The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  “Get eyes on the warehouse. They’re about to try something,” ordered the commander.

  “They’re raising the warehouse door,” said the captain.

  The heavy metal warehouse door lifted, and before it reached a foot above the ground, the rattle of AK-47s and eruptions from shotguns turned the street in front of the warehouse into a no man’s land. The barrage lasted until the door lifted clear and opened the garage entrance. The gunmen rolled and dashed to the sides of the building in time for the container truck to scream out of the warehouse and turn east. The commander watched the truck slow to skirt around the flaming SWAT vehicle. “Fire everything you’ve got at the tanker truck,” he ordered.

  The police snipers positioned on rooftops emptied round after round into the tanker truck’s tires, windows, and engine. The driver fought with the steering wheel, desperately working to keep driving straight until a bullet caught him in the face and he dropped over the steering wheel. The driverless vehicle jackknifed, and the machine smashed into half a dozen police cars left to barricade the intersection before finally coming to a full stop.

  The commander looked at the screen displaying the front of the warehouse and slapped the table. “What the hell is happening?” he asked.

  “Open up on the front of the warehouse. Aim at anything moving. The perpetrators are shipping out the contraband on drones,” ordered the captain.

  High-tech Titan Drones buzzed out one at a time from the warehouse doorway like giant hornets leaving a hive. The snipers, SWAT team members, and policemen opened up on the moving targets before they gained speed and altitude, but failed to take down more than half the UFVs. “Holy shit. Those are Titan Drones, and each one is worth $150,000 retail. These guys have deep pockets,” said the captain.

  “Have the snipers provide cover fire, fire tear gas, and advance the teams to the warehouse. We can’t let any more of the load get out. We need to clean up this mess now,” ordered the commander.

  While the team moved in on the men and fentanyl remaining in the warehouse, a man wearing a Seattle Police uniform, helmet, and bulletproof vest slipped out into the smoke. He waited casually for groups of legitimate policemen to arrive at the side of the warehouse and slowly backed away when a dozen officers joined the SWAT teams to storm the warehouse. He walked through the back alley behind the commercial buildings until he reached a group of squad cars. “Where’s the medical tent? I took one in the flak jacket and want to get it checked out,” said the dark-haired man.

  “It’s just a block down the street. Do you need help?” asked one of the police officers.

  “I’ll be all right,” replied the dark-haired man. He headed in the direction indicated by the police officer and left the road to enter a public parking lot where he found a black sedan waiting for him. The key was left under the tire. He opened the car door and started its engine without issue. The dark-haired man placed his helmet on the passenger seat and was about to put the car in gear when he heard a tap on his window.

  “Hello, Carlos,” said Veazey.

  The dark-haired man studied the special agent. “You going to arrest me? What a joke. Nothing’s going to stick. My associates will buy me some short and sweet time and you’ll be a dead man,” said the dark-haired man.

  “Do you remember Enrique Camarena and Jaime Zapata? The special agents your cartels tortured and murdered?” asked Veazey.

  “I had nothing to do with those guys, and you know it,” said the dark-haired man.

  “You skinned an informant alive and left his mutilated body on his doorstep for his children to find. How do you look at yourself in the mirror?” asked Veazey.

  The dark-haired man shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “What do you think? You are one stupid and sad mother,” said the dark-haired man.

  Veazey pulled the trigger once, and the 9 mm Parabellum round from his P226 SIG Sauer entered the dark-haired man’s forehead and exited out the back of his head together with massive amounts of blood and gray matter.

  Maybe I am, thought Veazey. He looked around the parking lot expecting to see some fellow officers alerted by the retort of his SIG, but no one was visible. A rifle shot rang out and Veazey felt the impact of a bullet square in the back of his flak jacket.

  ***

  “Loser,” said one of the cartel snipers. He spat onto the ground from the back of the pickup truck where he sat observing Beau Veazey’s limp body through his scope.

