by Don Easton
“Me, too, but a big brother would look after me — not the other way around.”
“Then let me look after you. Take a transfer. I’ll be okay.”
“It’s like you didn’t even listen to me.” Laura shook her head.
“I’ve been listening. I’m telling you I care for you a lot. That won’t change if you transfer out.”
“That’s not the issue.” She met his gaze. “Looks like your nerves have settled.”
Jack realized she wanted to change the subject — and so did he. “Yes. Better get going. Both of us need to make our notes.”
Laura pulled away from the curb. “So … after we’re done with Wilson we’ll take the next three days off?”
“Yes, I think we need it.” Jack waited a beat. “At least I do.”
“Then on Wednesday we’ll start work in your garage? Turn one hundred and twenty kilos into three tonnes?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. Then it’s a simple matter of waiting for the right moment to kidnap Whiskey Jake and Pure E.”
A simple matter of kidnapping. Jack gave Laura a sideways glance and grimaced. She’s right. Who the hell else could I ever trust to work with me? A simple matter, my ass.
Chapter Forty-Five
Jack picked Laura up from her home Wednesday morning in his SUV. As he drove he was aware of her watching him. “What?” he asked.
Laura was blunt. “You get over the shakes?”
Jack felt apprehensive as he held his hand out. He was pleased when he saw he was able to hold it steady. “See? No worries. Like a rock.”
“You weren’t like a rock Saturday.”
Jack nodded. “You’d think by now, after everything you and I’ve been through, that nothing would affect me.”
“Maybe you’re getting wiser,” Laura said dryly, “and realizing you’re not invincible.”
“Maybe. It’s given me a better appreciation for being alive, that’s for sure. Dying seems scarier than it used to. I also worry how Natasha and the boys would handle it.”
“Your eye’s still swollen. What did Natasha have to say about it?”
Jack grinned. “She said it looked like I’d been talking when I should’ve been listening. I told her I was in a bar fight. She’s a doctor. For her a black eye isn’t worthy of any sympathy.”
“Have you ever considered that it might be time to slow down?”
“You mean doing things like monitoring smuggling methods, plagiarizing someone else’s work, and putting in reports? Perhaps filling in my evenings by learning French?” Jack snorted. “Oh, yeah, I’m giving it serious consideration.”
Laura frowned.
“Hey, I did confirm a new job for you, though.”
“You what? What did you do?” Laura demanded.
“Got you a job as a limo chauffeur for Friday. Booked Saturday, too, in case Friday doesn’t work out.”
“Oh.” Laura appeared to relax. “When did you set that up?”
“I met with the owner of the limo service Monday morning.”
“Jack, you were supposed to take time off and chill.”
“I’m fine. It only took an hour or so. The owner is as straight as they come. I flashed my badge, then told him we’d use our own person to act as a chauffeur because it was a dangerous undercover situation. He was more than willing to oblige. He’ll even supply you with a hat and jacket.”
“I’m sure I’ll look smashing,” Laura said lamely.
“I told him it may involve a dirty cop, so he’ll keep his mouth shut in the event he’s ever questioned.”
“Good.”
“I also confirmed with Sammy and Benny that they’re available.”
Laura appeared to think about it. “You never told me how you sucked them into this.”
“I didn’t suck them in. UC operators are like family. They phoned as soon as they heard about Satans Wrath showing up at my house and volunteered to do whatever was necessary. Got the same call from a retired operator, as well, but I think Sammy and Benny will be enough.”
Laura made a face. He caught it in his peripheral vision.
“What is it?”
“I’m just thinking that it’s quite the family we belong to.”
Jack shrugged. “Most of the professional bad guys know it. It’s what keeps us and our families alive. Their fear of what will happen to them if they cross that line.”
“Unfortunately Pure E hasn’t learned that lesson yet,” Laura said.
“He soon will.”
