Chapter 6: The Smuggler’s New Mask

On the thirty-sixth day, entry records showed “Mr. Sam” Samuel Ruan entered from Houston with another man—the same Chu as before. Texas colleagues reported to the task force and notified us. After entering, he didn’t contact Autumn Evans, but met with Charles Choi and went to the Freon plant. Our colleagues watched from a distance. With the plant boss, our fake technicians, and “Mr. Sam’s” own guidance, they soon solved the problem. Charles Choi told the boss to have Autumn Evans arrange shipping for the rest.

I watched the feeds from the surveillance van, heart pounding. Every minute felt like an hour. When the message came through—"Problem solved, shipment ready"—I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

On the thirty-seventh day, together with the previous batch, all goods cleared customs and were ready for shipment at the inspection yard. “Mr. Sam” contacted Autumn Evans. Through surveillance, we heard him say on the phone, “Sorry for the trouble. I didn’t handle things well, and last time I didn’t meet you. I’ll need another ton soon; hope you’ll keep supporting my business. Tonight I’m inviting you to dinner to celebrate our cooperation.”

It was almost surreal, hearing him talk about "another ton" as if they were trading in bulk coffee beans, not precursor chemicals. I glanced at the clock—this was it.

Autumn Evans said, “Aren’t you going to check this batch? It’s about to go out.”

Her tone was all business, but there was an edge to it—a challenge, maybe, or a test.

“Mr. Sam” said, “No need, thank you. I already had Charles check it, the seals are on, and it’s about to leave. There’s nothing left, and you’ve helped me so much, I should trust you.”

He sounded almost friendly, but I knew better. This was a man who trusted no one, not really.

Autumn Evans said, “Then invite Charles and the others tonight.”

“Mr. Sam” agreed.

He arranged the place. Charles Choi messaged Autumn Evans: “6 pm, Room 203, Starlight Grill.” She forwarded it to us. Although we couldn’t catch them red-handed, the evidence was more than enough to convict them. After completing all procedures, we’d intercept the shipment on the bridge to Mexico.

I called home to let my wife know I’d be late, again. She just laughed, told me to be careful, and reminded me there was leftover chili in the fridge. Moments like that, they ground you—they remind you why you do this work.

Director Little assigned people at Starlight Grill. We’d done this many times—our people disguised as customers in the hall, at the entrance, and near the private room. I was in the lobby, pretending to chat with Mariah Sanders. At 5:30, Charles Choi arrived first and ordered food. At 5:50, as the earpiece reported, “Mr. Sam” and Chu arrived—we had people tailing them.

The restaurant smelled of grilled steak and garlic bread, the kind of place where families celebrate birthdays. Tonight, it was the stage for the final act.

It was my first time seeing the infamous “Mr. Sam.” He was short, just over five foot three, wore black-rimmed glasses, looked like a northern Vietnamese, with prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark skin—easy to overlook. We had Autumn Evans wait before showing up, so they went to the private room alone.

I studied him through the glass, trying to match the legend to the man. He looked ordinary—almost disappointingly so. But then again, that’s how they get away with it.

At 6:10, Director Little said in the earpiece, “Everyone’s here, close the net!” I joined everyone heading to the second-floor private room. Director Little arrived from outside, colleagues gathered at the door. She stood behind the door, nodded to everyone, drew her pistol, quietly chambered a round, pushed open the door, and shouted, “Federal anti-smuggling police, don’t move!”

The moment felt like it lasted forever—the crash of the door, the shouts, the sudden stillness as everyone inside raised their hands. Years of training kicked in; we moved like clockwork.

We rushed in through both doors, four guns pointed at those inside. They all raised their hands and surrendered without resistance.

“Mr. Sam” was very calm. He asked, “How did you know we were here?”

He looked almost bemused, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was over. I admired his composure, even if it was infuriating.

Director Little said, “We’ve been watching you for a long time. You’ll have plenty of time to ask questions later; for now, you have some explaining to do.”

She kept her tone even, but there was a hint of satisfaction there—a job well done.