Disclaimer and beta thanks in Part 1. All offers of baked goods for more frequent postings are gladly accepted.

Hang on to your hats...

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Chapter 9
Friday, July 1
2:45 P.M.
FBI Field Office, Los Angeles

Don hung up the phone with a satisfied sigh. He gave Terry a thumbs-up as he crossed the room to write a big black X over a photograph hanging amidst a collage of lists, maps, and photos. That made thirty; only ten more to go.

Over the course of the past week, Mick had provided them with a wealth of information. He told them he had been approached about a year ago about earning some extra money working on late night shipments. His initial refusal had been countered with a threat of information being leaked to the authorities that would result in his deportation. Whether the information was true or not was irrelevant; the newly-formed Immigration and Customs Enforcement branch of the Department of Homeland Security had increased its scrutiny of immigrants to such an extent that they wouldn't examine reports of contact with certain Middle Eastern countries too closely. And since Mick wouldn't exactly find a warm welcome waiting for him from the Russian Army, he felt he had no choice but to go along.

He hadn't done much more than drive a few trucks with containers from the docks to their final destination. But he remembered those final destinations, from warehouses a few miles from the ports to a refrigerator repair shop seventy miles out in Palm Springs. FBI teams had closed in on all of those locations, and seven out of the eight had turned up gold. The number of arrests was up to thirty, with ten more suspects identified. While they hadn't seized huge amounts of smuggled freon, they were putting a substantial dent in the Russians' distribution network.

Of course, Mick was just one participant. Even though Don's on-the-spot offer of immunity had later been translated into a more binding agreement that was available to all takers, many of the arrested individuals had refused to say a word. Don even asked Mick to try to talk them into his way of thinking, that information in exchange for protection was better than being defenseless and being thought a snitch anyway. But only a few had taken them up on the offer.

One of those was Captain Balandra of the "Buir Lake." He hadn't had a whole lot of information to share, since the shipment they had confiscated had been his first voyage to the U.S. as well as his first smuggling trip. His first trip for whom, he couldn't tell them. Not because he wasn't willing, but because he couldn't get it across with his stilted English. He said that the people who hired him in Manila "talked funny," but that was all he could say. Terry had hit on the idea of asking Mick to speak in Russian to see if that sounded familiar, but the Filipino firmly shook his head.

While that front of the investigation was stalled, there were other areas that were beginning to bear fruit. Don strolled over to the corner of the bullpen, where Charlie was typing madly on his laptop, to check on one of those lines of investigation. "Find anything new, buddy?"

The mathematician didn't look up from his work, saying only, "Give me one second."

"You're going to wear out those keys if you keep this up," Don said, dropping into a chair next to him. "We've got plenty of computer programmers on staff here, you know."

"I've almost got it…" Charlie frowned at the screen for a moment. Then his face cleared, and he made a few final keystrokes. He sat back in his chair triumphantly and turned to Don. "Want to see?"

"Do I want to see your lines of code that only a programmer could love? Not really, Charlie."

His brother made a face at him. "If you don't want to hear about the way I've managed to pinpoint the location of the missing freon, then fine."

"Wait. Missing freon?" Don rested his elbows on the armrests and leaned slightly forward. "We aren't sure where all of the confiscated shipment was headed, but what's missing?"

"A lot." Charlie's laptop showed a map of greater L.A., with a pattern of red dots that closely followed the pattern of industrial land uses throughout the region. "Based on the information you've gotten from the people you've interrogated, I wrote a subroutine to calculate the amount of material that's likely to have been brought in by all of these ships over the last five years. Based on estimates from Caltrans and the EPA of the number of cars, refrigerators, and pieces of industrial equipment in the area that are old enough to use freon as a coolant, I came up with an estimated demand."

"And then you compared that to the amount of permitted freon based on EPA data," Don guessed. When his brother nodded, he went on, "We already did that, Charlie. We came up with a significant gap between demand and supply, which is why we know that smuggling is going on."

Charlie shook his head. "That gap has persisted over five years. It's not natural." He started ticking points off on his fingers. "Smuggling is one of the purest, most free markets you can have, since it's obviously unregulated. It's also an extremely lucrative market. At the same time, demand has decreased as older equipment is phased out. Given those three factors, supply should have increased to meet demand, but it hasn't."

