Crime Suppression Unit Part 2

The Crime Suppression Unit had gained the information easily. They questioned all four suspects, even the old woman. No sense in taking any chances.

They were all dead and would be left taped to the poles in the abandoned building. The officers had learned about the vast warehouse near the Myanmar border filled with millions of dollars worth of drugs. More importantly the main office
of the criminal organization was in Kanchanaburi. This is where the computer files, bank transfers, and records were kept, far from Johnny Wou vast empire of legitimate businesses in Bangkok. With this information in their hands they would destroy
Wou and everyone that worked for him. The night was still young and time was of the essence. They still had plenty of weapons and explosives. They piled into the black Ford Explorer and screamed out of the building, heading towards Kanchanaburi,
maintaining radio silence. They would launch an attack on the headquarters and be back in Bangkok before daylight. The driver raced towards the highway and only jammed on the brakes at the last second. Ahead of them was an armored personnel carrier
filled with army troops and a mounted fifty caliber machine gun on the roof of the cab. The C. S. U. officers looked on in amazement as two tanks followed close behind. What the Hell?

The Colonel switched on the radio. Headquarters had been trying to reach them for hours. His chief was incoherent with rage. They had to report back immediately.

No one was quite sure what was happening. It appeared to be an unexpected but successful transfer of power to the Army. The Bangkok Police and The National Army were not opposing each other but a team like the Crime Suppression Unit would
be essential for a show of strength. Their revenge for the murder of Colonel Pratt would have to wait but the information they had gained was transitory. In a day or two the entire Kanchanaburi office would vanish along with any hopes of destroying
Johnny Wou.

ho knew how long the Army and Police would be occupied with this historical event? The last coup had lingered for days and had not gone smoothly.

The Colonel racked his brain. Damn! Should he turn this information over to a couple of civilians? They would probably get themselves killed and the Kanchanaburi office would pack up and melt away. Well, he had nothing to loose except the
lives of a couple of Farang. In any event the office and all of its information would disappear one way or the other and Thailand would not miss a few unwanted foreigners. The Colonel reached into the duffel bag and pulled out one of many mobile
phones.

They were for calls like this; used one time only and destroyed. Nothing would be traced back to him.

Rick Randel and his girlfriend Soopies (you can call me Sonia) were relaxing in their new friends second floor apartment. The three of them were waiting for a call detailing the capture or destruction of Johnny Wou. Vincent’s friends
in the C.S.U. would see to it. When the call came it was not what he expected. The private investigator threw the phone against the wall, cursed and explained the situation to Rick. I’m going up there. We’ve got to get those records.
Are you with me?

Sure, Rick said holding up his hand, cocking his thumb and pointing his index finger. I know how to say, bang, bang, you’re dead.

Vincent carefully picked up a Buddha statue from the mantle and took out a package wrapped in a greasy cloth. He handed it to Rick. It was an old U.S. Army Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. An antique compared to Vinnies Glock-18 Polymer automatic.
Rick could not have been more delighted. It was a real man stopper. Hit someone anywhere with it and he was down for sure. The clip held seven cartridges and one in the chamber. The slugs were still made from lead and weighed 230 grams, twice
as much as the Glock's new bullets. The noses of the .45s were flat as opposed to the newer ones made with stainless steel and Kevlar coated, pointed tips. The Glock's cartridges were supersonic and went through you so fast you hardly
knew that you were hit. The .45 slug was slow by comparison, a third slower, at 830 feet per second. The fat chunk of .45 caliber lead started to expand as it traveled. It was like getting hit by a Mack truck.

Rick had fired a similar weapon many times when he did a stint in the Marines. He turned the heavy piece over in his hand. The grips were checkered walnut and the weapon was stamped U. S. Government Model 1911. The model number was the first
year the automatic came into use. It was made especially for the Philippines insurrection, when the Moros tribesmen, high on drugs and their bodies wrapped in leather bindings, were almost unstoppable by the Armys .38 caliber revolvers. It had
been used in the First World War and also in the Second World War and was only taken out of service when they switched to United Nations 9-mm ammunition in 1985. Many law enforcement agencies such as SWAT Teams still use it because of its awesome
stopping power.

This is great. Do you have an extra clip or two?

Vincent shook his head. If you have to empty your weapon at close range and are still in trouble, you’re going to need a hell of a lot more than a few clips of ammo.

Soopies jumped up. Where’s mine?

Vincent shook his head again. You’re not going. You’re staying here. It’s too dangerous.

I can help you drive and I can get you out of the city by using the back roads and not using the highways which are probably closed by the military now anyway.

I can get all the way to Kanchanaburi and not even go on a highway, Mister Cannelloni or whatever your name is.

Vincent looked over at Rick who shrugged his shoulders. Okay, but no gun, just drive, Soopies beautiful full lips broke into a big grin as if to say, I win again, why argue with me.

Vinnie had an eight year old Honda sedan. Sonia drove with Rick up front. He put the heavy Colt in the glove compartment, leaving the safety off and the hammer back.

