Danger Beyond Intrigue: Volume One

by H. L. Valdez

  "Are you dead yet?" She screamed suddenly, looking down at the groaning thief.

  "Spear!" She shouted, extending her arm, quickly being handed the weapon.

  "Time to die!" She shrieked, plunging the point deep into the suffering thief's throat. Mumbling, she backed away from the nail riddled mutilated body as the tribesmen picked up the bleeding man and tossed him into the fire.

  "Second self! Spirit power! Second self! Spirit power!" the Shaman chanted, communicating with the after-life, dancing around the fire as Sasha vanished into the darkness.

  "Second self! Spirit power!" The tribesmen vocalized in unison, as the helpless thief twitched and twisted moaning in the flames of death.

  From behind scattered clouds, a setting sun was radiating golden streams of light as Sasha patiently sat at the table, sipping beer, waiting to implement her urgent, yet, simple plan. Becoming self-conscious, she paused, setting the beer down. Sitting up and removing her sunglasses, she listened attentively. Not a breath of wind stirred. Turning, she noticed a thick-netted spider web suspended in a tree. A spider, the size of a small hand, lightly crept onto the web toward a variety of defenseless small insects trapped in their web of conflict. The grisly sight gave Sasha the shivers as she turned, picked up the binoculars, and walked to the cliff’s edge. Scanning the white sandy beach, she spotted two men in wet suits jumping off a boat into the deep blue sea, each carrying two black snappers.

  "It's them," she whispered, anxiously watching the men traverse the seashore rocks, making their way toward the long steep trail leading up to the courtyard.

  "I know it’s them," she said, her heart racing with anticipation. Her left eye twitched impatiently, watching the men struggle along the trail. Over hotel speakers, People, by Barbara Streisand played. Intoxicated businessmen were leaving for the day and were shielding their eyes from the glittering sunset as they staggered down the circuitous tree lined path to idling tour busses in the nearby parking lot.

  Twilight arrived as the two divers reached the top of the steep dirt path, carrying fish, but no scuba gear. At her table, drinking beer from a half-quart bottle, she watched the men from the corner of her eye. Pausing, the divers lit cigarettes, suspiciously assessing the crowd. Sasha turned her head as the shifting breeze blew wafts of billowing barbecue smoke into the crowd. Closing her eyes, images of her father appeared as she thought of his forceful character and gentle heart. Sasha loved her father and missed him deeply; he was honest and never hid his feelings or fears.

  "Don't hold back," he would say. "To get along in life you must be able to predict the responses of other people," she remembered his gentle voice encouraging her. She recalled being seven years old traveling with her father to conduct business with heroin producers in Kobe, where the Japanese Empire in its conquest of East Asia, had acquired much of the opium, heroin, and morphine business. She also traveled to Shanghai and Los Angeles, where Japanese men were drawn to the narcotics trade.

  As the breeze reversed, Sasha opened her eyes watching the two divers toss their cigarettes and begin maneuvering through the crowded courtyard. While sipping her beer, the men glanced at her in passing. Standing, she tucked the binoculars in her duffel bag. Putting on her sunglasses, she followed them from a discreet distance down the curving gradient, while gathering and twisting her hair into a bun. Amused, she watched husky wild cats with knobby tails, jump from the bushes and begin meowing while following the scent of the large black snappers.

  "Get down!" The diver yelled kicking the meowing cat as it clawed the fat snapper.

  "Get out of here!" He shouted kicking another cat as it hung to the pungent fish.

  "You beast," he said, struggling with another portly cat clinging to the fish, as the diver lugged both cat and fish in a tug-of-war over the tasty snapper. Hiding behind dense shrubbery, Sasha watched them struggling with the cats as they unlocked the car trunk, and remove a small square package of heroin from a snapper’s belly. The unruly, brawny, hungry cat’s meowed standing on their hind legs, stretching to look inside the trunk as the divers placed the fish in the trunk, and then began the tedious task of removing their wet suits.

