DUAL DECEPTION Read online

COLLISION IN FIVE YARDS.

  The white truck panicked, veered to its left, crashed through the fence, and disappeared into the deep ravine.

  Molka buried the breaks and stopped where the white truck had gone through.

  Laili raised her head, surveyed the results, and smiled, excited. “That was badass!”

  Molka exhaled adrenaline. “One of these times, I’m going to be wrong about the other chicken.”

  They both jumped from the truck and peered over the ravine’s edge. The white truck rested at the bottom, wedged nose-first into the opposite bank. The driver and passenger—shaken but showing no injuries—exited their wounded vehicle.

  Laili laughed. “You two again?”

  Molka also recognized them as two of the women who had Laili trapped behind the table when she had first arrived at the brawl. She called down to them: “Leave your weapon in the truck. We’re armed too.” She lied.

  “It’s empty,” Woman One said.

  “You guys ok?” Molka said.

  Woman Two said, “Hell with both y’all!”

  “Do you need an ambulance?” Molka said.

  Woman Two repeated, “I said, hell with both y’all!”

  “We’re ok,” Woman One said. “We don’t need an ambulance.”

  “Are you sure?” Molka said.

  “Yes.”

  “Alright. We’re leaving then.”

  Woman Two said, “Y’all come back to the bar and see us real soon. Especially you, blondie.”

  “Maybe I will,” Laili said. “Just make sure you bring your sexy husband’s again.”

  Woman Two said, “Hell with both y’all!”

  Woman One said, “Who are you two, anyway?”

  Laili sprang back into the truck bed, glared down on them, and raised two middle fingers high. “This is who we are, bitches! And don’t ever forget us!”

  “Um…she speaks for herself,” Molka said. “I would appreciate it if you forgot me immediately. Have a good night.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  With Laili moved into the passenger seat, Molka left the access road, got back onto the main road, drove to an I-45 South onramp, and headed toward their temporary accommodations. Forty miles away on Galveston Island, a Counsel associate on an extended vacation had allowed them use of his spacious home, along with the pickup truck they rode in.

  Laili viewed her face in the sideview mirror, finger tapped a split on her lower lip from the fight, and spit blood out the window. “Those Texas bitches are tough and relentless. You have to give them their props.”

  “How did you get from the community center to that bar?” Molka said.

  “I asked some guy hanging around outside to give me a ride.”

  “Ok. Very foolish. Then how did you get in fight with every woman there? And by the way, the drinking age here isn’t 19 like back home. It’s 21.”

  “That’s why they asked me leave.”

  “You started a fight over that?”

  “No,” Laili said. “The fight started when I gave this hot guy a little booty-shaking dance.” She grinned. “He loved it. Every other guy there was loving it too.”

  “I’m sure they were.”

  “Then that fat bitch who was driving the white truck walks up and tells me to get away from her husband. So I said, ‘ok, fuck you very much for telling me that, bitch,’ and started dancing for another guy. And the other bitch in the white truck comes up and says to get away from her husband. I slapped the shit out of her and went back and slapped the shit of the first bitch too. That’s when all the bitches jumped in on me.”

  “And that’s when you called me come help,” Molka said.

  “Took you long enough.”

  Molka laughed. “Well, you—"

  “I know what you’re going to say. That I have a big loud smart mouth. Yes. I admit that. So what? I can back it up.”

  Molka laughed again. “No. I was going to say you found out that you don’t mess with another woman’s man in Texas. You don’t mess with Texas period, I’ve heard.”

  Laili spit out the window again. “Shut up, bitch. I was bored. I wanted some action. We’ve been stuck here over a month, and I’m tired of hanging out with you every night at all your tediously dull self-improvement classes. I mean, the only one that was somewhat cool was when you learned to drive that big boat. Even though it took you three sessions to get what I figured out in one hour. What’s up with that, anyway?”

  “I’m not a girl genius like you who can read the manual before she goes to bed and wake the next morning an expert. I have to apply myself and study hard.”

  “That’s your problem,” Laili said.

