Wednesday, August 10^th

The day dawned peacefully.

Darcey was awakened by her husband bringing her coffee with a kiss. She enthusiastically, and gratefully, accepted both. She raised her eyebrows questioningly before speaking.

“It’s ok,” Trent said in a normal voice. “My hearing is back to normal. These symptoms seem to last no more than a few hours.”

“The doctors say that’s a good sign,” Darcey noted, optimistically.

“They’re still unpleasant though,” Trent said. “So far we’ve been lucky. Nothing debilitating has shown up at a critical time. In fact, the dilated pupils helped us capture the men who trashed Miles’ home.”

The day they had planned was uneventful.

Trent would take Miles to the police impound lot to retrieve Scott’s Mercedes. Or as they learned the day before, Miles’ Mercedes. Then he would accompany Miles home to be certain that all was well.

Darcey planned to spend at least part of the day in the office. With all the events of the past few days, neither she nor Miles had been able to tend to business. It was time for her, at least, to get back to work.

And, yes, she assured Trent, she would take the pink and black gym bag with her.

At ten o’clock Abdul Rahman appeared in Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s top floor apartment in Little Saigon. He was there at the Thai gangster’s invitation. He believed they would be adding their signatures to the papers dividing the Rossi empire between them.

Abdul had become leery of recent events and who might be behind them. He had at first believed Rossi ordered the hit on the Mad Dutchman. That assumption was based on the bodies of two of Rossi’s soldiers found at the scene. Since discovering that Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s source within the Rossi family was the don’s underboss and consigiliere, Abdul was no longer sure that the Mafia leader had ordered the hit.

It was not clear to him who had attacked Rossi’s compound. He was certain he had not ordered it. But the Mad Dutchman might have and Rossi could have ordered the outlaw biker gang wiped out in retaliation.

He didn’t see how anyone else but Rossi had siphoned off $200 million of his partners’ money. That was the one event for which he could think of no other possibility. Yet the question of the death of Scott Douglas remained. Why would one of Rossi’s men kill Douglas? Unless Rossi wanted to be sure the transfer couldn’t be undone.

Clearly there were many questions.

For that reason, Abdul again wore his ancestral robes to the day’s meeting. The M4 was hidden within the folds. The rifle had a telescoping buttstock. Abdul folded the stock down, reducing the weapon to a size that allowed it to be easily strapped to his leg.

For the first time, he was accompanied by three of his men. He had armed them with USAS automatic shotguns, the powerful weapons designed in South Korea. Each of the weapons was fitted with a magazine containing ten 12-gauge shells.

Seeing no one but Kiettisuk Jetjirawat in the room when he entered, Abdul instructed his men to wait outside the door

The two surviving members of the fiduciaria first enjoyed a cup of jasmine tea. It was one of the things Abdul appreciated about doing business with Kiettisuk Jetjirawat. Their meetings were always very civilized occasions.

Abdul spoke as Kiettisuk poured each of them a second cup of tea.

“Shouldn’t we begin the signing?” he asked, waving his hand at the stacks of documents lying on the table.

Kiettisuk Jetjirawat continued pouring.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Abdul.”

Abdul was immediately alarmed. Alarm escalated to apprehension as Pietro entered the room, the Heckler & Kock submachine gun with sound suppressor still attached in his hands.

“I believe you know Pietro,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said. “His full name, by the way, is Peter Greco. He is a most talented and useful man.”

“Good morning, Abdul,” Pietro said, pleasantly. He leaned against the wall near the door.

Abdul forced himself to turn back to Kiettisuk Jetjirawat.

“I don’t understand. Why do you say no signatures are necessary?”

“Because these stacks of forms we forced Rossi to sign are worthless, Abdul.”

“Worthless?” Abdul was taken aback. “How can they be worthless? How can we assume ownership of the Rossi properties without them?”

“Jonathan Rossi has met an unfortunate fate,” Kiettisuk said. “The same fate the Mad Dutchman met a few days ago.”

Abdul looked from the Thai to Pietro and back.

“Rossi didn’t order the hit on the Dutchman,” he concluded. “It was you. Pietro was working for you. He carried out the hit and left two of Rossi’s men dead at the scene to make it appear it was done on Jonathan’s orders.”

“Perhaps,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said.

