The Yakuza Gambit Page 21

  Kayla moved toward the frightened girl. “Let us help you.”

  Huan was misunderstood Kayla’s intention or was just too afraid to cooperate. She screamed.

  “No. No, don’t,” Tara said. “We really can help you.”

  Huan continued to shriek. And did she have a set of lungs on her.

  Tara pulled her gun and backed away from the door.

  Huan backed into the corner and squatted down, cowering. She began banging on the wall.

  Seconds later the bedroom door burst open.

  Li Qiang, the big, beefy Asian man in the dark suit from the hallway filled the open doorway. His expression a twist mask of anger and determination. In English, he growled, “What is going on in here?”

  Kayla looked from the man, who looked ready to rip them to pieces, to Tara. “What do we do now?”

  Tara said, “Improvise.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  While the ladies were dealing with Kwon’s underling in a brothel in Boston, McMurphy began his efforts to validate Flanagan’s assertion LaSala was working on buying a large shipment of drugs by arranging a visit with an old friend.

  To say Robert Duckett didn’t want to speak to him was an understatement.

  It took three messages left on his cellphone, and a threat to visit him at work for Robbie to finally agree to meet with him. If his old friend thought a two-and-a-half-hour drive up to Maine’s Boothbay Harbor would deter him, Robbie didn’t know the man McMurphy had become.

  Nightfall comes early in New England in the winter. It was only around five in the evening when McMurphy pulled his black Hummer into a parking space on the east side of the Boothbay Harbor Footbridge but already the sky had deepened to a dark purple as the setting sun turned a ribbon of low floating clouds fiery red.

  He twisted the ignition key, shutting off the engine, and tossed his Ray-Bans onto the dashboard before grabbing a couple of cold bottles of Sam Adams from a cooler he’d put in the passenger seat.

  The man he’d come to meet was already at the thousand foot long footbridge that spanned the harbor, connecting the east and west sides of the town from McKown Street to Atlantic Avenue. He leaned on the weathered wood railing looking out over the working harbor, wore a brown Carhartt coat, and a dark baseball cap. He had his back to McMurphy.

  Gulls circled overhead and cawed, hopeful McMurphy had brought food. A buoy bell clanged. The dusk-to-dawn photosensitive lights on Rowe’s Wharf were starting to come on.

  Duckett turned when he heard McMurphy step up on the wooden boards of the bridge. The man was as wide in the shoulders as McMurphy but not nearly as tall. The spitting image of his late father, Robbie reminded McMurphy of a fire hydrant; short, squat, and impossible to budge.

  “Ducks.” McMurphy handed him a bottle. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Mac.” Duckett accepted the beer. No one called him Mac anymore, not since he’d earned his Skyjack nickname. But he and Ducks hadn’t seen each other in a long time.

  Duckett leaned against the railing. “You didn’t give me much choice.”

  “I didn’t want to be so heavy handed, but a man’s life is at stake.”

  “Yeah, well, being seen with you, puts my life at risk,” He took a sip of his beer. “How’d you find me anyway?”

  “These days I’ve got friends in high places.”

  Those friends were the Secretary of Department of Homeland Security’s Chief of Staff and through him the special agent in charge of the New England Division of the DEA.

  A car pulled into the parking lot behind them. Robbie alerted like a hunting dog. He pulled the bill of his cap low over his eyes and watched, not relaxing again until a young couple climbed out of the ten-year-old Honda and went arm-in-arm into the Harborside Tavern, laughing and kissing, without a second glance toward McMurphy and Duckett.

  “Let’s walk,” Duckett said.

  They strolled along the footbridge. A tugboat horn tooted over the rhythmic clang of a metal clip banging against a flagpole. When they’d reached the middle of the bridge, they stopped again, drank, and watched the last of the fishing boats returning to harbor.

  McMurphy and Duckett had grown up together in South Boston, thick as thieves. Robbie’s dad, Bobby Ducks as he was known to everyone in the neighborhood had been a lieutenant for LaSala’s old man. Back in the bad old days as McMurphy now thought of them. Paddy was an up and coming enforcer at the time, working under Eddie Byrne, the captain of the Irish gang.