  "Leave!" A diver yelled, punching a cat on the head. Changing positions, Sasha moved briskly, withdrawing her silencer equipped, 9mm gold plated pistol. Carefully aiming her weapon with her arm extended, she quietly walked toward the men. Startled, one of the divers stood frozen in fear, staring at her and the weapon as she approached.

  "Don't stop! Pull your suits off!" She ordered, cocking her weapon as one man stood smirking indignantly, ignoring her command.

  "Adios tough guy," she said, firing two silencer-hushed bullets into his head, splattering blood on the other diver.

  "That should take the grin off your face," she smiled as the impact knocked him back into the open trunk.

  "Don't shoot, don't shoot." The diver pleaded, hurriedly tugging off his wet suit as Sasha rushed to him.

  "Let's play hide and seek," she grumbled, kicking him fiercely in the groin with the steel pointed toe of her motorcycle boot. "That's for hitting the cats," she sneered, as the diver groaned, doubled over in pain, falling to the pavement.

  "Get on your feet," she ordered, kicking him in the chest with a loud thud. "I hate multiple layers of suppliers; better get on your feet," she warned, kicking him again.

  "I can't," he grimaced in pain. Sasha took careful aim and with one shot grazed his arm, wounding him into reality.

  "I said get on your feet," she ordered, smacking his face with the pistol. Grabbing the car's bumper, he slowly stood up, staring inside the trunk.

  "Take a good look. Now put his legs in the trunk," she ordered, pushing the pistol into his ear. Grimacing in pain, with hands shaking, and blood leaking from his arm and face, he lifted the body.

  "Now spread your legs wide apart and slump into the trunk," she ordered calmly as he reluctantly positioned himself into the trunk with the pistol barrel in his ear.

  "Can you hear me?" She shouted slapping his head with the pistol, and then pulled a watertight heroin brick from the stomach of a fish. "Can you read?" She asked.

  “Yes.” He mumbled, shaking his head yes.

  "I hope you can see the 'S' and the number four on this package?" She shouted holding the brown wax encased package to his face then whacked his head again with the pistol.

  “I see it, I see it.”

  “The 'S' stands for Sasha, and that's me. The four means this junk is 99 percent pure," she told him. "Who gave you my heroin?" She demanded, stepping back, kicking him in the groin from the rear. Groaning, he slithered against the car shaking his head no. Whacking him again on the head, she searched the trunk and found his wallet as he gripped the car, quivering uncontrollably.

  "Either you tell me, or your wife, and kids tell me," she threatened, holding his driver’s license in front of his face.

  “Are you good at decision making," she asked, as he shook his swollen head yes.

  "Good. Now stand up. Close the trunk, give those fish to the cats, and let's go for a ride," she ordered, holding the pistol to the base of his spine backing him up slowly.

  "Now just glide yourself into the driver’s seat," she said quietly, guiding him into the front seat as she entered the back seat of the four-door luxury limousine.

  "Now let's drive to your delivery point," she ordered, as they looked into each other’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

  Driving on the narrow seaside road, the car slowly zigzagged its way down the curvy mountain. Sasha admiring the quaint ambiance of the fishing villages stared at the houses built from light, porous, volcanic stones dotting the coastline. With each passing mile the scenery was gradually turning into larger resort towns with row upon row of gaudy souvenir shops, amusement arcades, ramen shops, and small dimly lit love hotels. As blood oozed from his arm and head, soaking the car seat, Sasha looked into the rear view mirror watching the diver's dark eyes move in response to the oncoming traffic. Holding her
pistol at the ready, the drive to downtown Tokyo was traveled in silence. With her senses on automatic, she reflected on the troubles within her organization and the forces creating this situation. The driver meanwhile, was frantically thinking of escaping, jumping out of the car was his first thought. Negotiations seemed a distant option. Crashing the car was another idea. Yelling for help seemed a feeble move. Thoughts of his wife and daughter riddled his mind with anguish. Desperation and hopelessness rattled his wits. The sum of his choices was death.

