KERRI'S WAR: VOLUME THREE OF THE KING TRILOGY

by Stephen Douglass

  Wheeler greeted her with a warm smile and a handshake. “Thanks for coming, Sandra. I want you to take a trip over to Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel, right now. Mark Jacobs is expecting you. He wanted to see me, but I told him I don’t have the time. I’m too damn busy. He’s having trouble accepting our treatment of the 530333 series of SPE’s. He thinks were being far too aggressive and doesn’t think the Feds will give us their blessings. I told him I don’t agree with him, and I’m sure you don’t as well. In any event, I want you to listen to what he has to say, and then set him straight. On the other hand, if he can identify any improprieties, I want you to get them in writing and bring them back to me. The last thing Enerco needs is a financial scandal.”

  Relieved, Schafer exhaled. She was also excited to know that Wheeler trusted her enough to deal with Enerco’s controversial accounting practices. Her natural curiosity refused to allow her to go without first asking a question. “Why would Mark be worried about this now? He’s been aware of what we’ve been doing for years.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think his conscience is getting to him. In the past he’s always been willing to countenance small transgressions, but not this year. He thinks we’ve gone over the top, way beyond the chicken level. He says we’re using off balance sheet transactions to hide big losses from our shareholders.” Wheeler shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms skyward. “If he’s right, so be it. We’ll make the necessary changes.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m due in a meeting in one minute. You should go too. I’ve arranged for my driver to take you. He’ll be at the front door when you get there.”

  Schafer returned to her office, picked up her briefcase and laptop, then hurried to the Enerco lobby. As she approached the massive plate-glass front doors, she saw a tall man standing alone just inside the doors. His black hair was shoulder length, his eyebrows thick and dark. A four inch scar decorated his left cheek. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, and a black windbreaker. He smiled and waved to Schafer. “Hello. I’m Mister Wheeler’s driver. My name is Lorenzo,” he said, then pointed to a black Lincoln Navigator, parked outside in the building’s roundabout. “He’s asked me to take you to Benjamin, Alexander & Gabriel.”

  “Then let’s go. I’m ready,” Schafer replied, unaware that she would never make it to her expected destination.

  Mengalli opened the rear right door of the Navigator and allowed Schafer to enter. He closed the door and hurried to the driver’s seat. Schafer powered up her laptop while Mengalli drove in silence. Before two minutes had elapsed, he turned into the expansive parking area of a Texaco gas bar and convenience store. Schafer thought it was odd that he would do that, and that he chose to park in a secluded and empty area of the lot, as far as possible from the store. “I need cigarettes. I’ll only be a minute,” he said, then reached under the green blanket on the seat beside him and clutched his Glock G28 with suppressor. He turned quickly and fired three shots into Schafer’s chest, killing her instantly. He scanned the lot to ensure that no one was watching, then gathered the blanket and used it to cover the body. He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket and speed dialed Jeffrey Wheeler’s number. His message was short. “Done,” he said.

  He stuffed the Glock under his seat, then drove west on Highway 10 to San Antonio, then south on Highway 35 to Laredo. It was nearly three P.M. when he parked behind an abandoned concrete block building, less than a mile from the border station at the Laredo-Columbia Solidarity International Bridge. He took the time to stuff Schafer’s body, briefcase, and laptop into a black body bag. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, carried it into the building, then lowered it to the dust and debris littered floor, several feet away from a rusted steel door. An unlocked Master padlock hung from its latch. He opened the door, causing its hinges to squeal in protest, then dragged the bag through the opening and into a dark and windowless room. He lit a cigarette and smiled, satisfied that his contract had gone well.

  After closing and locking the steel door, he returned to the Navigator and drove it to a reasonably well maintained adobe hacienda at the end of a mile long dirt road, and more than six miles north east of Laredo. The hacienda’s walls were covered with white stucco, its roof with rust colored tiles. It was surrounded by mature live oak trees. The building was isolated and owned by Alejandro Salazar, a fellow Columbian and a lifelong friend of Mengalli. Both were retired veterans of the Medellin drug cartel.

