Chosen Path: An International Thriller Read online

  There were no security guards or police officers or even TSA agents in sight. By the time I explained the situation over the phone, these two would be long gone. It was time to act, not time to talk. I had missed that chance. At this point, I had no other choice but to follow them.

  I looked at my students, the select group that had qualified to participate in the World Tae Kwon Do championship in my hometown of Seoul. Two from each of my eight mid-level to advanced classes. One winner and one runner-up. The youngest two, seven and eight years old, were cute, smart, and sassy. The two oldest were seventeen and all teenager. Shaggy dyed hair, hoods over their heads, slumped in their chairs, earbuds in, eyes closed. That was the façade a Korean kid living in America had to put on to fit in, I guess. Inside, however, I knew them to be diligent students, respectful of their parents, aware of their culture and history, and proud of it. They had mastered not only the skills of Tae Kwon Do, but also the principles. Discipline. Respect. Self-Mastery. The other students ranged through the intervening age categories. All were good kids from good families, trying to bridge the gap between keeping the values of the old country while assimilating to the new.

  The competing stirrings within me grew stronger. I was in charge of all these kids. I shouldn’t leave them. But I also knew something was about to go down and I had the capability to stop it. Therefore, I also had the duty to act—another lesson I had been taught at home. In the end, that would provide more safety than merely being present with my students. If something big were to happen and I didn’t do anything to stop it, I knew I would regret it for the rest of my life.

  Vigilance called, and I answered.

  Chapter 2

  Los Angeles International Airport

  June 6, 9:52 a.m.

  I hopped to my feet, briefly pulling the attention of a handful of my students away from their electronic devices. I waved off their concern and looked to one of the other adults who was sipping coffee as she read a book. Using a few clipped words and hand signals, I indicated that I would be right back. She nodded her understanding. My assistant coach was strolling the concourse burning off nervous energy, so I couldn’t leave him in charge, as I normally would have.

  I was hopeful that this would be just a quick and easy check to put my mind at ease.

  After glancing up and down the corridor one last time to verify that no one else was going to act, I darted in the general direction of where I had seen them disappear, continuing to surveil the area as I crossed the bustling concourse. There was no response from any sort of security personnel. I thought about that little wrinkle as I weaved through foot traffic. My mind went immediately to the worst-case scenario, like I was trained to do. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. Two guys in newly purchased maintenance uniforms going through a secured door without security cards had big implications. It meant that these guys had inside help of some sort, most likely the clerk at the airport store. I filed that away in the back of my mind and proceeded to the unmarked door.

  The handle was locked, but the door swung open freely with only the slightest pressure. A quick look revealed clear packing tape across the latch.

  Beyond the doorway, a short, wide hallway extended maybe ten meters. Dull yellow paint on the walls. A door on each side, which I assumed led into the backs of the airport stores. Tubular fluorescent lighting, two per rectangular fixture, spaced every three meters along the plain white ceiling. Matted gray carpeting, the low pile kind they put in high traffic areas that lasts forever, stretched out in front of me, bending left with the walls.

  Moving slowly, I side-stepped the first ten meters, tensed and ready for anything. As I crept along in full stealth mode, there was no sign of the two shady characters. I recognized the buzz traveling through my nervous system. It wasn’t just paranoia. Those two did not belong there and I had to figure out what they had planned.

  My past was colliding with my present, my former duty to protect prodding me onward and my current lack of authority giving me pause simultaneously. It was like those waves at the beach that sometimes meet as one is rushing towards the shore and the other pulling back out to sea. The result is a mash up that looks all out of whack. That’s how I felt inside. It was both exhilarating and stupefying at the same time.

  I had no business trolling a couple of guys through some restricted-access back hallway at LAX just because I thought they might be acting in a suspicious manner. Not as my present self, a Tae Kwon Do instructor from Costa Mesa.