  “Did you get him?” asked the second sniper. Their communication system remained crisp and clear.

  “Of course. But what’s it worth? He killed Carlos and we’re not going to get paid now.”

  “You’ve got a point. Let’s go radio silent until we meet in Vancouver,” said the second sniper.

  “One moment. Are we connecting at the pub across from the Sutton Hotel?” asked the cartel sniper.

  “Yeah. I like that place,” said the second sniper. Their communication clicked off.

  Chapter 45

  Shirokanedai Tokyo, Agency Safe House

  The US government had purchased the land and building now used as an intelligence safe house years earlier and then watched the Shirokanedai neighborhood around it develop into one of Tokyo’s most elite. The real estate and original construction were procured during the American occupation of Japan by the Office of Strategic Services, known better by its acronym, the OSS.

  Since 1945, the ownership of the Shirokanedai house had shifted between several military agencies and was currently utilized and overseen by Steve Brown’s team. The two-story building offered several rooms useful to lodging, a small clinic with first aid supplies, a fully stocked kitchen, and a well-hidden armory. Medics greeted Gregg and Kou with wheelchairs when they arrived courtesy of Ward’s assisted rescues.

  The male doctor took charge. “We’ll take them to the clinic,” he said.

  Ward walked over to Gregg after he was placed on an examination table in the clinic. “You’re in good hands. We’ll get together for a proper debrief after your examination,” he said.

  Gregg grabbed Ward’s shirt, and the agent instinctively locked hands on Gregg’s wrists but quickly relaxed his grip. “Miki?” asked Gregg.

  “She’s fine, and Kou will come out of this in good shape too. I know you’ve been through a rough few days, but your family will be together soon,” said Ward.

  “Where is she now?” asked Gregg.

  “Get cleaned up and let the doctors take care of you. She’s upstairs, and we’ll arrange a reunion soon,” said Ward. He left Gregg with the medical staff and walked to the kitchen, where Steve Brown and his team were seated at the table.

  “Grab a coffee and have a seat,” said Brown. “Fresh cream and sugar are on the table, and the donuts are on me. I’m interested in hearing a summary of this Charlie Foxtrot. It’s been a rough ride,” he said.

  ***

  When Gregg woke up, he didn’t recognize his surroundings. It was a nondescript room with shuttered windows and enough light was leaking in under the door to see the bathroom in the back of the room. He reached with his left hand for the lamp on the stand next to the bed, and a sharp pain reminded him of the physical sacrifices required to survive the last few days. He didn’t think he’d let out much of a noise, but the cry must have been loud enough to attract the medics. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and a female dressed in medical scrubs walked into the room.

  “Good morning. You’ve been asleep for ten hours. Do you need a little help getting to the head?” she asked.

  “Excuse me,” said Gregg.

  “I’m sorry, Navy terminology dies hard. Can I help you get to the bathroom or bring you a bedpan?” she asked.

  “I’d like to try to get to the toilet, so let’s give it a shot,” said Gregg.

  After a few steps, he regretted the decision, as every step was agonizing. Gregg was sweating and grinding his teeth while working to finish the seven-step trip. “I’m going to call amnesty internatio
nal, as I’m sure this is considered torture,” he said.

  “Car accidents are rough, and I hear you were in a bad one. Your bruises and cuts will heal quickly enough, but you’ll need a specialist to work on your arm.” They reached the toilet, and the doctor released him. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she said, touching his chest lightly and pulling the screen across the toilet’s entrance. The washroom was equipped with handrails and emergency call buttons. He finished his business and returned to the hospital bed with the help of the doctor.

  “You were dehydrated when you arrived last night and fell asleep while hooked up to a saline drip. Your color is looking better now,” said the physician. She helped him into a better position on the bed and shifted him to an upright sitting position to better wipe his face. She left the dry cloth on his lap.

  “Will I ever get to see my wife and daughter again?” he asked.

