“In the movies they always get really cool vans, decked out with the latest spyware,” said Jake.
“Well, this ain’t the movies and you aren’t James Bond,” said Trey as both men stared out the heavily tinted windows in the back of a beat-up van. The vehicle was parked in the darkened alley about seventy-five feet from the rear entrance to Henry Yeong’s restaurant; the only light came from the opened door of the restaurant.
Activity had been minimal and time seemed to drag. So far the traffic consisted of a produce truck making a late-night run at an all-night market farther down the alley and a couple of homeless people pushing shopping carts. All were quickly dismissed when it was apparent they played no role in Yeong’s business.
Jake looked at his cell phone and realized it had been less than two hours. “Somehow Hollywood has never quite captured the sheer boredom of a surveillance.”
“That’s because on TV they have to get it done within a one-hour episode and the case agent isn’t locked in a van with an ADD undercover nut job.”
Jake unscrewed the top on his third Coke Zero as both men talked without looking at each other, focusing on the alley.
“That stuff runs right through me,” said Trey, referring to the diet soft drink. “I’d be going like a racehorse if I drank as much of that stuff as you do.”
“That’s why I save the bottles and caps, so I have something to pee in, and why I never sit on a surveillance with a female.”
Just then Trey passed gas and a broad smile covered his face.
“You idiot!”
“That’s why I never sit on a surveillance with a female,” said Trey, proud of his accomplishment in confined quarters.
Jake opened a sliding window on the side of the van next to the building, but his efforts did little to air out the vehicle.
“You had Italian for lunch. I smell the garlic.”
Trey grinned like a five-year-old learning to appreciate bodily functions, then whispered, “This isn’t one of your brighter moves.”
“You mean sitting in a surveillance van with some flatulent-friendly immature adolescent?”
“No, sitting in this alley waiting to accost a godfather wannabe. Can you live with this if it all goes south?”
“I can live with it as long as I’m only an unindicted co-conspirator,” said Jake with a smirk.
“Boldness and stupidity never seem like a good combination,” said Trey just above a whisper.
In an equally low voice Jake said, “If you’ve got a better plan I’d like to hear it. I’m convinced Yeong and his thugs know what happened to Jenny and Gracie. And since Gabe works for Yeong, somebody in this establishment must know where he is.”
“Jake, just worry about getting Park’s container in. Let him and his goons find the daughter and the little girl. If the San Marino cops and the LAPD are telling us the truth, Park’s men are covering every inch of Koreatown. And if our missing clandestine service officer has gone to ground in the neighborhood, they will likely find out what’s going on with him as well. You don’t need to be involved. Let Park’s heavies handle Henry Yeong.”
“Everyone is telling me to ignore Yeong. According to Hafner and Rachel, Park’s the big fish, the North Korean IO. If something bad has happened to Gabe and Yeong’s crew didn’t do it, isn’t it likely Park’s people did?”
Trey nodded. “That’s certainly possible since he was hired on as part of Yeong’s security travel team. It’s also possible Yeong is behind the kidnapping and Gabe is now guarding the girls wherever they are being held and can’t communicate.”
“Well, if we find Jenny and Gracie in the hands of Yeong’s goons, we not only save the girls but think of the credibility I gain with Park and his syndicate.”
“You’ve already got credibility.”
“I need to find Jenny and Gracie. You’re the case agent. This is all so detached for you. It’s just another investigation. But for me it’s personal. These two, especially the little girl, shouldn’t become pawns in some surreal and sanguinary parlor game because Park wears a black hat.”
“Pretty big words for an undercover agent, Jake. But Jenny’s already a pawn. That’s how we got here in the first place. Reid wanted her killed and she became our pawn.”
“I just can’t sit back and do nothing. I can’t throw my badge around but I can continue to help even in my undercover capacity.”
“Let Park handle Yeong,” Trey repeated, slowly shaking his head.
“If you want out, then go.”
“Like I’m going to sneak out of the back of a van at ten o’clock on a Sunday night in the middle of a Koreatown alley and hail a cab to the federal building. I’m in. Just be careful.”
As Trey finished his sentence, a young Asian male dressed in black exited the back entrance to the restaurant. Looking up and down the narrow passage and seemingly satisfied, he turned back to the opened door, nodded, and a second male in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt walked out.
“Were those two guys with Yeong when he paid you off with the two kilos of meth the other night?”
Jake threw up his hands. “In this light they all really do look alike.”
“You’re a huge help.”
Jake grabbed a pair of binoculars and focused on the men. “Hey, Don Ho and Johnny Cash, turn around,” whispered Jake since both men had their backs to the van. Almost as if he heard, the shorter of the two men, the one in the Hawaiian shirt, Jake’s Don Ho, turned. “Yeah, that’s one of them.”
