“Let’s cut through the bullshit, shall we, DeWayne?” she said. “Or should I call you ‘Juan Carlos’? I believe that’s how your business associates know you.
“Just for the record, if you sign a contract for termination, we are required to wait three days to give you a chance to change your mind. But I’m licensed to kill—and if I decide you’re a problem, I can put a bullet in your head right now.”
Technically, that was a stretch. Per the Ferry’s non-compete agreement with LifeEnders, Lisa or Mark could terminate anyone on the spot if the person in question threatened them or otherwise interfered with their operations on the premises. That, of course, applied to clients and prospects—‘invitees,’ in legal terminology. Trespassers were fair game anytime. Samson wasn’t really interfering with their operation; he was just asking them to do something that violated their own corporate charter and their agreement with LEI—fake his own death.
“I’d rather not shoot you,” she said, “because then we don’t get paid, and you get your ‘Ferry ride’ for free. But you thought you’d get out of this alive, didn’t you? So let’s talk about reality—not fairy tales about dear old granny and pipe dreams about sneaking off to some third-world country with your millions.
“Truth is, you’re not terminally ill, you don’t have a living grandmother—or any other immediate family. That hold on your passport has been ordered by the L.A. County District Attorney’s office, while they put together the case they need to convict you of murder…among other things. Would you like to deny any of that?”
Samson relaxed a bit, and some of his color returned as he realized she wasn’t going to shoot him—yet—but he didn’t smile. Nor did he offer a word of protest. After a moment of silence, Lisa continued.
“You, Mr. Samson, are a cockroach. No…worse than that, you’re a blood-sucking tick. You made your millions off the misery of others. To begin with, you were just a pimp. You seduced naive young girls, got them hooked on drugs, and turned them out onto the streets to make money for you. You also dealt in drugs but were smart enough never to use them yourself.
“But that wasn’t enough for you. The drug business was dangerous, and the girls were a pain to work with. Besides, they only lasted so long before they died of an overdose or from beatings administered by their customers—or sometimes by you if they didn’t bring in enough money. So you decided to move up into the big time—human trafficking.
“You thought that was a great business. All you had to do was find a nice-looking young girl and seduce her—or grab her by force if seduction didn’t work. Then you could knock her out with drugs and transport her to your contacts in Mexico. No problem there—everybody looks for traffic going the other way across the border. Nobody cares much about what goes south. Hey, you could even sell off girls from your stable if they gave you trouble or weren’t producing well enough.
“You got paid immediately—big money, compared to small-time drug dealing and prostitution. The girl woke up a few days later in some oil-rich sheik’s harem in Dubai…or maybe found herself the latest sex toy of some Nicaraguan drug lord. That’s what was supposed to happen to Rose Yi, wasn’t it?”
The look of horror on Samson’s face had gotten progressively more intense, and finally he couldn’t contain himself.
“How do you know all that! You couldn’t possibly…You…” He fumbled to a halt, not knowing what else to say.
“I do know all that, and more,” she told him grimly.
Once again, Lisa was amazed by the amount of information the report from NorthStar Investigations had produced. If the DA’s office used NorthStar, this bastard would already be in jail. Of course, they weren’t cheap, but they had saved Charon’s Ferry from many a sticky situation. In this case, they had tipped Mark and Lisa off to the fact that Samson had a lot of hidden money and had provided detailed information about how he’d acquired it.
“You got word that the aforementioned drug lord was looking for a new toy. He likes Asian girls, and he likes them young…as in pre-teen. He needed a new one because he’d used up all the old ones. His toys rarely live to reach sweet sixteen.”
And NorthStar identified him as well, Lisa thought. We’ll pass that on to LifeEnders—they occasionally remove vermin pro bono. Might want to send a Shooter down to Nicaragua.
“You couldn’t go to Chinatown—the Triads wouldn’t like it, and you’d never get out alive. Over in Koreatown, they’d probably be a bit more subtle about it—drop some money on LifeEnders and have you whacked in some other part of town. But then you found sweet little 12-year-old Rose Yi—Korean extraction, but living in a prosperous, mixed-ethnic Los Angeles neighborhood where you used to pick up girls years ago. Perfect.
“Only it didn’t go as planned. Maybe too much sleepy juice, maybe just the gag and bag over her head—anyway, she died in the truck on the way to Mexico. Your transport guy panicked and dumped her in a landfill near the Tijuana tunnels—north of the border, where she was found three days later.
“Your guy didn’t cover his tracks very well. Wouldn’t have mattered if he’d made it through and dumped her in Mexico, but he didn’t. So now he’s been taken and is singing for his life. Won’t matter, he’s a dead man anyway—he just doesn’t know it yet.
“They’d have taken you into custody already, but he never knew your real identity—he only dealt with ‘Juan Carlos’ when he worked for you. The prosecutors will figure it out eventually. Their investigators aren’t as good as mine, but they’re not stupid. Your days are numbered.”
It was comfortably cool in the Ferry’s offices, but DeWayne Samson was sweating. Lisa put the Glock down on the desk, close to her hand and with its muzzle pointing at him. He realized he would have to jump out of the chair and lunge forward to grab it, and—judging by the swift motion with which she had produced it in the first place—he figured his chance of success was poor to zero.
