Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  The two men had performed this ritual several times over the past two months, but this was the first time they would dance in the dark. A reluctant trust had been built but cautious doubt lingered.

  Jake pulled a mini SureFire from a side pocket of his worn khaki cargo pants. Illuminating the thin metal surety wires intertwined between the latches on the steel doors of the shipping box, he said, “It hasn’t been tampered with since it left China. You can check the serial number on the seal with what’s on the bill of lading, if you want.”

  “I believe you. Let’s just get out of here. Too many wets hanging out across the street,” said Tommy, pointing to a half-dozen noisy men sharing beers in front of the bar.

  “An Asian racist. I love it,” said Jake as he handed the flashlight to Tommy. “I can’t do this blindfolded, so light up the back as I hook up the trailer.”

  Jake climbed back into the cab and began to slowly ease the tractor in reverse, seeking to couple the tractor and trailer. He’d been to the CDL short course and could do this in daylight, but darkness added a degree of difficulty the six-week commercial truck driver’s school failed to include in its curriculum. Apparently, the instructor for Trucking 101 didn’t anticipate his graduates engaging in nocturnal crimes. Jake took a couple of stabs at lining up the kingpin and the strike plate before he heard the distinctive sound of the lockjaws engaging.

  He jumped down from the cab, worked some late-night magic, and within minutes completed the final hookup, attaching the service, supply, and electrical lines. “It looks good. I think we’re ready to get out of here.”

  Tommy was only too happy to return to the security of the semi and get as far north of Mexico as he could. Not only Customs, but border bandits would love to seize a rig of counterfeit Rolex watches smuggled into the United States.

  As Jake started to climb into the cab, two men, both “stupid brave” on oxy washed down with a six-pack of cerveza, jumped out from behind one of the parked trailers. In the darkness it was impossible to identify the exact make and model of the semi-automatics they were carrying, but both men were waving their weapons like B-list actors in a cheap Hollywood movie.

  “Manos arriba!” shouted one of the men as Jake and Tommy threw up their hands.

  “Give me the keys, jefe,” said the taller of the two in slurred, heavily accented English. The attacker was only about five foot seven but the gun he was holding made him seem bigger and his Corona-induced courage made him a bit more unpredictable.

  Jake was slow in responding to the command as he assessed the situation. The only exit was to his left, retreating to an open field, leaving Tommy to fend for himself. As with most confrontations, and Jake had been in his share, this was more than flight-or-fight. Two other variables entered the calculus: posturing and submission. Without their guns, Jake would have beaten both men like cheap piñatas, but it was one thing to be cocky and another to be sloppy.

  “Don’t be stupid, weddo. Give me the keys!” screamed the leader.

  “Give him the keys, Jake,” said Tommy, fear evaporating what little mettle remained.

  Jake slowly reached into his pocket with his right hand, keeping his left hand high in the air. He held up the keys, jiggling them at about eye level.

  “Toss ’em, jefe!”

  Jake did as instructed, the border thug snatching the keys in midair.

  “You guys had to wait until I got my hands dirty hooking up the trailer. At least let me grab a towel out of the cab to wipe off the grease,” said Jake with the bravado reserved for the truly brave or the really stupid.

  “Quieto!” shouted the boss as he handed the keys to his partner.

  The smaller of the two slipped his semi-auto in the front of his pants and fumbled with the keys as he prepared to climb into the cab.

  “No need for any violence. It’s just a tractor and a trailer. You can have it. You keep the truck and we keep our lives. Seems like a fair exchange,” said Jake.

  The predator seemed pleased his prey wasn’t going to put up a fight.

  “You guys are going to need a bill of lading in case you get stopped,” said Jake.

  Tommy threw him a confused look.

  “Huh?” asked the spokesman for the two-man Latino criminal conspiracy.

  “I’m just going to reach in my back pocket and pull out the shipping paperwork. This way if you get stopped they’ll know what you’re carrying. It makes you look legit to the cops.”