  Robbie and McMurphy hung together, drinking, chasing girls, and doing some low-level numbers running in the neighborhood. Getting indoctrinated into the life, even giving the occasional beat down to some gambler or loan shark mark who’d been late paying their vig.

  The summer they turned eighteen, life changed for them both. Bobby Ducks disappeared for three day. He remained missing while the neighborhood was abuzz with rumors of abandonment and infidelity until his bullet-ridden body turned up in a shallow grave in the White Mountain region of New Hampshire.

  Law enforcement believed he’d been plotting with three other LaSala underlings to take out Vinnie LaSala after the senior LaSala went to prison. A hit for his part of the uprising mounted against Vinnie Knuckles to keep him from taking over for his father.

  The others three men were never seen or heard from again. Bobby Ducks’ killer was never brought to justice.

  After the funeral, McMurphy and Robbie needed to get away. Clear their heads. They drove out to Cape Cod where they spent the next few weeks surfing, drinking, and doing a lot of soul searching. Sitting on the beach, watching some particularly beautiful sunsets in the western sky and seeing no good options in their future, the two decided to join the military.

  The Coast Guard for McMurphy. Robbie chose the Marines.

  That weekend had been the last time McMurphy had seen or spoken to Robbie. Until now.

  After two tours, Robbie returned to Boston and joined the DEA. For the last five years, he’d been deep undercover, working as a longshoreman at the Ocean Gate Container Terminal in South Boston. McMurphy had learned years ago what Robbie was doing but he never reached out to him before. Aware the dangers of doing so.

  That was what McMurphy told himself, and while, it was true. It wasn’t the whole truth.

  McMurphy didn’t think he could face his old friend. He had reason to suspect Paddy Flanagan had been behind the hits of the three mobsters and Bobby Ducks, but he could never prove it. Instead, he carried that guilt, the burden of his father’s sins, and distanced himself from every aspect of his past. The bad and the good.

  But if anyone had the information he needed regarding shipments of drugs into Boston, it would be Robbie Duckett. And if nothing else, Ducks was a man he could trust.

  A strong wind sent a chill down McMurphy’s neck. He hunched against the breeze, hunkering down into the camouflaged anorak he wore. He put his beer bottle on the rail and plunged his hands into his coat pockets.

  “Tell me what you want so I can get out of here,” Duckett said.

  “I’ve heard Vinnie LaSala’s making arrangements to drug buy, possibly from a South American cartel, a crap ton of drugs. I need to know if it’s true, and if so, when and where.”

  Duckett stared at him with his mouth open. “Where the hell’d you hear that? This a Coast Guard thing?”

  McMurphy hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  Duckett took a sip of beer and turned his back to a sudden brisk breeze. “What then? Where are you getting this?”

  “Paddy.”

  “Oh, Christ, Mac. I can’t be talking to you.” He started to walk away.

  McMurphy hooked his arm. “Ducks, a man is being held, probably being tortured right now. He’ll be dead soon if you don’t help me.”

  “And you’re talking with one of the top three mobsters in New England.” He lowered his voice. “I’m DEA for Christ’s sakes.”

  “Paddy pulled me in,” McMurphy said. “At gunpoint. I haven’t seen…spo
ken to him in over five years. Until today.”

  “Why not? Why now?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Uncomplicate it,” he said, angry. “You’re putting my life at risk. Asking me to compromise years’ worth of investigative effort. You need to be straight with me or I’m walking.”

  “A man was killed a couple of days ago. His body washed up on Hampton Beach. A bullet in the head. Now his friend’s being held, being tortured, by Toi Kwon.”

  “Kwon, too,” Duckett said. “This just keeps getting better and better.”

  “I’m trying to do something good here, Ducks. I’m working with some people. I think we can do some good here. With your help.”

  Duckett returned his gaze to the harbor. He drank his beer. “This ain’t Coast Guard business?”

  “No.”

  Duckett sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “LaSala? Who’s his supplier? Have you heard anything about a big score? A shipment? Where or when it might happen?”

