The White Chief (1)
The chief of the casino had invited me to the San Xavier Native American reservation south of Tucson, Arizona. It wasn't part of the tribe's original territory but land newly acquired through deals with the federal and state governments. The Diamond Casino was located there as well.
As our convoy entered the reservation, police waiting by the roadside signaled us to stop. Two officers with ruddy skin approached, hands empty and open, and tapped on the window. My subordinate in the driver's seat rolled it down, and the senior officer spoke.
"Good day, folks. Fine weather for a drive, isn't it?"
"Sure is," my man replied. "Except for that rain on the way."
This was the desert. No rain fell here outside the monsoon season. The cop's face stayed stone-cold.
"Welcome. We'll escort you to where the chief is waiting."
We'd sent the vehicle details ahead, but this was a double-check. The car might be the same, but the people inside could differ. License plates and codes were exchanged through separate channels.
Our destination wasn't the casino. The lead police car turned onto a dusty unpaved road through a poor neighborhood. Tire tracks stirred up pale dust like smoke screens. The crooked path, lined with ramshackle wooden houses scattered haphazardly, amplified the desolation.
We stopped at an ordinary house no different from the others. Kyung-tae got out first, scanned the surroundings as routine, then opened my door.
The desert heat hit me like a wall the moment I stepped out. To the north, the white spire of an old church pierced the sky—a legacy of pale-skinned invaders.
Thud. The cop slammed his battered patrol car door and pointed at the house entrance with an open palm.
"Go on in."
I gave Kyung-tae a slight nod—all clear inside. Protecting me was nothing like standard bodyguard work.
The house hummed with an all-in-one air conditioner's drone, filled with artificial chill and the musty scent of an old filter. The setup screamed typical family home, suggesting cooperation from one of the tribesmen—or perhaps a deliberate safe house disguised as such.
The elderly chief, waiting seated, rose with a limp, leaning on his cane to greet me.
"Welcome, Chairman. It's been ages since I've seen you in person."
"Good to see you too, Chief. You look healthy—glad for that."
"Same to you. You don't seem to age a day, no matter how much time passes. Not even a wrinkle on that forehead... Anyway, have a seat here."
The chief, dressed in refined Western attire, guided me to the table. I sat across from him.
He started with an apology.
"Sorry for dictating the time and place like that to someone as important as you. But tribal politics have cropped up lately—matters demanding our response. Couldn't carve out time otherwise. I only got back from D.C. at dawn today and have to leave again soon. I hope you'll understand."
"I already said on the phone it was fine. A face-to-face with you is rare enough. Mind sharing what the issue is?"
He paused at my question, then shook his head with a grimace.
"No point keeping quiet—it'll come out with a little digging anyway."
"...?"
"It's the copper mine."
Anger and irritation flashed in the chief's eyes.
"An open-pit mining company has been encroaching on our land for years, and now the state government's siding with them, trying to slash our revenue share."
"So you're tangling with the feds?"
"That's about the size of it. Helping our tribal government from the shadows. No gains so far, though."
"...If the mining company's smart, they've lobbied there too."
"Exactly."
It was par for the course. Reservations and tribal sovereignty be damned—when profit popped up on Native land, America always schemed to snatch it for pennies. The imperialistic scum I despised.
Exposing a vulnerability that would surface anyway, without pointless bravado to erode trust—that seemed to be the chief's intent in opening up.
I nodded along. "Speaking of, didn't the Apache tribe face something similar? If it's still in court, why not team up and speak as one?"
Another story he'd shared before. Copper veins again, no doubt. Years old now, but these legal battles dragged on forever.
The chief sneered.
"Already on it."
"Too bad."
"Those federal bastards. Crooks with less credit than drug peddlers! Our language doesn't even have curses filthy enough for them."
The Desert People's native tongue lacked profanity—a common trait among North American indigenous languages, where cursing individuals was a grave taboo.
A spark of hope stirred in me.
This might resolve easier than expected.
The chief desperately needed lobby funds for D.C. Not selling client data—just checking if someone with cartel ties would sell their connections for cash. He might bite for the right price.
Middle Eastern cartels were the wildcard, though. His business had cratered from its peak anyway. One reason: cryptocurrency.