  Keeping his left hand high in the air Jake slowly reached toward his back pocket; no sudden moves, no quick jerks, just slipping his free hand behind him. He had a quiet confidence the late-night hijackers failed to grasp. . . . Control the adrenaline and manage the chaos.

  In an instant everything changed!

  With lightning speed and a practiced precision, Jake pulled a Glock 19 from the small of his back and fired two quick shots at the taller of the two, who dropped immediately; one round hit just below the right eye and the second through the throat. There was a slight gurgle and gasp but death was maximized; suffering minimal.

  Jake pivoted as the smaller man, whose senses were dulled by alcohol and drugs, was reaching into his waistband for his weapon. The semi-auto never cleared the belt and Jake fired three times from only a few feet, all three center mass. The tight grouping of hollow-point rounds, expanding upon impact, ensured massive destruction of the internal organs. The thief was dead before his body folded to the dusty ground.

  The two Mexican felons never had a chance; their criminal careers ended in a matter of seconds. It was quick, dirty, and ugly, but it was done.

  “Are they dead?” asked a shaken Tommy.

  Jake didn’t answer as he did a quick search of the smaller gangster, grabbing the keys to the rig, a worn leather wallet, and the weapon, which he stuffed in the front of his pants. “Might need a throw-down someday,” said Jake with a slight smile. From the other thief he took the wallet and semi-automatic.

  Before jumping into the cab Jake kicked at both bloodied bodies, moving them from the path of the big rig.

  The sideshow was complete.

  With the music still blasting from the squalid tavern across the street, the five gunshots had failed to arouse the attention of those partying on the porch. Within seconds, Jake and Tommy were out of the lot and on the road, heading north toward Los Angeles.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jake maintained a safe speed keeping in the far right lane. The traffic was minimal on the I-15, so he could have opened it up without arousing any suspicion, but he had no intention of alerting some chippie trying to make his monthly quota. He checked his mirrors often but saw nothing unusual. Their escape had gone unnoticed.

  Tommy Hwan, a third-generation Korean-American with a criminal record dating back to his juvenile days, was in the passenger seat. Just twenty-four, the small-time street thug, what the Koreans called a kkangpae, had no idea Jake was anything but another member of L.A.’s criminal underworld.

  Forty minutes of silence was interrupted by Tommy’s plea, “You need to pull over. I gotta take a leak.”

  Jake smirked. “I thought you peed your pants back there.”

  “I wasn’t expecting you to pull a gun. I thought you were giving him the bill of lading and couldn’t figure out why.”

  “We’ve got too much unfinished business to let a couple of jackers get in the way.”

  “They didn’t get in our way for long,” said Tommy.

  “What did you want me to do, give them your twenty-foot container of fake watches?” said Jake.

  Tommy laughed. “They aren’t mine till you get ’em to the warehouse. The deal includes safe delivery to L.A.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does say something like that in the fine print,” said Jake with a brief grin.

  “You showed me something back there.”

  “Yeah, so did you,” sneered Jake.

  “No, seriously. A gun ups the ante on any jail time, so I don’t carry. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
But you’re not afraid to pull the trigger.”

  Jake merely nodded, questioning whether he’d become too comfortable with the violence that had become a part of his life.

  “Killing comes easy to you,” said Tommy.

  With a slight shrug, Jake said, “I wouldn’t say easy but it kept us aboveground tonight.”

  “Something came up the other day and you just might have the stones to pull it off.”

  “You want to give me a clue.”

  “After I pee.”

  Jake pulled off the freeway at State Highway 76, stopping in front of the Circle K–Mobil station. “You can run in there. Grab me a Coke on your way out. I’ll turn this puppy around, then we’ll head back north.”

  As soon as Tommy exited the cab, Jake was on his cell phone. He punched in a number and after three rings a sleepy voice answered, “Yeah.”