  But my past self knew I was doing the right thing for the right reason. Once upon a time I was a highly decorated commander of an elite border patrol along the most heavily armed border in the world. My training and my upbringing would not allow me to be passive in a moment like this.

  Of course, I hadn’t finished the soul-searching that I had started back there in the waiting area, but I figured I could do it on the plane ride. Thirteen hours in a tin can with wings would give me plenty of opportunity for some long overdue self-reflection.

  The hallway kept going, following the contour of the impossibly large building. The right wall split at a sharper angle to the right—a soft “T” intersection. The right branch ended with another door just a few meters beyond the split. I continued down the corridor to the left. As it bent, I could only see a few meters in front of me. I kept creeping forward but could neither see nor hear a thing. Part of me expected an ambush, but there was no place for them to hide, so I had to continually dismiss that nagging worry.

  Windows replaced the dull yellow paint on the wall opposite from the one I had my back pressed against. The windows started at about waist height and went all the way up to the ceiling. They looked out to the West, but also gave me a view of LAX’s northern-most runways. All I could see was an eerie fog, typical for the Southern California coastline in June. It shrouded and obscured everything. The evenly spaced orange glow of diffused lights around the working areas below spread in every direction. Only one plane, with its flashing wing lights and bright forward beams, was in motion on the outer fringes. Its hulking mass indistinct as it lurched through the pea soup, maybe a kilometer away from my position. Based on the color scheme of the fuselage, I knew it was a UPS plane moving toward the cargo sorting hangar on the airport’s western-most edge.

  I kept my back against the left-hand wall as I continued my stealthy pursuit. Something banged against a wall ahead of me. I froze in place. Unarmed, I was an easy target for someone with a weapon. The noises echoed, making it hard to pinpoint the distance between me and them.

  Looking out the window, I saw them in the mottled light, two hooded figures crouched next to a parked vehicle. They pulled off the sweatshirts, stuffed them in the roller bag, and started darting between vehicles and equipment with their heavy suitcase in tow. They were running toward the Korean Airlines plane my students and I would presumably be boarding in less than an hour. I watched them disappear from sight under the belly of the 747.

  Why was no one doing anything to stop them? Didn’t the ground crew see them? What about Airport Security?

  That’s when it donned on me. I looked up at the ceiling and saw the familiar blackened bulb that hid the security cameras. It was mounted on the ceiling just a meter or so ahead of me. Another meter beyond that, I could see a door between two of the windows. My guess was that their teammates had hacked the camera feeds to mask their intrusion, but, most likely, had me in their sights. Oh, great, I thought as I stared at the bulbous, technological eyeball.

  I pushed aside the creepy feeling of being watched by the bad guys and dashed to the door. On the other side was a metal staircase leading down to the tarmac. I bounded down and caught a glimpse of the dark shapes moving through the gloom. The taller one was now dragging the roller bag with some exertion.

  I darted to the vehicle they had used as cover and ducked behind the back bumper, peering around it so I could keep an eye on them.

  They stopped. Another figure approached. The new arrival pointe
d at the bag. The tall guy relinquished the handle to the new guy and the threesome split up.

  I tried to keep an eye on my two original targets and the roller bag at the same time. The new guy disappeared into the fog beyond the 747 with the suspicious suitcase. The two odd ones peeled off and disappeared while I kept my eyes on the roller bag.

  I moved closer to the plane, staying low and sprinting to the side of another vehicle without losing visual contact with the bag. I was under the massive left wing, an engine partially blocking my view. The new guy hoisted the roller bag onto a conveyor belt that was hauling baggage into our plane on the opposite side of the fuselage. There was only one way to find out what was in that bag and if it was dangerous.

  There were several baggage handlers in the immediate area. Two were unloading suitcases from three covered carts connected to a towing tractor painted the same blue color as the plane, the Korean Airlines symbol emblazoned on the side of the vehicle. That tractor had hauled the passengers’ luggage from somewhere under an overhang and was now parked alongside the body of the plane. Several men were hauling the bags from the carts and placing them on the moving belt. One was sitting in the driver’s seat of the tractor, checking his phone. Two others were walking back toward the overhang of the terminal.