  Three Hours Later

  Arriving in the exclusive Ginza area of the neon-lit city, they parked near an old Chinese restaurant. Sitting quietly, they realized the moment of truth had arrived.

  "Time to get out of the car."

  "I can't. I can't go up there," he said reluctantly.

  "Is he alone?"

  "It's Sunday, the restaurant closes early. He's waiting for me," he said, wiping blood from his forehead.

  "So what's your next move?"

  "I don't know! I don't know!" He replied shaking his head.

  "Are you afraid of failure?"

  "I'm afraid of dying," he answered holding his bleeding arm.

  "It's a horse on you ain't it?" She said smiling, staring into each other's eyes through the rear view mirror. "But we all cling to life with a deep sense of fragility," Sasha asserted indifferently, staring into the heaviness of his brown eyes, pressing the gun barrel against the back seat.

  "I want to cheat death," he said, fearful for his life. "Can you forget about this and let me go? You'll never see me again." He pleaded desperately. “I can work for you," he said weakly, negotiating for his life.

  "You over-pushed your cause amigo. You have too many self serving priorities," she replied, looking into his tearful eyes.

  "Who gave you my heroin?" She asked, holding her revolver against the seat.

  “I’m a delivery boy. That’s all.” He said listening to his heart beat go wild.

  “I don’t understand how you got my heroin?”

  “If I tell you, you need to let me go,” he pleaded, as they remained silent for several moments.

  “Who are they?”

  "Okay, I'll tell you," he said, hoping to be set free. "Two U.S. Army doctors in Saigon were from a Special Operations Forces Outpost in Vietnam. They ambushed a mule caravan on the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. They wanted quick cash."

  “How did you meet them?”

  “Through a courier friend of mine.” He said trembling

  “So you’re all just couriers?”

  “Yes, that’s it, I’m just a mule.” He answered, pressing his fists to the sides of his head.

  "Give me their names," she ordered softly, staring into his eyes through the mirror.

  "Richard Rose and Karl Messner," he said with a sigh of relief, gripping the door handle, preparing to leave.

  “How do you know their names?”

  “Servicemen wounded in Vietnam are sent to Tokyo for medical assistance. I work in the Army hospital at Sagamiono, near Camp Zama. “My friend is in the Army stationed at the Army hospital,” he stated, looking at her through the rear view mirror.

  “And then?”

  “These two doctors came from Vietnam with a group of wounded soldiers; they worked out a deal with an American soldier working in the pharmacy. He’s a Nisei, a second generation Japanese-American. I work in the pharmacy too. That’s all I know.”

  “What’s his name?” She asked, beginning to disassociate into her second-self, her pathological self, devoid of feelings, and compassion.

  “His name is Lieutenant Tom Ugawa,” he said, licking his lips, swallowing his dripping blood.

  “How did the two Army guys from Special Operations get involved?”

  “They were introduced by a Vietnamese government official working with an Army Intel unit. Besides, I write everyone’s name down that I meet.”

  “Do you have the list on you?”

  “Yes, you can have it, it’s yours,” he said. “It’s in my wallet.” He said, his hands trembling, searching for the paper.

  “You’ve been helpful,” she smiled, detached from the here and now, sitting composed, staring at him stoically.

  “I kept my part of the bargain,” he suggested sheepishly, clutching the door handle, with a sense of relief.

  “You forgot something.”

  “What?” He uttered, breathing heavy, looking into her eyes.

  “I have a souvenir for you,” she chuckled, squeezing the trigger, blowing a hole through his heart, violently slamming his chest against the steering wheel, blasting the horn. Lunging at his slumped body, she grabbed his hair pulling him across the front seat. Pressing the weapon to his temple, she pulled the trigger. Searching his body, she found another contact list inside a small phone book.