  “I know that, but—”

  A sheriff’s vehicle flew past them. Molka watched it speed on ahead after someone else. She continued. “But if you wanted to fight tonight, you could have just waited until we got home and fought me. I would still love to finish the one you started in Vancouver.”

  Laili smirked. “Stop talking trash. You don’t want Azzur to kick you out of the program any more than I want him to kick me out. You’re just lucky the fighting ban he put on us is saving your ass.”

  “You mean yours.”

  “Whatever, bitch.” Laili turned on the radio, scanned through several stations—all commercials—and turned it back off. “I suppose you’re going to snitch on me to your precious Azzur about tonight?”

  Molka raised annoyed eyebrows at Laili. “What do you mean, my precious Azzur?”

  “He’s always like, Molka can do this, and Molka can do that, and Molka has done this, and Molka has done that, blah, blah, blah, who gives a fuck.”

  Molka accelerated and passed around a semi-truck. “Azzur’s never said anything like that to me.”

  “Are you going to snitch on me or not?”

  “No,” Molka said. “You can snitch on yourself to him. I got a message during my class. He’ll be here tomorrow to brief us on our task. We’re about to find out if you can really back up your big loud smart mouth.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Molka and Laili waited on opposite ends of the brown leather family room couch for Azzur to return.

  Their project manager was fit for his early 50s, dark complexioned, with neat gray-specked black hair. He stepped out minutes after he arrived to retrieve something from his rental car. But before leaving, he placed his usual brown leather satchel on a coffee table in front of the couch, removed a standard briefing tablet, and synched it to the room’s 60-inch flat screen.

  Laili lounged with a canned energy drink, wearing black sleeping boxers and a gold t-shirt featuring a lioness, which somewhat matched the small tattoo on the right side of her neck.

  Molka wore a blue tank top and blue running shorts. Like her long, dark, ponytailed hair, they remained sweat soaked from a run in steamy hot, early October, East Texas. When she brushed some loose bang strands from her large oval blues eyes, her glistening bicep flexed nicely. A month of regular gym sessions had definitely toned her already athletic body back up.

  Laili pinched her nose at Molka. “Uuk. You stink so bad.”

  “So do you,” Molka said. “But at least my stink is a clean stink from my run. Your hair still reeks of stale cigarette smoke and beer from the bar last night.”

  Laili burped energy drink. “I just woke up. I haven’t gotten around to my morning shower yet.”

  “Too late now. It’s almost 2PM.”

  Azzur re-entered wearing a fluorescent yellow hazmat suit. He carried a bright yellow metal case displaying “Hazardous Material” decals.

  He placed the yellow case on the fireplace hearth, removed the suit’s protective mask, and addressed the women.

  “Pharmaceutical fentanyl is a synthetic opioid pain reliever. Approved for treating severe pain—typically that experienced with advanced cancer—it is 50 to 100 times more potent than morphine. Illegally made fentanyl is sold for its heroin-like effects. It is often mixed with heroin and/or cocaine as a combination produc
t—with or without the user’s knowledge—to increase its euphoric effects. In the US, illegal fentanyl is now the most commonly used drug involved in fatal overdoses with over 25,000 deaths per year by some estimates and rapidly growing.”

  Azzur placed his mask on again, walked back to the case, released the latches, and opened the lid. He removed metal tongs, used them to grasp and remove a tiny empty glass vial from the case, and carried it toward Molka and Laili.

  He held the vial two feet from their faces. The closer view revealed it contained a minuscule quantity of white powder.

  Azzur’s voice was muted through his face protection. “That tiny amount of fentanyl is enough to kill a fully-grown adult male.” Azzur returned to the yellow case, replaced the vial and the tongs, re-secured the latches, and moved back toward Molka and Laili. “Within two weeks, 1,000 pounds of illegal fentanyl—enough for hundreds of millions of lethal doses—will be smuggled by an individual into our country. The ramifications of introducing such a large quantity of a super-killer substance into our population of only nine million could be unimaginably catastrophic.”

  “Who’s the smuggler?” Molka said.

  Azzur removed his mask and gloves, picked up the briefing tablet from the coffee table, and swiped. On the big TV screen across from them, a bald-shaven, trim bearded, handsome young man’s headshot appeared.

