Trafford Publishing: Dragon Tamer

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Dragon Tamer

by Ray Williams

248 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0990; ISBN 1-55395-276-6; US$22.50, C$24.95, EUR18.50, £13.00

Drug traffickers from a violent Hong Kong triad and a ruthless Mexican cartel, aided by a powerful corrupt force in the CIA, plan to market and ancient Mayan drug. One man, Blake Morgan, a hard-case DEA Agent, can stop them. Morgan must battle his way through the vortex of darkness, corruption and a web of deception to tame the dragon-like criminal conspiracy, while taming his own tormented spirit.

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About the book      About the author      Sample excerpts       Catalogue info

About the Book
In the late 1980's, a powerful leader of a Mexican drug cartel, Raoul Ramirez, has found some Mayan hieroglyphs that describe how to create a drug that was once used during ancient Mayan sporting events. He sets up a first time contact with Simon Fung, a leader of a Hong Kong triad, where he figures the drug can be distributed. Whan Chan, an elderly businessman in Hong Kong, informs Fung that he is not longer going to launder his money. Chan is soon found murdered and his son, Raymond, takes over the business. After working with the local police, and getting no results, Raymond becomes obsessed with finding his father's murderer. He asks his brother, Blake Morgan, a member of the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency) and a one-man army, to find the man who murdered their father. Blake, who was never very close to his adopted father, has DEA matters that he must take care of before he can return to Hong Kong. But when Raymond ends up dead, Blake returns to Hong Kong and finds himself caught up the biggest drug creation plot he could ever image. Now he must trust his survival instincts and keep one step ahead of the Hong Kong triads and the Mexican drug cartels all the time searching for the murder's of his adopted family.
Dragon Tamer is the first book published by Ray Williams. It is a thriller involving DEA agent Blake Morgan and his struggle with not only his inner dragon, but the dragon-tattooed gangs in Hong Kong.
There is always one thing that I really enjoy in a good book: quick dialog. Dragon Tamer by Ray Williams does not disappoint in this category. This story moves along at a very good pace keeping the reading fully engrossed in this tale of drugs, technology and deceit. I really enjoyed the main character of the story, Blake Morgan. I thought that this book was a good introduction for him and I hope to see more of him in future books. Ray Williams spins an interesting tale that all readers can enjoy. Since this book is considered a thriller, I thought that there could have been more things occurring in the story that would have gotten my heart beating a little faster. Overall, I really enjoyed the book and I found myself sneaking in a few pages of reading whenever I could. So, if you are looking for a tale about a DEA agent using his well-trained skills to hunt down the biggest drug threat in the last century, Dragon Tamer by CRay Williams is something you should pick up.
I rated this book a 7 out of 10.
As reviewed by Conan Tigard
March, 2003

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A global criminal conspiracy comes to life in Ray Williams' debut novel, Dragon Tamer. Drug traffickers from a violent Hong Kong triad and a ruthless Mexican drug cartel, aided by a powerful corrupt force in the CIA, plan to market an ancient Mayan drug. One man, Blake Morgan, a hard-case DEA agent, can stop them. Morgan must battle his way through a vortex of darkness, corruption and a web of deception to tame the dragon-like criminal conspiracy while taming his own tormented spirit.
"Dragon Tamer is a complex story that was carefully drafted after years of research into the world of drug trafficking and organized crime," says the author, Ray Williams, "and also a story of personal transformation for the protagonist, Blake Morgan. It*s like Traffic meets Conspiracy."

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"Dragon Tamer is an authentic, action-packed thriller that will keep the reader anxious to turn every page to powerful climax," says Richard Ladds, a former member of the Hong Kong Police Force.
With action spanning the globe from Hong Kong to Costa Rica, Mexico and the United States, and a full cast of characters from Blake Morgan to his love interest, Angela Townsend, a Special Prosecutor, and their arch villains, Simon Fung, the head of the Hong Kong triad, Raoul Ramirez, the head of the Mexican drug cartel and Jack Cross, the corrupt CIA official, Barton's debut novel sizzles.

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About the Author

Ray Williams is a retired educator and management consultant who lives in Vancouver, B.C.
Williams was born in a concentration camp in Hong Kong as a prisoner of the Japanese in World War II, and has lived there and in Australia, Mexico and Canada.

