The Assassin's list

by Scott Matthews

  At the next intersection, Kaamil turned left onto the one-way Oak Street. Midway down the block, he pulled into an open space in front of a restaurant called Taco Del Mar. It was the only open space on the block. The only thing Drake could do was drive around the block and hope to catch sight of them, or find somewhere to watch Kaamil’s car until he returned to it. Either way, he’d come too far to lose the man now.

  Drake drove back to Second Street, then an extra block down State Street and tried again to find a place to park on Oak Street. Every parking space was full on both sides of the street. It was looking like finding somewhere to watch Kaamil’s car was his only option, when a pickup pulled out from the last space on the left side of the street. Drake quickly pulled into the vacated space and searched for Kaamil or his passenger. He couldn’t see either man, but he did have a clear view of Kaamil’s black roadster parked on the other side of the street in front of the restaurant.

  Tourists moved up and down both sides of the street, in and out of the sport shops and T-shirt emporiums. Drake noticed some of them checking out sandwich board menus displayed in front of several of the street’s restaurants. That had to be where Kaamil went, he thought, taking his Latino friend to lunch. There were three restaurants he could see, but only one offered him a full view of its occupants. Taco Del Mar was an unpretentious fish taco stand with a counter along the back and wooden picnic tables scattered throughout the seating area. The front of the restaurant was open, with a pull-down overhead door to close up at night.

  Two of the first tables were occupied by young couples wearing short wetsuits turned down to the waist and T-shirts. A couple of families took up another three tables, with the adults at one table and the kids at the other two. At the last table in the rear, two men sat with bottles of beer in front of them. Kaamil had his back to the street, leaning across the table to talk with his passenger, who sat facing toward the street. The man still had his sunglasses on, but Drake again had the feeling that he knew the man somehow.

  He was tempted to use the binoculars he’d brought along, but decided it might attract too much attention from some passerby. Instead, he dug out Kay’s digital camera from the center console and switched it on. He focused the zoom lens on Kaamil’s car. When its image was clear, he set the camera on the dash and flipped out the side LCD screen. He could see Kaamil’s table clearly without having to hold the camera.

  Drake sat back in his seat and watched the two men. They were still talking and drinking their beer when a waitress brought two plates of tacos to their table. Kaamil didn’t acknowledge the waitress, but his passenger removed his sunglasses and smiled broadly, saying something that made the young woman laugh. With his sunglasses off, there was no question in Drake’s mind where he’d met the laughing Latino. He had convicted the man of meth production and distribution, the attempted murder of a prostitute, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer. He was surprised Roberto Valencia was out of prison. He had been sentenced to fifteen years, and even with good behavior, should still be behind bars.

  Young Valencia was the son of Armando Valencia, one of the drug-smuggling kingpins operating out of Mexico. Armando had been a top lieutenant of Amado Carrilo Fuentes, when El Jefe died accidentally after a botched plastic surgery operation in 1997. Armando moved aggressively out on his own, and was soon moving tons of drugs from Columbia through Mexico into the United States. He was also the first to recognize the tremendous profit potential in manufacturing and distributing methamphetamine in large quantities, along smuggling routes already established for other drugs.

  Meth, produced in sophisticated super-labs capable of turning out enough for sales of $750,000 to a million dollars a day, soon became Armando’s largest income producer. When the super-labs were targeted by the DEA and frequently raided, Armando used his Mexican gangs to smuggle the meth and allowed others to take the risk of production.

  Armando’s son, Roberto, was born in California, the first child of his first wife. Armando had a habit, however, of marrying the prettiest girl wherever he lived. He remained faithful until the police were too close to capturing him. Then he moved on. Each time he settled down after escaping capture, he celebrated his freedom by starting over, with a new wife.

  After Roberto graduated high school in Los Angeles, he tracked his father down in Mexico and told him he wanted to learn the family business. Four years later, Armando sent his son to the Northwest to oversee his meth network there. That’s when Drake met the young man. He had been arrested for trying to kill a prostitute who failed to please him. Further investigation connected him to a number of other crimes, including the sale of methamphetamine. Drake convicted him of attempted murder and assorted drug charges.

