Contract to Kill (9 page)

“No, but I need to.”

Toby sounded a little better now. Giving him a concrete task had had the calming effect Nathan hoped for.

“Back up your phone before you record what you saw. After we capture your video, you can wipe your phone’s memory and then use the restore feature of iTunes.”

“I’ve done that before. But what about work? I can’t stay sick forever.”

“We’ll figure that out later.”

“What about the dead guys?”

“We’ll deal with that. As far as the rest of the world goes, you never saw any of this. You know nothing about it. It never happened.”

Toby looked relieved, and so did Mara. Holly didn’t react, but Nathan knew she was thinking about courtroom testimony. He was too, but now wasn’t the time to mention that.

“Man, this really sucks.” Toby looked at Holly. “Sorry about my language, ma’am.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Play it cool and you’ll get through this. You obviously can’t keep working at BSI, so Harv and I will give you a temp job until you find something else. Maybe we’ll keep you on. It depends on how you do.”

“I’m really grateful you guys are helping me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I’m still really freaked out.”

“Your job now is to record what you saw. Be as detailed as you can. If you think of something later—something you forgot—add it to the end of the video. Needless to say, don’t mention anything about Harv or me or about calling First Security, and don’t use your cell or landline to call us back.”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll be back in less than an hour.”

CHAPTER 8

Tanner Mason’s office reflected a stark, no-nonsense attitude about work. An office was just that. The real work took place outside these sanitized walls.

A few of his cage-fighting trophies sat in a glass cabinet, and some certificates and other memorabilia hung on the walls, but for the most part this room was a painted drywall box with hard, angular furniture. Even though BSI’s headquarters occupied one of the most beautiful areas of La Jolla, his office didn’t have an ocean view. Neither did old man Beaumont’s, for that matter. Thanks to the draconian bureaucrats of the California Coastal Commission, no building west of I-5 could rise higher than thirty feet. Mason’s office did, however, overlook a sagebrush canyon and the freeway beyond. He supposed it was better than nothing.

Directly across the street from BSI’s headquarters sat the prestigious Scripps Clinic and beyond it, Torrey Pines Golf Course and the cliffs overlooking Black’s Beach. Mason wasn’t much of a golfer, but he’d gone over there a few times to check out the PGA tournaments. He just couldn’t afford the time it took to become a good golfer. Maybe in a different life . . .

He left his office for the break room, where he found Chip sipping coffee and being his usual subdued self. Chip rarely initiated conversation, which suited him just fine. There was nothing worse than a mindless chatterbox who never knew when to shut up. More important, though, was Chip’s loyalty. There was only one person in the world Mason trusted with his life: Chip Hahn.

“So what’s your gut on Darla?” Mason asked. “If you want to voice any doubts, now’s the time.”

Darla Lyons was the newest addition to Mason’s inner circle. The old man had brought her into BSI’s ranks as a favor to a friend, and he’d made it clear she wasn’t an ordinary hire. A former Blackwater operative from Desert Storm, she had extensive combat experience as well as computer and countersurveillance training. Her résumé closely mirrored Mason’s own, which spoke for itself. About the same height and age as Chip, she had dark eyes and cropped brunette hair. At first glance, most people might use the word “butch” to describe her appearance, but Mason didn’t like labels. She was actually quite feminine and possessed a good sense of humor, which allowed her to shrug off the all-too-common macho drollness dominating the PMC world. The bottom line? He liked her.

“I don’t think she’ll blow the whistle with the old man, if that’s what you mean.”

“Me either.”

“I’ll say this about her: she’s a team player and doesn’t want to let us down.”

“Yeah,” Mason agreed, “that’s my take too. You happy with her training so far?”

“Her long-distance shooting could use some brushing up, but her handgun skills are solid. I’d definitely go into battle with her.”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “High praise.”

“She’ll see her first real action later this morning, but I feel good about her.”

“Me too.”

Mason left the break room and headed for the restroom down the hall. Since neither Chip nor he was married or had a girlfriend in the traditional sense, they were free to work any hours they wanted. Along with Darla, they’d both been doing graveyard for the last two weeks in anticipation of tonight’s two-phased operation. Experience taught him it was always best to acclimatize yourself to a polar shift in time.

