TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME
By Claude L Arango
CHAPTER 3
THE SHOOTER
XXX
The Shooter was a natural born killer, who had no fear of dying. He was a lethal weapon, with the safety off, a man of few words who believed that actions spoke louder, especially from the working end of a gun.
He believed that if you let someone get too close it would only end badly. And that loyalty was a precious commodity that had to be earned, and not to be squandered on frivolous relationships with God or man.
Honor, commitment, and resolve formed his core beliefs, but reality forced him to be, above all else, pragmatic. Regardless of obstacles, or betrayals, ultimately he would be the last man standing, after the shit hit the fan, because ultimately he was a survivor.
He was seventeen when he went off to war, with a kid named Jones. He had befriended Jones, back in high school. The Shooter stopped a beating that Jones was suffering, at the hands of the high school bully, a big Irish kid by the name of McDuffie, who had an inordinate dislike for Blacks.
It wasn’t much of a fight; the Irish thug outweighed the skinny black kid by fifty pounds, and he stood a foot taller. He was pounding the kid senseless, behind the bleachers on the football field, when The Shooter stepped in and said, “That’s enough, it’s over”. McDuffie towered well above the Shooter, but even he knew that you didn’t mess with the Shooter. He was just too damn dangerous. He had already sent two young men to the hospital, with two broken legs, five fracture ribs, and two broken jaws and both had to be fitted to receive liquid diets. And now the look in the Shooter’s eyes let McDuffie know that he was in imminent danger. McDuffie thought to himself, perhaps he should listen to the Shooter, and let the boy go. When he did not immediately comply The Shooter took a step towards him, and asked him if he had a problem with that. McDuffie immediately released the boy.
So, from that day forward, Jones followed The Shooter wherever he went. And it came as no surprise that Jones was second in line, behind the Shooter, when they joined the army in 1967. He became his spotter in their two man sniper team. On the field of battle there is no bond stronger than one formed under fire, and such a bond was formed between them, in the Asha Valley, in Vietnam in 1968.
The dynamics of a kill are quite simple, when devoid of all emotional context. At twenty yards distance, simply line them up and pull the trigger, the quicker the better, and before long you will have bodies piled up like fresh meat at the slaughter house.
In war things happen quite often by accident, some say, more often than by design, but there at the bottom of a crater, blasted from the jungle floor by a 500 pounder, was no accident. There laid eighteen enemy bodies piled up as they had fallen, with a single round through the head, clean and simple, just as planned. But to think that the taking of human life can always be that simple, even if they be the enemy, would be to ignore the human factor, and the aftermath there of, for ultimately there would be an accounting, even if it was to be a long time coming.
On the night of January 3rd, 1969, the Viet Cong penetrated Able Sector, and Jones and the Shooter were waiting for them. Jones laid undercover, to the right of the Shooter, in the thick jungle bush. From there, he relayed the movement of the Viet Cong infiltrators as they crawled on their bellies, through the wire, pass the mine field, and on up to the edge of the crater. And there in the tall Elephant grass, waiting, patiently, was the Shooter. He took his time and adjusted his sight. Then, he attached the silencer to the end of his rifle. As each VC began to climb over a strategically placed fallen tree at the rim of the crater, he squeezed the trigger. Each shot sent one VC tumbling down into the abyss, well out of the line of sight of the following man, five yards behind, crawling on his belly, relentlessly inching his way forward, towards his destiny.
At dawn it took only a glimpse at his own handy work, for him to understand the finality of life, entangled in death’s relentless grip. There at the bottom of the pit, laid a ghoulish testament to the gods of war. Eighteen enemy bodies lay atop one another in a haphazard pyramid of death. But alas, his rising euphoria, at the sight of one man’s carnage, came to a screeching halt. For upon closer scrutiny, two women, and what could only be described as a child, were spotted among the dead. All of them dressed in the familiar but ominous black clothing of the Viet Cong, and all of them shot with a single round through the head.
As the sun’s rays filtered through the dawn, an eerily sound could be heard rising above the precipitous howling of the wind. A faint sound, just above a whisper, could be discerned, emanating from the bottom of the pit. After a brief moment of confusion, and then hesitation, there came recognition, as to the source of the vocal aberration.
The unmistakable sound of an infant’s cry could be heard, rising from the shadows at the bottom of the pit. At that moment, Destiny played its hand, for a line would be crossed from which there was no return. The Shooter raised his weapon, sighted the infant, and fired. After what seemed an eternity, the deafening sound of silence was all that was heard.