  That was five years ago. Drake saw Roberto had lost his youthful appearance, but he still had style. Even in jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the wrist, his heavy gold chain and gold Rolex made him look like a rich playboy. What he and Kaamil had in common, Drake could only imagine. Whatever it was, he doubted it was legal.

  ~~~

  Kaamil wasn’t a huge fan of Mexican food, but Roberto loved fish tacos. Roberto said it reminded him of growing up in Los Angeles. So, they ate fish tacos. Roberto was too valuable to their plan to upset.

  “Are you ready?” Kaamil asked, drinking a little of his Corona.

  “Don’t worry, enjoy your taco. I know the routines of the security guards, and their families. My men have even been in their homes. My men will do what I tell them.”

  Kaamil watched Roberto carefully. He wasn’t concerned about Roberto. The man would put a bullet between the eyes of any man in his gang who disobeyed him. Behind the good looks and quick smile was a man who enjoyed inflicting pain and killing people, especially young women. Kaamil had buried enough of them at the ISIS ranch, as a favor for Roberto, to know. He was concerned about Roberto’s men. They were the ones who had to blackmail the targeted security personnel, and maintain control of them when their families were taken hostage.

  “Do they understand there can’t be any witnesses, not even children? We’ll have to leave the country if there’s anyone left to identify us.”

  Roberto finished his second taco and lifted his Corona to his mouth, running the rim of it back and forth over his lips. Kaamil thought his eyes looked like the eyes of a rattlesnake, unblinking and deadly.

  “What is it you’re worried about, Kaamil? Are you worried my men won’t get your guys in, or that your young martyrs will chicken out? Decide Paradise isn’t worth dying for?” Roberto said, with a sneer. “You would do better to worry about your own men.”

  Kaamil forced himself to remain calm. He thought, when this is over, I’ll kill you myself. What could you ever know about dying for a righteous reason? The only god you’re willing to die for is money, or maybe good sex. That’s why we will win, Roberto, that’s why we will win.

  “Oh, I do worry about my men, Roberto. I worry their sacrifice will be wasted if you let me down. If you do, I will have to kill all of you. That’s just my worry. I need to get back to Portland. You need to get to the ranch and make sure everything is prepared for Malik’s arrival tomorrow. If you let him down, make peace with your god, you won’t live another day.

  Chapter 23

  While the two men were busy eating, Drake called his secretary.

  “Mr. Drake’s law office. He’s not practicing law this week, he’s out pretending he’s Superman. May I help you?”

  Drake suppressed a smile. “You know you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the Superman thing. If it’ll make you feel better, this is all on the clock, so there’s a possibility you’ll be paid this month. Is your husband there by any chance?”

  “Just one moment please,” she said, mimicking a receptionist at the D.A.’s office they used to joke about.

  Drake knew she used humor to cover her feelings. He imagined this time those feelings were probably anxiety and fear. He had to stop thinking he was the on
ly one involved in what was happening. Margo was more than his legal assistant. She and her husband were friends.

  “Afternoon, Adam. Margo tells me you’re in Hood River. What’s up?” Paul asked.

  Drake pictured him standing ramrod straight next to his wife’s desk, with his square jaw clenched, waiting for an answer.

  “Sounds like I have some fences to mend when I get back.”

  “She’s worried about you. We both are. She’s not used to guys gunning for you and hanging around the office. She wasn’t exposed to that, even when she worked for you in the D.A.’s office,” Paul reminded him.

  “Paul, I’m sorry. I had no idea this was going to turn out this way. Margo told you, I followed Kaamil, the ISIS manager, to Hood River this morning. Well, I’m watching him have lunch with someone you may remember, Roberto Valencia.”

  “Sure, I remember the punk,” Paul said, after a moment. “Young Mexican drug dealer, son of that Mexican cartel leader. I thought he was still in prison. What’s he doing with the ISIS guy?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m not getting warm fuzzies, watching these two breaking bread together. Valencia’s sentence was fifteen years. Can you find out when he was released and what his parole officer says he’s supposed to be doing? I saw him come out of an old yellow warehouse here in Hood River, down on Portway Avenue. Maybe someone in the department knows someone up here who can tell us who owns the building. Don’t tell them why you’re interested. Valencia may have bought some friends here.”