  Mengalli stepped from his car and was greeted by Salazar’s guard dog, a giant black American Mastiff, growling with its teeth bared. Mengalli reached under his car seat and removed his Glock. He fired a shot, deliberately missing the Mastiff’s head by inches, and causing the dog to hide his teeth and sit.

  “Buenos dias, amigo!” Salazar shouted. Mengalli looked up to see his friend, sitting on a rocking chair under the hacienda’s overhang. Salazar, a large muscular man, was dressed in jeans, snake skin cowboy boots, and a blood red shirt. His straw stetson was tipped forward, the front edge of its brim grazing his nose. His handle-bar mustache had turned snow white. He sipped a Corona. He stood to accept a lasting hug from Mengalli.

  “Good to see you again, my friend,” Mengalli said, then removed a white envelope from his jacket and handed it to Salazar. “Five large, as you requested.” His dark eyes locked on Salazar’s. “The body must disappear, without a trace, like old times. No mistakes.” He shook Salazar’s hand, gave him the Glock, then returned to the Navigator and drove away, confident that his friend would do his job well. Sandra Schafer’s body would be taken across the Rio Grand into Mexico, then transported to a remote desert area west of Salinas Hidalgo. There it would be buried, never to be found.

  Mengalli drove south to the Laredo International Airport. He left the Navigator in the care and control of Domingo Mendoza, another fellow Columbian and a fugitive from the Cali drug cartel. He had fled to Texas in 1998 and was now an itinerant and unsuccessful professional gambler. Down and out on his luck, he had signed on to be one of Salazar’s associates. “I want it to disappear. Not a single atom of residue,” Mengalli ordered, then gave Mendoza a threatening stare. “I don’t have to remind you that your life depends on it.” He turned and walked to the waiting Enerco G-5. His destination: Toronto.

  CHAPTER 74

  North York. Friday, May 3.

  Kerri awoke at 6:00 A.M. She reached for her Blackberry and scanned her calls and emails. The shear volume was a clear indication that the media had retained an intense interest in her story. One email, from an anonymous sender, caught her attention immediately. The subject was Sandra Schafer. Her blood ran cold as she read, “Sandra Schafer has disappeared. She will remain alive for so long as you remain silent.” The sole purpose of the email was to preserve her silence long enough for Mengalli to make it permanent.

  “That son of a bitch!” she groaned to her heedless cell phone. “This is war!” she declared, then sprang from her bed, showered, and dressed in jeans, white T-shirt and red sweater. She hurried to the kitchen and found her father and Karen, still in their pajamas, and enjoying coffee in their beloved nook. They loved the nook because it faced east, exposed to the morning sun. “I have a big problem,” she said as she descended to a white wrought iron chair beside her father.

  “I can tell by the color of your face it must be serious,” Karen said.

  Kerri held her Blackberry at eye level. “I just got an email from an anonymous sender,” she said, then opened the phone and read its text. She placed the phone on the surface of the glass topped table, then stared at Karen and her father. The anger in her eyes spoke volumes. “Every ounce of my existence is screaming at me to do something about this, but I don’t know what,” she said.

  “Who do you think send the email?” Mike asked.

  “Someone in Enerco. Most likely Jeffrey Wheeler. I just wish there was some way I could prove it… Even if there was, there’s nothing I could do about it. If I did anything even remotely aggressive, I’m sure he’d have
Schafer killed. We know he had Wilhelm Lentz killed, and I’m sure he’ll do the same to her.”

  Mike gave Karen a worried glance, then faced Kerri. “Schafer might not be the only person in Wheeler’s crosshairs. I’m worried that you’re there too,” he said.

  Her father’s comment succeeded in changing Kerri’s anger to sheer terror. Her horrible conclusion was that her father was right. It would be in the best interest of Enerco to have both her and Schafer killed. “Oh my God!” she cried, then covered her face with both hands.

  “The information you have is enough to destroy Enerco, the lives, wealth and freedom of its executives. You’ve put their backs to the wall. It’s either you or them, and I know what choice they’re going to make. You’re dealing with desperate and dangerous people, Kerri,” Mike said, then stood and hugged his daughter. “I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to give this whole thing up.”