“As I see it, DeWayne, there are four possible outcomes,” she told him.
“First of all, the DA’s office might get their act together, in which case you’ll get a visit from law enforcement, and they’ll haul you off to jail. Given the crimes they’ll charge you with and the amount of money you have, they’ll convince a judge to refuse bail, and you’ll be in a cell until trial.
“At that point, they’ll have enough to get you life-plus-20 without parole, so you can figure on spending a long time in prison. Might not be as long as you think, though, since the gangs inside the prisons don’t think much of people like you. Guards might find you some day in the shower with your balls cut off and a homemade shank stuck between your ribs.
“Of course, you might survive if you can convince some gang’s top dog that you’d make a good bitch…or maybe a community bitch for the whole gang. Then you’ll get to know what life was like for the girls in your stable.
“But that’s not the worst possibility. We all know how secure and secret the DA’s investigations are—just watch the evening news for the latest leaks. Maybe some well-to-do relative of one of the girls you sold south will get word of it and they’ll drop a wad of cash on LifeEnders. Their Shooters don’t like people like you, either, so they might go out of their way to send a message with their hit to anybody who might think of taking over your business after you’re gone.
“That message would probably involve castration by 12-gauge shotgun, followed by a six-pack—you know, knees, ankles, elbows—to leave you helpless. Then they’d put one through your liver and leave you there. It might take you 10 minutes to bleed out, but it would feel more like 10 hours.”
Lisa watch Samson squirm in his chair. But nobody’s put a contract on him yet. If they had, I wouldn’t be talking to him. Again, per their agreement, Mark and Lisa had access to LEI’s active contract list—and were not allowed to take on a client already on that list. So far, Samson wasn’t on it.
“But that’s still not the outcome you’re really afraid of, is it?” she said, coldly. “Because by n
ow, having watched all the news reports that came out after the body was discovered, you know who little Rose Yi really was—the youngest daughter of the reigning patriarch of the Sambok gang.
“Nasty bunch, the Samboks—members of an elite military unit who defected from North Korea a few years ago and came here for asylum. They tried to set up shop in Koreatown but ran into the same problem you would have—lots of upstanding citizens with money to spend on LifeEnders contracts—so they moved to a more easily intimidated neighborhood, the one where you found little Rose.
“As I said, a nasty bunch, and we’ve had dealings with them in the past. I had to shoot one of them with this gun,” she waved a hand at the Glock, “while he was sitting in that same chair you’re in right now.
“The last guy who messed with the Samboks took days to die—at least that’s what the coroner estimated. They skinned him alive, one strip of skin at a time—after they removed his private parts and cut out his tongue so they wouldn’t have to listen to him screaming. They also got creative with hot irons, corrosive chemicals, a few other things—it took a DNA sample to identify the victim, and that guy was just somebody who crossed them in a business deal. Imagine what they’d do to somebody who killed the boss’s little girl.
“And I’m sure you’ve figured out they’ve put a bounty on you as well. The DA may not have his case together yet, but your Mexican contacts know who you are, and they’ll gleefully hand you over to the Samboks and collect that bounty—hey, it’s only business. But that’s why you can’t just quietly sneak across the border and disappear that way.
“If I were you, I’d be hoping the DA or LifeEnders got to me before the Samboks do. But that brings us to Door Number Four—the one you almost slammed shut a minute or so ago by suggesting I do something stupid like help you fake your own death. We do real death here at the Ferry. There’s nothing fake about it.”
Lisa picked up the gun again, stroked it lovingly, then set it down, closer to her and no longer pointing at him.
“My inclination is to just throw you out of here, then pass the word to the Samboks that you’re the one they’re looking for. We could start a pool here in the office as to how long it will take them to catch you.
“That, however, would not serve the Ferry’s corporate interests…so I’m going to offer you one more chance.” She turned to her screen and made a change to the prepared contract.
“I’ll give you that quick and relatively painless termination we talked about—no frills, no special services—for two million dollars, payable today. Of course, you’ll still need to survive the mandatory waiting period, and since we don’t do terminations on Mondays, that would mean you’d have to be back on Tuesday morning to complete the process.”
Samson’s jaw had dropped when she’d named the price. A few minutes ago, they’d been talking about a termination for $250,000. He’d been prepared to offer up to a million for the fake death scenario, but he’d expected to survive with money to spare.
“That’s ridiculous—two million dollars just to put me to sleep permanently? That’s…extortion. It’s totally out of the question.”
“You have the money—” she shrugged, “—and one way or another, you won’t have a use for it much longer. You’ll still have enough to party to the limit for the next few days. I can recommend a number of charities that will be happy to receive what’s left.”
“Look…” his voice held a note of desperation. “I’m willing to pay a lot more than that if we could just talk about that arrangement I mentioned…”
“Don’t even think about it,” Lisa told him, picking up the Glock again. “We don’t play that game. The price is now three million, and the offer expires in 30 seconds.”