Sample Excerpts

1

      Hard rain pounded down from a black sky. The south-east wind pummeled Hong Kong harbor, sending small boats to shelter and scattering people from the bustling streets. A dark blue Rolls Royce rolled slowly along the Wan Chai docks and stopped in front of a deserted warehouse, its wipers straining to clear the waves of water from the windshield.
      Inside the Rolls, Wang Chan, a small, thin man in his late seventies, dressed in English wool and brogues, peered through tiny round wire-framed glasses at the newspaper's headlines "Triad War Heats Up-Police Promise Crackdown."
      A black limousine pulled up beside the Rolls. For a long minute both cars sat there, only their windshield wipers piercing the quiet.
      Chan climbed out of the Rolls, walked over to the limousine and stood beside the rear door. It opened and an arm reached out of the dark interior to help him. Chan sank into a seat, a dim interior light casting an orange hue on his weathered face. His hand on an ivory-handled cane shook. He threw the newspaper into the lap of the man in the shadows.
      "I'm giving you one last chance."
      The shadows obscured everything but the hands of man who sat across from him. A tattoo of a red dragon emblazoned the back of one hand. The nicotine-stained middle finger of his other hand rubbed the tattoo.
      "What's the panic, old friend?" the man in shadows asked.
      "I don't like publicity and I don't like the police snooping around."
      For several long moments, only the sounds of the windshield wipers and the rain pounding on the roof of the car could be heard.

4

      The white stucco mansion hung on the hillside amidst some of the most expensive real estate in the world. The multi-million dollar homes, with spectacular views of Kowloon, Hong Kong Central, Victoria Harbor, Aberdeen and Stonecutter Island, dotted the hillsides of Victoria peak, the apex of the fifteen-hundred foot Mt. Austin.
      Simon Fung's home, a huge soaring mansion of concrete and glass, surrounded by manicured gardens, could have nestled easily into the Hollywood Hills. Inside, traditional Chinese antiques and furnishings stood in marked contrast.
      Simon Fung, a handsome, athletic, medium-height man in his late forties, dressed in a white linen suit, sat at his antique cherry wood desk, looking carefully over several accounting ledgers. Ceremonial Chinese swords and Japanese katanas hung on the walls beside him and sat on a cradle on his desk. A photo of a younger Fung in a Peoples' Liberation Army uniform sat prominently among the objects d'art display case.
      A servant entered the room and placed the tea service on the rosewood coffee table in front of two men, one young and the other, much older, both dressed in darker tailored suits.
      "Drug business is down ten percent," the young man said, "and they've killed two of our best dealers." He had a wild-eyed look and sat on the edge of his seat, looking as if he were ready to pounce on someone.
      Fung nodded, but kept looking at his papers.

5

      Once a honky-tonk town of bars and brothels serving San Diego's naval station, Tijuana, Mexico, with a population of two million, had become one of the fastest growing cities in the world. Huge shantytowns with shacks built from cardboard and shipping pallets lined dirty streets and sprawled down the slopes of desert mesas below the maliquadoros, the American border factories. The migration of thousands of people north to the border, looking for work and the creation of new elites from the enormous economies of drugs, has marred the efforts to build a viable economic and social structure. In a place where anything was for sale, the price of human life is on a razor's edge.
      Once known as the "mules" for Columbia's powerful cocaine cartels, Mexico's drug traffickers had grown into drug lords in their own right and the front line of the drug war had shifted from the jungle of Central America to America's front door. Mexican drug cartels run their own distribution networks in the United States and now buy cocaine directly from producers in Bolivia and Peru. Because of this power shift, drug-related violence among the Mexican drug cartels and corruption at all levels of government and law enforcement has spiraled out of control.

      A handful of bars and clubs in Tijuana, such as the Chicago Club and the Adelita Bar were choked with people that evening. Half a dozen street walkers from the Zona Norte had wandered down from Calle 1A to look for customers. The sound of blaring music and the laughter of drunken men accosting young women filled the air.
      Special Agent Xtimal Mendoza, a middle-aged, short, barrel-chested man with reddish-brown skin and the flat facial features and thick coarse hair characteristic of Mexico's Indian population, sat with his back to the wall facing the entrance in the Cafe Gato. He was the lead agent in the Ministry of Public Safety's Drug Enforcement Unit, recently established due to the United States government's pressure on the Mexican government. Known only to a few people in his agency, his mission was also to seek out Mexican police and government complicity with the drug traffickers.
      Mendoza's unit had received a reliable tip that a bagman for the Juarez Cartel, a man on the most wanted list for the past year, would be at the Cafe to meet two of his associates. Mendoza had the Cafe and the surrounding streets staked out thoroughly.
      Mendoza looked at his watch. It was ten p.m. "Check in," he whispered into the transmitter pinned to his lapel. A small, barely visible receiver sat in his ear.
      One by one, his men, called in.
      A black SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up in front of the Cafe. Two of the car windows rolled down, Uzis stuck out and fired on the two men under surveillance sitting at the sidewalk table. A hail of bullets struck the men, knocking one back out of his chair, blood spurting from bullet wounds in his chest and face.
      Mendoza leapt out of his seat, his gun in his hand, at the sound of the first gunfire. "What the hell? All units, move in, move in!" he yelled into his transmitter.
      The other man under attack stood up and pulled a handgun from the waistband of his pants and returned fire. His bullets shattered one of the SUV's windows. The Uzis continued to spray bullets at him. As though he was dancing in slow motion, a dozen bullets spun him across the table onto the sidewalk. All around, people first stared, frozen, then jumped up and ran, screaming. Several of Mendoza's agents ran from their positions behind the cars toward the Cafe, their guns drawn. The SUV pulled away, smashing the bumper of a parked car.
      "Unit Two, block the SUV," Mendoza barked into his transmitter, as he reached the sidewalk. He fired his gun repeatedly at the SUV, the bullets clunking into the bumper of the vehicle.