Hey, suppose I hit bump or something; point that thing the other way, Sonia exclaimed.

There is nothing more dangerous than a gun that you can’t shoot. Besides there is a safety that runs down the back of the handle; when you hold the gun in your hand and squeeze the trigger you are also applying pressure to release
the safety.

When they were well away from Bangkok they got on the highway and made up for lost time, arriving at Kanchanaburi at dawn. They found the office, a one story cinderblock building with a small restaurant in front as the only way in. There
were a dozen phone lines running into the place and steel shuttered windows.

How do you expect to break into this place? It’s like a fortress. Sonia asked.

Well wait until the restaurant opens and walk right in. The trick is loading the goods into the car. Well tie everyone up and only take the hard drives from the computers, what ever paperwork we can find and whatever is in the safe. Rick
replied.

How long do we have to wait until it opens?

I don’t know but we passed a motel a while back. Let’s get a room and grab a little shut eye for a few hours.

It was a bungalow hotel with free standing cottages about twenty feet apart with plenty of trees and shrubs in-between. A perfect place for a little rest and privacy.

There were two beds. Vinnie bunked in one and Soopies and Rick in the other. They had slept only a few hours when Sonia woke up Rick.

Give me some money. I’m going to walk down to a food stand and pick up breakfast. Time to get started.

Rick got up and splashed some water on his face. Vincent showered, dressed and slipped on his holster and Glock.

The door burst open and they were surprised to see a tall white man with close cut grey hair. His pants were bloused into his boots and he wore a web belt over fatigue pants with a green T-shirt. He looked a bit like Lee Marvin but more importantly
he held a Heckler & Koch automatic rifle. The tall man strode over and jammed the muzzle of the gun into Ricks stomach and in the same motion smacked Vinnie against the head with the butt of the weapon. Both men fell to the floor. The man
took Vincent's gun and shoved it into his belt. He pulled two chairs together back to back and motioned for the men to sit down, took a black nylon cord from his pocket and wrapped it firmly around them.

Matt Jacobson sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. This was an easy one. He would kill both men and be on his way. He had expected the Crime Suppression Unit, in which case it would have been a bit more difficult but nothing he couldn’t
handle. Jake had been a Captain in the Green Berets in Vietnam and had been designated, along with his squad to capture rural village leaders believed to be Viet Cong members. After questioning Jake would shoot them just behind the ear. There
was no trial and no leniency, only suspicion and death. The funny thing was that even when tortured almost none of them spoke to him, as if this were all pre-ordained. It was simply their fate.

His weekly reports sounded maddeningly alike, suspect refused to talk, no information gained. After a while Jake stopped asking questions. What could these men tell him really? They were supposed to die. He had figured that out before long.
His real mission was death. He had lost count of the number of assignments before they were arrested by Army Intelligence for murder. When the officers from AID came, he thought it was some kind of a joke. He was supposed to kill people. Jake
and his team were quietly eased out of service and picked up by the CIA. They continued to stay in South East Asia. The ideas and ideals of duty, honor, right, wrong, profit, disgrace, money, drugs, good and greed melted into each other in the
hot Asian climate until they all blurred together and became oneÑJakes Law. Complete the mission, period. No ifs, ands, buts, forgiveness, mercy, redemption, hesitation or rules. Mission completed is the only thing he wanted to think about
at the end of the day.

Dreams of the horrific violence and the dead men’s ghosts did not visit Jake at night like they did so many others. He didn’t allow them to. He was not concerned with them so they could not come. Men in ragged farmers clothes
walking slowly towards him with up raised finger-less hands, young girls with their bellies cut open from stem to sternum, their guts spilling out as they wriggled and squirmed in Jakes grasp. How many bodies had he broken, necks snapped, arms
disjointed, skulls crushed? How many men had he killed close up, holding their bodies pressed against his like two-bit whores, his knife puncturing their organs, entering their loins? It was the ultimate penetration-lovers for all eternity. If
you needed a silent death, you had to hold the dying bodies as the muscles moved to obey the brain signals before they faded away. More often than not, Jakes arms muffled their last gasps in a final embrace.

He smiled at the two men in front of him. A piece of cake. A gift for old times sake. He hadn’t given a good nothing barred, blood filled interrogation in a long time and now he had two subjects sitting right in front of him.

Rick turned his head a bit and whispered to Vinnie. This does not look good. Any suggestions?

Vincent shrugged his shoulders.

Come on, you're the hot-shot detective. Hasn’t anything like this happened to you before?

Sure it has. In every single novel actually. But this is your story; now its up to you and your creator.

What? what are you talking about?

Vincent looked at him in amazement. You mean you don’t know. You’re new at this aren’t you?

Jake smiled to himself as he stood up and stepped on his cigarette. His heart was light and joyful as he reached for the first man.

Dear Readers. Please tune in next Saturday for chapter three.

Stickman's thoughts:

Frank, we can't wait for part 3! (Actually, I have already read it….hehehe – but everyone else will have to wait until next week!)