GREEN ICE: A DEADLY HIGH
By CHRISTIAN FLETCHER
Copyright 2014 by Christian Fletcher
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Christian Fletcher.
Also by the author –
Leftovers
Left Alone
Left On The Brink
Left In The Cold
Operation Sepsis
War Memorabilia
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GREEN ICE: A DEADLY HIGH
By CHRISTIAN FLETCHER
“Against Diseases here, the strongest Fence,
Is the defensive Virtue, Abstinence.” - Benjamin Franklin
21:13, La Paz, Baja California, Mexico
“So…what is this new product that you are so excited about, Luiz?”
“It’s a man-made substance and we know how to manufacture the product with items you can purchase in any pharmacy, which means you’ll never run dry, Senor Logrono. We have a small consignment ready to go. This is only a sample that I have brought to you tonight.”
Fernando Logrono studied the transparent plastic bag lying on the desk in front of him. He squeezed one of the green crystals inside the bag and watched a few small chips crumble to dust between his fingers. The crystals glistened under the bright light generated by the desk lamp. Logrono glanced up at Luiz, who sat on the opposite side of the desk. The young man seemed confident and self-assured; an attitude Logrono wasn’t used to witnessing during business transactions.
“And how does the user ingest this…product?”
“By any they wish,” Luiz answered. “They can snort, smoke or inject it. It’s the guy for all occasions. It is suitable for every orifice the body provides.” He smiled and pointed to the small bag on the chunky wooden desk. “It produces better results than crystal meth, crack cocaine, MDMA or any other of its so called competitors.”
“And you say this product is exclusive?”
“It hasn’t been on the open market yet. I admit I did sell a few small samples on the way down to La Paz from Ensenada, Senor Logrono but no substantial amounts, you understand. I wanted to speak with you first before mass marketing the product.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Luiz,” Logrono said. “How much of this product do you say you have in your possession?”
“We have approximately twenty pounds, all ready for distribution.”
“Why did you come to me with this merchandise?” Logrono asked. “Why not continue to manufacture your product in the United States?”
Luiz sighed and waved his hand in front of his face. “The Americans are greedy. We would only ever be cogs in the machine if we carried on working for them. If we can do business with you, we can work together, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the profits equally.”
“Okay,” Logrono said, nodding. “We will sample the product and if we like it, we will talk business, Luiz.”
Logrono glanced over Luiz’s shoulder, across the office to one of the men sitting either side of the door. “You try the product, Ruben,” he barked. “Let’s see if it is as good as Luiz says.”
Ruben shrugged and approached the desk. He picked up the bag of crystals and took out a pinch of the dust at the bottom.
“What do you call this wonder narcotic?” Logrono asked.
Luiz smiled and slouched back in his chair. “Cristal Verde,” he said. “The effects are like a Bailar con el Diablo.” He leaned forward, staring directly into Logrono’s eyes. “A Dance with the Devil.”
Chapter One
06:06 am, South Figueroa Street, Los Angeles, California
Marco Mancini sighed and glanced at his wristwatch. His ride was six minutes late. Time on the clock slipping by, tick-tock, tick-tock. Waiting time was wasted time. Not a good start to the day. He hated sloppiness, especially as an out of town, out of country trip was required for the potentially life threatening assignment he was expected to accomplish. This particular mission was way out of his comfort zone.
“What the hell am I doing here at this time on a damn Saturday morning?” he sighed.
Mancini shook his head, facing the rising red glow of sunrise. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his pack of smokes and a chrome plated Zippo lighter. He lit a cigarette and turned to face the colossal, blue glass fronted Los Angeles Convention Center, looming in the early morning shadows across the street. He studied the billboards and scowled at the impending advertized events. The L.A. Auto Show was the only event he might have been remotely interested in attending. The rest of the dates for forthcoming attractions publicized trashy seminars and anal conventions. He turned away from the billboards, glancing up and down the quiet street.
“Where the hell is this guy?” Mancini muttered, growing more frustrated with every passing second.
Mancini didn’t know the guy who he was supposed to hook up with. He’d only been told his name was Trey and he had to meet him at six a.m. on Saturday morning outside the L.A. Convention Center. Trey was supposedly a Spanish linguist and a consummate professional, according to Guillermo Oreilles, who ran the show in southern LA
This guy, Trey was late, which was the first set of warning bells in Mancini’s mind. How could this guy be a professional? No one turned up late for a job in Mexico.
A few people heading to early-shift weekend jobs or finishing a night-shift began to emerge on the street, either walking or driving. All of them looked tired and unenthusiastic, probably wishing their drab lives away. Mancini felt a little sympathy for those people, having to carry out shitty jobs for low pay and long hours. He was a million miles away from that type of world now. His job was well paid but exceptionally dangerous and he doubted he’d ever reach retirement age.
