On evenings and weekends, a guard was posted at both the front and back of the building as an extra precaution. Vandalism and theft did occur occasionally in the area, so the presence of these individuals was not viewed as uncommon by the odd passer-by. Most watch-shifts however, were uneventful, leaving the guards with little to experience barring boredom.
Unfortunately, this would not be the case for the two men on duty on this particular evening.
Prasop really did not enjoy working on the Saturday night shift. Although the job was never exciting on any given night, having to be there on Saturdays was frustrating in addition to being boring. Saturdays were, after all, party nights when the young ladies went into the bars and loosened up. But a job was a job and more importantly, the boss was the boss. He also had to consider that this particular employment allowed him access to the 24 Hours Bar, where the tough guys socialized. This gave him special status which served to impress the majority of available young ladies.
As he sat on the old wooden crate which served as his chair, he heard a dull thud come from his right. Standing up, he took several steps in the dirt parking area which spanned the rear of the building. Searching the darkness, he saw nothing. He started to turn back when another similar sound occurred. Turning sharply towards the noise, he withdrew his revolver and moved cautiously forward, peering into the night. Another thud came, a little more to the left this time, the sound of a stone hitting the packed earth.
He continued to advance, slowly, searching the night in vain. Another one, this time to his right. Adrenalin pumping, he moved quickly in that direction, advancing a dozen yards before stopping to listen. Motionless, he stood there, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. Nothing. He scanned the area, turning slowly until he had completed a full circle. Still nothing. He remained in this spot for several minutes, continuing to circle, searching for the cause of the unusual disturbance, completely unaware that this would be his last Saturday night.
Past the parking area behind the building was a ditch, overgrown with a variety of weeds, brush and shrubs. It offered excellent cover although Ron Singer hoped none of it was vegetation of a poisonous kind.
Upon his arrival, he had been disappointed to see the guard seated on a wooden box, his back leaned against the wall of the structure. With no cover close by, the element of surprise became non-existent. As time had gone by, his disappointment had grown as he realized that the man did not even leave his post to patrol the area. Ron had come to the conclusion that he would have to draw the guard out if he wanted to settle this assignment that night.
Banking on the hope that the guard was not too bright, he found several stones, large enough to create an audible sound upon landing. These, he proceeded to toss, one by one, to attract the other man’s attention. By the fourth stone, the guard stood less than fifteen feet away, frantically searching for the source of the noises. After several minutes, he seemed to relax and decided to head back to the comfort of his wooden crate.
Only seconds were required for Ron, an expert in this type of activity, to silently cross the short span separating them. The garrotte swung swiftly, perfectly around the Asian’s neck, his death, almost instantaneous.
Ron dumped the body into the ditch and headed towards the front of the building to see if his brother Mike needed any assistance.
* * * *
Arnie Schwartz had always looked for ways to make an easy buck. He was generally lazy and thus, strongly believed in the concept of getting as much as possible for the least effort. He didn’t hide this fact and often boasted that this was the main reason why he had gone to work for the government. Decent gains for little effort.
He particularly enjoyed working as a customs officer, not for the job itself but rather, for the side benefits it offered if one was smart enough to take advantage of them. Loads of seized merchandise were poorly accounted for and there for the taking. So Arnie took, a lot, for personal consumption as well as for sale to others.
Eighteen months ago, he had been enraged to learn that he was being transferred to warehouse inspection duty. Recognizing that such a transfer would put an end to his profitable secondary business, he had argued with his supervisor but, to no avail. It was transfer or leave, due to personnel reductions.
Grudgingly, he had transferred to warehouse inspections, where he had begun his new duties; inspecting random commercial shipments imported into the country. The job wasn’t bad, definitely not tiring, although Arnie saw little possibility of maintaining his sideline. At least, his partner, Gene Fennell, was a good guy who liked to listen to Arnie’s anecdotes about long-term borrowing of seized merchandise.
At the end of his second week in his new position, he was having lunch with Gene, when the latter proposed an opportunity to Arnie which made his former sideline seem like pocket change. Arnie had willingly agreed to participate in Gene’s ‘narcotics overlooking’ activities and had been financially content ever since.
The shrill shrieking of the phone amplified the ringing in his head. He had suspected that he would suffer from a hangover in the morning but had not expected anything like this. He rolled over, hiding his face from the light with a pillow as he desperately grasped for the phone.
“Yeah?” he groaned, hoping to hell it was an emergency.
“Arnie?” a woman’s voice cried. “They came to get Gene, Arnie! You’ve gotta help!”
“What the fuck?” Arnie muttered, confused as he sat up in bed. “Who is this? What the hell is going on?”
“This is Lisa Fennell, Arnie. Gene’s wife,” the shaky voice replied. “About forty-five minutes ago, they came to get Gene. I’ve been looking for your number everywhere. You’ve got to help, Arnie. Please!”
Gene? Lisa Fennell? Gene Fennell. His partner. He was starting to understand. A little.
“Okay, Lisa. Calm down. Who came to get Gene? What’s going on?”