Now he was faced with a reality that would have shattered a weaker man’s sense of propriety, for perpetrating such a heinous crime under the pretext of combat. Still it served as a rare moment of clarity, an opportunity for self-examination, a chance to peel back a layer of one’s own false humanity, and witness the true nature of the beast that lie within, and reluctantly, but willingly accept the price that the beast demanded to sustain its salacious apatite.
He felt no remorse for killing the child; it was more akin to relishing the taste of forbidden fruit, knowing that it was he who did the dirty deed that took innocent life in such a cruel manner. All the while his rational mind performed mental gymnastics, attempting to lay the blame at the feet of necessity.
But the act was carried out with such callous indifference, that it could only be construed as having been carried out by a demented mind, out of touch with reality, and totally unaffected by normal human decency, that would have prevented such a tragidy.
He could not even convince himself that the killing was an absolute necessity. But none the less, the deed when rehashed in his mind appeared as if the result had been a foregone conclusion, if not an outright courageous decision. Was not the child also the enemy, just a matter of time before it too, would be targeted, without question? A question presented, with the aid of shifting morality, in a feeble attempt to justify a perverse act that only a demented mind would attempt to embrace. But an act such as this, would be manipulated and banished to a place hidden in the labyrinths of a killer’s mind, hidden between things forgotten and things that even he dare not remember.
Fate rarely unfolds on an even keel, but works steadfast beyond the pale. So it would be the brutal execution of an innocent child that would strip away his last vestige of denial. Thus, truth was disrobed before the harsh light of reality, and made to release its bounty, and it ultimately revealed himself to be, just who he was, which was of course, a cold blooded killer.
The Shooter sensed danger before it struck, and quickly rolled to his right, blocking the thrust of the VC’s dagger with the butt of his rifle, while grabbing his own knife from the leather sheathe, strapped to his leg.
They struggled in silence, like predatory animals in the tall elephant grass, for what seemed like an eternity. With an occasional grunt or a muffled cry emitted by one or the other. During their mortal embrace the Shooter caught a whiff of garlic on the man’s breath, diverting his attention fleetingly, but then he quickly refocused on the killing to be had, as they snarled at each other face to face through clenched teeth, till God’s will be done.
He began to overpower his weakening foe, forcing the tip of his blade into the young boy’s neck, while looking him straight in the eyes, waiting patiently for life to surrender. Then while covering his victim’s mouth, he slowly began soothing him like one would a child, as the young man began to slowly loose his fight for life; slowly sinking to the jungle floor, still not understanding what was happening, all the while life was slipping out of him, until he laid quiet and still in the Shooter’s arms, in the tall green grass, next to the crater filled with death. Now, the Shooter was a killer of men, up close and personal, and from that moment on he became a gate keeper to the portals of Hell.
He found Jones not far from the mouth of the crater, gasping for air in a clearing covered with his blood; the VC had found him and had slit his throat. The gurgling sound spilling from the wound along with his blood, told the Shooter that his friend was quickly running out of time. Jones looked up at the Shooter, but was unable to speak, his larynx had been severed, but the panic in his eyes let it be known that he knew that he was dying. And for the second time that day the Shooter tried to calm the fears of a dying man, but this time it was Jones, his one and only friend, but there was nothing he could do. There were no bullies to stare down or bad guys to punch in the face, death was waiting and it would have its way. For the first and last time in his life, he bent his head and prayed.
God simply ignored his plea, a simple plea that came from somewhere deep within, but none the less went unanswered. “No, this time you will suffer, this time you will feel the pain, and this time you will remember.” seemed to be God’s sentence for his sins, as his friend closed his eyes and died, leaving behind a gross violator of the laws of God and man, an unrepentant sinner, a killer bent on mayhem, and now he was as unforgiving as the Lord.
Two years later he was mustard out of the Army with a confirmed kill count of 112, not including the work he had done for the CIA, during his last tour of duty in Viet Nam, as an asset of Army Special Operations, on loan to the CIA. After his discharge he used his contacts within the CIA to get back into the game, and after six months at the CIA’s Langley School of Linguistics, he was deemed ready to serve.
His first assignment took him to Japan, and his cover as an Arabic interpreter with the Yemen Consulate, served him well, he being a man of color. His target was a man by the name of Nakamora, a Yakuza gang leader, with a penchant for warm sake and hot women. He somehow had managed to get his name on the CIA hit list, and more importantly, the hit had been sanction by the Yakuza High Council. Apparently, Mr. Nakamora had been dealing drugs to his own people; which was taboo in Japan, and an insult to the Yakuza, causing them to loose great face.
He followed his target for a week, but the man was never alone, but every night his entourage would retire to a public bath house for warm Sake and entertainment.
On the eighth night the Shooter sat in the tea room, next to the bathing pool, wearing a white robe, and eating steamed rice and fish heads with chop sticks. The Gang Lord’s four body guards posted themselves at the four corners of the room, while their Boss bathes alone in the center of the common pool.