“Maybe it was you who ordered the attack on Rossi’s home also.”

Kiettisuk only smiled.

“But what does all that have to do with our current situation?” Abdul asked. “I ask again. How do we assume ownership of the Rossi properties without formalizing the new arrangement with our signatures on these documents?”

“We already own them, Abdul.”

“We own them? How can that be so?” Abdul’s bewilderment showed clearly on his face.

“You didn’t investigate thoroughly the terms of the fiduciaria the four of us entered into, Abdul.”

“The fiduciaria? The fiduciaria no longer exists. We eliminated it when we required Rossi to sign these documents.”

“That was done, Abdul, simply to get a complete inventory of the Rossi properties. These documents are worthless. To assure that they don’t linger and complicate matters at some future date, I shall have them burned before the day is done.”

“But…but…” Abdul was reduced to stammering mindlessly.

“The fiduciaria, Abdul. The fiduciaria is alive and well. Only it is much more than a fiduciaria.”

Abdul sat dumbly, waiting for Kiettisuk Jetjirawat to explain.

“Rossi thought he was being extraordinarily clever in constructing the fiduciaria. He established it as a tontine.”

“Tontine?” Abdul was unsure what meant.

“A tontine is an ancient legal device whereby partners in a business venture agree that as one partner dies the others inherit his interests. When all but one has died, that one remaining partner has legal ownership of all properties.”

“Surely that can’t be legal,” Abdul objected.

“It is a vehicle seldom seen in business these days but I assure you it is quite legal. Since it is a rarely used device, Rossi was counting on his partners overlooking it.”

Abdul again looked from Kiettisuk Jetjirawat to Pietro Greco and back.

“So now there are two of us,” he said.

“For the moment, yes. We are the two surviving partners. Which reminds me, to commemorate the occasion I have a gift for you. I had it made especially for you. Pietro, if you would, please…”

Pietro laid his submachine gun against the wall. He stepped briefly into a side room, returning quickly with a strange appearing vest.

Abdul turned pale. It was not strange to him. He recognized a suicide vest when he saw one. He tried to access the rifle hidden in the folds of his robes. It was too late.

He felt the press of the barrel in his left ear. From the corner of his eye, he could see the subcompact but deadly Ruger in Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s hand. Pietro laid the vest on the table before Abdul. He reached into the robes worn by the leader of the Scourge and retrieved the weapon hidden there.

Pietro opened the door leading out of the room. Abdul’s astonishment grew as he saw the three men who had accompanied him with their arms bound tightly to their bodies. Six of Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s men pointed their lightweight, heavy caliber rifles at the prisoners. One of the Thais tossed the three automatic shotguns into the room to join the M4 taken from Abdul.

“So you intend to eliminate me and then you will control all that I have.”

“You’re partially correct, Abdul,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said. “I do intend to eliminate you. But you have nothing that I want. I already have a prominent position in all the lines of business you have pursued. You have siphoned your profits to the Middle East rather than investing them here.”

“Then why is it necessary to eliminate me?” Abdul asked, in a last desperate attempt to save himself.

“While you possess nothing I want, Abdul, you do possess something that worries me. You have a warehouse on the Oakland waterfront that is filled with explosives. I don’t know what you intend to do with that much firepower. But in this regard, I’m much like any other San Francisco businessman. It makes me nervous.

“Pietro, let’s get Abdul fitted with his new vest,” Kiettisuk Jetjirawat said. “Please stand up, Abdul.”

“Why should I cooperate in my own assassination?” Abdul challenged.

“Pietro, please help Abdul understand.”

The room went black just after Abdul felt the blow on the back of his head.

Trent followed Miles from the impound lot to the condo on Capra Way in the Marina District. They had first stopped at police headquarters where Miles was quickly granted a release.

Miles was solemn as he entered the condo in which he now lived alone. Trent wasn’t sure what to do. He wished Darcey was there. He silently watched Miles wander from room to room. He thought Miles and Darcey had done a nice job of design, leaving memories of Scott scattered among the beginning of Miles’ new life.

“Well, what do you think?” Miles asked.

“I think y’all did a great job, Miles. The more important question is, ‘What do you think?’”

Miles looked around one more time.

“It feels good,” he said. “It feels like home. It feels like Scott is still here with me on some level. I can live here with his memory.”