“The police, Arnie,” Lisa sobbed, breaking down again. “It said RCMP on their jackets and on the cars. You’ve got to help, Arnie. They arrested Gene. Because of the drugs. We were going on vacation. They took him away. Please!”
“Take it easy, Lisa,” ordered Arnie, no longer concerned with his hangover. “Arnie will take care of everything. Just relax. I’m gonna hang up now cuz I have some calls to make. Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix this, alright? Now, don’t call me back cuz I don’t want to tie up the phone. I’ll let you know what’s going on. Don’t worry.”
With that, he slammed down the phone and scrambled to get some clothes on. As he hurriedly tied his shirt, he peered through the partially opened vertical blinds to the street below. Nothing. But he had to hurry. If they knew about Gene, they knew about him. Or, they would soon.
He praised himself for his silly habit of keeping cash handy. Rushing into the storage closet of his second storey condo, he pulled out his stash and counted; $4,700. That would cover him for several days. He’d make some withdrawals from cash machines but he’d have to be careful. The cops would trace that. Credit cards would be iffy too. At least he had something to start with. Now, the priority however, was to leave. The cops could show up any second.
Running into the entrance hall, he jammed his feet into his untied running shoes as he frantically pulled his ski jacket from the closet. He bolted from his apartment, not bothering to close the door behind him and headed for the parking garage, two levels below.
RCMP detectives Eric Levesque and Daniel Samson were approaching the Belanger Street building in Anjou where Arnie Schwartz resided when a candy apple red Mustang GT roared out of the inside parking, swerving wildly to avoid colliding with their vehicle.
“That's him, Eric,” Daniel exclaimed. “Red Mustang GT. That’s Schwartz. Go!”
Levesque threw the gear shift of their Taurus in reverse and backed out of the entrance with tires screaming. Down the hill, they could see Schwartz’s vehicle turn right on the red at Langelier, narrowly missing an approaching pickup truck.
“He’s going for the Met,” predicted Samson, referring to the Metropolitan, Montreal’s elevated throughway.
With sirens blaring, they took pursuit of the red Mustang, both vehicles running through three other red lights before engaging onto the westbound Met.
Here, Schwartz opened up the powerful engine of his automobile, quickly increasing his speed to ninety miles per hour as he dodged in and out of the Saturday morning traffic.
“We’re not gonna have to catch this guy,” muttered Levesque as he hesitantly increased his speed on the icy road. “He’s gonna kill himself.”
As if his words were a command, the Mustang suddenly went out of control as it swerved to avoid a car coming up an on-ramp ahead. Recent heavy snow, followed by a sudden drop in temperatures had turned the sides of the elevated highway into dangerous jump ramps. Several cars had already gone off the road in the last week.
The Mustang spun two perfect three-sixties before projecting itself a dozen feet above the level of the road where, for a fraction of a second, it seemed to hang in mid-air. Then gravity took effect, violently pulling the car to its smashing end, twenty-five feet below.
Several minutes were required for Levesque and Samson to make it down to the site of the crash. By the time they got there, a crowd had formed and an ambulance was already on the scene. The driver of the Mustang, the detectives were informed, had died on impact.
* * * *
The road which ran in front of the clothing manufacture and into Phuket City dropped into a steep hill a quarter mile past the building. Mike and Ron Singer had parked their vehicles at the bottom of this incline and proceeded on foot, Ron heading for the rear of the structure while Mike cut through the field across the road.
After ten minutes of hiking through the tall weeds, he had found himself directly ahead of the building, a hundred yards away. Here, he had settled comfortably and begun observing the rather mundane activities of his eventual victim.
Looking at his watch, he acknowledged that it was time to go and began retracing his steps towards the vehicles. Once hidden by the top of the incline, he cut across to the road and turned back towards the building. As he reached the top of the hill, he slowed his pace, incorporating a slight irregular stagger to his walk as he headed towards the guard.
Tridhosyuth tensed a little as he watched the figure approaching in the darkness. Although the man was alone, he seemed to be speaking, mumbling to himself. Every once in a while he walked slightly out of step as if unsure of his balance.
“Crazy drunk tourist,” Tridhosyuth cursed under his breath, rising to his feet.
“Hello, there,” the foreigner called out, his accent unmistakably American. “Do you speak English?”
“A little,” the guard responded. “This private area. You go away.”
“Sure, sure,” the American slurred, stopping in his tracks and holding up both hands. “I ain’t looking for trouble. I’m just a bit lost.”
“Where you go?” asked Tridhosyuth, willing to help the drunk leave.
“Well, a bunch of us took a little bus from the hotel to town, ya know,” the man explained, wavering slightly. “We had a few drinks in a bar and I went out to get some air, ya know. Started walking but I sorta lost my bearings.”
“Town? Phuket City?” asked the guard, confused by the American’s language. “You go there?”
“Yeah, Phuket City,” laughed the drunk, take a few steps forward. “Downtown, ya know, where I can take the bus.”
“Phuket City, downtown, that way,” answered Tridhosyuth, pointing in the direction from which the drunk had come.
“Well, goddamn, I was headed the wrong way,” the drunk guffawed, totally amused by the situation. “Thanks a bunch. You’re a good man.”