The bodyguard closest to the tea room was the first to die, with a chop stick jammed through his left eardrum, straight into his brain. The second bodyguard reacted a second too late, and he went down with a chop stick through the left eye. The third bodyguard was caught off balance, running round the pool, a punch to the solar plexus with a rolled up menu and a blow to his throat with the ridge of the Shooter’s hand, dropped the bodyguard to his knees, and then a twist of the head broke his spinal cord at the second Cervical vertebrae. The fourth bodyguard fared no better, when the Shooter slid under his karate kick, and grabbed him by the waist, slamming him to the floor, and then three rapid blows with the palm of his hand, drove the bodyguard’s nose cartilage and bone into his brain.
The Shooter slowly entered the water, while the gang boss calmly sat still in the center of the pool, awaiting his destiny. He realized that none of this could have taken place without the High Council’s consent, and the only honorable way out now, was the Samurai way. Hari Kari was out of the question, so he didn’t resist when the gaijin reached out to him and pulled him under, and then held him there until his lungs filled with water and his body went limp. This all took place in less time than it took the Shooter to dry himself off, put on his cloths, and slip out the door, unseen.
The Shooter became a master of disguise and languages, and as his repertoire expanded so did his assignments, and he was no longer considered a one trick pony. He was able to penetrate the most secretive organizations, be they fiefdoms of War Lords in Somalia or the Ivory Coast, or the Ivory towers of Western Democracies. He was able to gain access to a Luxemburg based Multi-National Hedge Fund, whose manager double as one of the most prolific illegal Arms Dealers in the world, who no longer enjoyed the protection of the CIA. The man was protected better than the President of the United States, who’s Secret Service had been found to be lacking on several occasions. Wilfred Wolf Hoffman was not a man to be toyed with, he hired only the best, and the new head of his security was ex-Mossad trained operative, Yusef Ben Israeli, reportedly, a black Jew from Ethiopia, fluent in Yiddish , Hebrew, and several other languages, but better known to the CIA as the Shooter. One brisk clear morning in Geneva, Mr. Hoffman took a ride with his Head of Security and was never seen again, nor was Mr. Israeli.
The Shooter relied on meticulous planning and faultless execution, which accounted for his success over the years, his mission would be completed before anyone knew that it had begun, which was particularly distressing for the target, but not for long. His real talent laid in reading situations, not destroying people, anyone could pull a trigger. His talent for undercover work arguably outstripped his killing ability, but his forte came in knowing when to kill, often it was a matter of reading the situation and letting the play come into focus. Success or failure often was measured in minute measurements of time and distance, and an immeasurable amount of patients, and sometimes the deciding factor was determent by fate, delivered by a hunch.
The Shooter never asked questions about the intent of an operation, but even without doing so, quite often a pattern emerged, and his mind inevitably connected the dots.
A great deal of the CIA’s efforts were centered around drugs, the cultivation of heroin in Afghanistan and The Golden Triangle in South East Asia, the growing and processing of cocaine in South America, and the transportation of drugs through Central America and ultimately through Mexico. Whoever controlled the smuggling routes through Mexico controlled the drug market in North America, and if you could send drugs then you could send anything. The more he thought about it the more important The Shot Caller became in the Big Picture.
There was no way that the Shot Caller’s organization could have gained the position that it had in the drug world without the explicit consent of the CIA. Although the evidence supporting such a theory would never reach the light of day, the Shooter always suspected that the CIA had more say in who did what to whom and for how long, than anyone would believe, and that included calling shots in the Taliban. It was no fluke that Bin Laden and the leadership of the Taliban escaped from the White Mountains of, Tora Bora in Afghanistan in 2002. Today the Taliban produces more Heroin in Afghanistan, than ever before.
The Shooter had infiltrated the Mob back in 2005, and he wasn’t exactly a Sleeper agent. He had nine hits to his credit for the Mob, when the agency told him not to be too pro-active. After all, establishing your cover was one thing, but unleashing a goddamn crime wave was another thing altogether, but as long as his victims were gangsters and known criminals he was given the green light from the agency to do his thing, but when he got a contract from Eduardo to kill the Dishwasher, he was told to tread water. Finally after three days of waiting for an answer he was told to fulfill his contract.
He had a premonition after he was given the go ahead to terminate the Dishwasher, by the CIA. It was a matter of record that the Dishwasher was laundering money for the Mob, that’s how he got his nickname, but those in the know at the CIA knew that the Dishwasher was also an undercover agent for the DEA.