6

      Raoul Ramirez lounged on the deck chair of the white-tiled terrace overlooking the azure water of the pool which was cleverly cantilevered on the hillside so that the viewer's perspective from the pool deck carried naturally to the Pacific Ocean far below. The blazing red bougainvillea draped the ten-foot white stone walls that surrounded the palatial home. Several men in T-shirts, shorts and sandals and armed with Uzis, walked along the stone walls and guarded the metal gate.
      Ramirez was a fat, greasy man with glasses. He was dressed in white cotton pants and a guayabera shirt won loosely outside his pants. His thick moustache was flecked with the remains of his last meal. Despite his slovenliness, he fancied himself a handsome man whom women couldn't resist. But the truth was that the only women who surrounded him were the ones he paid.
      He clipped the end off a long fat cigar and lit it, taking in a couple of deep drags before the cigar's smoke coiled around his head. Ramirez, the head of one of the fastest growing drug cartels in Mexico, was embroiled in an escalating war with the three other largest cartels.
      Across from Ramirez sat his right hand man, Raphael Salinez, a handsome man in his thirties, stylish and fastidious in a white linen shirt and pants.
      "I just got the report," Salinez said, "we made the hit on the Juarez men in Tijuana, but the Federales killed our men.
      Ramirez chewed furiously on his cigar. "Were they questioned by the police?"
      Salinez shook his head. "It was Drug Enforcement people, not local police."
      Ramirez smashed his fist on the table. "Find out who they are," he sputtered, "kill them or put them on the payroll."
      "Easy boss, remember your heart," Salinez said.
      Ramirez grunted.
      "Every time we make inroads on the other cartels, we take a hit," Salinez said.
      Ramirez pointed a fat finger at Salinez. "I haven't crawled out of the gutter in Tijuana, slaved in the slime and blood of slaughter houses, cleaned the crap in toilets, become a runner for street dealers and fought my way up the food chain for nothing." He was panting heavily and then stopped talking and took a deep breath. "That's why an alliance with Fung and his Hung Se Ying triad interests me."
      "We don't know much about Fung."
      "I know he's got the same problem that we do, competition. We both need an edge."
      Salinez smiled. "I think I may have stumbled on one."
      "What?"
      "Instead of competing for cocaine, heroin and marijuana markets, we should go after a new drug-exclusive."
      "What are you ranting about?"
      Salinez turned and yelled back to the house. "Bring him here!"
      One of the armed guards brought in a short, square-shouldered, barrel-chested man in his thirties, dressed in dirty cotton pants and shirt. His hawk-like nose and thick straight hair spoke of his Zapotec Indian origins.
      "Please, senõr. I've done nothing wrong," the man begged, his eyes as big as saucers.
      Salinez motioned to the armed man to release him. "Tell me about this," he said, waving a wrinkled piece of thin bark marked with symbols.
      The man's knees quivered and his voiced cracked. "My grandfather gave it to me. He told us of the ancient Mayan ball game ceremony and of the drug, jfuri, that the warriors took. He said these symbols came from the Mayan ruins at Chich'en Itza."
      "This drug, jfuri, as you call it, he said it was a powerful drug?" Salinez asked.

Benjamin Cranston, a stocky man with thick glasses, in his late sixties, wearing an open neck denim shirt and khaki pants, casually walked into Cross' book-and memento-lined study. I knew I'd find you in your bunker," Cranston said amiably. Cranston sat down in one of the big leather chairs in front of Cross' desk.
      Cranston, Director of Covert Operations for the CIA and Cross' boss, was a career government bureaucrat, having worked his way up through the ranks in the State Department. Inside government circles, he was known for his political skill in dealing with Congress. His biggest fault, claimed his critics, was his overly cautious nature.
      Jack Cross had a leathery face, worn by years in the inclement outdoors, steel-gray hair and a patrician's nose. His large angular physique had earned him the nick name of "stork" in the Marines, but only out of his earshot. Guile lurked behind his dull gray eyes like a Mako shark in the purple deep.
      "I've really enjoyed this weekend, Jack, it's so relaxing," Cranston said. "How long have you been here now?"
      "I don't know if I've ever told you, but this is actually my in-law's house. When they died, Margaret and I moved in and renovated it over the years, making room for the children. After Margaret died and the kids grew up and moved away it does seem a little big sometimes," Cross replied.
      "Why don't you move into something smaller in Washington?"
      Cross picked up a photograph of his wife on the desk. "Margaret loved this place. I feel like I'd be betraying her if I left."
      "Jack, why don't you retire? You don't need the money and you've served our country well."
      "I could ask you the same question, Ben."
      Cranston shrugged. "I will soon. Unlike you, I'm not independently wealthy."
      Cross got up and walked over to the credenza beside his desk, opened the door and took out a bottle and two glasses.
      "Single malt, forty years old," Cross said, pouring some into each glass.