“Now what?” asked Trey.
“Get ready to move.”
Both FBI agents pulled out size XXL L’eggs knee-high stockings and pulled them down over their heads as Don Ho opened the screen door and Henry Yeong cautiously exited, evidently seeking some fresh air, as if any could be found at night in an L.A. alley.
The three chatted briefly before Yeong reached into his jacket and pulled out the Cartier gold case. Without offering either bodyguard one, the crime boss removed a cigarette, tapped it lightly on the case, and slipped it back into his jacket. Johnny Cash, the bodyguard dressed in black, whipped out a lighter and lit Yeong’s cigarette. Yeong took several long draws, blowing smoke rings into the air.
Jake and Trey could hear a phone ring and watched Don Ho reach into his back pocket for a cell phone. He answered and quickly gave the phone to Yeong, who turned away from the van and began talking while still smoking the cigarette.
Though neither agent inside the van could hear what was being said, Jake could tell Yeong was dominating the conversation. Whoever was on the other end of the call was doing a lot of listening.
Only Don Ho seemed interested in the call.
The other member of the security detail was more focused on four women standing at the far end of the alley. Dressed like they were auditioning for an Asian porn flick, the girls had his full attention.
The Korean Johnny Cash reached toward his right shoulder, where he had a pack of Marlboro Reds tucked into the rolled-up short sleeve of his shirt. He grabbed the pack and slowly removed a cigarette, placing it in his mouth. He finessed the pack with his left hand, rolling up the sleeve to hold the pack in place. Reaching into his front pants pocket he pulled out the lighter again and, after two unsuccessful attempts, managed to light the cigarette.
Yeong was still engaged in the telephone call and asking Don Ho for input. After several minutes, the crime boss handed the phone to the shorter bodyguard, who continued the conversation. Yeong tamped out his cigarette on the brick wall and walked back into the restaurant, apparently satisfied with the call and the alley fresh air.
Jake and Trey quietly exited the van and padded toward the two Korean bodyguards. Trey had his Glock 23 drawn, hanging near his right side. As the two approached, Jake nodded toward the man in black.
Trey focused on the henchman and said quietly, “Hey, man in black, Johnny Cash.”
The Asian male turned just as Trey grabbed him, flipped him back around, and threw him up against the brick wall, smashing the cigarette, which fell to the ground. With his left hand Trey grabbed the long black hair and yanked the man’s head back, restricting his breathing. The Glock now pointed at the man’s head, Trey asked, “Do I have your full attention?”
The man nodded and grunted the best he could.
Leaning into the man Trey did a cursory pat-down and discovered a Daewoo DP51 automatic lodged in the small of his back. Trey carefully removed it and slipped it in the front of his pants. “I hope you have a permit,” said Trey, knowing the answer.
At the moment his partner grabbed Johnny Cash, Jake rushed the second bodyguard and shoved him against the wall, forcing him to drop the cell phone. Jake braced the man with his left forearm planted solidly in the back of the Korean’s neck. The street thug struggled briefly but relaxed when the FBI agent whispered, “I’m not here to kill you. I want answers.”
“You have a strange way of asking questions,” said Don Ho, his face still planted in the wall but trying to identify the attackers.
Continuing to whisper, Jake said, “Tommy got killed last night. You know anything about that?”
The bodyguard struggled to shake his head but didn’t say a word.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I prefer easy but I’m always willing to go the extra mile. I assume you would rather wake up tomorrow breathing air instead of sucking dirt, so let me repeat the question. Did you have anything to do with Tommy’s killing?”
“Why would we kill Tommy?” mumbled the man, his face still pressed against the wall.
“You tell me,” whispered Jake.
Trey maintained a vise grip on the other bodyguard as Jake continued the questioning. “A woman and little girl got kidnapped. You and your friends know anything about that?”
Don Ho struggled to turn his face, trying to get a look at his assailants, forcing Jake to lean in even harder, increasing the pressure.
“I don’t know who was behind the kidnapping or the murder,” mumbled the man.
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it is the truth.” He tried to shout the answer, but with his face planted in the wall it was difficult.
Trey stabbed his gun closer and pressed it against the ear of the man in black. “You want me to kill Johnny Cash? It might encourage your friend to open up and help us.”
Jake knew Trey was bluffing but liked the way he was getting into the role.
“Not yet but the night is young.”
Trey tugged a little harder on the bodyguard’s hair, pulling the neck back ever so slightly, enough to be painful but not enough to cut off the air supply and crush the trachea. He whispered, “You speak English? Maybe you want to answer some questions.”