Eight years earlier, when he’d first met Chip at BSI’s academy in New Mexico, Beaumont Specialists, Inc., had just signed a lucrative contract with the Department of Defense and Mason’s job had been to train a special team of security contractors—including Chip Hahn—to spearhead BSI’s entry into the theater of Operation Enduring Freedom.

During Mason’s early Afghan days, old man Beaumont had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want BSI’s reputation smeared with sloppy soldiering. There would be no Abu Ghraib–type incidents, or heads would roll. One thing was true back then, which still applied today: you never messed with George Beaumont. Mason had respected the venerable Marine veteran from the start, but he’d also held the personal opinion that what happened in Shindand stayed in Shindand.

Back then, BSI’s combat record in OEF had been nothing short of sterling. Thanks to Mason’s early successes, BSI’s ranks had swelled to more than fifteen hundred. About 40 percent of them had provided security escorts for foreign VIPs and Afghani officials. Another 40 percent were assigned to basic guard duty of installations and infrastructure. The remaining 20 percent were assigned to Mason’s special ops units.

Those were the days
, Mason thought.
Before having to deal with red tape and spineless bureaucrats here in the States.

Four years ago, when George Beaumont had come to him and proposed setting up an academy to train undercover agents to infiltrate domestic gangs and cartels, Mason thought he’d been joking. No such endeavor had ever been attempted in the private sector. But the more Mason thought about it, the more it made sense. Private military contractors were already doing every dangerous job known to man, so why not include undercover work on their résumés? It was a perfect fit. And since PMCs weren’t considered official military, their use on American soil couldn’t be seen as a martial law condition. A loophole, yes, but not a strict violation of the law.

The Mexico division of the November Directive had become an overwhelming success. It couldn’t be argued otherwise. Over the last twelve months, five criminal organizations along the Mexican border between California and Arizona had been penetrated. Three of them were dismantled, their leadership imprisoned, and their ranks scattered. According to conservative estimates, the flow of guns crossing into Mexico had been cut in half.

The old man had recently told him there was now a proposal on Attorney General Paul Ames’s desk about using PMCs to supplement the US Border Patrol along the international fence. Public outrage over border violence had reached a peak, and Beaumont Specialists, Inc., was perfectly positioned to step up and fill the demand.

The other two divisions of the November Directive, East Asia and Venezuela, were seeing equally positive results. Mason never patted his own back, but he knew the success of the ND sat squarely on his and Chip’s shoulders. From the first shovelful of dirt to the insertion of Ramiro into Alfonso Alisio’s notorious Mexican narco-trafficking cartel, Mason and Hahn had overseen every aspect of the program. Neither of them had taken a vacation during the first two years. They’d lived and breathed the November Directive, and their hard work was now paying huge dividends.

The men and women who became BSI undercover agents earned their stripes. Only 3 percent of the applicants survived the extensive physical and psychological screening. For security purposes, potential candidates weren’t even told what they’d be doing. Every one of them underwent training similar to what SEALs and Recons endured. The lure of $1,200 a day became a huge incentive to finish the three-month boot camp before moving onto the next stage of training, which took fourteen months to complete.

BSI’s first undercover graduate, code-named Ramiro, had proven that privately trained undercover agents were not only practical, but also irreplaceable. Ramiro represented the best of the best graduates. The guy could build a toaster out of a hair dryer, shoot a six-inch group at five hundred yards, and speak with a perfect Mexico City or Tijuana dialect. He possessed extensive accounting, computer, surveillance, and countersurveillance skills. In addition to possessing survival training in every environment on the planet, Ramiro could make and disarm most types of bombs, hold his own against black belts, and make HALO jumps from thirty thousand feet. Ramiro felt equally comfortable in an exotic nightclub as he did in an auto mechanic’s garage.

Put simply, Ramiro had the mind-set and skills to deal with virtually anything the world could throw at him. If he couldn’t solve a problem, he’d work around it. And if he couldn’t work around it, he’d make it go away. Ramiro’s successful embedment into the highest levels of Alisio’s cartel was a testament to all the training and preparation he’d endured.

