The Consultant Read online

  “Don’t make any sudden moves, Mister,” he ordered in a surprisingly soft voice. “Or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

  Considering the barrel of the shotgun aimed at his head from some six inches away, Chris felt compelled to comply with the man’s request.

  “Get up here. Now.”

  Chris climbed over the edge as the ape backed away a couple of feet.

  “Listen, I don’t know what the problem is and I’m not looking for any trouble. I’m just rock climbing. That’s all.”

  “Yeah?” sneered Bull. “Why you been sitting on the ledge for twenty minutes watching me?”

  “W-well,” Chris stammered, his mind racing.

  The bastard had known he was there.

  “W-when I saw you with the gun, I got scared. I-I didn’t want to make any noise and end up getting shot. Come on. I live in the house down the hill. I practice climbing here all the time. Matt doesn’t mind.”

  “What’s your name, Mister?” asked the giant, apparently brighter than his counterpart whom Chris had met earlier.

  “Paul. Paul Wessell,” Chris replied convincingly.

  “Okay, Paul,” Bull said with an unfriendly smile. “Show me some I.D. Show me something with the name Paul Wessell on it and I’ll let you go home.”

  “I-I don’t have my wallet with me,” argued Chris, starting to really worry. “I was out climbing in my backyard, for Chrissakes.”

  Bull tightened his grip slightly on the shotgun as he spoke. “Empty your pockets, Mister. Real slow. Cuz I don’t think you’re no Paul Wessell. I think you may be the bastard these fuckers inside are scared of.”

  Speechless, Chris stared at the ape and started to tremble. Slowly, he reached into a side pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. As he held it out to Bull, it dropped from his badly shaking hand.

  “Thought you had no wallet, Paul?” Bull chided. “Pick it up.”

  ‘Thank-you,’ Chris thought as he crouched down, bending forward towards the wallet.

  With sudden force, he lunged forward, closing the short distance which separated them. His left shoulder smashed into the huge man’s stomach, just below the rib cage, causing an audible cracking sound. Reaching up into the air, he grabbed desperately for the guard’s gun and, miraculously, found his hand wrapping around the cold steel of the double barrel. He jerked violently, sending the rifle flying high and then clattering down into the ravine.

  At that moment, he felt the gorilla’s hands reach under his armpits and straighten him back to a standing position, as does a child with a rag doll. He stared into the giant’s eyes and could see that he had caused him pain. Unfortunately, it had been too little pain; much, much too little.

  The hands quickly slid from his armpits to his neck and suddenly, his feet were no longer touching the ground. He kicked the ape in the ribs as the latter held him suspended by the throat. The kicks seemed to have little effect safe for encouraging the giant to squeeze Chris’s neck a little harder. He could no longer breathe and was starting to lose consciousness.

  ‘I love you, Sandy,’ he thought sadly, realizing that he was about to die and would never see her again.

  His vision was growing extremely hazy and he was starting to hallucinate. It was like watching a movie in which he had a central role. He could see his feet dangling above the ground, the gorilla’s angry smiling face, Jonathan behind them pointing a gun. It was all so dreamlike.

  He crashed to ground suddenly and was aware of severe pain as something extremely heavy fell on top of him. He was confused and his neck hurt really badly, but he could breathe. The pressure was gone from his throat, he was lying on the ground under some dead-weight and he could breathe.

  “Come on, Chris,” Jonathan’s voice whispered hoarsely in his ear. “We gotta get out of here. Anybody looks out those windows, it’s all over.”

  With the added luxury of oxygen, Chris’s thought process was returning back to normal at a rapid pace. He sat up, pushing the ape’s body off him as Jonathan pulled. Definitely not less than three hundred pounds.

  Two holes were clearly visible on the left side of the man’s head. The other side, where the bullets had exited, was a mess. They rolled the heavy body a few feet and watched it tumble and slide down the side of the deep ravine, then hurried off for the cover of the woods, waiting to be clearly out of sight and earshot before speaking.

  “Thanks,” rasped Chris, massaging his bruised neck.

  “All in a day’s work,” replied Jonathan with a quick smile as he replaced the two missing bullets in his silenced pistol’s magazine. “One to go.”

  * * * *

  Along the north shore of Laval spanned Mille-Iles Boulevard, named after the river which stretched the length of that side of the island. The area near Autoroute 25, in the eastern part of Laval, was sparsely developed residentially, home mostly to farms and woods.

  If one drove along Mille-Iles Boulevard, east of the 25, one eventually saw a large fenced-in area located between the road and the river. Barbed wire lined the top of the fence and surveillance cameras were visible around the property. Seated several hundred feet from the road was a large two storey residential structure which was regularly patrolled by guards clad in blue jeans and leather jackets. This was the headquarters of the Aces of Death and the home of Diamond Jimmy Sanchez.

  As is the case with most such gangs, the Aces of Death made little effort to hide who they were or what they did. What the public, and even police, knew was not a problem. The main thing was to ensure that nothing could be proven in a court of law. Keeping at least one step ahead of justice was the name of the game.