  Laili sat up and pointed. “I know who he is! That’s Paz! He’s a championship gamer. Well, he used to be.” She smiled. “I had a little thing for him, way back when I was a gamer myself. When I was just a kid.”

  Molka rolled her eyes. “Said the 19-year-old kid.”

  Laili smirked. “Shut up, bitch.”

  Azzur lit a cigarette from a pack beside the tablet. “Laili is correct. He is Mr. Paz Davidov, age 22 and former noted professional video game player. He is also our prime minister’s nephew.”

  “I remember this guy too,” Molka said. “Didn’t his grandfather leave him billions and then he did something ridiculous with it? Like he bought a big yacht so he and his rich loser party-boy friends could cruise around the world getting trashed?”

  Azzur blew smoke. “His late billionaire grandfather established an exceedingly generous trust fund for Mr. Davidov, his sole grandchild. With his new wealth, Mr. Davidov—already considered the family’s black sheep—purchased an opulent mansion in Haifa and this custom-fitted, 200-foot mega yacht.” He swiped to a wide shot of massive, stunning, sleek, modern white vessel.

  Laili whistled. “Sweet.”

  Molka pointed at the yacht’s image. “What’s that green flag flying from the back with the initials TP on it?”

  “Duh,” Laili said. “Team Paz. That’s the name of his gamer crew.”

  “Mr. Davidov named her Outcast,” Azzur said. “Then he hired a captain to pilot her, and with his young friends, sought to drink his way from port-to-port until he circumnavigated the globe.”

  Laili smiled. “How fucking cool is that?”

  Molka rolled her eyes again.

  “However,” Azzur said, “their tour of debauchery has ended on Saint Thomas in the US Virgin Islands, where Mr. Davidov has become engaged to this woman.” He swiped to a model-stunning young woman smiling in a red bikini on a white sand beach. Her ash hair flowed with confidence, her lips curled mischievously, and her steel-blue eyes were penetrating. “Miss Caryn Thorsen, age 20.”

  “She’s beautifully gorgeous,” Laili said.

  Molka agreed. “That’s one way of filling out a bikini.”

  Azzur continued. “The manager of Mr. Davidov’s trust fund has required Mr. Davidov to return home before the 30th of this month to sign notarized documents under penalty of forfeiture of his trust fund. Therefore, he must leave Saint Thomas within 12 days. He and Miss Thorsen are to be wed on the last possible day.”

  “I have a comment,” Molka said. “I know Paz is not one of our best and brightest, but even he can’t be stupid enough to try and bring that much dope into the country.”

  “He has no idea he is about to smuggle it, thanks to Miss Thorsen’s father, Mr. Donar Thorsen.” Azzur brought up a professionally taken photo of a thin middle-aged man in an expensive silver slim-fit suit standing on a marina dock filled with huge luxury yachts. His gray hair was slicked back with conceit, his lips pursed seriously, and his steel-blue eyes were penetrating.

  Laili nodded. “I can see where his hot daughter gets her hot looks from.”

  Azzur scanned for a place to flick ash. Laili popped off the couch and handed him her energy drink can.

  Azzur used it for an ash tray and continued. “Mr. Thorsen, age 51, has Danish roots that go back to the colonial days of the US Virgin Islands, and he has long been considered a respected businessman. Drug trafficking is a relatively new endeavor for him, started when he accrued some large debts. He has partnered with a Belize-based cartel to bring marijuana destined for the US into Puerto Rico using a boat charter service he operates. But now, with fentanyl production currently exceeding US demand, and at the suggestion of his cartel partners, Mr. Thorsen sees his daughter’s marriage to Mr. Davidov as a great opportunity to open a pipeline of the highly addictive—and much more profitable—fentanyl into new and underdeveloped Middle East markets through our country.”

  “What a sick fuck,” Laili said. “I hate drugs and I hate drug dealers.”

  “I cannot blame you,” Azzur said. “Considering the ravages both have wrought upon your family.”