He’d tried various jobs since he’d left the U.S. Army, 75th Ranger Regiment, some four years previously. No source of employment came close to what he’d achieved or the operations he’d carried out in the military. He’d driven a truck, sold stationery items, worked in a call center, labored on construction sites, dug swimming pools and applied for posts and failed in all divisions of law enforcement. All those crappy jobs he’d started hadn’t lasted more than a few months, sometimes only a matter of hours if the position really sucked. Some jerk-off boss or supervisor was always busting his ass for some petty reason or other. Mancini had either quit on the spot or simply not bothered turning up when the inevitable occurred, with some douche bag seriously pissing him off.
Mancini knew applying for any government job was a waste of time but he’d tried to get back on the federal ladder anyhow. With a dishonorable discharge on his military record, he was never going to pick up on some similar career to where he left off in the U.S. Army. Painful though the memory was, he thought back to his own court-martial at Fort Benning. Somehow, the scumbags who’d stolen an incoming consignment of weapons managed to ensure all the evidence pointed to him and he’d taken the rap for the whole debacle. Mancini had chosen to look the other way when he knew the crime was in progress and he’d paid the ultimate price. Those other people involved in the theft, people he’d thought of as trusted friends had proven to be deceitful
and devious when the shit hit the fan. Twelve years military service down the pan. He’d endured the humiliation of being stripped of his rank of Staff Sergeant and spent a rough period of time in military jail, before being spat out onto the streets as a civilian with a dishonorable discharge from the service hanging over his head. The situation made him almost unemployable. He’d been forced to take those low paid jobs nobody else wanted and subsequently, he was treated like shit in every appalling occupation.
Mancini had taken an off-the-books job earning some extra cash, working for a guy named Hugo Arteta, some two years ago. Arteta was one of Guillermo Oreilles’s guys but way down the pecking order in terms of status. Mancini’s task was to collect payment for narcotic transactions from local street dealers and deliver the money to Arteta directly. It wasn’t a job which Mancini particularly enjoyed. He hated extracting cash from low-life’s who didn’t want to fork out, but the pay was more than any other employment he’d experienced in civilian life. Mancini’s skills had quickly been recognized by Oreilles himself and he’d rapidly climbed the chain within the organization. The pay, status and elevated life-style had substantially increased, the further Mancini moved up the ladder. Arteta and his crew were no longer around; all but one of their members had been wiped out in a shoot out with the DEA in some shithole of a place in Gardena. The remaining member of Arteta’s crew was currently serving a life sentence for multiple homicides, possession of vast quantities of a controlled narcotic substance, possession of illegal firearms, firing an illegal weapon on Drug Enforcement Agents and every other small offence the government could throw at him.
Mancini had quickly learned the people on the lower scale of the chain were easily replaceable and the further you climbed the ladder, the more bulletproof you became. Oreilles was a wealthy man, who could afford the best criminal lawyers. If you kept your head down and carried out your duties with no fuss and no unwanted attention, he’d look after you well and ensure any legal problems disappeared.
Mancini didn’t know who the hell this Trey guy was, or why Oreilles held him in such high regard but to turn up late for a pick-up wouldn’t bode too well within the hierarchy. If it hadn’t been so early, Mancini would have given his boss a call to let him know the situation wasn’t going to plan. He doubted whether Oreilles would appreciate being contacted at such an early hour on a weekend. He decided to leave it until 06:30 before he set the wheels in motion and called somebody about his colleague’s no show.
The loud roar of a powerful car engine caused Mancini to glance to his left and he saw a bright red 1950’s style, Ford Thunderbird convertible approaching him from the south. The vehicle slowed and came to a stop at the sidewalk where Mancini stood. Rap music pumped from the audio speakers inside the modified, chrome and white colored Thunderbird interior. The convertible roof was down and the driver was a young kid wearing a bright yellow beanie hat. He stared at Mancini with bright blue eyes, which were slightly bloodshot. A few days worth of stubble surrounded the kid’s chin and upper lip.
“Yo!” the kid called. “You Mancini?”
Mancini said nothing for a few seconds, studying the kid, who was his theoretical professional accomplice and the supposedly inconspicuous vehicle, in which he was going to have to travel in to Mexico.
“You gotta be shitting me,” he groaned.
Chapter Two
Mancini caught a slight whiff of alcohol on the kid’s breath when he clambered into the passenger seat of the Thunderbird. This young guy didn’t seem to be taking this assignment seriously at all. He was obviously hung-over, he’d turned up late for the meet and he was driving a car that stood out like a sore dick. Mancini tossed his rucksack onto the back seat and fastened his seat belt. He presumed he was in line for a bumpy ride.
“Trey Coogan,” the kid said, proffering his hand. “I’m sure it’s going to be totally bitchin’ hanging with you a while.”
Mancini returned the kid’s weak handshake.
“You do realize what we’re doing here, right?”
The kid looked confused, raised his left eyebrow but nodded anyhow. “U-huh,” he muttered. “We’re on a jaunt to Mexico and I’m covering your back, man.”
“And that’s it?” Mancini sighed. “That’s all you’ve been told?”
Trey seemed a little taken aback. He couldn’t understand why this Mancini guy was getting all frosty on him.
“Like, yeah,” he said, nodding once.
