautious men.”

  “Then,” Toledo concluded, “I must ask what the purpose of your visit is?”

  “We like to know something about the people with whom we do business,” Manuel answered. “This hacienda, for instance, tells us that you are truly a man worth doing business with and not an opportunist hoping to steal a great deal of dinero.”

  Toledo did not seem impressed with the statement. “I’m glad that you find me worthy. I assume that you want to meet once more?”

  “Sí, at a place of our choosing,” Manuel answered.

  “Then, I see no purpose in prolonging this meeting any further. You inform me of where you want to meet and—if it meets with my approval—we will meet. This time, gentlemen, you bring the million dollars and I’ll bring your cocaine.” With a curt nod, Toledo exited, leaving his guests in the hands of his security force.

  Within minutes Manuel and Traynor were back in their vehicle and on the road back to Mexico City.

  “Well,” Traynor said, “all in all, I think that went about as well as we could have expected.”

  When Manuel smiled, his teeth looked blue in the light of the console. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I learned several things.”

  “Like we’ll never get him out of his den—at least not alive?” Traynor interjected.

  “That and the fact that we need to choose our next meeting place wisely. It has to be someplace public, but at a time when it is unoccupied. If we were to meet at … say Teotihuacan, it would be impossible to tell his security from the tourists. I don’t know about you, but I, for one, like to know the odds I’m up against.”

  “Yeah, it’s always comforting to know whether or not you’ve brought enough firepower.”

  Give instruction to a wise man and he will be yet wiser.

  —Proverbs 9:9

  28

  Traynor called from his room. Jack McMahon answered on the second ring and updated him on what had been happening back in the good ole US of A. He was surprised to learn about Celia Doerr’s involvement with Skidgel’s associate.

  “Have you learned the guy’s identity?”

  “The estate belongs to some political powerbroker, name of Larry Provost. I got Angela and Dick Lebow working that angle.”

  “It will be interesting to learn what his part in this is.”

  “Whatever it is, he’s got money—at least that’s what I usually expect when I see someone driving a shiny new Jag.”

  Traynor turned the conversation to their employer. “How’s Deborah handling all of this?”

  “Well … it was touch and go when I had the incident with the security guard.”

  “I’ll bet. Is she all right?”

  “She seems to be. But I’m keeping a close watch. The past several days have been quite a shock to her.”

  Traynor thought about the steel he’d detected in her character when she’d first arrived in LA and said, “Something tells me that she’s gonna be all right.”

  “Yeah, I get that same feeling. What’s
goin’ on down there?”

  “We’ve met with Toledo twice.”

  “And?”

  “We’re trying to come up with a way to snatch him.”

  “Snatch him?”

  “Manuel is of the mind that it’s wasted effort to try and arrest him—especially down here. He’ll just buy his way out and then we’ll be targeted by his people and by the police.”

  “I’ve heard that the Mexico City PD has issues.”

  “Yeah, they’re still trying to weed out the honest cops on the force.”

  “Well, keep in touch,” McMahon said.

  “I’ll call you as soon as we know how this is goin’ down.”

  Manuel was waiting when Traynor walked into the bar. Traynor was surprised to see that he was deep in conversation with Felipé Shoucar. He crossed the room and sat with them. Manuel nodded to him but kept talking.

  “… We have met with Toledo twice now and still there is nothing concrete to give you. It isn’t enough that he’s a snake, but he’s a snake with seemingly unlimited resources.”

  “And,” Shoucar added, “one who has been very generous with his contributions. He is very well connected inside the police and government. Arresting him is one thing, keeping him in custody is another.”

  Traynor could not help but jump into the discussion. “Are you saying that if we were to turn him over to the authorities, they’d let him walk?”

  “Eventually,” Shoucar said, “they may send him to some posh jail reserved for the wealthy and VIPs. But it’s more likely that he will be put under house arrest.”

  Traynor replied, “He may as well be given a get out of jail free card.”

  Shoucar looked quizzical, as if he was not familiar with the phrase. Manuel said something in Spanish. The only words Traynor understood was monopolio and partida, which he knew meant game. Shoucar nodded his understanding. “Not only will he, as you say, get out of jail free, but you may find yourselves under a lot of scrutiny. I’m afraid, my friends, that Toledo is as close to untouchable as one can get. You would have a better chance of taking el presidente into custody.”