  I had no time to formulate a plan. My only objective was to stop that bag from getting on the plane. Within a few short seconds, it would be out of my view, mixed in with a whole bunch of similar-looking luggage. Once inside the cargo hold, I knew my chances of finding it would shrink to somewhere between slim and nil.

  As I rounded the end of the vehicle that was shielding me from view, keeping my eyes glued to the indistinguishable bag, I bumped into something. When I looked up, I was staring into the menacing gaze of the big guy I had been following.

  Chapter 3

  Los Angeles International Airport

  June 5, 10:04 a.m.

  Whatever advantage I may have had in terms of the element of surprise or my use of stealth was gone, as were my chances of grabbing that bag.

  Their surveillance guys probably saw me with the big black eyeball and clued them in.

  The two guys in their fresh-off-the-shelves work clothes brandished no firearms, which is what my mind expected in the milliseconds it took to process what was happening. That was a definite plus. Makes sense, since carrying them through an airport would have been nearly impossible.

  Instincts kicked in, clearing my mind and channeling years of army and Special Forces combat training. Defensive maneuvers, offensive tactics. It all came back like an express train charging out of a tunnel.

  The big guy was larger than most Koreans, probably about 6-foot-3 and a muscular 225 pounds. He regarded my 5-foot-9 frame like he would a coat rack blocking his path. I was a nuisance and nothing more. Like tossing me aside wouldn’t take more than a flick of his arm.

  His reflexes were quick, but mine were quicker. In a flash, his meaty right paw was going for my neck and I was dodging away from it. Most people would move to their right, the attacker’s left, to avoid the incoming strangulating hand. But I ducked down and to my left, giving me more options to stunt his offensive. His left arm was already moving into position at the center of his body, ready to secure his prey. By moving to his right, I was out of reach of both hands momentarily, thus neutralizing his left hand. Doing so gave me the split-second advantage I needed to overcome the size difference. Years of training and practice had made these kinds of maneuvers, and the instantaneous decision-making behind them, second nature.

  The surge of adrenaline flowing and the awareness that I was now in a life-or-death struggle awakened every nerve and synapse in my body and brain. I felt more alive in that moment than I had since being engaged by the enemy during border skirmishes.

  My stunt placed me in a perfect position to disable my attacker. Being on his right side, away from the natural swept of his right hand and out of reach of his left, allowed me to grab his right wrist as he extended it with my right hand so I could pull his arm away from his body and throw off his balance. As soon as my feet were set half a second later, I twisted my torso and smashed the heel of my left hand into his elbow, unleashing all my energy and using his momentum against him. Strength from every muscle group from my legs, my torso, my arms, and my shoulders converged on the poor guy’s elbow before he could muster any resistance. The opposing forces from my right arm straightening his arm as I pulled it upward and my left hand crashing downward broke the joint with a sickening snap that I felt reverberate down his arm. All tension from his muscles stopped, and his arm went limp as I held the wrist. I released his ruined appendage and repositioned myself as he screamed in agony, clutching his ravaged elbow, the forearm swinging unnaturally as he writhed.

  I knew he was incapacitated, but I needed him immobilized as well. And quiet. I was acting on the teachings instilled in me to crush your enemy before he had the chance to regroup.

  Things happen fast in combat. If you stop to think and plan, you lose. Quick, decisive action and aggressive adherence to age-old rules of engagement wins the battle, and, eventually, the war. Using Sun Tzu’s philosophy, I had to subdue him with overwhelming force. Therefore, I did not relent.