The Shooter had learned to trust no one, especially the people for whom he worked, and definitely not the CIA. Before boarding his flight to Brazil, he hacked into the airline’s web site for Bookings and Reservations, and generated a list of all those who had paid in cash for their tickets. Five names were listed, including his alias, Bruno da Silva. The other four names, he assumed were aliases for what reason he didn’t know, but he knew that that was how hit squads traveled, and during the flight he memorize the faces of those seated in the numbered seats according to his printout.
He would never take a direct flight to his final destination, when it could be avoided, and when his plane landed at Sao Paulo for refueling, he ditched his flight, and took a bus to Niteroi, and from there he boarded a private yacht, dressed as a Macomba medicine man, and came ashore in a small fishing boat, directly onto the shores of Copacabana. This way he could be certain that he was not being followed, and to make sure that his cover was complete he went through a full regalia and ritual, performing a black mass on the beach as soon as he reached shore.
Eduardo had told him that he could find the Dishwasher in Copacabana, and because he always did his own due diligence he contacted his connection in Rio, and he soon found out this to be true. It wasn’t hard to locate the girl that the Dishwasher was banging, her name was Paula. She was a hooker who worked out of a Disco Club in Copacabana called HELP, and for a hundred reais she told his connection everything that she knew, about the Dishwasher.
The Dishwasher was tight lip around his peers, but as is so often the case, pillow talk reveals the best kept secret between mice and men. She told him about the key he always wore around his neck and how the Dishwasher always told her that it would unlock all of the money that they would ever need. His connection asked her if she knew what the key was for, but not even to her would the Dishwasher reveal the secret behind the key.
The Dishwasher’s real name was Calvin Hanks, a white 63 years old ex-government employee, retired and recently divorced from his fourth wife, Ida. According to his personnel file, he had been a pencil pusher with the Department of Justice, tracking the paper trail in drug operations. When he left the government he tried other kinds of work, but this he was good at, and life kept getting in the way. Unfaithful wives, ungrateful children, and bosses who, by the grace of God, never found out just how far they had pushed him. He never did get rich plying his trade, but he did put in some work every now and then for the other side, and this did allowed him to pursue his vices if not his passions, and quite often not even he knew the difference, and that was enough for him, but no one knew that it was all a part of his cover story.
His mission involve national security, which included tracing laundered money from a street gang out of L.A., that had morphed itself into an international drug cartel, that called themselves “The MOB”. He was close to learning the identity of those who really controlled the MOB, and what their primary purpose was.
On the surface The MOB were a group of Mexican nationals, with ties to the infamous 18th Street, street gang, out of Los Angeles. Normally the two groups would maintain their distance, the 18th Street gang members, comprised of Chicanos, born in America, looked down on their Mexican brothers from south of the border, calling them Pisas. In prison there existed a well-defined delineation or separation of the two groups, although they were allies when confronted by blacks, whites, Asians and any other ethnic group that threaten “their” supremacy.
The Mexican Nationals gained status and importance when 18th Street took over the drug business in Los Angeles. They needed connections to secure routes, in order to bring in their drug shipments from Mexico, which was the last stop in the pip line, from the cocaine labs in the jungles of Columbia, that turned the coca plant drippings into cocaine bricks, and who better to use than the Pisans, who used the routes to smuggle their own people into the U.S. all of the time; they knew the what, when, where, and how of the smuggling operations along the entire southern U.S. border with Mexico.
The Mob benefited from the protection of 18th Street as Felix’s business grew from one broken down El Camino, to a fleet of 32 cars and drivers that brought in a million and a half dollars a day in drug money, and that was just the beginning.
The Shooter went undercover, and started working for the Mob after he was introduced to them down in Cali, Columbia. The Black Eagles, Aguilas Negras, a former Columbian paramilitary group, now disbanded, with ties to the CIA, hired him to do a job for the Medellin Cartel. He dispatched a local Cali Cartel Shot Caller, who had violated the truce between the two Cartels. He had to be handled by an outside source, namely the Shooter, in order to keep the peace between them. Part of his payment was in the form of one kilogram of cocaine. He got twenty grand in cash and the dope, which he could turn over back in the states for $60,000, but instead of keeping it he sold it to The MOB for five thousand dollars, which was the going rate. He was in good with them after that transaction, because nothing makes friends quicker than making money together.
Before long, the Shooter became the Mob’s number one Hit Man, but before he could complete a job he had to get the OK from the agency to proceed. Which wasn’t a problem, as long as the target wasn’t on their payroll? The CIA had a lot of people on their books and they didn’t want any of their operatives to be retired prematurely. The Dishwasher Hit was another matter altogether, although he wasn’t one of their boys, he was a federal undercover agent, but that was a matter for the DEA to handle, as far as the company was concern he was expendable.
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