"Yeah, well, we might have managed to catch a few of these shipments over the years, you know."

"No offense, Don, but the U.S. government has barely made a dent. According to my model results --" he clicked on the laptop screen and pointed to a number -- "there's about ten million pounds of freon that have been smuggled into the U.S. through Southern California, but not used."

Don leaned back and regarded him seriously. "If that's right, Charlie, that's a real problem. Can you run your calculations by some of our people?"

"Sure. But before you get too worried…" he trailed off as he clicked on the map again. "I've mapped the locations that you've raided in the last week. Each of these red dots corresponds to a site. The larger the dot, the more freon was seized. The total is about a quarter of what there should be."

"So even with Mick and the others, we're missing a lot of locations."

"Or one big one. My theory, and I haven't managed to prove it yet, is that the smugglers are not just meeting demand, they're creating it. You've arrested a number of Russians suspected of having mafia ties." Don nodded. "They account for less than two million pounds of freon. If you extrapolate the totals on this map to include data from the people in custody who won't cooperate, plus a rough estimate of how many haven't been arrested yet, you still fall short by 27 percent. I think there's a stockpile that's been created to keep the price high, and that's where the missing freon is."

Don gestured at the screen. "So have you been able to figure out where it is?"

"I have a pretty good idea." He typed for a few seconds, and an overlay of yellow spread across portions of the map, encompassing all of the red dots and more area besides. "There's a few outliers, but based on the average distance that Mick and the others drove, the stockpile should be in this area. Now, if you've hit the organization hard enough, they might have changed their pattern, but it's unlikely they could have moved a large stockpile so quickly."

"Heisenberg again, huh?" Charlie beamed at him, and he returned the smile. "See, I pay attention to all that math stuff you talk about."

"Heisenberg is actually physics stuff, but I get your point."

Don squinted at the map and did a rough estimate in his head. "I hate to say it, but that's got to be a quarter of Los Angeles County."

"But you figure the stockpile is somewhere they're going to drive frequently. There are only a few locations where each of the drivers went." He pressed a key, and the yellow area shrank. "Then I talked to David, who was looking into property owned by our suspects. Once you add that in -- " he paused to press another key -- "you're down to three locations. One in Long Beach and two in L.A."

"But according to your map, we've already searched one of the L.A. locations."

"That's right. So there's a very high probability that the stockpile is either here," he tapped a point on the map to the north of the Port of Long Beach," or here," and he tapped a spot a few miles to the northwest, within Los Angeles city limits.

"That's fantastic." Don's mind spun for a moment while he absorbed the new information and figured out what to do with it. "All right, Charlie, can you e-mail me a copy of that map, and print one out, too? I've got a meeting with Jason Ramos from Customs later this afternoon to coordinate our efforts. I'm sure he'd love to see this map. Then I'd better start putting some teams together for tonight."

"You're not going to check it out right now?" Charlie sounded surprised.

Don gestured at the map on his screen. "They're both on heavily traveled arterials, and it's almost rush hour. If we're really talking a major stockpile here, it's best to have as few people around as possible in case someone puts up a fight."

Charlie nodded, then paused when he noticed the time in the lower right-hand corner of his computer screen. "Uh, Don, is that meeting of yours at the port?"

"It's actually at the Customs offices in downtown Long Beach. Why?"

His brother looked up at him with a slightly pleading expression. "I'm supposed to meet a professor from Long Beach City College to talk about their summer program for advanced high school math students. I'm supposed to be there in thirty minutes, but there's no way the Blue Line can get me there that fast. Can I get a ride with you at least part of the way?"

Don frowned. His meeting was also in half an hour. "Yeah, as long as traffic's not too bad."

"Great." He closed the laptop and slid it into his backpack. "Then let's go."

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Twenty minutes later, they were exiting the freeway onto the Pacific Coast Highway, better known as PCH. Though the name implied a glamorous beachfront roadway, here the road cut through an old part of town lined with a mix of industrial and fast food establishments. It wasn't exactly an attractive streetscape, though it was every bit as much a part of California as the palm trees and the sand.