As the guard returned to his seat, the American turned away and staggered a few steps, stopped and turned back again.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, the drunken slur gone. “Thanks for letting me get so close.”
With expert precision, he fired the silenced handgun which he inconspicuously produced, hitting Tridhosyuth twice in the forehead and once in the heart.
“You’ve made my job so much easier.”
* * * *
From a small natural shelf four feet below the edge of the ravine, Chris had been watching the guard at the back of the St-Sauveur chalet for the better part of a half hour.
This one might prove to be difficult. For one, there was little cover near the man, making a surprise attack unfeasible. The lack of cover also made the guard and the surrounding area much more visible from the house, should anyone decide to glance outside. Chris’ biggest concern however, was the man’s sheer size; at least six-four and probably close to three hundred pounds. Thoughts of a possible one on one combat with this gorilla made him shudder.
The guard started one of his patrol walks again, as he had done a half dozen times so far. Chris pressed himself into the recess under the edge of the ravine, once again holding his breath and covering his nose and mouth, lest the steam of his breath give him away. Above his head, the giant’s boots crunched past in the snow. Chris waited, still not clear on how he would eliminate the man.
* * * *
A few minutes before reaching Patong Beach, Hans climbed into the back of the mini-van and, reaching under the seat, pulled out the twenty inch long case which had formed the bottom of his carry-on bag. Opening the case, he quickly assembled the various components and was ready in no time.
“How do you get that through the airports?” Kim asked curiously from the driver’s seat as she watched him in the rear-view mirror.
“Most of it’s plastic,” Hans proudly replied. “I made it myself. A talent I’ve acquired over the years.”
“Plastic?” Kim exclaimed, intrigued. “Won’t it melt?”
“Yes,” Hans grinned. “Single use only. Sort of like those disposable tourist cameras.”
“What about the shell?” persisted a curious Kim.
“I make those too. They look like a can of deodorant, even on close examination. I carry them in my suitcase.”
They ceased their conversation and both donned nylon stocking masks as they rolled onto the main strip of Patong Beach. Kim slowed the vehicle and pulled onto the left side of the road, stopping directly in front a short side street lined with a half dozen bars on either side. At the end of the street, directly facing them, was the 24 Hours Bar.
Known and avoided by the locals as a fraternizing spot for the tougher crowd, it was actually an exclusive club for a group of organized criminals specializing in the refining and subsequent exporting of heroin.
With the mini-van barely stopped, Hans pulled open the sliding side door and climbed out, weapon in hand. He took several steps forward as he raised the cylindrical shaped object to his shoulder, paying no attention to the awed onlookers. Coming to a halt, he dropped to one knee, looked through the sight and, following a slight pause to ensure proper aim, pulled the trigger.
With a roaring whoosh, the rocket seared down the street and through the open doors of the 24 Hours Bar. A fraction of a second, which seemed like an hour, went by with no result. Then, as if by magic, the building seemed to expand as it exploded into flame, leaving none of its occupants as survivors.
Hans smiled at the shocked witnesses through his nylon mask, waving as he quickly, yet casually strolled back and climbed into the already moving mini-van.
“That went well,” commented Kim, pulling off her mask as they sped out of the village.
“Indeed it did,” agreed Hans, looking at his watch. "I do believe we’ll have time to dump this van and have a drink at the bar before dinner.”
* * * *
In frustration, Jonathan observed the guard on the wide front porch of Matt’s Laurentian hideaway. In forty minutes, the man had left the porch once, to saunter down the driveway to the road; only once. No checking the woods on either side, no quick walks along the road to search for suspicious vehicles. He just stood on
the damn porch.
After careful consideration, Jonathan made up his mind. He would have to get a hold of Chris before attempting to get rid of this guard. Between the two of them, they’d have a better chance. Silently, he made his way among the trees towards the back of the house.
* * * *
Followed by a Jeep, the small closed-box pickup truck rolled into the parking area behind the building, coming to a stop before the large shipping/receiving door. Ron Singer climbed out and, with the help of a set of industrial metal cutters, snipped the two heavy padlocks which secured this entrance. After opening the door, he returned to the truck and drove it into the building, parking it in the center of the empty shipping area. He hurried out, closing the large door behind him before joining his brother in the Jeep and they drove off in the direction of Phuket City, their task nearly complete.
After a couple of minutes, Ron pulled a small remote control device from his pocket, much like those used to activate car alarms. He calmly pressed a button and returned the object to his pocket. From a few miles behind them came a huge orange glow, immediately followed by a deep rumbling which could be both felt and heard.
Their task was complete.
* * * *
Bull, due to his size and appearance, was generally presumed to be a rather unintelligent individual. As many had unfortunately learned over the years however, he wasn’t completely stupid.
He had caught a glimpse of the man hiding on the edge of the ravine almost twenty minutes earlier. He knew that the intruder had not been there very long because he had looked down into the ravine along the length of his watch area as little as fifteen minutes before spotting the man.
He hadn’t made any moves yet, believing that time could an excellent ally. When one played it one’s way, a little time could conveniently lull an adversary into a false sense of security. But as Bull returned from the east side of the house, he decided that his adversary must be sufficiently lulled.
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