  This was a concept that Diamond Jimmy was well aware of and he had built his residence accordingly. Very few trees or any other type of cover could be found on the grounds. Motion sensors were strategically hidden all over the property and pressure detectors, able to detect any weight in excess of twenty-five pounds, had been systematically buried under the vast lawns. From dusk till dawn, powerful halogen spots washed the entire property in their harsh light. Naturally, the house itself was equipped with a security system rivalling that of the Royal Canadian Mint and, at any given time of the day or night, the surveillance centre was manned by no less than four highly trained technicians.

  No surprise attacks or ambushes from other gangs, nor raids from the cops would take place here without the headquarters’ occupants being well aware.

  This, of course, was information that was known by the police, which allowed Nick Sharp to plan the RCMP visit to Diamond Jimmy’s fortress accordingly.

  Since this was a major operation which would surely become public knowledge, it was to be played strictly by the book. By 8:30, Nick’s file preparation specialists, with the help of Greg’s journal and other data which Jonathan had supplied, had put together a sufficiently convincing dossier of ‘past’ surveillance operations and informant evidence for Nick to officially use. With it, he quickly obtained the required authorization to set his plan in motion, which included cutting power, phone service, water supply and gas. The operation, scheduled for ten o’clock, would also require an army of some fifty officers.

  Today, they would bring down Diamond Jimmy and the Aces of Death.

  * * * *

  The rented helicopter left the airport at Bucaramanga and headed southwest, into the mountains towards Málaga. At the stick was Wild Billy Harrelson, ace chopper pilot and a veteran from the Vietnam War.

  Contrary to many of his peers from Nam, Billy had not returned angry at the government or suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, although he would have had every reason to do so. He had not agreed with the war and had lost his right leg fighting it. However, the army had taught him how to fly a chopper and Vietnam had given him the opportunity to really learn how to maneuver such a machine.

  Upon his return and following his convalescence, he had started a helicopter ride business in Hawaii, offering the ultimate thrill to the ultimate thrill-s
eeker.

  He also did some ‘consulting’ work on the side. Today was a consulting assignment.

  Seated next to Billy was Freddy “Guns” Mager, also a Nam veteran and long time friend. Freddy was the one who had introduced Billy to the ‘consulting’ a few years earlier, a career which he himself had embarked in immediately after the war. Three or four assignments a year were sufficient to keep him overly comfortable financially, allowing him much leisure time which he spent travelling the world on “Victory”, his sixty foot yacht.

  Neither man was worried about today’s mission. They had both been involved in others, much more complex.

  As Freddy often said, “Every once in a while, they throw in an easy one. Ya know, bonus money.”

  * * * *

  At precisely 10 o’clock, all utilities were cut to the headquarters of the Aces of Death. At the same time, a heavily armoured tractor trailer smashed through the main gate at break-neck speed and rushed towards the building. As it veered sideways in front of the house and screeched to a halt, side panels on the trailer slid open, letting out dozens of officers in full protective gear.

  In the meantime, a second identical vehicle was also emptying its cargo of manpower, these men quickly taking position around the perimeter of the property outside the fence.

  Inside the house, Diamond Jimmy was in a basement room, commonly referred to as the “lab”, with a couple of subordinates. This room was generally used to test, cut, weigh and repackage narcotics, hence its name.

  Having chemically tested the coke for its purity and composition, Jimmy was sitting at a glass covered table, preparing a line for a “physical” test. As he leaned forward to snort the white powder, the windowless room went completely dark.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed as the battery-powered emergency lights came on, filling the room with an eerie glow. “Goddamn fucking Hydro.”

  Several seconds later, the power returned, accompanied by the low distant rumble of the large gasoline powered generator located in the garage. At that moment, the door of the room burst open and one of his guards on duty rushed in.

  “Jimmy, we’ve got a fucking problem,” he breathlessly exclaimed. “A fucking raid. They got two trucks full of cops surrounding the goddamn place. They busted through the front gate. They got a fucking army.”

  “Jesus Christ,” screamed Jimmy in frustration.

  He turned to the two in the lab. “Dump the shit. Burn it. Now.”

  He hurried out of the lab while the two started loading the bags of coke in the high intensity gas incinerator foreseen for just such an occasion. He preferred to lose eighteen kilos of cocaine than spend an equivalent number of years in jail.

  Unfortunately, when the power had gone out, the gas had been cut as well.

  * * * *

  “We’ll be there in about five minutes,” shouted Wild Billy over the roar of the chopper’s engine.

  Guns Mager nodded and climbed into the open cargo space in the back to set up his equipment.

  As one might guess, Guns had earned his nickname due to his passion for firearms of all kinds. As a child, he had started by making his own slingshots and by the age of seven, had easily convinced his father, a hunting fanatic, to buy him a pellet rifle. He’d gone on his first hunting trip at eight and by the time he’d turned ten, he was already known as the gun expert in his county.

  Not only was he an exceptional shot, he was also a walking encyclopaedia on any and all subjects related to firearms, big or small. He started designing and building his own guns before becoming a teenager, a hobby which he had maintained and perfected since.