Mancini thought this particular job had the words ‘fuck up’ written all over it. This kid was a liability and would be no use if the situation got the slightest bit hairy down in Mexico. The hardnosed guys he was pursuing would make mincemeat out of this young kid, if it came to a head. Trey Coogan would be better off at home, waxing his T-Bird or jerking off than accompanying him on the dangerous assignment to Ensenada. What was Oreilles thinking?
“Got your passport?”
“Sure,” the kid replied.
“And I take it, it’s in date and legitimate?”
“Absolutely, I’ve been down Mexico way a few times, yo,” he snapped, seemingly on the verge of being pissed off with Mancini’s questioning. “It ‘aint my first trip over the border.”
“You packing?”
“Only a small piece, you?”
Mancini sighed. This wasn’t going well. “Of course I’m not,” he snapped. “We pick up anything we need on the other side of the border. I thought that was clear. How did you get this job anyhow?”
Trey sighed and looked out onto the street through the windshield. “Why are you busting my balls, man?”
Mancini gritted his teeth and refrained from raising his voice. “Because you turned up late for the meet in a car that looks like something a local pimp might drive around in. You’re obviously suffering the effects of too much booze and Christ knows what else, and you’re carrying a loaded weapon. If we’re stopped by the L.A.P.D right now, we’re both going to have to answer some awkward questions, let alone if we get stopped by the border cops. But I don’t even think we’d even make it that far.”
“Okay, so I had a few beers last night, what’s the big deal?” Trey protested. “My dad can make any minor offenses go away, right.”
“What the hell has your dad got to do with this trip?” Mancini growled.
“He’s Peter Coogan, - Mr. Oreilles’s lawyer and one of the best defense attorneys in the city.”
Mancini nodded. It all made sense now. He’d met Peter Coogan a few times at several social gatherings and parties at Oreilles’s palatial residence in Westwood. Peter Coogan was indeed a brilliant attorney and regarded as a kind of Mr. Fix-it in the complex world of regulation and law. How the excellent lawyer had managed to spawn such a misfit as Trey, Mancini couldn’t figure. No doubt, Oreilles had owed Old Man Coogan a favor and drafted his no good son into the organization at a high level, as a kind of repayment. That sort of shit enraged Mancini even more. He’d had to work his way up from the bottom, enduring dangerous and unpredictable situations and mixing with the lowest form of human life, who would have shot you in the face for the price of a teenth of crystal meth.
Trey Coogan was obviously a spoiled little rich kid, who probably got everything he ever wanted and now thought he was going to play gangster alongside Mancini.
“Shall we go, man or hang here for the rest of the day?” Trey barked.
Mancini considered calling Oreilles and protesting about his chosen accomplice, demanding he be replaced by a more capable partner. But he knew Oreilles wouldn’t listen and insist Trey Coogan accompanied him on the job. Mancini just hoped this mission wouldn’t be his last and the kid wouldn’t fuck up any further, especially when the circumstances became a little precarious.
“Let’s go,” Mancini grunted, turning the stereo down so the rap music was barely audible. “Do you actually know the route?”
“Yeah,” Trey groaned, pulling the Thunderbird away from the curb. “The GPS is telling me to take the I-One-Ten to Ca
rson then follow the San Diego Freeway all the way to the Mexican border.”
“U-ah, it’ll be quicker to take the I-10, then we can take the I-5 all the way down. And no GPS.” He reached forward to the dash and turned off the device. “We use maps. A GPS route can be traced.”
Trey shrugged. “Your call, man.” He put the GPS system into the glove box, slowed and U-turned the Thunderbird in the street, much to Mancini’s disgust.
“Don’t make any more silly-assed maneuvers like that,” he scolded. “Are you seriously trying to get us arrested?”
“There are no cops around, it’s early. There’s nobody around,” Trey protested.
“And you need to lose that piece as soon as you can,” Mancini instructed. “We’ll be in a world of shit if we get stopped by any kind of law enforcement. Not because of the firearm, because I expect your dad will get you off that charge. But we won’t be top of Oreilles’s Christmas card list if we end up in jail on a minor offense and fuck up the whole assignment before it’s even begun.”
“All right, I hear you, man,” Trey snapped, turning the stereo back up.
Mancini endured the hip-hop sound until Trey pulled out onto the Santa Monica Freeway. He ejected the CD from the stereo and tossed the disc behind his shoulder and out the back of the car. The Interstate was pretty much deserted and the CD clattered onto the blacktop in the wake of the Thunderbird.
“Hey, man,” Trey whined. “What the hell did you just do? That’s really doke, man. That was my rap compilation that took me like, a whole bunch of hours to put together.”
“I can’t listen to that crap all the way to Mexico,” Mancini snapped. “Put something better on or we’ll just listen to the radio.”
Trey huffed. “There are some more CDs in the glove box. Have a look and see if there’s anything that meets with your lordship’s approval. I don’t think I have any stuff by Glenn Miller or Elvis, or whatever dinosaur music you’re probably into.”
Green Ice: A Deadly High Page 1