  “We’ve heard some things,” Duckett said, letting the statement hang.

  “Go on…” McMurphy encouraged.

  Duckett sighed. “There’s been talk, chatter, of something big going down. And we hear it has to do with LaSala. It involves Rafael Solis.”

  “The head of the Boyacá Cartel,” McMurphy said. “They’re not that big a fish.” At Duckett surprised expression, McMurphy said, “I’m still a Coastie, Ducks. You don’t work interdiction all these years and not know something about the players involved.”

  “Guess not,” Duckett said. “But your intel’s a bit last year.”

  McMurphy shrugged. “I’m rusty.”

  Duckett finished his beer. “I doubt that. Anyway, Rafael’s been expanding his operation for years. Taking over bits and pieces from other cartels, by force in some cases. Word is he wants to be the premier drug supplier for the New England market.”

  “He’s cozying up with LaSala.”

  Duckett nodded. “The thinking is, if he can single-handedly supply New England, he’ll catch the eye of the New York families. After that, the skies the limit.”

  “So, this is happening.”

  Duckett shrugged. “All we know is there’s talk about it. Sounds like you have more of a heads up than we do.”

  “I know LaSala’s been building up his rainy-day cash fund for weeks now, primarily by knocking off small businesses, mainly check cashing operations, in and around Boston.”

  “Cash cows. But can’t be near enough to buy the weight we’re hearing about,” Duckett said.

  “No. We think there’s a cash upfront component to the deal. And now LaSala’s developed a money problem recently.”

  “What kind of money problem?”

  “His money man, an accountant named Billy Palmer, is the guy Kwon snatched. Kwon’s holding Palmer, and thus LaSala’s access to his money, for hostage. His way of forcing a bigger seat at the table for the Yakuza.”

  “And start a gang war in the process,” Duckett said. “How do you know all this? You’re not getting this kind of intel from sharing a few pints of Guinness with your old man.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with Paddy,” McMurphy said, downing the last of his own beer. “Ever. If this were just between Kwon and LaSala, I’d say good riddance to the both of them, but it’s not. Like you say, this could be a prelude to a three-way gang war—because make no mistake, Paddy won’t be sitting idly on the sidelines—the number of innocent people who could get caught in the crossfire, I don’t even want to think about.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “A shipment that size has got to be coming in through the docks, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “How?”

  “Same as always, Mac. Shipping containers filled with something to mask the smell from the drug dogs, bleached containers, vacuum packed packages, false walls, small decoy shipments to distract from the mother lodes coming in. Even after 9/11, we’re still only able to inspect less than ten percent of the containers that come in. Halfway decent forged papers, a few greased palms, and the poison’s in and hitting the streets.”

  “This should be happening soon, in the next few days. You’ve gotta have more than chatter.”

  “Come on, man. We’re running operations, sure. But you’re talking about putting months of work, manpower, people in harm’s way, I can’t—”

  “I can find out,” McMurphy said. “It’s how I found you.”

  “Then get it from them,” Duckett snapped.

  Duckett didn’t know what connections McMurphy had only that he had found him. He was very deep undercover, so he knew that took some juice.

  “I don’t have time for the red tape, Ducks. Besides, me asking a lot of questions, stumbling around blind? LaSala, Paddy, they’ve got eyes everywhere. Paddy told me as much. That’ll be riskier than anything you tell me here.”

  “I’m not worried about what I tell you. I’m concerned about what you’re going to do with it.”

  “Well, it’s true. I’ve got a plan. And there’s something else.”

  Duckett rolled his eyes. “There always is.”

  “I need someone on the inside, on the ground. Someone I trust. I need you.”

  Duckett took his time mulling McMurphy’s words over.

  Finally, he said, “I can tell you this. Yeah, we’ve heard about a big deal going down. We don’t know if the shipment’s arrived yet or simply on its way.”

  “I need everything you have.”

  “No, Mac.” Duckett shook his head. “I won’t risk Solis slipping through our hands for some off the book puddle pirate operation.”