  Kerri glared at her father with a look of determination he had never seen. “Never! I’d rather die than give this up. I don’t care what happens to me, and I don’t care how difficult it is. I’m going to do whatever it takes. I’m going to fight them. Those sons of bitches decided to go to war with the wrong person.”

  Mike smiled and winked at Karen. “Sound familiar? She reminds me of me in Caracas.”

  Karen frowned, reminded of Mike’s life and death confrontation with Jim Servito, her former husband. “She inherited your pride, the same pride that almost got you killed.”

  Mike smirked and shook his head. “Not pride, sweetheart. The love of a woman. You.”

  Karen blew Mike a kiss, acknowledging that whatever it was that motivated him to confront Jim Servito in Caracas, it saved both of their lives. She focused on Kerri, her expression displaying deep consternation. “If you’re going to fight these people, your going to need a plan of some kind. I’m racking my brain trying to think of something you can do, but unfortunately, everything leads to the same result: Sandra Schafer dies.”

  Mike too was very worried about Kerri’s safety. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. His first wife had caused him to miss all of Kerri’s teen years, and he had no intention of missing more. “It doesn’t matter what you decide to do, you need protection. You need a bodyguard. I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but I don’t want to preside over your death knowing that I could have prevented it.

  “I hope you’re not talking about you,” Kerri said.

  “No. I have a friend who owns a personal security company in Toronto. I’ll give him a call and set it up.” He paused and smiled at Kerri. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re the only daughter I’ll ever have.”

  Fiercely independent, Kerri was initially inclined to reject her father’s offer. She had always been able to fight her battles on her own, without protection. She was reminded, however, of her confrontation with Louis Visconti at the Hotel de Paris in Monaco. Had it not been for the fortuitous and timely arrival of Alfred Schnieder, Visconti would have finished raping her and then killed her, just as he had promised. Luck had saved her in that case, but she knew she could not rely on it in her present dilemma. Thank you. I really appreciate the offer. I’ll agree to a bodyguard, but just don’t force me to travel with him.”

  “I won’t. Just go about living your life, but know that he’ll be there, following and watching you, everywhere you go. He’ll be wearing an earpiece, so you’ll be able to communicate with him in a heartbeat… One more thing. He’ll be my treat.”

  “Dad, you don’t have to…”

  “Yes I do,” Mike interrupted. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER 75

  MENGALLI’S NEXT ASSIGNMENT DEEPLY TROUBLED HIM throughout his three hour flight from Laredo to Toronto. In sharp contrast to any other he had accepted, this one was very different. He would be functioning in a country with which he had no experience. He had never been there. Its gun control laws were brutally strict, so much so that owning or possessing one, without going through exhaustive registration, constituted an enormous risk. Killing Kerri King would be relatively easy, but making her disappear without a trace of evidence would challenge his considerable talents. Completing the assignment, then escaping the country undetected, seemed impossible. Compounding the degree of difficulty was the fact that Kerri King was the Iacardi Santa Claus, one of the most sought after individuals on the planet. He had always had the help of confederates in his Columbian killing rampage. Even in the United States there was always someone he knew who would, for a price, help him. He knew no one in Canada. He would be compelled to finesse the most difficult assignment of his career, unassisted. For the first time in his life, he experienced doubt, even a fear of failure.

  His fear evoked a chilling memory. It happened in October of 1989. Pablo Escobar, the boss of the Medellin drug cartel, had ordered Mengalista to kill Diego Garcia, the leader of a group of Columbians which was encroaching on the cartel’s territory. Garcia was to be his final victim. “One more and done,” he had told himself, now more interested in his exit plan than the Garcia contract. That distraction was his first mistake. Like any of his numerous killings, he assumed this would be easy. That assumption was his second mistake.

  Mengalista ambushed Garcia at the South Terminal of the Metro de Medellin, an intercity public transportation hub with connections to the south of the country and the cities of Armenia, Menizales, Pereira, Cali, and Pasto. It was three A.M. The station was nearly void of humanity. Mengalista, knife in hand, approached Garcia swiftly from the rear. Instead of slicing his victim’s throat with one quick stroke of his knife, he chose to trip him by kicking his left heel against his right foot. He wanted to confront Garcia, to let him see the great Santiago Mengalista, the man who was about to kill him. Like a domestic cat, taking pleasure in tormenting a mouse before the kill, he wanted to toy with his victim, to postpone the sadistic sensation of ending a man’s life.