Laura nodded. “So … Friday. It doesn’t give us a lot of time to turn one hundred and twenty keys of coke into three tonnes.”
“We’ve got time. I told Rose we gave up on trying to find out where the three-three hide their bodies and are doing surveillance on some dealers who work for Satans Wrath. She’s not expecting to see us in the office. Once we pick up what we need this morning, it’ll only be a matter of slapping it together.”
“If this goes wrong, it’s you I’ll be slapping.”
Jack gave her a sideways glance. She sounds serious.
At noon Jack and Laura arrived back at Jack’s garage and unloaded the supplies.
Laura looked at the lumber, Styrofoam sheets, duct tape, and cellophane wrap. “So we’re to turn this into three tonnes of coke? I’ve never even swung a hammer.”
“No worries. Cutting the Styrofoam into rectangular bricks and building the framework is easy. The big job will be wrapping the bricks to look like kilos of coke.”
“How many do you think we’ll need? If it was real, we’d need three thousand.”
“I’ll build the framework so that someone sitting on the floor and viewing it from a corner will think the pile is ten kilos square and thirty kilos high.”
“And not realize they’re looking at an empty shell.”
“Exactly. The one hundred and twenty real kilos will go on top, but they’ll need to be rewrapped so that the cellophane matches. We’ll also need to make them appear to be interlocked to keep them from falling over, but I’ll run strips of double-sided tape to hold them in place. Still, we’ll need a double layer so there’s no chance of the wood frame showing.”
“So to answer my question?”
“Counting the one hundred and twenty to be rewrapped, we’ll need about twelve hundred. Maybe even a few more to put on top.”
“That’s a lot of wrapping.”
“Between the two of us, I figure we can wrap forty or fifty an hour. Thirty hours should do it. Maybe even less once Natasha comes home from work and pitches in.”
“And Mike and Steve? What will they think if they see it?”
“I trust them not to say anything, but still, I thought it wise to tell them the garage is temporarily off limits. They know enough not to ask questions.”
“They’re your sons. I’m sure you’re right.” After a moment she added, “They probably think you’ve got a body stashed in here.”
Jack shrugged. “Probably,” he replied.
Chapter Forty-Six
The weather in Vancouver was normal for the first week of December — wet. It was dark when Whiskey Jake wheeled his white Lexus into a stall on the third level of a parkade located within a block of the nightclub he and Pure E intended to visit.
Jack parked the van he was driving alongside the door to an alcove on the parkade’s second level. He grabbed his umbrella, then along with Sammy Crofton and Benny Saunders quickly bailed out. He wasn’t worried that he was parked illegally. He knew he’d be back shortly — with an unwilling passenger.
On entering the alcove, Jack phoned Laura. “We’re ready,” he whispered. “You got an eye on the ground-level stairwell and elevator?”
Laura had parked the stretch limo she was driving on the street below. “Yes, it’s clear.”
<
br /> Jack pressed the elevator button, then nodded at Sammy and Benny. The men donned masks and Jack opened the door to the stairwell so they could listen. Seconds later they heard their targets descending the stairs. “Forget the elevator,” Jack whispered. He then left Sammy and Benny where they were and hustled down the stairs.
Pure E decided to voice his annoyance when he saw someone with an open umbrella tilted toward them heading up the stairs from the first floor. Briefly he wondered if the person realized they were there, so he paused at a landing with Whiskey Jake to avoid a collision. “Hey you fuckin’ idiot. It’s not raining in here —”
The umbrella tilted back. “Da — hand on wall!”
Pure E gasped. The man, wearing a white plastic anarchist mask, pointed a pistol at them.
“Hand on wall,” the man repeated. “Quickly and we no kill you!”
We? Pure E glanced up the stairwell behind him. Two more men, both wearing anarchist masks, also pointed pistols at them. This isn’t a hit or we’d already be dead. The accent … Russian? Fuck, are we in conflict with them? I don’t even know any Russians.
