by Van Torrey
“Let’s just say that I am a consultant for them,” replied Chance Lyon. “My partner and I occasionally work on special projects for Mr. Wheatley and his organization.”
“Yes, I see,” answered Leon, guardedly.
Chance withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to Senor Leon who immediately read it.
Dear Mr. Leon-
Please allow me to introduce my colleague Mr. Monroe.
Mr. Monroe is a trusted associate with whom I share a mutual interest. Any cooperation you can give him would be sincerely appreciated. Best regards, Clayton Graham
The undated letter, of course, was prearranged code between the two law enforcement professionals requesting that Leon assist Lyon in determining the possible location of the men in question and then allowing them to carry out their sanction with no interference from local or federal authorities. If the letter were to be intercepted, there would be no connection made between the individuals or their respective agencies.
After Lyon returned to the Westin he found a package waiting. He took the package to his room, and he called Olyphant to join him. Senor Leon had told Chance to expect a package, so there was no hesitation in opening it. Inside were two very used Glock 9mm handguns with several clips of ammunition, some hypodermic syringes containing what Chance suspected was a physically disabling chemical, two counterfeit Federal police identification cards with headshot pictures of Lyon and Olyphant, who looked very menacing with his black eye patch and black mustache, and the keys to an older Chevrolet van parked by the docks. Aside from their guile and physical capabilities, these were the tools that would enable them to do their job.
Olyphant repeatedly worked the actions of both handguns and thought out loud. “I see that the serial numbers of both have been ground off. I can only imagine the provenance of these guns. I bet if they could talk they would spin quite a yarn. I wonder how many rounds have gone through them and into what.”
“Leon told me to sit tight for a couple of days, Blackie, while he works his sources. This is a tourist place to be sure, but Pakistanis ought to stand out here like a sore thumb. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”
That same day Olyphant went down to the docks and sought out one of the less prosperous looking deep sea charter boats and asked to speak with the captain.
In fluent Spanish he made his request. “My friend and I want to exclusively charter your boat for the next ten days. We will pay you cash up front at twice your daily rate, plus a deposit equal to the value of your boat. We are experienced boat handlers and wish to fish on our own each day. To prove we can handle the boat you can take us out this afternoon and show us the details of this craft. If you are satisfied with our skills, we can make the deal. Remember, this is cash in U.S. dollars.” Lyon and Olyphant were counting on breaking this case within ten days, but since they were working on a “plus expenses” basis, there was little danger they would forfeit their investment.
The skipper, Senor Ortiz, was skeptical but the lure of the cash and the macho nature of the man of questionable nationality convinced him to agree. Two hours later, the three men were cruising three miles off the city of Puerto Vallarta, drinking Mexican beer, and bonding as three fishermen might do.
“What will you be fishing for, my friends?” asked Ortiz.
“Sharks. We love fishing for sharks,” answered Olyphant cheerfully. “We cut off the fins and sell them to the Japanese to make shark fin soup.”
“Well, you have come to the right place, friends,” answered the Captain. “There are many sharks in these waters.”
“How do you attract them in quantity?” asked Olyphant.
“We use the time-tested method, senor. Chum made up from the entrails of fish and other slaughtered animals. The combination of chum and baitfish soon brings swarms of hungry sharks to the wake of the boat. I have even seen fishermen shoot and wound sharks to increase the feeding frenzy, but guns are very rare in Mexico, except for the Police and the Army.”
Satisfied that the men he was with had the necessary skills to handle his boat, the Captain suggested they return to the dock. He was looking forward to taking a few days off now that he had secured several days of chartering requiring no effort on his part. As they neared his dock Captain Ortiz took one final precaution and asked Olyphant casually what they did as professionals. His eyes widened when Olyphant and Lyon produced the PFM national police credentials that Leon had prepared for them. “Captain, please do not disclose to anyone that we have chartered your boat, we have official business that is not to be discussed.”