  “It’s me. We need a cleanup on aisle four,” said Jake with a slight smile in his voice.

  “Jake, don’t tell me that. I don’t need any more paperwork.”

  “Hey, I removed two more idiots from the gene pool.”

  “What happened?” asked Trey Bennett, his case agent.

  “At our usual off-loading spot in Otay Mesa, Tommy and I got hit by a couple of thieves. They’re both dead. I’ve got their wallets and weapons. You better get somebody from the San Diego office involved. I don’t think there were any wits. I didn’t have much of a choice but it was righteous. I’m not sure if the video from the cab picked it up but the audio should have grabbed it.”

  “Is Tommy okay?”

  “Yeah,” and then with sarcasm, Jake added, “So am I. Thanks for asking.”

  Science-fiction author Robert Heinlein claimed fulfillment in life came from loving a good woman and killing a bad man. Veteran FBI undercover agent Jake Kruse had done both, but lately the killing came easier than the loving.

  Jake wasn’t the only person spilling blood in Southern California this evening. An honor graduate of the state’s prison system was about to pull a trigger as well. Within days the lives of the assassin and the undercover FBI agent would intersect violently.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As the assassin threaded his way through the Wilshire Boulevard traffic, the female in the passenger seat rolled up her window and motioned for him to do the same. He gave her a sideways glance, sulking at the directive, but reluctantly complied. She offered an unassuming smile, then lowered the volume on B. B. King, who was soulfully singing through the sound system of the 2008 Honda Pilot LX. He playfully slapped her hand for touching his radio but knew the real business of the evening was about to begin.

  In a matter of minutes sweat rained down the assassin’s face, more heat than nerves. The evening was unusually humid and even though the sound system worked, the air-conditioning didn’t.

  They couldn’t afford to roll with the windows down; the dark tint obscured faces and features. He would have preferred the accompanying breeze of opened windows, but the sealed-up Honda was the safe move for the short term.

  To placate the driver, the female passenger unwrapped two pieces of Korean ginseng candy, popped one in her mouth, and placed the second to his lips as they both savored the momentary pleasure.

  He turned left off Wilshire, heading south. A few cars were parked on the street but traffic was minimal in the quiet upscale community. He slowed as he entered the block where the target lived. In the darkness it was hard to discern the house numbers and they both strained to find the residence. With her hands, the female motioned for him to slow down and then she pointed to a home on the right in the middle of the block.

  As he edged the vehicle to the curb, stopping two houses past the target’s location, he wiped his thick dark brow with his right hand before turning off the ignition and pocketing the keys. Rubbing his hand dry on his pants leg, he popped the center console and removed the German-made Heckler & Koch Mk 23 SOCOM. With his left hand he attached a sound suppressor, then racked a .45-caliber round into the chamber. The weapon was bulky but its stopping power made it a favorite of special forces worldwide. Second place in a gunfight meant death and the assassin was taking no chances with tonight’s mission.

  Though he never served in the military, he knew what it was like to take a life. He had done so on the streets of Los Angeles with a gun and in prison with his hands. It wasn’t as hard as most people believed. He was nervous the first time he pulled the trigger in a drive-by shooting, but after watching his victim fall and receiving accolades from his “homies,” the nerves quickly dissipated and he welcomed the attention.

  In prison it was a matter of survival. Death to others meant life for him, and he wasn’t about to forfeit his life to some convicted felon seeking to establish his bona fides on the yard. More than one prisoner felt the assassin’s powerful hands around the throat, crushing the windpipe and snapping the neck. Few were willing to challenge his strength and no one was willing to discuss with prison authorities the killer’s propensity for resolving conflicts through violence.