When he'd called Ramos from the car to pass on the news about the missing freon, the customs official had insisted on getting out there to look at the sites Charlie had identified as soon as possible. When Don voiced his objections about the traffic, Ramos reminded him they still didn't know who had leaked information about Don's informant, meaning that there might be someone on the inside. Moving faster was better, he insisted.

Don had grudgingly agreed, deciding that once he dropped Charlie off, he'd call the team he had started to assemble and get them down there. Ramos had insisted on using his own men to investigate the site in Long Beach, and Don had acquiesced, reminding him that they should synchronize their assaults in case both places were bases of operation for the smugglers.

"There it is," Don said as they passed a low-slung brick building set back from the street. "Long Beach Chemical Supply."

Charlie looked up from the textbook on his lap for the first time during the drive, craning his head to look out the back. "Looks like there's some kind of activity going on in the back. I thought you said the Customs people were going to wait?"

Don slammed on the brakes and swerved towards the curb, earning a one-fingered salute from the car behind him. He backed up the Suburban and looked down the alleyway next to the brick building in question. Sure enough, there were two white vans parked at the rear of the building, emblazoned with the U.S. Customs logo. Three men were loading tanks of some sort into the vans, following the shouted commands from someone at the back of the building.

"Son of a -- " Don slammed his palm against the steering wheel. "I told him to wait. That's the point of coordinated interagency activity. What if that's not the whole stockpile, and they got a warning out to the other location?" He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. "This probably won't take very long, if you want to wait in the car."

"Um, I can just get out here." Charlie pointed down the street. "It's only a few more blocks."

"You're sure?" When Charlie nodded, Don went on, "I guess I won't be able to give you a ride back, since I'll be checking on the site in L.A. after I chew out Mr. Ramos here."

"Hey, at least it looks like they found something." Charlie picked up his backpack and opened the door.

"You mean at least it looks like you were right," Don replied knowingly. Among Charlie's many talents was a gift for modesty.

"That, too." He stepped out onto the pavement and looked back up. "Be careful, Don."

"I always am." Don waved him off as he shut the door.

Then he turned the corner, pulling to a stop past the alleyway behind the buildings that fronted on PCH. Looking back towards the chemical supply company, he saw the confiscation of the freon continuing, now with both the customs officers and a couple of men dressed in workman's coveralls doing the loading. Presumably those guys were with the smugglers, meant to be handcuffed later. A little unorthodox, but it was probably easier to keep an eye on them if they were doing some of the work, too.

He reached for his phone to call David and get the second operation going. But when he lifted the phone to his ear, all he heard was a triple beep, and then the descending tones that indicated the device was shutting down. Damn. He'd forgotten to recharge it this afternoon. Well, maybe he could borrow Ramos's phone. The man was obviously in a hurry to get things going; how he'd gotten a full team here so fast and with such instant success, Don didn't know. But it was pretty impressive, despite the lousy timing.

He climbed out of the SUV and started down the alleyway. As he got closer, he could see someone waiting up on the loading dock, talking to another person inside the building in a language Don didn't understand. It looked like Ramos. The Customs agent was facing away from the loading dock, and Don was about to call out to him when he noticed something strange.

There was one Customs officer standing off to the side, watching the rest of the men load the freon into the two white vans. The gun he was holding was pointed at the two men in coveralls who were emerging from the van, and he gestured to them to continue into the building. But as the next man carrying a tank of freon came out, even though he was wearing a Customs uniform, the gun was pointed at him, too.

Don flattened himself back against the wall. He peered around the corner and watched as the man carrying the tank shot a glare at the one holding a gun on him. Then the gunman said something in a loud voice, and Ramos turned to look. "Hurry up, Williams," he called. "You should have volunteered when I asked. You could have been on the other side of the gun."

Yep, there was someone on the inside, all right. This explained a lot, Don thought as his mind raced, from the Customs agent's original reluctance to thoroughly search the "Buir Lake" to his hurry to get to this site and start unloading the stockpiled freon. The only question now was, how many of the Customs agents were with Ramos and the smugglers?