“And that’s all that’s important,” Trent said.

“Thanks for all you and Darcey have done for me, Trent. I don’t know how I would have made it through this without you guys.”

“Hey, Miles, that’s what friends are for. You can call on us anytime. You know that.”

“Yes,” Miles agreed, “and I know the grieving process has a long way to go. I have no doubt I’ll be calling. Now there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you to do for me.”

“Whatever you need.”

“I want you to help me buy a gun and teach me to shoot.”

“Whoa, Miles,” Trent said, taken by surprise. “That’s serious. What do you have in mind?”

“No worries, Trent. I’m not planning on doing anything foolish. Not to myself or to anyone else.”

“That’s good to know.”

Tears were flowing from Miles’ eyes. He took a moment to compose himself.

“Look at me, Trent,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from breaking. “All my life I’ve been small. Effeminate. I’ve been called names. Faggot. Queer. I’ve been bullied and made to do things I didn’t want to do. At least not with the people who made me do them.”

He paused again, attempting to calm himself.

“Scott was the first person in my life who ever treated me with respect. He loved me unconditionally. He was proud to be my husband. And I just held him in my arms as his life drained away. He died trying to protect me. I could do nothing to protect him.”

Miles paused again. He raised his face defiantly, looking directly at Trent.

“I might not appear very masculine but I don’t intend to let that happen ever again.”

Trent said nothing.

“Will you do it? Will you teach me to shoot?”

“I’ll call Christopher. Maybe he can get us out to his friend’s gun shop on Friday. We’ll get you fixed up, Miles.”

Four blocks away from Miles’ condo, Captain Henry Place steered the eighty-two foot yacht out of the marina’s West Harbor. Kiettisuk Jetjirawat had named her Ruthai, which Captain Place understood meant ‘heart’ in the language of Thailand.

She was a sturdy ship, well-constructed by Dutch master craftsmen. Though there was no firm distinction between a ship and a boat when it came to vessels of this size, the captain thought of Heart as a ship. Her twin inboard diesel engines gave her sufficient power to accomplish open sea cruising. He had personally selected her crew with regard to nothing other than seamanship and, of course, loyalty.

The master stateroom was in the stern with its own head. There were two en suite guest staterooms amidships. The crew quarters were located in the bow and included a separate crew galley. When Kiettisuk Jetjirawat came aboard, he brought his personal chef with him.

Yes, the captain thought, Heart was a fine ship. He was looking forward to taking her to sea. Today they would be cruising only across the bay to the Oakland waterfront.

Captain Place had the wheel. Though he had two competent helmsmen in the crew, he was taking her out of the harbor because he enjoyed it.

Pietro Greco stood beside him. Captain Place had also come to enjoy Pietro’s company. He found him to be a pleasant companion aboard ship on their brief cruises together.

Today they talked amiably, keeping their voices low. The captain knew it was a deadly business in which they were involved today. He thought better days would be ahead for himself and for Heart.

Pietro left the bridge and entered the yacht’s luxurious main salon. There he found Abdul conscious but not such pleasant company. He and his three men were securely bound, their arms tied to their bodies in such a manner as to prevent them from moving freely. Six Thais stood guard with their rifles.

The suicide vest was wrapped around Abdul’s arms. There was no way he could maneuver out of it. He was helpless. He had briefly thought of attempting to detonate the bomb himself while aboard Kiettisuk Jetjirawat’s yacht, which he knew cost the Thai almost $8 million. At least he would have the satisfaction of taking the beautiful vessel to heaven with him.

It was a hopeless thought. For the first time in his life, Abdul Rahman had no control over his fate.

“You can’t move, can you, Abdul?” Pietro said, pleasantly as he strolled into the yacht’s main salon. Stepping into the spacious gallery, he found a bottle of Italian lemon-flavored sparkling water in the refrigerator. Pulling the tab to open the can, he took a long drink of the refreshing beverage.

“I’m disappointed in you, Abdul,” he said. “When I first discovered what Rossi was attempting, I thought you would be the final survivor. You let Kiettisuk Jetjirawat get the better of you.”

“With your help,” Abdul spat, contemptuously.

“Eventually, yes,” Pietro agreed. “It didn’t start out that way. I simply waited to see who was going to outlast the other three. Once I discovered the winning side, I did what I had to do to get on it.”