“You think you can rob us?” Whiskey Jake snarled. “You got any idea who —”
“Shut the fuck up,” Pure E interjected. “Do as he says.”
“Da, do what I say,” Umbrella Man said. “We no rob you. Only take you for talk with boss.”
His boss? So, the Russian mob is in Vancouver.
Umbrella Man used the pistol barrel to motion toward the wall. “We search you. Hand on wall. Quick, quick!”
Seconds later Pure E stood spread-eagled against the wall alongside Whiskey Jake. They were both searched and relieved of their cellphones. Pure E felt relief when he saw them zip-tie Whiskey Jake’s hands behind his back and put a band of duct tape over his mouth. It helped confirm that they weren’t being killed.
Pure E felt the nudge of the pistol in his ribs, so he put his hands behind his back, expecting to receive similar treatment.
“No. Take jacket off,” Umbrella Man ordered. “Tie in front.”
Moments later Pure E had his hands zip-tied in front of him and his jacket was placed over his hands to hide the zip-tie from view. He listened as Umbrella Man made a phone call in Russian. When he was done, he looked at his two colleagues. “Khorosho. Nikto vokrug.” He then looked at Pure E. “I say good. Nobody outside. We take you for meet boss in car.”
Pure E held his temper when Umbrella Man grabbed him roughly by the arm and steered him toward the stairs. He saw that Whiskey Jake was being kept behind. “Isn’t he coming?”
“Only you meet boss,” Umbrella Man replied.
When they got to the street exit, Umbrella Man opened the door and pointed. A chauffeur with an open umbrella waited alongside a stretch limo with the rear door open. What the fuck! Who are these people?
“You go with him,” Umbrella Man said, indicating his accomplice. “You yell … you die,” he added.
Pure E found himself propelled toward the limo and pushed inside. His captor did not release his arm until he’d been shoved face down on a sofa in the midsection of the limo. His captor then sat on his back and zip-tied his ankles together before retreating to a seat in the rear.
“Hello, Mr. Evans,” a female voice said as the limo sped off. “You may sit up. Please … try to relax and make yourself comfortable.”
Pure E wriggled into a sitting position. The woman who spoke to him was sitting in the shadows near the front of the limo. Her Russian accent was thick, but her English was good. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Who I am is not important. Look at me as a translator. My associate apologizes that he couldn’t be here to greet you. Unfortunately he was called to an unscheduled meeting. We’re on our way to meet him. Hopefully he won’t be long.”
Pure E leaned forward, hoping to see her better. The limo’s overhead lights were off, but there was enough ambient light that he could make out an attractive woman wearing a full-length gown. A fancy mask covered her upper face and she had shoulder-length red hair. “What does your associate want with me?” he asked.
“Da … yes, what do we want with you? I will tell you.”
Pure E then noticed that she was holding a shot glass. She finished her drink in one gulp, then opened a bar and took out an additional glass and a bottle. He watched in silence as she filled both glasses, spilling a little as she did so. She then passed him a glass, which he had to accept with both hands.
“My associate wishes to offer you a business proposal. From what I know, it will be lucrative. Whether you accept his proposal or not … it will not affect, uh, your well-being. Either way you’ll be returned, so don’t worry.” She eyed him for a moment, then said, “Na zdorovie!” and shot the drink back. She then stared at him. “To your health! Drink!”
Pure E gulped the vodka back, after which she replenished it. Upon leaning back in her seat she said, “While you meet my associate, your friend, Mr. Jake Yevdokymenko, will be shown something in regards to the proposal. He will be allowed to call you later.”
“What? Whiskey Jake … what’re you showing him?”
“I think that information is best relayed to you by Mr. Yevdokymenko. Or do you prefer I call him Whiskey Jake?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Pure E mumbled. “Whiskey Jake, Lefty, Yevdoky … whatever.” They must’ve followed me from where I live to grab us in the parkade — and they know Whiskey Jake’s real name. He felt the bile rising in his throat and knew it wasn’t from the vodka.