He took a deep breath and drew his gun for reassurance. He'd get back to the car, get the hell out of there, and find a damn pay phone to call in what he'd seen. Then he'd have to keep an eye on things here. Maybe he could catch up with Charlie and borrow his phone. Long Beach City College couldn't have that many math professors, right? It should be fairly easy to locate his brother.

He took a few sideways steps until he was out of sight of the loading dock. Then he turned towards his vehicle --

-- and came face to face with a semi-automatic pistol pointed at him from about six feet away. The man holding it was dressed in the same Customs uniform as everyone else. "Your gun, please," he said with a slight Japanese accent.

Don paused for a minute, considering his options. Then the click of the safety being released made it clear that he didn't really have any options. He carefully tossed his gun to the ground, well off to the side. The man's eyes tracked it for a second, then returned to him. "Hands on your head," he commanded. "Then turn around."

He slowly obeyed, his scalp prickling. When the gun barrel in his back prodded him forward, he moved towards the loading dock. He could feel the sweat trickling down his back underneath his dress shirt, and it wasn't just from the heat of the sun overhead.

As they came into view, Ramos turned around. His surprised expression quickly turned to one of resignation. "I told you, you weren't needed here, Agent Eppes."

He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the loading activity had stopped, but he ignored that and focused on the man standing up on the dock, his arms folded. "How long?" Don asked, his voice simmering with anger, both at himself for being tricked and at the Customs agent for what he'd done. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Longer than you might think," came the reply. The man behind him prodded him to keep moving, and they walked up the few steps to the loading dock. Two men in coveralls stood aside to let them pass before scurrying ahead into the building.

Don came to a sudden stop as the realization hit him. "Paul Everett," he said harshly. "I told you who our informant was, didn't I?"

"I was fairly confident that I knew, but yes, you confirmed it. The other one, the Ukrainian, wasn't hard to smoke out, either. I hope you don't think you can actually protect him."

"It'll be easier now that we know the yakuza are in on it, too." The Japanese mafia were as feared as the Russian variety, though they didn't often operate out of their home territory. Don had been wondering if they were involved ever since Andrea confirmed that the payment for the freon had originated in Osaka. Looking around and noticing the ethnicity of the men with guns compared to those who were doing the loading, he was sure he was right. It also explained Captain Balandra's funny-sounding contacts in the Philippines. "How long have you been cooperating with them and the Russians, anyway? Since your trip to Japan? Or before that?"

The corner of Ramos's mouth turned up. "You're the only one who knows of our involvement, Agent Eppes. And it's going to stay that way." He jerked his head towards the brick building behind him. "We still need to have our meeting. Perhaps I will tell you in exchange for your information."

He dug in his heels. "Like hell I'm going to tell you anything."

The punch to his lower back was not unexpected, but it still hurt. He bent over and tried to catch his breath, his hands now clenched into fists at his sides. The gun was pressing into his back right at the place he'd been hit.

"I insist," came the steely reply. "Your phone call this afternoon was not exactly welcome. I would have found out from you anyway how much progress your team had made, but you seem to have made a connection I didn't expect. Or, rather, you said it was a consultant of yours who made that connection. I need to know who that consultant is and where to find them."

Oh, this could get much worse. "No," he said adamantly.

Ramos's dark eyes narrowed. "You will tell me, one way or another. You said in your phone call that you hadn't yet passed on your information to any other agents. I need to know what they do and do not know, including this consultant of yours."

Don stared at him for a long moment. "Go to hell."

Ramos gave a short nod, and then Don briefly saw stars as the gun barrel struck the back of his head. He put a hand up to his scalp, and it came away sticky. He could feel a trail of blood running down below his collar, and he took a deep breath to steady himself.

The other man was regarding him calmly. "We don't have a lot of time. I hope you don't make things too difficult." Then he gestured, and the man behind him started pulling him towards the building entrance.

The foremost thought in his mind as he was marched inside was gratefulness that his brother had taken off on foot for the college instead of waiting for him in the car. At least Charlie was safe.

On the other hand, Don thought as he entered the building with the gun still digging into his back, he was screwed.