Don Winslow - The Kings Of Cool

OGR gets out of the car and goes in.

It’s a nice house-California bungalow-small and well maintained. But nothing about it says “kingpin.” Nothing about it says the owner is taking a “licensing fee” from every successful dope dealer in the OC and San Diego.

Unless, Ben thinks, OGR is just a guy who has a cop buddy and they thought they’d do a shakedown on a gullible pot grower.

The other possibility is that OGR is a big player who’s smart enough to lie low. Live under the radar until he has enough stowed away to pull out and go to some island paradise.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thinks.

Just take the next step, like get OGR’s name.

He puts in a call to an old buddy from the Stan.

Ben answers his phone.

Hears OGR say, “We’ll take your shit off your hands, but at thirty cents on the dollar.”

“You sure you don’t want to fuck me in the ass, too,” Ben asks, “while you’re at it?”

“You say one more word, it’s twenty-five.”

“Thirty-five,” Ben says. “Come on, don’t be a dick-you’re making huge money on this.”

“What kind of weight we talking?” OGR asks.

“Jesus, on the phone?”

“I’m clean,” OGR says. “Hey, if you’re not…”

“One twenty, give or take.”

“Pounds?!”

“No, gallons, dickwad.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

“We on, or not?”

“I’ll get back to you with a time and place,” OGR says.

“Bring cash,” Ben says.

Chon’s buddy-late of the SEALs, now with the Oceanside PD-calls him back.

“I ran the address.”

His name is Duane Alan Crowe, forty-eight years old, occupation: roofing contractor.

“You want me to ask around?” Chon’s buddy asks. “See if he’s on anyone’s radar?”

Chon tells him no thanks. Last thing he wants is to let anyone in OC know there’s interest in Crowe.

“Hey, I owe you.”

Chon pulled him out of the shit in Helmand one time.

“You owe me nothing.”

Friends look out for friends.

Way it is.

Chon watches Crowe come out of his house, a big briefcase in his hand, and get into his car.

11:30 at night

About fucking time.

Chon is used to sitting still waiting to spring ambushes, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.

He follows Crowe as he drives off.

Guy is standing out front, waiting for OGR to pick him up.

Brian Hennessy is wearing a short jacket, and Chon can see the gun bulge underneath.

Sloppy prick, he thinks.

Brian gets into Crowe’s car.

Chon follows them out to the 405.

Californians can have entire conversations using mostly numbers.

“The 133 to the 405 to the 5 to the 74” being fairly typical.

Crowe turns east on the 74 and drives up into the range of hills that flank the coastal plain.

No-man’s-land.

Surprisingly rural for this part of the world. Lots of switchbacks, dirt roads, little meadows hidden in oak groves.

That’s where Crowe’s headed now, and it freaks Chon out.

If he’s going to meet Ben, which is a real possibility — to do whatever the fuck it is that Ben thinks he’s doing.

Chon thinks he knows the place they’re headed-a little picnic area they’ve used to make exchanges before.

He pulls his car over, grabs the rifle, gets out, and starts trotting through the oak trees, hoping he can get there in time.

Miguel Arroyo, also known as Lado, leads a caravan of Suburbans through the streets of Tijuana and pulls up outside of the nightclub. His black-clad men pour out of the trucks, their M16s carried at high port, and surround the concrete block building, a hangout of the Sanchez-Lauter faction that went over to the Berrajanos.

Then Lado leads a squad through the front door.

“Police!” Lado yells.

There are about a dozen men in the club, with their girlfriends or their segunderas.

“Police!” Lado yells again. A few of the men start for their weapons but quickly realize they’re outgunned and raise their hands.

Lado’s men relieve them of their weapons and line them up against the wall.

Then they step back and, at Lado’s curt nod, open fire.

Ben pulls the van into the picnic area and waits. The back of the van holds one hundred and twenty pounds of his best hydro, plastic-wrapped into quarter-pound packages in twenty-pound bales.

$120K at normal street value, but this is a fire sale at

$42K.

Cocksuckers.

He also has a couple of little surprises wrapped up in two of the bales.

Finally a car pulls into the parking lot. After a few seconds OGR and another guy get out.

Ben does the same.

OGR shines a big flashlight onto the van.

“You come alone?” he asks.

“Like you said.”

“Open the back.”

Ben opens the sliding door. As he does, the guy with OGR reaches to his waist.

Chon sees it and switches his aim from Crowe to Brian, sci-figreen in the nightscope.

Fifty yards away in the trees, prone position, rifle on a bipod.

If Brian goes for the gun, it’s over:

Two shots into him, swing back, two shots into Crowe.

Chon puts pressure on the trigger.

“It’s okay,” OGR says.

Brian’s hand relaxes.

(Chon’s doesn’t.)

“Take your clothes off.”

“What?”

“I want to make sure we’re not podcasting on the DEA network,” OGR says. “You and your little buddy, Agent Cain.”

“Fuck him.”

“Take them off.”

“You take yours off.”

“I’m not the one who wants the deal.”

“Bullshit-you’re here.”

“Off.”

Ben takes his shoes off, then his shirt and his jeans. Holds his hands up, like, you satisfied?

“All of it.”

“Come on. ”

“You could have a wire taped to your dick or under your balls,” OGR says. “I’ve seen it done.”

“I could have it up my ass,” Ben says. “You want to check that, too?”

“I might, you keep talking.”

Ben steps out of his shorts.

Chon doesn’t like it.

On several counts.

First, it’s humiliating, and he hates to see Ben humiliated.

Second, they might want to shoot him like that, really send a message, like the Mexican cartels do.

His finger tightens.

So does his head

Saying

Do it now

Do them both

Get it over with

Sooner rather than

Later.

Remembering what an officer in the Stan once told him I’ve never regretted killing a terrorist-I’ve only regretted not killing him sooner.

You let the villager go one day, next day he comes back with a bomb.

Do it now

Do them both.

“Check the van,” OGR tells Brian. “Mikes, wires, what the fuck.”

Brian gets into the van.

“Can I get dressed?” Ben asks.

“Please. Not that you’re not a good-looking guy.”

Ben gets dressed.

Hears Brian digging around in the van with all the subtlety of an orangutan on crank. Then Brian comes out of the van, says, “It looks clean.”

“It looks clean?” OGR asks. “I don’t care what it looks like, I care what it is.”

“It’s clean,” Brian says.

“Better be,” OGR says.

“Can we do this now?” Ben says. “Did you bring the money?”

“First things first,” OGR says.

He pulls a knife from his waistband.