  Checking her surroundings, she paused in the back seat, watching blood from the front seat ooze onto the back floorboard. Sasha’s second self was in control, preparing for the next kill. After unraveling her hair and brushing it, she blotted oil from her face with small tissues, and then reloaded her pistol while watching the restaurant. Leaving the car carrying four bricks of heroin in her bag, she walked up the dimly lit stairs of the restaurant, then turned staring at the car. Peering through the many small windows of the door, she pushed on the handle of the locked door. Studying the room, she knocked three times. Waiting a few moments, she knocked again. From across the room she saw a light reflecting from a door slowly opening. A heavy set man paused, then impatiently walked toward the entrance, squinting to recognize her unfamiliar face.

  "We're closed!" he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

  "I know! But I need a job."

  "We're not hiring. We don't need help," he said straining to see, moving closer to the door.

  "May I leave my name? Who knows, you might need help someday," she answered with a friendly sensuous smile.

  "Come back tomorrow," he sneered, shooing her away while admiring her face.

  "I have to teach English all day," she answered with an eager smile. "Let me at least give you my calling card," she said with a look of innocence as he admired her charm, warm smile, and beauty. After another moment of hesitation and uncertainty, he unlocked the front door.

  "Make it quick," he said opening the door and deeply inhaling her perfume.

  "Well...step in, step in," he muttered, moving backwards as she smiled looking inside her shoulder bag. Pulling a brick of heroin from the bag, she dropped it on the floor.

  "What's this?" He squealed in disbelief, stepping back, staring at the heroin.

  "It's my calling card,” she said, dropping another brick. "I wanted to deliver my product in person. It's what you've been waiting for isn't it?" She blurted, as he stared at the heroin. In an instant, she pulled her pistol from the bag and shot him once in the left shoulder, sending shock waves through his body.

  "Are you crazy?” he gasped, shuffling back.

  “Yes, I am crazy!”

  “This is a mistake. I don't know anything!" He shouted in agony grabbing his left shoulder. In a breath, she shot him carefully in the right leg watching him crumple to the floor in pain.

  "Now, since you’re down there, take a good look at that junk. My initial is on them!" She said firmly as he lay bleeding next to the bricks of heroin. "Talk or die, who's you're buyer?" She demanded patiently looking down at him detached, void of sentiments.

  "This stuff isn't mine, leave me alone!" He shouted, mentally disorganized, writhing in pain, holding his bleeding thigh with his left hand and his shoulder with his right hand. “If you kill me, you might as well kill yourself. My people will find you.” He laughed in defiance.

  "You can give lessons in manliness amigo," she replied, grinning. "How much longer do you want to be in pain?" She questioned, watching him, laugh.

  "You leave with nothing!" He yelled with a pained expression, spitting at her. Sasha paused, coldly staring at him as her second-self and altered ide
ntity took control with the psychological indifference needed to murder another human being.

  "I'm sending you back to hell, tough-guy," she stated softly, shooting him twice in the face, sending his head slamming backward against the floor.

  Quickly picking up the heroin, she walked back to the cramped office reeking of stale cigarette smoke. The messy office was visually disturbing to Sasha as she pushed aside a glass of bourbon, leftover cold tea, a half-eaten bowl of noodles and a smoldering cigarette burning in an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. As she searched the room, the telephone rang. Undisturbed, she sifted through papers on the untidy desk, looking for any clue. The phone continued to ring as she opened each desk drawer moving clutter side-to-side. Pausing, she thought for a moment as her eyes searched for something out of the ordinary. There, on top of a filing cabinet, a small engraved gold Chinese box sat by itself free from clutter. The phone continued to ring as she opened the lid and discovered a small book filled with coded numbers and Chinese writing. Stuffing the book into her bag, she methodically studied the room while making her exit. Leaving the seedy office, she stared down at the rotund man’s bleeding face, and then stepped over him. Slamming the front door shut, she paused at the top of the landing, cautiously studying her surroundings. Quickly moving down the stairs, she glanced over at the limousine, while making her way to the underground Ginza subway station. Sasha was confident in her abilities to manage field operations; she enjoyed being in the field. Vietnam was next.

  “I’ll get those special operations bastards, and that weasel Vietnamese official,” she promised herself. “I’ll resolve this,” she groused, nimbly descending the long subway stairs.