  A split second later, I had recoiled and rebalanced my weight on the balls of my feet. Without hesitation, I bounced and struck out with my right foot, landing my toes directly beneath his sternum. There is far more strength in the legs than in the arms, so landing a kick with the force generated by the largest muscles in the body can inflict greater damage, especially when properly placed. My victim was defenseless, which may make some people hesitate to finish the job. I had learned that that was precisely the time to unleash the fury. The opportunity was ripe, so I pressed my advantage. Knowing the first rule of close combat is to remove the immediate threat, I had to take him down hard.

  The blow to his sternum jolted the big guy’s system. All his breath was forced out as my foot connected with his solar plexus. The force of a blow to this sensitive region, especially because it was unprotected by the tensed abdominal muscle group, paralyzed the diaphragm, sending it into a spasm. While his brain was processing the pain and the lack of oxygen in his lungs, he dropped to his knees, let go of his useless arm, and tried to grab the new pain center. Unable to draw in even a single breath, the big guy toppled shoulder first in a twitching heap. His eyes widened like doors thrown open. Panic had set in due to lack of oxygen. He was incapacitated.

  The most immediate and dangerous threat had been neutralized.

  It was time to dispatch the next one.

  Before doing so, I scanned the area quickly to assess the situation. I wanted to make sure there weren’t more of them. I was also curious about potential onlookers. There was no one around and, thanks to the vehicles and the fog, we weren’t visible to anyone in the area.

  Without delay, my attention moved to the shorter guy, who was lunging at me from my left.

  I popped into a defensive posture with my right leg slightly behind me, feet shoulder width apart as I quickly shuffled backward several paces. My fingers curled until my fists were like compact hammers, raised to chin level, cocked and loaded. It took about a millisecond.

  This changed his line of attack. He had been targeting my vulnerable blind side. My retreat caused him to pause, as if to reassess his options and angle of attack.

  The fear in the smaller guy was palpable. His eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. I could almost see the decision-making gears whir inside his head. Fight or flight? His survival instinct must have kicked in knowing there was nowhere to run and that I’d catch him anyhow. Falling back to his own training, he eyed me like a tiger eyes a rival. Taking the aggressive approach, the guy led with his right foot flying at my face. At the same time, he released a primal scream. It was aimed at intimidating me while also conjuring up courage and inner strength. It didn’t faze me because I had experienced it many times before.

  I stayed my ground and thr
ust both arms up, catching his heel in my cupped hands and pushing upwards as high and as fast as I could. That maneuver cost me my balance, sending me backwards, while pinwheeling him. He crashed to the ground. It looked like he landed on his head and shoulder, but he managed to tuck into a ball just before impact, thus diffusing much of the force. I staggered and spun on my heels but didn’t fall.

  The smaller guy regained his feet as I recovered my balance. The side of his face was scraped, and a trickle of blood had started down his cheek. His eyes were unfocused, and he blinked hard and fast. I decided to end this swiftly and get back to searching for that weighty piece of luggage.

  I stunted left, then right, the left again. He followed my every move with just the slightest delay, trying to be ready to block and parry. I made a move like I was going straight in for the kill. He took a step back, his eyes trying to focus on my flying fists as I faked jabs and strikes to keep his attention on my upper half. He took another step back, but I closed the gap in a blink and juked to my right as I dropped to the ground and executed a lightning-fast leg sweep that he must not have seen coming. I hit the back of his heels hard, thrusting upward after making contact, which brought him crashing down to the ground with no resistance. His arms, which were in the process of striking out at me, barely had time to try to catch his fall. The back of his head absorbed the full brunt of the impact. I heard a crack as his skull collided with the concrete.

  At first, there was no movement at all. Then, his body began to convulse—the sure sign of serious brain trauma. Most likely he wouldn’t make it without immediate medical attention.

  Now I had two problems. These inert bodies sprawled out before me and an unmarked bag with unknown contents loaded into the cargo hold of the plane that would carry somewhere around four-hundred unsuspecting souls, including myself and my students, across the great Pacific. Our flight was scheduled to leave in roughly an hour and fifteen minutes. Boarding would commence in about twenty minutes.