  Laili gazed past Azzur out the sliding glass door. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Azzur went on. “Mr. Thorsen’s main legitimate business is ownership of the largest marina destination in the islands: Yacht Marina Grande.” He swiped to a website photo of a mall-like complex fronting a large marina. “The property features upscale shopping, fine dining, a day spa, and the aforementioned boat charter service, but its main function is the berthing and care of mega yachts such as Mr. Davidoff’s. This is how cartel members were able to gain access to the Outcast, install a hidden smuggling compartment deep within her, and load the fentanyl without Mr. Davidov’s knowledge.”

  “Sneaky,” Molka said.

  “Also shipping with the fentanyl are 100, 400-ounce gold bars as a courtesy fee the cartel will pay their new partners in our country.”

  “How much are 100, 400-ounce gold bars worth, daddy?” Laili said.

  “If current market trends continue, approximately 100 million US dollars.”

  “They consider a 100 million-dollars a courtesy fee?” Molka said. “Ha. I’m working for the wrong people.”

  “Immediately after the wedding,” Azzur said, “the newlyweds are to honeymoon cruise back to our country on Outcast, where Mr. Davidov is to introduce his new bride to his family and to her new home in Haifa, and then openly campaign against the prime minister’s party in the upcoming election.”

  Molka chuckled. “Ooops.”

  “Meanwhile, cartel associates waiting in our country will clandestinely board Outcast and remove the hidden fentanyl and gold for their new partners. And they do not fear discovery because the cartel believes—with good reason—our security and customs people will not seriously search the prime minister’s nephew’s vessel.”

  “It’s a clever scheme,” Molka said.

  “It gets even more so.” Azzur blew smoke. “Almost immediately, Miss Thorsen will insist upon frequent yacht visitation cruises between Haifa and her beloved old Virgin Island’s home. On each of these trips, the Outcast will carry back another massive fentanyl load. It is believed Miss Thorsen is fully aware of the scheme and is, in fact, coordinating it.”

  “That dirty little whore,” Laili said. “Poor Paz.”

  Molka raised a hand. “Ok. I know this an irrelevant question because you wouldn’t be here. But isn’t the simple solution to just give our drug enforcement people this information? They can save the country from this fentanyl disaster, Paz from himself, and take credit for the biggest drug bust in our history. Maybe
anyone’s history.”

  Azzur stubbed out and lit new cigarette. “The prime minister feels once it is exposed to the public that their nephew married a drug lord’s daughter—let alone also being duped into major drug trafficking plot—it would be a devastating national embarrassment. Not to mention detrimental to the prime minister’s party in the upcoming election.”

  Molka smirked. “But this won’t be a devastating national embarrassment or hurt the prime minister’s party in the upcoming election. Because unlike all our law enforcement agencies, we— I mean the Counsel—don’t answer to the government or have any government oversight. The Counsel answers directly to the prime minster. Which means this potential disaster will never be exposed to the public.”

  “That is correct,” Azzur said.

  Alright,” Molka said. “How are we going to stop what will never officially have almost occurred?”

  Azzur swiped the tablet and started a slide show presentation featuring spectacular island paradise-like scenes. “The US Virgin Islands are an unincorporated and organized territory of the United States located in the Caribbean east of Puerto Rico. It consists of the main islands of Saint Croix, Saint John, and Saint Thomas, and many other surrounding minor islands, few of which are inhabited. The total land area of the territory is 133.73 square miles. The population is approximately 110,000 with an Afro-Caribbean descent majority. Official language: English. Primary economic activity: tourism. The territory's capital is Charlotte Amalie on the island of Saint Thomas, which has a deep-water harbor that was once a haven for pirates and is now one of the busiest ports of call for cruise ships in the Caribbean, with about 1.5 million cruise ship passengers landing there annually.”

  Laili beamed. “It all looks so amazing, daddy.”

  Azzur continued. “A wealthy associate of ours, Mr. Benjamin Levy, enjoys a quiet retirement there with his wife on Saint Croix island. And although not a pet owner himself, he believes the US Virgin Islands are underserved in veterinary care. Therefore, he has decided to open an animal hospital in Charlotte Amalie. You two are his first employees, hired to assist in setting up the hospital for opening. Of course, there is nothing to set up, and the hospital will never open. It only functions as a cover for your legends: veterinarian and vet tech.”