“This vest will not accomplish what you want it to,” Abdul remarked, in a gruesome change of topics. “It’s too light. You didn’t put enough ball bearings in it.”

Pietro smiled.

“There are no ball bearings in it at all, Abdul,” he replied. “We’re not interested in murdering your men, though no doubt most will die. Your vest is filled with Semtex, which is the most explosive substance known to man. But, of course, you know that. We learned about Semtex from you.”

“But why destroy my warehouse?” Abdul wondered. “It contains hundreds of weapons. Why not sell them and take the profit?”

“We have access to all the weapons we can move, Abdul. We don’t need yours. Your warehouse contains more explosives than guns. Kiettisuk Jetjirawat was being honest with you when he told you he worries about your intentions. When he considers the potential uses of all that explosive material, he worries.”

The weakest point of the human body is that space between the jaw and the neck. Since explosives literally “blow up” directionally, the bombers’ heads quite often are taken off intact.

That’s why the first responder on the scene of the explosion looked down to see Abdul’s head rolling toward him. The first responder had been called on for many disasters. This was the first time he vomited.

Captain Place had taken Heart out into the bay, well away from the warehouse, before Pietro entered the code on his mobile phone to detonate the explosives wrapped around Abdul Rahman. The two men watched the destruction on the waterfront from the yacht’s grand salon.

Abdul’s warehouse was set apart from other buildings along the Oakland waterfront. It was one of the reasons Kiettisuk Jetjirawat had decided on this tactic. He had no desire to harm other buildings, including a few he owned himself.

Trent felt more than heard the explosion as he drove away from Miles’ building. He first thought it was an earthquake. Then he saw the plume of smoke rising from across the bay. An industrial accident, he thought. A very serious industrial accident.

His phone rang before he reached the Nob Hill condo. He saw Christopher’s name come up.

“Hey, buddy, where y’at?” he answered.

Christopher wasn’t aware of the traditional greeting of New Orleans’ Vieux Carre’. He took the question literally.

“On my way to the Oakland waterfront,” he replied. “There’s a new development in Operation Den of Snakes. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

By the time Christopher and Trent arrived, Nancy was already on the scene. Lieutenant Mitchum and FBI agent Brady, the other members of Christopher’s team, were also there.

Several local fire departments were attempting to get the flames under control. FBI agents were assisting Oakland police in securing the area.

“How do we know this explosion is related to Operation Den of Snakes?” Trent asked.

“This warehouse was owned by Abdul Rahman,” Agent Brady responded.

“Do we know who set off the explosion?” Christopher asked.

Nancy looked pale.

“Abdul did it himself,” she said.

“Why would he do that?” Christopher was mystified.

“He probably didn’t do it intentionally,” Brady said. “He was fitted with a suicide vest and locked in the building. Someone detonated the bomb remotely.”

“How do you know that?” Christopher continued.

“Because Abdul’s head is in that vehicle,” Nancy said, a look of distaste on her face as she pointed to a nearby SUV, “and his body in that one,” she added, pointing to a second ambulance.

“Do you want to see it?” Mitchum asked. Trent thought he seemed a little too cheerful for the occasion.

“We’ll take your word for it,” Christopher said. Trent nodded in agreement.

“But you’re right,” Trent added. “Operation Den of Snakes is having the impact we thought it would. Two down. Only Rossi and Kiettisuk Jetjirawat to go.”

“The transfer of all fiduciaria funds to Rossi’s bank in Rome is known by now,” Christopher said. “The evidence is Rossi ordered the hit on the Barons of Lucifer. Could he have done this also? A matter of self-protection?”

“Possibly,” Trent said. “It’s difficult to say. We set in motion a military-style operation. The problem with such things is you can never predict all the possible outcomes. Old soldiers say a plan begins to fall apart as soon as you implement it. If Rossi is behind all this, he’s far more clever than I gave him credit for being.”

Darcey was sautéing mushrooms and onions when he got home. She had two beef filets seasoned and ready for the fire.

He mixed martinis for them. Darcey joined him on the terrace for what had become their favored cocktail hour ritual. He told her about the day. She shivered at the mention of Abdul’s head. Given the waiting steaks, Trent was glad he had passed on the offer to view the loathsome trophy.