“Of course, senor, but of course!” responded the thoroughly cowed skipper, visibly impressed by the official credentials.
Four days went by with Chance and Olyphant relaxing with the substantial amenities of the Westin resort but no news from Leon of the PFM. Late Thursday, the fifth day of their mission, Chance received a message from the desk captain indicating there was a sealed envelope waiting for him. True to the secret nature of their visit and clandestine cooperation of Leon, he had eschewed telephone contact and left a written message.
Monroe-
Your party may be found attending Friday prayers at a Mosque on the southern outskirts of PV. There is a social-hour after and they will leave together in an older brown Toyota truck with license 45-ETS-32. They drive down Avenida Simon Bolivar and turn on Obregon, then onto a dirt road three streets after. It should be very dark there. When you are done, leave the van where you found it. I don’t need the other items back. Good fishing! Leon
True to Leon’s prediction, Lyon and Olyphant easily spotted the Toyota truck at the mosque during Friday prayers and waited patiently for the three Pakistanis to depart after the social-hour as it grew dark. “Okay, Blackie, it’s show time. Let’s give a little payback for Rachel Hunter and her friend.”
Just as the truck turned off Obregon Street onto the deserted dirt road, Olyphant pulled the van closely behind the Toyota and Chance turned on the flashing red light that would indicate the van as a police vehicle. The Toyota slowly came to a stop and both Americans exited going to separate sides of the truck. Although it had been many months, Olyphant’s mind flashed back to that gritty night in Iran when a wayward gunshot had spared his life but made him pay with an eye. He vowed not to let that happen again, here on a dark dirt road in Mexico.
Blackie Olyphant and Chance Lyon both donned their night vision devices and switched them to day mode as the Toyota still had its headlights on. Lyon advanced to the driver’s side as Olyphant quickly moved to the front of the parked Toyota vehicle. As he stood illuminated by the headlights, he pulled his Glock and aimed it in an intimidating fashion toward the three men in the cab of truck. Chance and Blackie held up their badges for the Pakistanis to see, and Lyon leaned his head down to the driver saying, “Buenas noches, motherfuckers, you are under arrest! Kill the lights or you will die right now.”
As the startled driver shut off the headlights the scene was plunged into total darkness to the Pakistanis, but became illuminated in an eerie green visual field when Lyon and Olyphant switched their NODs to night mode.
One by one the bewildered Pakistanis were removed from the truck. Olyphant marched each man to the van and he plunged a syringe into his arm. Each Pakistani quickly passed out from the sleep-inducing narcotic in the syringe. In just a few moments the three men were stacked in the back of the van like so much cordwood, secured with duct tape and industrial ty-wraps.
In drug violence-plagued Mexico, the three men could easily have been executed on the spot by Chance and Blackie, who could be well on their way back to the United States before the bodies were found and identified. But mindful of Wheatley’s request for the deaths of the three men to be made more dramatic and, in doing so, sending a message to any future terrorist wannabes, Lyon had further plans for the Pakistanis. “You assholes are not going to get off that easy,” he said to no one in particular.
*
Earlier in the
day Lyon and Blackie had sat under an umbrella at an isolated area of the expansive hotel pool and planned their snatch-and-grab operation for late that night in detail. “The easy thing would be to kill them on the road and just leave them in the van to rot,” offered Blackie, “but that would be too easy. It probably wouldn’t make the desired impression Wheatley wants to make.”