Crypto made laundering, hiding assets, and deals effortless for criminals. Regulations were curbing it lately, sparking a rebound, but it paled against the glory days from the late '80s to late 2000s.
Not all bad, though. He'd integrated blockchain for account security and chip forgery prevention, boosting casino trust. That's partly why I never worried about fund misuse.
Our org had vetted the tech ourselves.
The chief asked, "Long hot drive—something to drink?"
I started to decline, but caught a glint in his eye—another motive. I nodded.
"Please."
"If memory serves, you're not big on booze."
"Any tea's fine."
"Right. Mashath!"
Creaking stairs, then a young mixed-race woman appeared.
I'd sensed her presence earlier but played ignorant, standing briefly to greet.
"Your granddaughter's here too."
She returned it with restrained politeness.
"A pleasure to see you again, Chairman."
The chief tasked her. "Some iced tea for me and our guest?"
"Yes, Grandfather."
As I sat, she prepped in the open kitchen. The chief was showcasing his heir to a key client. Even if something happens to me, the line's secure. Don't cut ties with the tribe.
Mashath. Moon in the Desert People's language, she'd said. She'd been girlish at first sight, but maturity sharpened her mixed features.
Even her grandfather the chief was mixed—first-generation, leaning white in appearance. A sore spot best left untouched. Suyeon had dug up his backstory: long years of isolation, shunned by groups.
Tea came quick. Acorn brew—one of the few self-sufficient luxuries in this barren land.
Mashath set it down but lingered, waiting. As if scripted, the chief asked.
"Mind if my granddaughter joins? She'll just listen."
"Not at all."
Teaching her how he handled varying clients. With my okay, he waited for her to sit before speaking.
"Now, the real talk. Why'd you want to see me, Chairman? For someone like you to come personally, it must be big."
"Need an introduction."
"To someone? Through me?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
"Someone using your services to dodge Central American cartels. Ideally with lingering ties inside their old cartel. If so, ask if they'd sell those connections for cash. Bigger the cartel, better."
Cold steel entered his gaze.
"Not just anyone—you want me bridging you to drug runners?"
"That's right."
Were I not a prized client, he'd have stormed out. But his struggling business and tribe kept him seated. I'd calculated that before laying it bare.
He suppressed fury. "You planning to deal drugs? Thought you knew lines not to cross."
"If it involved drugs, I wouldn't ask you. Hate the stuff myself. Not as much as you, but."
"Then? Selling them guns? Human trafficking? Won't help with that either."
"Neither. You're misunderstanding."
Twice denied, his icy stare thawed.
"Won't buy, won't sell. If not that, what's the goal?"
"Must you know? I swear on my full credit—it won't harm you."
Our casino-org bond relied on trust. Swearing on it implied reevaluating ties—a veiled threat.
The old man flinched, then hardened again.
"Still need to know. This is an extraordinary request—bear that in mind."
"..."
Reveal now? No other way to crack his stubborn old age. Like him, I'd win trust through honesty.
"Fine. I want their submarines."
"Submarines?"
He mulled it, then nodded.
"Makes sense. Tempting haul for a merchant like you. Can't even imagine the profits those scum rake from them."
One sub could gross $400 million a run. Dozens apiece? Central American cartels swam in unimaginable cash, mocking Colombia's old kingpins.
If they'd gone public, they'd eclipse Apple's market cap. Drugs outprofited smartphones on margins, even if sales lagged.
Location was king in this trade. Sandwiched between top market and source, Mexico and Colombia's dealers thrived. Mexico topped them.
My org was big, but Mexico dwarfed us—in scale alone.
The chief puzzled. "Think they'll sell?"
"Depends how strong your contact's ties are."
"...Why not bribe a coast guard for a seized one?"
Suyeon had vetted that. "Patrol catches are junk that can't even submerge. Raiding build sites gets new ones, but security's insane. And unfinished at that."
"..."
In heavy silence, eyes on his tea, he pondered five minutes before locking eyes again.
"All right. I'll take the job. But non-standard work demands non-standard pay."
"How much?"
He shook his head. "Not money. Something else. No room to negotiate."
His tone was ironclad—verging on offensive.
"...Like what?"
"Hunt some beasts for me."
"Beasts?"
I echoed; he nodded.
"Yeah. Beasts that need killing."