Like Ramiro, all of BSI’s undercover operatives reported directly to Mason, who in turn reported to the old man, who then reported to the various federal agencies involved. That had been a nonnegotiable term of Beaumont’s contract with the feds. Since BSI’s people were taking the risks, Beaumont wouldn’t allow pencil pushers to make the decisions at the street level. Big decisions about policy and other national security issues remained in federal hands, but BSI’s operatives couldn’t be ordered to do anything without the old man’s approval.

Mason washed his hands and headed for his office. He wanted to check for any email messages from his support personnel. The public had no clue how many people it took to maintain a single undercover operative. For every infiltrator, three to four additional people were needed in support roles. Seeing nothing new on his PC, he called Chip to go over their tactical needs for phase two of tonight’s operation. They wanted to be stealthy, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few stun grenades and incendiary devices just in case. Like Ramiro, if they couldn’t work around a problem, they’d make it go away.

Mason walked over to his window and crossed his arms. Beyond the canyon, the Five displayed its parallel rivers of red and white.

Southern California freeways never sleep
. . .

The two men he and his team interrogated and killed earlier tonight had provided some key information. They’d confirmed Ramiro’s report last week that something big was happening and it had a South Korean connection. Ramiro had overheard talk about the imminent arrival of ten duffel bags coming in from Seoul. With some careful snooping, Ramiro had determined the bags originated in North Korea and they were being smuggled into the United States through a South Korean crime family.

So far, Ramiro hadn’t been able to determine what the duffels held, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t the usual money-for-guns deal—it was much bigger.

According to Ramiro, Alisio’s lieutenant in San Diego, a guy named Top Hat, was in charge of handling the cartel’s gunrunning operations along the border. Top Hat personally transported the black market weapons over to El Centro, where they were warehoused until being smuggled into Mexico by a variety of methods, mostly by truck. Apparently, Top Hat had been given the reins of this new duffel-bag exchange. Mason felt confident Ramiro’s intel was accurate because the men they’d killed had confirmed Top Hat’s role as the point man. They hadn’t given up much, because they hadn’t known much, but they’d known enough to convince Mason that Top Hat held an important role in the arrival of the duffel bags.

He turned away from his window at the familiar knock.

“Come in, Chip. What’s on your mind?”

“You wanted to be informed when anyone called in sick. Toby Haynes just called.”

“He’s one of our security guards, as I recall. Isn’t he also flagged as a candidate for promotion? I remember seeing his name.”

Hahn nodded.

“Has he ever called in sick before?”

“Not once. He’s been reliable and prompt, but I should check it out just to be sure.”

Mason tried to picture Haynes. Huge. Bald. Kinda tough looking—like a bouncer. He believed Haynes had been with BSI for almost two years, so in Mason’s mathematical mind, the odds of a sick call were about one in five hundred. Still, only one sick call in over two years was a damned good track record.

“We’re tight on time. Make it quick.”

“I’m on it.”

After Chip left his office, Mason turned back to the window.

Later tonight, they’d complete phase two, which would likely involve more killing. Mason didn’t feel any remorse for slaying those two scumbags on the soccer field. Both of them had grown wealthy from gun trafficking, peddling drugs, prostitution, and worst of all, human trafficking—especially children. What kind of an animal sold children to predators? It was beyond sick. He’d been willing to offer them a more honorable death—to go out in a hand-to-hand fight—but after that jackass spit in his face, Mason’s goodwill vanished. He should’ve known those classless punks had no honor.

The way Mason saw things, he’d just saved the taxpayers more than $4 million in “government housing” expenses, not to mention the free legal fees, free education, free dental and medical care, free sex-change operations, and whatever else those dirtbags would’ve milked out of the California penal system. Whatever happened to the days of chain gangs, when prisoners actually had to do hard labor? Mason called it the “pussification” of America, and with today’s soft-handed, cell phone generation coming through the ranks, it was only going to get worse. All the more reason for warriors like Mason to take command and make the tough decisions.