Juan’s story actually started 10 years ago when he was 15 years old. He had just completed fifth grade and joined his father fishing for giant squid in the bay of California. It was at that time that he found a mini-sub and ran afoul of drug dealers that almost killed his parents and himself.
In the years that followed, Juan read everything he could get his hands on. Story books, history books, Math and electronics. When he started, reading was hard and slow, but as he read, he got better. Now his IQ is equal to that of a senior at UCLA double majoring in electrical engineering and botany. He also developed other skills. He helped his father grow his fishing operation into an industry, well, a little bigger than what it had been. Their small boat is now three ships, each with a crew of six and capable of taking 12 tourists out on the bay or around the point to the open Pacific to fish for the “big ones.” Their business is blooming and his parents actually have a bank account now. Life is good and getting better.
Juan had just hung up the office phone having completed a booking for another tour when the bell over the office door tinkled. He looked up to see two men, one in a wheelchair standing there. Slowly, he slid the drawer to his desk open. He moved his hand over the Colt .45, model 1911 pistol in there that he had gotten from a drug dealer 10 years ago. The big man wheeled the cripple in, and up to the desk. The man in the chair said, “Juanito my friend.’
Juan stood, and the gun in his hand was now clearly visible, “I told you once, it's Juan, no more Juanito!”
The man behind the wheelchair began to move around the chair, but stopped when the seated man raised his hand. “I see you have him well trained,” said Juan.
“Easy my friend. I am not here to start trouble. I have a proposition that can bring a very large amount of money to both of us.”
“First, I am not your friend! Second, I don’t want anything to do with you or your money. NOW GET OUT OF HERE!”
“Can’t we just talk,” asked the seated man.
“I’ll say it just once more, get out, now.”
The man in the chair whorled his finger in the air and the big bodyguard wheeled the chair out the door. Juan followed them as far as the door. He stood there and watched as they were joined by two more men who helped the crippled man into a black Cadillac SUV. The three men got into the car, and as it drove away from the curb, Juan saw the cripple smiling at him through the open window.
Juan returned to his desk. He sank into his chair deeply depressed as if he had just been awakened from a nightmare. He slid the gun back in the drawer and closed his eyes. He sat that way until the phone rang and tugged him back to now. He answered on the third ring. It was another potential client. Nightmare over back to business.
The next few days were normal, but on the fourth day Juan came to the office to find one of his trawlers was missing. Startled, but not disgruntled, he would know exactly where to find it. You see all his equipment was fitted with tracking devices. Juan had installed them not to keep check on his crews, but to let him know when they were returning to port. This way he could have everything ready for the comfort of his guests. Now, however, he would use it to track a thief.
Juan’s trackers reported to equipment that recorded the ships movement. In this case, Juan saw that it had made three trips out to the open sea where it stopped for about an hour. It then returned to a point on the Mexican coast where it stopped again for about an hour. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the drug runners where unloading their drugs. Their operations were only possible in the dark of night.
Juan quickly launched his zodiac. He made sure it was equipped for a small war. Juan calculated the time it took for round trips and arranged his trip for an arrival just after they landed his ship on the beach. He ran the zodiac at high speed until he was within a mile of the selected sight. At that point he killed the gas operated engine and started an electric motor, slower but much quieter. He was now on station as the drug dealers ran his ship aground in the soft sand. He watched as two men on the ship handed kilo sized bundles to men on shore. The men on shore then put the bundles in a pick-up parked nearby. All the men were dressed in hazmat suits. This meant they were loading fentanyl, a very dangerous drug that can be absorbed through the skin. It was so dangerous that a very little could cause death.
Juan patiently waited as the men finished their loading-unloading process. He watched as one of the men walked into the bridge wing with a lighted Molotov cocktail in his hand. Shortly after he entered there was a bright flash and flames were clearly visible. The man emerged and ran to the bow where he jumped down to the beach. He walked to where his friends were and turned to watch the ship burn.
Juan reached down and picked up an RPG. He shouldered it, carefully sighted it and fired. The explosive rocketed toward the rear of the truck. There was an explosion followed by a white cloud of dust. When the trucks gas tank ignited the white powder flashed a bright yellowish orange flash causing a fireball that rose toward the sky like a volcanic eruption. The site would be toxic for a long time. The men near the truck were vaporized.
When the flashes died down, Juan could see a second vehicle, a black SUV Cadillac. Outside the SUV was a man sitting in a wheelchair. Juan tossed the RPG into the ocean, and picked up a .308 caliber rifle. He lay prone in the bottom of the zodiac, and rested the barrel of the rifle on the inflated bow. Again, he took careful aim. Slowly he squeezed the trigger. The bullet bursting from the end of the rifle startled Juan. Its flight lasted less than a second. It struck the seated man in the neck. It passed between his wind pipe and jugular vein, crashing in to his spinal Column. The result would be hours of very dangerous surgery. A life time of paralysis from the neck down. A life time of breathing with the help of a respirator or suffocation. A life time of eating through a feeding tube or starvation. His millions would be spent on his medical care.
His legacy, a crime syndicate in disarray. What was left of his ring would fight among themselves. Those who survived would settle on a new leader who didn’t care about the vendetta against Juan and his family.
Juan threw the rifle into the sea and turned his zodiac around and headed home. The trip was quiet and uneventful. He secured his zodiac and went to his office where he sat waiting for what, he wasn’t sure. While he sat the sun rose and his office warmed.
It was about 9 am when his office door opened. In walked a very impressive man in a military uniform. He was Colonel Carlos Sanchez of the Mexican Army. “Am I addressing Juan Martinez,” asked the colonel.
“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”
“I am here to ask did you report the theft of your boat?”
“I did sir.”
“Then I have some bad news. We found your boat, or should I say we found what was left of your boat.”
Juan asked the colonel what happened. The colonel explained that smugglers where using it to transfer drugs. He went on to say that the army wasn’t sure what happened but it looked as if a rival drug gang interrupted the transfer, but not before the loss of Juan’s boat.
Juan asked if any innocent people were injured in the battle. He was pleased to hear that only bad people were wounded or killed.
The colonel asked if there was anything he could do for Juan. “No colonel. I am happy no one was hurt and I have insurance on the boat, so my family and I are good. Thank you, sir, for the news.”
But, before the colonel left, he said, “oh yes, I found this on your steps,” and handed Juan a package with his name on it and no return address. Juan took the package and shook the colonel’s hand.
When the door closed Juan opened the package. In it he found a bundle of money and a note. The note read, “We are sorry for the loss of your boat. We hope this covers the loss, and we want you to know, this is the end.”