Mark had been explaining to Sparkle the fine points of maintaining a six-story building when two closely spaced chimes called his attention to his screen. The first announced the arrival of a signed contract for review. The second was a message from his bank regarding a new deposit to the Ferry’s receivables account—one that exceeded the notification threshold he had set.
It didn’t require any action from him, it was just for information, but when he saw the amount, his eyes went wide. He immediately opened the new contract and scrolled down to the financial section.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Mama Dragon really squeezed blood out of that stone!”
He scrolled back up to the ‘Services Included’ section of the contract and found nothing but a basic termination. Knowing what they knew about Samson, Mark had not expected Lisa to offer him any extras, but that made this a new record for a fee collected on a no-frills contract.
Great job! Any problems? He was beginning to get used to the mental communication they’d used two nights before when they’d gone dragon to rescue Waters.
No problems. He’s leaving the building now. He tried to pull the ‘fake my death’ scam, as you predicted. I offered to call the Samboks to come and get him.
Mark chuckled. That explains the three million. I’d pay that much, too—to avoid having them terminate me. Ready for lunch?
Sure. Meet you guys in the cafeteria.
Chapter Seven: Donna
“So he’s due back here on Tuesday to be…terminated,” Sparkling said. “What happens if he changes his mind and doesn’t come back?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Mark shrugged. “We’ve got the money, and it’s on him to show up to get what he paid for. If he does, we do the termination. If he doesn’t, he still forfeits the money.”
“Three days is the minimum wait required by law,” Lisa added, “but he’s actually got 10 days to complete the deal. If he hasn’t shown up by then, we call him a no-show and close the file.”
“Why he doesn’t show up doesn’t matter, either,” Mark said with a chuckle. “If the Samboks get him first, well…sorry about that, not my problem.”
“The Samboks? You mean that gang of North Korean thugs?” Waters looked surprised. “I thought they were out of business. LEI Shooters killed seven of them after they tried to kill that billionaire’s daughter last year.”
“They tried to kill us, too,” Mark said. “Used a drone to place a bomb on my balcony upstairs. Lisa pissed them off.”
“How?” Waters looked at Lisa.
“One of them came here and threatened me with a silly little plastic knife.” Lisa shook her head. “I splattered his brains all over the wall of my office. Served him right—he really did bring a knife to a gun fight. Anyway, the bomb didn’t hurt us, and LEI paid them back in spades. They’ve been quiet ever since, but you must have heard about Rose Yi.”
“The little girl they found? What a terrible tragedy. They’re still looking for her killer.”
“A lot of people are…including the Samboks. She was their current leader’s daughter.”
“Oh…I missed that part of it on the news. But…are you saying that young man had something to do with it?”
“Can’t talk about it—client privilege, as long as he’s still alive,” Lisa replied, “but let’s just say that young man has a particularly good reason for the contract he signed today.”
“Hate to eat lunch and run, ladies,” Mark told them as he got up from the table, “but I’ve got a client due here in half an hour, and this one’s a contract completion.”
“If she shows up,” Lisa said. “We always have to add that qualifier.”
“I think she will,” Mark replied. “This one’s…kind of at the end of it. She’s got no reason to keep on living.”
“Well, Donna, this is it,” Mark said, placing the printed contract on the pull-out desk extension in front of her. “You can still change your mind if you want to.”
“No,” she replied, “I really can’t. Burned all my bridges—sold everything I own. Since I don’t have any heirs to leave it to, I just sent the proceeds to a veteran’s widows and orphans’ charity I’ve been supporting for the last few years. You’re a veteran—I’m sure you understand.”
Mark did understand. Per the NorthStar report, her only son had been a Marine who had died on his 19th birthday, victim of an IED blast in some hellhole in the Middle East that didn’t even have a name—just an intersection of two highways in the desert.
That had been only the first in a series of tragedies that had left her alone in the world at age 47. She had money, but had found no joy in spending it, and now she’d given away what had remained after paying for a basic Ferry termination contract.
She licked her finger and reached forward to imprint the little square on the contract—the one that certified she was still willing to proceed now that the legal waiting period was over. The square turned green, indicating both the fingerprint and DNA sample were good—the equivalent of a witnessed signature in today’s high-tech world.
Mark examined the contract one more time, then got up from behind the desk.
“Okay, then…” He held out his hand to her and nodded toward the office door.
She drew a deep breath, managed a little smile, then got up and walked out of the office with him. It was only a short walk to the elevator, and they rode up to the second floor in silence. He led her down a short hall and out onto a broad balcony that overlooked the largest room in the Ferry’s building—what Mark and Lisa called the “X-Room”—“X” as in “Execution.”
“Now I need you to undress,” he told her.
She kicked off her expensive black leather pumps, then undid her belt and dropped her stylish grey skirt to the floor. Stepping out of it, she began to unbutton her pale blue blouse.
“I know I agreed to this, but…why do I need to strip?”
“There are a number of reasons,” he said with a gentle smile. “For one thing, we’re going to donate your clothes to charity, and…well, everybody makes a mess when they die—the body just empties itself. This way we won’t need to launder the clothes.
The Dragons of Styx Page 6