  “I’ll make some calls. If things take a turn, let us know what’s happening, or Margo says don’t come back. I guess she means she wants you to keep in touch,” Paul said.

  “Tell her I promise.”

  Drake focused again on the two men. When Valencia turned toward the street, to watch two young women in cutoffs and bikini tops walk by, he took two quick pictures of his leering face. Both men then got up and strolled toward Kaamil’s black roadster.

  Before the two got there, Paul called back.

  “Valencia was released six months ago. Good behavior apparently means you get ten years off your sentence. His parole officer thinks he fled to Mexico, only reported in once. The warehouse you had me check belongs to ISIS, according to the Hood River PD.”

  “What a surprise, Kaamil’s in business with Valencia.”

  “Well, there’s more. The warehouse is leased to a farm supply company. One of its key customers is a ten-thousand-acre ranch that ISIS owns and uses as a regional training facility.”

  Strange that an international company like ISIS would locate a training facility in such a remote area, Drake thought. Even stranger that it had connections to a known drug smuggler.

  “Paul, I have to go. Kaamil’s leaving with Valencia. Find out as much as you can about this training facility and call me back.”

  Drake watched the roadster pull away from the curb and followed in the Land Rover. Kaamil turned right at the light on North Second Street and retraced his route back to the old warehouse. There, he pulled through the gate and let Roberto out. Kaamil didn’t get out of his car, and as soon as Valencio entered the warehouse, made a U-turn and drove back out of the fenced warehouse yard.

  At the Expo Center where he’d parked again, Drake decided to stick with Kaamil. He knew about the warehouse. Now it was time to see what else Kaamil was doing in Hood River. As he started to pull out, he saw a yellow Hummer H2 drive out of the warehouse from the delivery bay.

  Drake hung back until the Hummer drove by. He could see both cars ahead of him and hoped they were both going the same way. That hope didn’t survive for more than a minute. Kaamil pulled onto the I-84 ramp back to Portland. Valencia continued on to Hood River.

  Now what, he thought. Follow Valencia and see what he’s up to, or stay with Kaamil. As much as he wanted to stay with Kaamil, his instinct told him to follow Valencia. Besides, Valencia was making it easy for him, driving the biggest SUV you could buy, painted bright yellow.

  Valencia turned onto I-84 headed east, and then took the exit for Hwy. 35 heading south toward Mount Hood. Drake hung back a hundred yards or so as the highway passed through the outskirts of Hood River and then became a two-lane highway running through farmland. The twists and turns of the winding road interfered with his line of sight at times, but he was able to stay close enough to catch occasional glimpses of the yellow Hummer.

  Leaning down until his nose almost touched the steering wheel, he could see the snow-capped peak of Mount Hood rising above, dominating the skyline through his windshield. From his farm, he could watch the distant peak turn pink with a good sunset. When you were near the mountain’s base, it dwarfed everything around it.

  Before they reached the small town of Mount Hood, maybe ten miles from Hood River, the Hummer’s brake lights flashed. Drake was two hundred yards behind when it turned left, off the highway. As he passed by, he saw a manned security gate, a twelve-foot cyclone fence with a barbed wire crown stretching out on both sides of the gate, and an enclosed guardhouse. Next to the cement and river rock guardhouse, an elegant sign made of black lava rock with brass letters announced the location of the ISIS Pacific Northwest Regional Training Facility. Admittance was by appointment only. Before the gate disappeared from view, Drake watched in his rear view mirror as the Hummer was waived through.

  He drove on until he saw a gravel road where he was able to turn around. Before he pulled back onto the highway, he called his office. Paul answered.

  “Glad you’re still there. This is really starting to smell. Kaamil headed back to Portland, so I followed Valencia. He drove south of Hood River, and right into a restricted area operated by ISIS, their Northwest Regional Training Facility. Security guard, cyclone fence, the works. Valencia was waived right through. You ever heard of the place?”