Lyon was drinking a Modelo beer and looking out over the boat docks across the street as if deep in thought. At six-one and 195 lean pounds he looked every bit the athlete that working as a SEAL warrior for the past few years had honed him into. Chance Lyon was in his late twenties now, normally a time when a combination of youth, confidence, and optimism for the future made for a cheerful and exuberant countenance on the part of many young men. Such cheerfulness had long since left both of these men, but this loss was much more evident in Lyon. The continuous combat operations in Afghanistan punctuated by close killing of many Taliban warriors, the terrorist murder of his first love that the FBI had traced back to her simply being associated with him when he was in the USA, his two neurosurgeries to fix combat related wounds, and finally, his near death experience after being shot as the leader of a SEAL team taking down a freighter carrying uranium processing centrifuges to Iran in the Arabian Sea, had stripped all the joy away from Lyon’s soul. In the best of times he frequently looked dark and sinister to those in his presence. To his family he was sometimes unapproachable, taking pleasure only in strenuous exercise, while working his body to the edge of physical exhaustion in order to maintain his competitive edge. With his few friends, all of whom were military special operations veterans, he would simply sit and drink quietly and take comfort in communication with those who had survived the horrors of close combat and lost many colleagues in the process. The unsaid question among them in those moments was always, “Why someone else, why not me?”
“No, I want to make an example of these assholes, Blackie. If they went to trial in the States they would be treated like victims themselves, and maybe even get off, given how the courts are, particularly in California. We’ve got an opportunity to make a statement in the only language these creep-o’s understood, violence. I think you and I know a thing or two about that,” said Chance darkly.
“You call the tune Chance,” responded Blackie in genial agreement. “I’m just here to go fishing.”
“The only challenge will be to get a school of sharks following the boat,” mused Chance softly. “Without the sharks, throwing them overboard will only serve to drown them. Very little drama there, unless you’re the one drowning,” he said mirthlessly. “No we‘ve gotta have the sharks. That movie, Jaws, scared the shit out of me.”
“If you want sharks the way to get them is chum,” answered Blackie. “The boat owner said it’s guaranteed!”
“Chum?” responded Lyon.
“Yeah, a combination of fish or animal blood and guts mixed with live bait fish will have those fuckers jumping over the transom into the boat. When we get a bunch of them cruising in our wake getting all worked up like a bunch of horny frat boys at a boondocker with some college girls, we’ll throw the first raghead over the stern. When the others see what the sharks do to their bro, they’ll shit their britches. I’ll video it with my phone and we can post it on the Fishing With Terrorists Facebook page. I doubt that will get many Likes from any followers.”
“Blackie, you’re a genius...a twisted genius, but a genius nonetheless,” assessed Lyon with mock cheerfulness. “You remind me of that crackpot leader of the TV show, ‘The A Team,’ who always said, “I love it when a plan comes together.””
“Yeah, I doubt that even Wheatley would sign off on this plan,” said Blackie under his breath.
*
On their way to the mosque Chance and Blackie had gone to a livestock rendering facility and filled three five-gallon buckets with fresh entrails. After taking the buckets of offal to the boat they also filled the bait tank with live bait fish in preparation of their final disposition of the Pakistani assassins.
Lyon and Olyphant had waited until late in the night when they knew the boat docks would be deserted and drove the van to the dock where the chartered boat was moored, stern first, to the dock. In ten minutes, Chance and Blackie dragged the drugged out Pakistanis, covered in blankets, out of the van and transferred into the fishing boat where they lay on the stern deck, unaware of their final fate at the hands of their tormentors. At three a.m. Blackie slipped the chartered vessel away from the dock accompanied by Chance Lyon and three former assassins who were about to receive their gruesome justice.
As the sun began to rise, the fishing boat piloted by Blackie Olyphant was bobbing in a calm Pacific ocean approximately 20 miles off the coast of Puerto Vallarta. The drugged Pakistanis began to awake from their stupor and were confounded by a trilogy of sensations they could not understand. They were bound hand and foot with strong industrial ty-wraps which prevented them from making any significant independent movement. The prisoners had the sensation of being on the deck of a boat pitching in some type of open water environment while looking at two sinister looking men wearing ski masks over their faces, making it impossible to see who their tormentors were. This was a genuinely fearsome experience to wake up to as evidenced by the Pakistani’s terrified demeanor as they tried to orient themselves while they gradually regained consciousness from some unknown prior event.
