Mad Dog was placed in an interview room where he was introduced to Staff Sergeant Randy Otto and Corporal Connie Crane, both members of the Integrated Homicide Investigative team, or I-HIT, as it was more commonly known.

Mad Dog smiled with satisfaction, quickly waived his right to a lawyer, and gave a detailed statement of his plan to rob an armoured truck. He also said he bought the guns in the United States and smuggled them across the border on foot. When he finished signing the statement, he leaned back from the table and said, “Time for a little bombshell for ya. The stuff I just told you about is chicken feed.”

“Really?” said Connie, raising an eyebrow. “You think with your record that conspiracy to commit armed robbery is chicken feed?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mad Dog smugly. “That is definitely chicken feed. Somethin’ else happened after I got away from ya yesterday.”

“Oh?” asked Connie. “What would that be?”

“A murder,” replied Mad Dog.

“We’re listening,” said Randy, sounding bored and glancing at his watch.

Mad Dog smiled. “You don’t look impressed.” He snickered and added, “That’s ’cause you don’t know who was wasted yet.” He leaned forward, savouring the moment, while drumming the fingers of both hands on the desk, waiting to hear their pleas for more information. Neither Randy nor Connie responded. The drumming slowed and eventually stopped.

Mad Dog leered silently for a moment, chuckled, and smacked his palms together, emitting a loud clap before using his hands to take an imaginary shot at Randy and Connie. “Bang! Bang! It was one of you!” he blurted out.

Neither Randy nor Connie showed any emotion as Mad Dog anxiously looked back and forth at them both for a response.

“Bang, bang?” said Randy, looking at Connie.

She shrugged in response. “We’re both fine,” said Connie.

“You guys don’t understand!” said Mad Dog. “Not you! Another cop. It just happened. You don’t know about it yet. A woman cop near some warehouses in Surrey. She was murdered. I saw the guy shoot her!”

“What do you think?” asked Connie as she looked at Randy.

“Not interested,” replied Randy.

“What the fuck?” yelled Mad Dog. “What do ya mean you’re not interested? I ain’t bullshittin’ ya. Everything in my statement is true! You let us walk and I’ll give ya a cop killer. Fuck, I could probably even call him and set him up for ya!”

“Appreciate it,” said Connie, “but after careful consideration, we’re not interested in letting you off to catch this other guy.”

Connie and Randy could no longer control their mirth, which did nothing to ease Mad Dog’s enraged response as he snarled and sputtered, demanding that a car be sent to the location where he swore the murder had taken place.

“You have never really been formally introduced to Snake, have you?” Connie finally asked.

“You already know his name!” said Mad Dog, startled that the ace up his sleeve had already been discovered.

“His real name is Corporal Jack Taggart,” said Connie. “He is an undercover RCMP officer.”

Mad Dog’s mouth hung open in disbelief as Randy pointed a finger at him and said, “Bang, bang.”

Mad Dog swallowed in disbelief. “You let an undercover cop kill another cop?”

Randy rolled his eyes and turned to Connie and said, “I want his girlfriend charged under section 153.1 of the Criminal Code.”

“What section is that?” asked Connie.

“Having sex with a person with a mental disability.”

Corporal Jack Taggart and Constable Laura Secord took several sophisticated and deadly weapons out of the hands of criminals. The catch-and-release program of the justice system saw several more offenders retagged and held again. At least for the moment.

Neither Jack nor Laura knew that the next night, a person using a cheap pistol would commit a murder that would ultimately carve permanent nightmares into their brains for as long as they each lived.

This murder involved someone not known to the police. A dedicated professional who was known only to a select few of Vancouver’s top organized crime figures. They privately referred to him as The Enabler. His real name was Kang Lee.

5

Kang Lee checked his watch as he arrived at the Avitat Lounge at the South Terminal of the Vancouver International Airport. The northern windows offered a view of the runway generally utilized by private aircraft. I’m right on time. As it should be. Punctuality is a window to a man’s character and integrity.

He adjusted the Thai-silk handkerchief in the breast of his Liana Lee cashmere silk suit: a suit he’d had tailored for himself last year after a visit to Lee’s store on New York’s Lexington Avenue. It was a gift to himself for his fiftieth birthday. With a price tag of over eight thousand dollars, it was his favourite suit. Displays elegance and grace. He knew he was partially persuaded to purchase it from Lee, because she, like himself, was originally from Korea. That they coincidentally shared the same surname was not important, as Lee is the second most common name in South Korea.

His shoes, made by Salvatore Ferragamo, were a mocha crocodile with a price tag of fifteen hundred dollars. His watch, the Leman model made by Blancpain, with its crocodile strap and eighteen-karat-gold clasp, cost considerably more than his suit and shoes combined.

His head was shaved, further accenting the one-karat diamond stud protruding from one earlobe. Although he was short by Western standards, barely reaching the height of many men’s chests, his confidence and manner exuded a strength that caused most people to instinctively make way for him.

His ensemble helped to make him feel powerful amongst men. Is it wrong to dress in a manner that demonstrates my real power? Of course not!

As he waited, he thought of the reason why his boss was coming to meet him. The number two man in their organization had recently died of a heart attack while being entertained by two women in a thermal hot springs. Not a bad way to die … if you must die. And so it comes to pass that one man’s loss is another man’s gain.

He knew he was being considered as a replacement. His only real competition was a man who worked out of their office in Palermo. Like me, he lords over a few of that country’s top crime bosses. Of course, they don’t realize it. They think we only enable them in their pursuit for wealth and power … when will they realize that we also control the strings that decide their very existence?

He brooded when he thought about his competition. In some ways, it wasn’t fair. Italy had been established with the appropriate networks dating back hundreds of years. Some families there have become multi-generational in their acceptance of graft … or the knowledge of what will happen should you refuse. It is natural that Italy would produce higher revenue. By comparison, Vancouver is brand new … I have only been here four years …

He paused to look out the window and take in the dynamics of the airport. But the potential is astronomic! He smiled. Surely it has been recognized that I have done well? I have seen that our interests are well established with smuggling immigrants, protection, heroin, ecstasy.… It is more challenging to set up new pathways. Any accounting clerk could run Palermo. My assignment demands tact and presence of mind. Convincing local syndicates that I am not competition, but someone with the connections to greatly enhance their revenue by lowering the risk of police or customs interference. It takes time. The boss must understand that?

He glanced out the window and saw his boss’s executive jet touch down on the runway. The jet was a Falcon 50EX. Its three powerful engines were capable of reaching intercontinental destinations while travelling at Mach .80. It was also designed to use backcountry airfields with shorter runways when necessary. Lee had been on the aircraft when his business called for such a backcountry rendezvous — places where customs officials were often no more than hired peasants with uniforms — people who could be bribed for as little as a bottle of whiskey or a carton of cigarettes.