  “Hold on to the thought for a moment, and I’ll get Mr. Ward,” she said.

  It wasn’t long before Ward knocked on the door and entered the medical suite. “I hear you’re ready to get up and go,” he said.

  “Will I get the chance?” asked Gregg.

  “What do you mean?” replied Ward.

  “Will you let me walk out of here alive?”

  Gregg noticed Ward’s face redden. “You’ve been a serious pain in the ass, and I feel your question is insulting. We’ve made every effort to protect you and your family, and we’ve risked lives to save all three of you. A little appreciation and respect should be warranted,” said Ward.

  “I’m sorry. You can understand my concern for my family’s future,” said Gregg.

  “Let’s be transparent. You’ve had one of the toughest initiations into our agency as any operator. You’ve proven yourself as a stand-up guy, and we feel you have a place in this organization,” said Ward.

  Gregg gestured with both hands, and the movement caused extreme pain in his broken wrist. “It turned out to be more than a working holiday,” said Gregg.

  Ward pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. “Slow down. You’re exhausted and, believe me, things are not as bad as you think. You and your family will be fine,” he said.

  “Where is my family?” asked Gregg.

  Jeff Ward smiled. “Wait one moment.” He left the room, and a few minutes later the doctor escorted Miki and Kou into the room.

  “Careful, your husband’s in rough shape,” said the doctor.

  Miki and Kou brushed aside the doctor’s warnings and ran to Gregg’s bed and wrapped their arms around him. “I’m not going to complain. It’s nice to see you guys,” said Gregg, his throat constrained by emotion. Miki and Kou put their faces on his chest and sobbed while the doctor quietly left the room.

  ***

  Ward had moved David to the safe house clinic, and he was resting on a hospital bed that was much too small for him. They’d taken him off morphine and he was now coherent, but most movements caused pain. There was a knock at his door, and when medical staff didn’t immediately enter, he said, “Yes, come in.” Dr. Junko stepped into the room and closed the door carefully behind her. She bowed and ran her eyes over David’s injured stomach.

  “Are they taking care of your wounds?” she asked.

  “Not as well as you did, but the time here has been pleasant. Thanks for coming,” said David.

  “The Americans didn’t give me a choice. I think it was Mr. Ward who sent two men dressed in black to pick me up. They looked like the guys from the movie,” she said.

  “Did anyone explain the situation?” David asked.

  Junko shook her head. “They didn’t tell me a thing. What is going on?” she asked.

  “It’s a long story. Gregg and I had some trouble with some bad guys, and these fellows have long memories. We need to leave the country,” he said.

  “They want me to leave too. It’s a terrible situation. I’m a veterinarian and not some espionage agent, but they say I’m at risk by remaining in my own country. They are making your problems my problem,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. We compromised your clinic when you took care of Gregg and saved my life. We didn’t mean you any harm,” said David.

  “What about my animals?” she asked.

  “I don’t know specifics, but Americans are very caring about animals. We can make sure they all get to good homes. There are some resources offered at the bases that might be useful,” said David.

  Junko crawled on to the bed and placed her head on his shoulders. The warm tears slid down his back and gently soaked through his hospital gown. “Will you take me with you and make me your wife?” she asked.

  Junko spoke without raising her head, but David could hear her well. “I didn’t see this one coming, but I’ve never heard a better offer in my life,” he said. David twisted around enough to embrace her, and after a few minutes Junko sat up and kissed him once more.

  Chapter 46

  Shirokanedai Tokyo, Agency Safe House

  Gregg awoke with the 4:52 sun slowly working its warmth through the infirmary window’s bulletproof glass. What a difference a week could make, as he was feeling good enough to walk to the kitchen for breakfast. His cuts were healing well, the irritants common to healing bruises and abrasions were less distracting, and he was getting used to favoring his damaged arm. It would require rehabilitation and he would be a one-armed man for weeks to come.