  The weapon of the day was one of his creations and its functioning was actually quite simple. In fact, it was actually a large scale model of a compressed gas pellet gun; very large scale. A three foot length of two and a half inch pipe served as the barrel which was mounted on a five pound canister of compressed carbon dioxide. Appropriately modified hand grenades replaced the pellets and six could be loaded in the ammunition dispenser at a time. Pulling the trigger released a sudden measured burst of gas into the barrel which projected the grenade.

  It was accurate to one hundred feet and with Wild Billy as his pilot, Guns knew that they’d come in much closer than that.

  * * * *

  “This is the RCMP,” Nick Sharp’s voice echoed metallically through the bullhorn in the cold morning air. “We have the property surrounded. We have a warrant to search the premises. If we’re not granted access, we will use force to enter the building.”

  Lowering the bullhorn, he turned to François Duguay, Regional Commander of the Quebec Provincial Police. “We’ll give them a minute to respond. If they don’t open up, we break in.”

  * * * *

  “You got that shit burning?” demanded Jimmy as he rushed back into the lab.

  “Yeah, just started,” replied his subordinate. “Fuckers cut the gas too. Had to use the backup tanks.”

  “Bastards,” hissed Jimmy, staring at the incinerator as it turned a fortune of coke into nothing. “We have nothing else in here?”

  “Nope,” assured his lackey. “They’ll find a few guns but that’s it.”

  “Fucking waste of taxpayers’ money,” Jimmy muttered. “I’m gonna make these cocksuckers pay someday.”

  * * * *

  The helicopter came over the last ridge and their target was in sight. Two buildings; a barn, which was really the cocaine processing lab, and an old farmhouse used for sleeping and eating. Behind these structures was a small landing strip for the planes that flew the coke out of the area. A half dozen Jeeps and pickup trucks were parked haphazardly around the buildings, indicating that several people were on the premises. A lone guard, armed with an automatic weapon, rose from his seat by the barn entrance as the helicopter approached.

  Playing with the throttle, Billy started sporadically increasing and decreasing the revolutions of the engine. This, combined with the erratic swaying of the chopper, left a clear impression that the machine was experiencing mechanical problems.

  As they came down into the clearing before the buildings, Billy waved the guard frantically back, and the latter seemed more than happy to comply.

  With the helicopter no more than a half dozen feet from the ground, Billy suddenly swung the machine sideways, exposing the open cargo door. Mager fired off three rapid shots with a handgun, hitting the guard on all counts.

  Dropping the pistol, he turned his attention to his grenade launcher, taking aim at a window of the barn. He pulled the trigger four times, proudly observing each of his projectiles make their way into the old wooden building. After all, it was barely thirty feet away.

  The chopper swung 90 degrees and Guns expertly delivered the two remaining grenades through a window of the farmhouse.

  Billy opened the throttle and the helicopter quickly rose as it turned before speeding off back over the nearby hills, leaving a series of massive explosions in the background.

  From start to finish, the operation had taken twenty-three seconds.

  “See? What’d I tell ya?” shouted a grinning Guns as he climbed back into the front seat. “Bonus money.”

  * * * *

  “Chief,” called out the officer as he ran over to Nick Sharp and François Duguay.

  “They've got a fire going,” he said, pointing towards the roof of the building.

  Looking up, they could see the heat haze accompanied by light smoke shooting out of a chimney.

  “Bastards are burning their stash,” Nick commented with a smile.

  “Poor Jimmy,” replied François. “This is really gonna turn out to be a lousy day for him.”

  Nick nodded as he raised the bullhorn to his lips.

  “This is your last chance. Open the door or we will come in by force.”

  He waited a few seconds, then nodded to an officer already seated in a small but powerful armoured tractor which had been lifted out of the trailer. The diesel engine rumbled and the machine beg
an rolling forward, its pointed, plough-like front aimed at the main door of the house. A dozen officers quickly fell in formation behind it.

  With the tractor no more than ten feet from its target, the door suddenly opened and a voice called out from within.

  “Okay. We ain’t looking for no trouble. You guys want to come in and fuck up our morning, go ahead.”

  Through the bullhorn, Nick replied, “I want everybody in the house to assemble in the living room, arms spread, up against the walls. You have one minute. Then we’re coming in.”

  He signalled his officers who quickly approached the building, lining up along its walls on either side of the entrance.

  “At least they’re cooperating,” François murmured approvingly.

  Nick turned to him and with a grim smile said, “My friend, don’t trust these fuckers for a second. If you do, you’re dead. Let’s go.”

  They walked to the front door, preceded by a dozen officers with weapons drawn, and entered the large house.

  The living room, to the left, was surprisingly well decorated. Apparently Diamond Jimmy insisted on comfort. As requested, the occupants, fourteen in all, were lined along the walls, although none had assumed the desired position.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Nick addressed the group. “You know the routine. You’ve all been there before. Hands against the wall and spread em.”

  With a lazy nonchalance, all but one of the gang members complied, some chuckling, others exaggerating the requested spread-eagled stance.

  The non-complier approached a step with hands spread. He was Shaun “Chains” Wilson, the undisputed second-in-command of the Aces of Death.