      "You've always had a taste for the best," Cranston replied.
      "Salud!" Cross said.
      Cranston clinked Cross' glass and sipped the Scotch. "I could never understand why, with your family background and money, you never went into politics."
      Cross smiled. "I'd rather be the power behind the power. Besides, I'm after your job, Ben."
      Cranston laughed. "You can have it soon, and for what's its worth, I think you'd do a bang-up job, if you'd just learn to ease up now and then."
      "Easing up is for the weak at heart and politicians . . . Ben, while we're on the topic and I know we said we wouldn't talk shop this weekend . . ."
      "What is it?"
      Cross looked intently into Cranston's eyes. "The Company's in deep trouble. We've endured the third year of budget cuts, while we watch the National Reconnaissance Service and the National Security Agency get fatter. Not to mention the damn Bureau."
      Cranston nodded vigorously. "It pisses me off too, Jack. But since the collapse of the Soviet Union there's little interest in anything resembling the Cold War. It's difficult to get Congress, let alone the President, enthusiastic about covert operations."
      Cross smacked his hand on his knee. "Damn it, we can't afford to just sit back and wait for the enemy to come to us."
      "The military have convinced the administration, Congress and the American people that money needs to be spent on weapons to defend against rogue nations like North Korea or Iraq."

9

      Blake wiped his forehead with his arm. The Costa Rican jungle was like a damp rotting blanket. A few drops of sweat leaked through his reddish-blond eyebrows into his eyes. He scrunched his eyelids shut, squeezing out the brine. He elbowed the huge shape in sniper camouflage lying beside him.
      Jimmy Candelero, a young agent in the Costa Rican government's drug enforcement police, was a hulking, six-foot-three and two hundred and fifty pounds. He got his size from his German mother and his dark good looks from his Costa Rican father. He peered through a night vision lens aimed at a large wood and brick farm house and two metals sheds two hundred yards away. The farm was an eight-thousand acre cattle ranch owned by an American named Richard Bull.
      "Agua," Blake whispered. He looked carefully at Candelero. "I thought big men sweat like pigs."
      Candelero grunted and passed the canteen to Blake, tapping his forehead with a gorilla-like finger. "It's all in the mind, gringo."
      Blake took a salt pill and downed it with a careful swallow of the tepid water, savoring it in his mouth like a fine wine. He squirted a small stream of water through his teeth onto Candelero's cheek.
      Candelero grunted and crushed a large stick-like insect crawling across his sleeve.
      "Your first field work?" Blake asked.
      "No. When I was training in Peru, I took part in Operation Condor, the biggest bust ever with the Peruvian Guardia. I won't forget flying over the treetops, the Bell helicopter skids brushing the branches, scattering thousands of birds and monkeys. We hit a large cocaine operation run by the Cali cartel. They had dormitories for hundreds of people, a high-tech communications center, dozens of heat lamps to dry the cocaine, huge drums of coca chemicals, electric mixing vats- the whole nine yards."
      "Did you find the stash?"
      "Four tons of cocoa paste that could churn out five hundred kilos of pure cocaine a day. Estimated value at two hundred million. It was a sweet bust."
      "Makes all the hours of surveillance worth while, doesn't it?"
      "What pisses me off is the whole system. The peasants who grew the cocoa leaves, the cocaleros, made six times the money they could with any other cash crop and the other peasants, the poseros, who process the leaves into paste, made easy money. One hundred pounds of leaves to make one kilo of paste, four kilos of paste to make one kilo of pure white cocaine hydrochloride. And then the Columbia cartels make a killing on the distribution."
      "Welcome to the reality of the war on drugs. It's a way of life not just for people but entire countries."
      Candelero grunted.
      "You mentioned your brother's in government service?" Blake asked.
      "Diplomatic service. He gets all the ooohs and aahhs from the family," Candelero replied, then laughed, "but Jimmy gets all the women."
      Blake laughed. He liked this raw-boned giant with his passion for life and sense of humor.
      "I don't mean to be rude, but aren't you getting a little too old for field work?" Candelero asked.

Catalogue Information