  Garcia fell, face first, onto the station’s tiled floor, then rolled and faced his attacker. Mengalista, still brandishing his six inch knife, smiled. “I am the last human you will ever see, Diego, and you are the last human I will ever kill for the cartel,” he declared, then attacked. Garcia, much younger and more agile than his adversary, rolled sideways, then sprang to his feet. He removed a double-edged dagger from his nylon wrist sheath and slashed Mengalista’s left cheek, barely missing his jugular vein. Stunned by the cut and bleeding profusely, Mengalista covered the wound with his left hand. In a fit of rage he hurled his knife at Garcia, striking his Adam’s apple. Choking and gasping for air, Garcia slumped to the floor, drowning in his own blood.

  The four inch scar on Mengalli’s left cheek served as a permanent reminder. He had made two of the worst mistakes a professional killer can make, and they came close to costing him his life. He vowed never to make another one.

  CHAPTER 76

  Toronto. Friday, May 3.

  The day had been a spring delight, a welcome relief for Torontonians who had endured much of the winter in the frozen north. The temperature, unusually high for early May, was still sixty-eight when Mengalli’s plane touched down at Pearson Airport. Still dressed in his black trousers, white shirt and black windbreaker, he used a forged passport in the name of Pietro Lopez to clear Customs. He took an airport limousine to the Airport Hilton on Dixon Road where a room had been reserved in the name of Xylex, Inc., Grand Cayman. After he signed the registration form with a scribbled and illegible signature, the desk clerk handed him a room key, a legal sized manilla envelope, and the key to a white 2002 Cadillac Deville, also rented in the name of Xylex. Both the Deville and the room had been pre-paid by a wire transfer from a bank in Grand Cayman.

  He declined the service of a bell boy and carried his luggage, one black canvas suitcase and a black leather overnight bag, to his second floor room. He showered, shaved, then sat on his bed, a white hotel towel still wrapped around his hairy mid-section. He lifted the manilla envelope from his night table, then opened it. Inside was a report based on the r
esults of the exhaustive and covert surveillance of Cedric Nelson, an investigator with Cyclops Private Investigations, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Nelson boasted ten years experience with Cyclops, and prior to that, eight years as a senior investigator with C.S.I.S., Canada’s Security Intelligence Service. The subject of the report was Kerri King.

  Mengalli quickly scanned through the preliminary information, detailing the subject’s name, birth date, place of birth, age, education, work history, and so on. He was only interested in what she looked like, where she lived, her habits, and with whom she associated. With that information, together with his own surveillance, he could begin to formulate a plan, one designed to complete his assignment then flee the country, undetected. He was pleased that Nelson had included numerous photos of the subject. He was disappointed that almost all of them showed her heavily disguised, wearing baggy clothing, large dark sunglasses, and either a Yankees of Blue Jays baseball cap. Several photos showed her entering or leaving her parents’ expensive North York home, either alone, or in the company of Mike King, her father, Karen King, her step-mother, or Steve Monteith, her male friend. The report stated the she spent most of every day and evening in the company of Monteith, who lived with his mother, Helen, in nearby Thornhill. Only three photos showed the subject in normal clothing and not wearing a hat or sunglasses. In those photos the curves and perfect proportions of her body were clearly visible. Mengalli studied each, fascinated by her beauty. Although he had been totally objective and dispassionate in virtually all of his killings, this one bothered him. He had never killed anyone so beautiful. It seemed a shame to waste such pulchritude on death. He briefly considered using it for other, more carnal purposes, then carefully returned the report to its envelope.

  He dressed in clean black pants, black T-shirt, and his black windbreaker. He hid his eyes with sunglasses, then left the hotel. His destination was North York. It was time to begin his own surveillance, the aspect of his profession he most hated, but knew was necessary. Its importance could not be underestimated. There was no room for errors. The process would require hours of boring watching, note taking and photography.