  Each time he killed it became easier. Now it was a part of him. The prison psychiatrist was wrong. He really wasn’t a sociopath, but another man’s death meant nothing to him. He didn’t necessarily kill for thrills but he admitted to enjoying the rush. He loved the adrenaline racing through his veins as he gripped the weapon and anticipated pulling the trigger. When he held his breath and squeezed the index finger, it was as pleasurable as anything he experienced, especially when he watched his intended victim collapse. He found a cause that welcomed his skills and now he justified his work because killing had purpose . . . tonight he would kill for preemptive protection.

  He had been recruited in prison, where he had spent most of his adult life. At thirty-three, Kareem Abdul, the name he chose to honor his grandmother’s favorite basketball player, was converted through the efforts of a prison imam. He found a different kind of fellowship with “followers of the Prophet.” Kareem learned the ways of the faith but also learned the game many in prison played. Following his conversion, the strict discipline he evidenced while incarcerated served him well when the parole board met. They observed the changed man, his unblemished prison record since his conversion, and his willingness to admit to previous wrongs. Though still morally elastic, he sold the board on his sincerity and was given an early release on the armed-robbery conviction. With his demonstrated continued devotion to the faith after his prison stint and as part of a state cost-cutting move, he was also released early from parole. Islam served him well and as in prison, he was willing to exploit the religion to his advantage.

  They paused briefly as he and his passenger assessed the situation, scanned their surroundings, and listened for the unusual. They nodded in agreement and quietly opened the doors to the Honda. In addition to switching license plates, Kareem had already removed the dome light, preventing a quick flash of the interior light, which would have alerted a neighbor when the car doors opened.

  As she exited the car, the passenger tossed the candy wrappers on the ground as if in defiance of the community’s wealth. Each carefully shut their door and padded down the sidewalk.

  A large, powerful man, Kareem Abdul moved with commando-like stealth up the short driveway. She followed in trace. Dressed in black, he was easily concealed in the shadows on the darkest night of the month. She too was dressed in black and her slight build served as sufficient camouflage for the evening.

  Though the streetlights illuminated the road, the mature thick trees in the front yard shaded the house. It was nearing eleven o’clock but they knew bedtime for the middle-aged Asian was immediately following the news. Tomorrow he will make the news but miss the broadcast. As they suspected, a flickering light from the living room creeping through the bamboo curtains signaled the target was watching television.

  By Beverly Hills standards the residence was small, but as any real estate agent will tell you, “location, location, location.” The diminutive home commanded a multimillion
-dollar price tag merely because it had a coveted zip code.

  While cautious, the intruders weren’t really worried about nosy neighbors making a 9-1-1 call. The assassin would follow the motto of the military sniper: one shot, one kill. A single suppressed gunshot might draw someone’s attention, but like most people, the listener would wait to hear a second sound. Failing that, he would dismiss the noise and go on about his business. Since few residents in this elite community exercised their Second Amendment rights, most knew the sounds of gunfire only from those provided by Hollywood. A quick subdued pop was hardly what any resident would expect. Stealth and speed would accomplish this evening’s task.

  The woman slipped behind a large crepe myrtle bush and spied into the living room through a small divide between the window and the curtain. The target was alone, resting comfortably, his feet propped up on a brown leather footstool as he watched TV in an exquisitely furnished home, antiques complementing the utilitarian furniture.

  The man was guilty of betrayal, an offense worthy of death. His offhand comments at the bar and his inquisitive nature seemed more than just trying to impress a beautiful woman. When he bragged to her in private of his association with law enforcement authorities, his treachery was confirmed. But he was no government-sanctioned spy . . . he was a snitch, a rat. The law of the street prevailed. Cheese-eaters must die!

  Some at the mosque objected to tonight’s mission but the complaint was never about murder. Their concern was drawing undue attention to the “cause.” Kareem assured everyone that what needed to be done would never be linked to them. When the cell leader concurred and the followers realized they wouldn’t be participating, the men easily acceded to their leader’s decision.

  Kareem rang the doorbell, then flattened his body against the darkened wall, concealing himself should the quarry decide to peer out the living-room window.