  He entered the kitchen to find it comforting and inviting and was pleased to smell what he associated with American breakfasts. Coffee and bacon dominated his olfactory system, and music streamed from an American station playing classic rock. “Good morning,” he said, and Jeff Ward turned from the grill to return the greeting with a wave of a hand covered with an oven mitt and holding a spatula.

  He was wearing an apron with an LA Dodgers logo and a matching baseball cap. Plates were on the table and piled high with breakfast meats, scrambled eggs, toast, and pancakes. They were surrounded with pots of coffee, jugs of orange juice, tea, and the condiments expected for a morning feast. “This is impressive. What army are you going to feed?” asked Gregg.

  “Thanks, just you so far, and the other houseguests when they get up. My father owned a breakfast and lunch restaurant, and most of my summer mornings started at 4:00 a.m. in the restaurant kitchen. It was hell back then, but now it’s an enjoyable pastime,” he said.

  “Did you get up early to come and make us breakfast?” asked Gregg.

  “The truth? I was hoping to spend some time alone with you, and cooking breakfast helps me work through problems. Let’s call it setting the stage properly.” He took off his apron, threw it on the counter, and washed his hands before joining Gregg at the table. “Please tuck into breakfast while it’s still hot. I’ve got some news for you to digest with the bacon and eggs,” he said.

  “Will I be able to stomach breakfast after our morning chat?” asked Gregg.

  “You’ll handle it. The sausages are little on the spicy side, though; be careful with those babies.”

  Gregg took two of the chorizo sausages and cut one with his fork. “You’re right, they’re delicious but hot. Please pass the water,” he said while handing his glass to be refilled.

  “Glad to know you appreciate my art,” said Ward, and he sipped some coffee. “We’re moving you out today,” said Ward.

  “I’ve got mixed feelings about having my life directed by the American government, and especially when the concept of choice is eliminated from the general equation. I’m hoping you’ve got something planned to resemble a soft landing or a Hollywood happy ending,” said Gregg.

  Ward took another sip of his coffee. “You earned your pay in Bangkok, Chiba, Meguro, and Miura, and we want to look after you. We’re not sure where and how to deploy you but feel you’ve got potential to help our organization.

  “I’ve got nothing anymore,” said Gregg.

  “You’ve got something to lose. It’s called a family, and you’ve got to protect them. The Inuzawa-ka
i identified Gregg Westwood as the man who cost them a billion-dollar drug deal and their Yokohama headquarters. You are blamed for seriously disrupting their management hierarchy, as Sato has disappeared. We would be surprised if you were not on the North Korean black operation’s hit list. Call me crazy, but you need our help.”

  “Why today?” asked Gregg.

  Miki, Kou, David, and Dr. Junko walked into the room as if prompted by Gregg’s question. Ward got to his feet and put on his apron. “Sit down, ladies and gentlemen, and enjoy a Jeff Ward special American breakfast. We’ve got lots to talk about and not a lot of time,” he said.

  “Let’s stay on point,” said Gregg. “Now that everyone is at the table and is sitting down. There’s no easy way to offer shitty news. Mr. Ward wants to evacuate us today and is going to give us the details.”

  The room became deathly silent, and Ward turned off the stove and returned to the table. He looked at Gregg, and the Canadian saw something resembling sympathy in the spy master’s face. “Gregg is right. You’re all intelligent adults and need to hear the straight truth. Everyone of you, including Dr. Junko, is considered an enemy of the Inuzawa-kai crime family, and our organizational feels it’s best for you to move to the United States where we have the resources to guarantee your safety.”

  “Would you elaborate on the definition of what yakuza consider an enemy?” asked David.

  “We can’t make light of the situation. There’s a significant reward for the delivery of anyone of your heads to the godfather in Yokohama. These animals don’t fool around, and if you stay in Japan you’ll all certainly suffer a terrible fate,” replied Ward.