The man maintained his silence as Trey shifted his weight, leaning into him, using body weight to secure the man’s detention.
Jake whispered, “So you don’t know anything?”
“We had nothing to do with it. I swear.”
“Tell me one more time.”
“I swear. We had nothing to do with the kidnapping and if we knew anything we’d tell Park.”
Confident he couldn’t be recognized, Jake tacked to a different subject: “You know Gabe Chong.” It was a statement, not a question.
Don Ho mumbled, “Yes. He works security for Mr. Yeong.”
“When and where was the last time you saw him?”
“Two days ago, here at the restaurant.”
“Where is he right now?”
“I don’t know.”
With that Jake flipped the man around, kneed him in the groin, and, as he folded, threw him to the filthy pavement, facedown. After he placed his foot on the back of the henchman’s neck, securing him to the ground, he turned his attention to Trey’s captive.
When Johnny Cash struggled to eyeball his attackers, Jake threw two quick left elbows, which snapped the henchman’s head, disorienting him and weakening his resolve. Blood poured from his nose.
Ordered to the ground, he quickly complied, proning himself out in a puddle of scum. Trey bent over and twisted the man’s face away from the two FBI agents, then reached into the thug’s left back pocket and removed his wallet.
Searching the contents, Trey said, “I’ve got a driver’s license but it’s fake. There’s no hologram and the lamination is sloppy. Can’t find a green card but he does have a Blockbuster video rental card and plenty of cash. This guy isn’t legal.”
Jake said, “Take the DL and video card; at least we’ve got a name and we’ll ruin his date night if he can’t rent a movie.”
Jake reached down, picked up the cell phone, and tossed it to Trey. “Check to see his recent calls and take a look at his directory.”
Trey scrolled through the phone, calling out names, almost all Asian.
“Who were they just talking with?” asked Jake.
Trey punched up that feature and reported the results. “No name but a 310 area code, five minutes, thirty-five seconds.”
Jake pressed harder, the man’s face buried in the ground. “Who were you just talking to?”
The man said nothing.
Jake dug his heel hard into the man’s neck and repeated the question.
“Mohammed,” he croaked.
“This isn’t a knock-knock joke. Mohammed who?”
“I just know him as Mohammed.”
“What was the call about?”
“He’s looking to buy some stuff.”
“What stuff?” said Jake, grinding his foot deeper into the man’s neck.
“Counterfeit stuff—watches, clothes, cigarettes. He’s a regular. He sometimes makes small purchases of meth. I swear that’s all I know. It’s the truth,” said the man, struggling to speak and breathe.
Jake said to Trey, “Keep the phone.” Then, whispering in his best Clint Eastwood imitation to the two men on the ground, he said, “You two, keep your eyes on the street. If you lift your head or turn toward us, I promise you will both have closed-casket funerals because I will blow your faces into Beverly Hills.”
With that Jake and Trey rushed to the van. Jake jumped into the driver’s seat. The engine kicked over on the first attempt and he goosed the accelerator, squealing out of the alley toward Wilshire Boulevard as the two FBI agents removed the stockings from their heads. The four women who had been at the end of the alley when the altercation began were nowhere to be seen.
“That went well. You’re kind of fun to play with when you aren’t cranky,” said Trey with a broad grin. “Where’d that elbow come from? Is that legal?”
“Marquis of Queensberry rules only count in the ring. You always cheat on the street,” Jake said, laughing.
“What do you expect me to do with this cell phone? Given the way we obtained it, the U.S. Attorney is never going to allow us to use anything we get from it as evidence at trial.”
“Let’s worry about the rules of evidence after we rescue two kidnap victims. Ask the tech guys to dump the SIM card for previous calls and check the names in his directory against our files. We need to find out who this Mohammed is. At least one of the attackers at Park’s house was Middle Eastern and we had the Iranian broadcaster’s plates. Maybe they’re somehow involved in this,” said Jake.
Trey thought for a moment and said, “If Korean mobsters are working with Iranian-connected Middle Eastern bangers, this case will be one for the record books.”
As Jake ran a yellow light on Wilshire, he glanced toward Trey and said, “Stranger things have happened. Remember we had that mafia gang two years ago that teamed up with the Mexican drug cartel to deliver khat from Uganda to the Somali expat community?”
“Yeah,” Trey replied. “That was the stuff that was tainted with some kind of chemical, killing seven of the buyers—and the ACLU sued the Bureau and the DEA for not stopping the shipment before the stuff hit the streets.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s going to happen here,” said Jake. “By the way, did you notice neither of the two guys we took down tonight seemed to know how to defend himself? I thought they all knew karate.”
Trey laughed. “I think that’s Japanese.”
“Whatever.”