  That took McMurphy back. “Back up, Ducks. Solis. He’s actually going to be here?”

  Duckett realized he said to much. “That’s the word we’re getting. But, Mac, you’ve got to stay clear of this.”

  “That makes this huge, Ducks. I need to know. Everything.” McMurphy could barely contain his excitement. Their plan could net them yet another big fish. “We can shut this down. All of it. But you need to trust me. Tell me everything you’ve got. For old time sake.”

  Duckett frowned. “Damn you, Mac.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Back in Boston, Li Qiang filled the doorway of the brothel. He puffed up his chest and pulled his shoulders back, looking every bit like a wrestler ready to do battle in the ring. Kayla stood with an arm around Huan’s shoulders, not in a threatening manner, but a protective one. Confusion colored the large Asian man’s expression when he caught the sight of Tara’s gun pointed at his head.

  “Knew you two were trouble,” he said.

  “You have no idea,” Tara said. “You armed, big guy?”

  He unsnapped the single button holding his suit jacket closed. The jacket hung open.

  “Easy,” Tara warned.

  The bouncer pulled a small, silver automatic from his waistband, pinching the grip between his sausage-like forefinger and thumb. He held it out.

  Tara had no intention of making a grab for the gun and risking him grabbing her instead. “Toss it on the bed.”

  The man’s eyes darted toward the bed, but he threw the gun at Tara.

  She ducked, avoiding getting hit in the face by the flung weapon.

  It was only a second’s distraction, but enough for the bouncer to advance on her, sweep his catcher’s mitt-like hand, and swat Tara’s gun hand away. She held onto the weapon, barely.

  He charged at her like a bull, surprisingly fast for his size. He slammed his shoulder into Tara’s stomach, lifting her off the floor. He propelled her backward and smashed her into the wall so hard it rocked the building.

  The impact drove the breath from her lungs. The sheetrock behind her cratered. Her teeth snapped closed on her tongue. She tasted blood as she slammed the butt of her gun into the man’s back, more than once.

  As far as she could tell, a mosquito’s sting would have had a greater effect.

&nbs
p; Luckily, Tara wasn’t alone.

  Kayla moved away from Huan, leaving the young, frightened girl to cower in the corner of the room. She drew her Sig Sauer. She didn’t call out. She didn’t hesitate. She fired a round into Li Qiang’s knee, blowing it out with a spray of blood.

  He cried out, grabbed his leg, and dropped to the floor clutching the shattered knee, blood spurting out from under his hands. He growled in agony. Tara tumbled along the wall, trying to catch her breath, gasping, as putting distance between herself and her attacker.

  Breathless and bent over, she said, “Thanks.”

  “Now what?” Kayla asked.

  “Cover him.” She pointed at Li Qiang.

  Tara moved toward the open door, keeping clear of Li Qiang squirming on the floor in pain.

  She heard the girls screaming from the front room. Frightened by the gunfire, they were undoubtedly running for the door and corridor beyond. A thin Asian man, armed, with slicked back hair in a dark, well-tailored suit ran into the room. “What is it? What is going on?”

  Tara grab him by his tie—a nice, thin, black number—and pull him forward. She shoved him face first into the open door, holding him there with her gun pressed against the back of his head.

  “Yong! Help me,” Huan called out. “I said nothing to them. I swear.”

  “Drop it,” she said, indicating his gun.

  He did.

  “You’re Yong Wang?” Tara asked. He didn’t reply. She shook him. “Answer me!”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  Two more armed men rushed down the hallway, crowding each other in the tight space. Tara made sure they saw the gun she held at the man’s head. They skidded to a stop.

  “Tell them to drop their weapons.” She shoved him painfully against the door again. “Do it!”

  Yong Wang rattled off half a dozen Chinese phrases. Tara understood enough to know he was doing what she told him to do: order his men to stand down. The men lowered their weapons, but stood their ground.

  “Now tell them to scram.”

  Wang did as he was told. The men exchanged unhappy looks but withdrew from the hall, retreating to the front room. There they disappeared around the corner. Tara knew they’d remain there, waiting.