“Ah, we’re here,” the woman announced, looking up at an office tower as the limo pulled to the curb. “I’ll call to let him know.”
Pure E made a mental note of where they had stopped. 409 Granville Street. He listened as the woman spoke Russian on her phone. Her voice sounded upset. She then looked over at him and said something in Russian. He stared at her blankly. “I don’t speak —”
“What about our reception with the Chinese ambassador?” she said, ignoring him as she spoke into her phone. I’m already dressed … oy …” The rest of her conversation continued in Russian, then she hung up.
Chinese ambassador? What the fuck? Who are these people? He saw the woman staring at him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You got mixed up and spoke to me in Russian. I don’t know what you said.”
“What I said was … we have a problem.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Whiskey Jake felt both fear and outrage when the man with the umbrella returned and grabbed his arm, then manhandled him up the stairwell to the second level of the parkade. Once there, the other man stepped outside the alcove and opened the side door to a van before returning and latching on to his other arm.
“You go inside van,” Umbrella Man said. “We take you and show you something.”
Whiskey Jake tried to voice his objection, but the tape prevented that. He was then hustled out of the alcove, but froze when he reached the outside of the van, instinctively reacting to the fear of where he was being taken … and what would happen to him.
His hesitation was short-lived. Umbrella Man grabbed him by the back of the collar and kicked the back of his knee. His body automatically sagged and he was shoved face down onto the floor of the van. He tried to squirm but the man sat on his back. The other man shoved his legs inside and slid the door shut.
As the van drove away, a cloth bag was pulled over his head, then duct-taped around his neck. Any hope he had of escaping or being able to see was gone.
“I sit on you, but we no go far,” Umbrella Man said.
There was no more talking and Whiskey Jake figured they’d been driving for about forty minutes before the van came to a stop. He’d long since given up trying to remember the turns and traffic stops the van had made since his abduction. This time, however, he heard the sound of a garage door opening and the van pulled inside.
The
man sitting on him said something in Russian and he heard the driver acknowledge with “Da.”
After the garage door closed, he was rolled onto his back. “Do not make trouble or you die.” As added incentive, he felt the muzzle of the pistol through the cloth bag on the tip of his nose.
He was then hauled out of the van and forced to sit on the floor. The tape was cut from around his neck and the bag removed from his head. He blinked several times to adjust to the light while Umbrella Man checked his hands, which were still zip-tied behind his back.
He was sitting on the floor of a two-car garage. The van was to his back and in front of him was what he thought was another car covered in a tarp. There was little else in the garage, so he focused on the two men wearing anarchist masks standing over him. The man who’d previously carried the umbrella was holding a hunting knife and slapping the blade against his hand as he stared down at him. Oh, fuck.
“Okay. We show you,” the man said, then shoved the knife in his belt.
He used it to cut the tape from around my neck — thank Christ. Okay, don’t act like a pussy and let the club down. I’m a president for fuck’s sake.
The man then tore the strip of tape off his mouth.
Whiskey Jake did his best to sound defiant. “So? What the fuck do you wanna show me?”
“Da, don’t move.” The man nodded to his partner, then they took latex gloves from their pockets and put them on.
Latex gloves? That’s what the three-three do before killin’ someone. His fear subsided when he watched them pull the tarp back — then his mouth fell open. Mother of God! That ain’t no car! Fuck, I don’t believe it! How many keys do they have? He counted rows and then did the math. Ten square … thirty high … fuck … that’s three thousand keys!
The man withdrew the hunting knife from his belt, then picked up a kilo brick from the top of the pile and knelt down beside him. He then shoved the tip of the blade into the kilo and withdrew a small amount of sparkling white powder. “Cocaine is pure. You want try?” he asked, holding the knife tip under Whiskey Jake’s nose.