  “No, but if they’re hiding something there, they’re smart enough to keep under our radar. I was able to find out that the Hood River PD does a lot of their training there. It has a practical firing range, a shooting house that simulates real urban situations and a tactical driving course. We’ve never used them, but a lot of the smaller police departments do,” Paul answered.

  What’s going on, Drake wondered. ISIS trains cops but lets a convicted felon drive right in with a wave of his hand. He rubbed his face for a moment, then turned to look down the road toward the ISIS facility.

  “Okay, find out whatever you can about this training facility. Anything else on Valencia?”

  “Nothing new, but I generated a lot of questions about why I wanted to know as soon as I started asking around. My guess is there must be a current investigation under way. Guys who were always straight with me got real vague when I asked for specifics. Pissed me off, to tell the truth. The guys I called owe me. One of them asked if I was making inquiries on your behalf.”

  Drake was quiet for a moment. The Secret Service must have enlisted the help of the FBI, and details of the attack on his farm had gotten out. He’d have to see if Liz Strobel could keep a lid on things a little longer.

  “I can’t get involved in a criminal investigation right now. If you’re asked what you know, say it’s all privileged, attorney-client work product, that you’re helping me on your off-duty time, okay?”

  “I will,” Paul said, “but I’m not sure I like it. Margo works for you, and you know we’ll do anything we can to help. But I can’t put my job on the line.”

  Drake heard the concern in his voice and understood it for what it was.

  “Paul, I won’t ask you to do anything that puts your job in jeopardy. I’m not paying Margo enough to support you both. I’ll make sure you and Margo are kept out of it.”

  Drake stared in the direction of the ISIS front gate after he ended his call. He was promising the two people he was closest to that there wouldn’t be unintended consequences that involved them. There were always unintended consequences. The only thing he could think of to prevent there being too many was to find out what was behind the secur
ity gate down the road.

  Chapter 24

  Roberto Valencia was still fuming as he drove through the gate at the ISIS Regional Training Facility. Having to pimp for wannabe black jihadists and bringing in young women to pose as virgins, for a taste of Paradise, was bad enough. Having to suffer the condescending manner of Kaamil was more than he could stand.

  If his father hadn’t ordered him to cooperate with these Muslim clowns, he would have killed the first one of them to disrespect him. He knew their kind. He saw them in prison, getting special privileges, eating special food, having special prayer time. They even got special shower privileges, so they could shower without being seen by other inmates. If he’d had his way, his prison gang would have shanked all blacks hiding behind their prison-found religion.

  But, business was business. The Middle Eastern jihadists controlled a lot of the drug supply his father’s cartel moved into America. Meth wasn’t the only thing that made them money. Heroin was still popular, and the terrorist presence in South America was starting to limit the number of cocaine suppliers. If he had to put up with fools who wanted to take over the world, so be it, as long as they kept him in business.

  He did have to give them credit, he thought, driving along the paved road leading to the heart of the training facility. The old cattle ranch had been turned into a first-class operation. The two-story red brick operations center, with its state-of-the-art communication capabilities, was one of the finest facilities of its kind. There was a firing range, a one-thousand-yard-long sniper range and a shooting house for live-fire practice. It also had a landing strip, long enough for private jets, a dormitory and a military-style mess hall.

  Pulling up in front of the operations center, Valencia smiled at the clever deception of the place. In addition to its legitimate purpose training ISIS personnel and selected others, ISIS had a secret underground facility. It was used to train and house its own cadre of terrorists. That’s where he was headed, to make sure everything was prepared for a last supper for the three men starring in next week’s attack.