As Lyon busied himself with preparing the bait and scanning the nearby waters with binoculars looking for other boats, Blackie glanced down at the Pakistanis. At once he felt a brief moment of revulsion and pity for the men. Compared to Blackie and Lyon they were slight of build and one was barely out of his teens. Although they were technically classified as students on their visas, they were essentially ignorant stooges of some absent handler who was using them for purposes they did not completely understand. Unlike the men he had faced in combat, Blackie felt no respect for these stateless rats that had shot and killed from cowardly ambush two unwary civilians they didn’t even know. They were terrorists, pure and simple, and were about to be dealt with summarily, without benefit of any respect. I’ve had my share of nightmares, but I won’t lose any sleep from offing these pigs, thought Blackie as he turned his attention back to piloting the boat.
*
As Olyphant filmed the scene with the camera of his cell phone, Chance went from each man asking about the attempted murder of Rachel Hunter in San Francisco nearly a month ago. “Which one of you assholes was the triggerman for this ambush?” seethed Lyon through his balaclava as he hunkered down in front of the three sweating men lying helpless on the deck. At first the men denied their participation, but as Chance confronted them with the evidence of their guilt their collective looks of denial turned to fear, which was tantamount to a confession. “If you provide us with details about the persons who were directing your activities your lives will be spared and we will return you to Mexico where you will be able to survive,” lied Chance Lyon, knowing their fate had been sealed two weeks ago in Washington, D.C. After a short period of obligatory waffling in denial, the eldest of the group, Muhammad, sensed his moment was now and appealed to Chance for relief from his restraints so he could rise to speak. “Please let me stand and I will tell you what you want to know,” he said.
“Free his legs, Blackie, I guess he wants to shit standing up,” barked Lyon with a smirk of victory.
“I am the leader, but I only told the others what to do. Therefore I am innocent,” whined Muhammad with a burst of twisted logic. “The boy here was the driver and this other man, who Muhammad pointed to with his foot, actually shot the people. He should be punished, but set the boy and me free because we cooperated with you.”
The shooter identified by Muhammad shrieked in objection to Muhammad’s treacherous indictment, and violently writhed against his restraints, sputtering epithets in Pashto as his eyes danced with rage at Muhammad. The young boy could only look on at the others in bewilderment, fearful of his eventual
fate.
“Your logic is sound,” said Lyon with a patronizing glance. “Provide us with details of the other men who support you and we can conclude our business like gentlemen.” Blackie could only roll his eyes with the knowledge that Lyon was bullshitting Muhammed into making a pathetically traitorous confession that would be his final humiliation before dying a coward’s death.
Muhammad began to provide a wealth of information including names, whereabouts, aliases, and cell phone numbers of the three captive’s Pakistani handlers in the United States who had been directing their activities for the past two years. Such information would be worth way more to the FBI than the price Chance Lyon and John Olyphant would be paid for this operation.
After thirty minutes Muhammad began to repeat himself and struggled to recall additional details relating to the terrorist cell that controlled the activities of the three men. Chance concluded that he had wrung out as much information as possible, giving a confirming nod to Blackie.
As Olyphant accelerated the boat to trolling speed, Lyon dragged a bucket of the putrid animal entrails to the side of the boat, lifted it and dumped the contents over the stern into the surging wake. As sharks began to swarm back of the boat he poured a bucket of live baitfish over the stern to sweeten the pot for the voracious sharks. He turned his glance to the three frightened men and saw panic wash over their sweating faces as they struggled against their restraints. Chance then declared a death sentence to the Pakistanis and told them they would soon be making their pilgrimage to the reward that Allah had in store for them with one intervening step. As the helpless men watched in terror, Chance began to spill the contents of the second bucket containing animal entrails over the stern of the trolling boat. “What is this?” shouted Muhammad. “Why are you attracting these sharks? You said we would be released if I gave you the information you wanted?”
