URGENT Justice

by John Etzil

  The rumbling stopped and whatever cave-in might have happened was over, at least for now. Hopefully, the entrance wasn’t blocked…

  I untied Frances and removed her burlap bag.

  “How’s my makeup?” she asked.

  I studied her bloodstained face and swollen nose. She’d have two black eyes by the morning. She looked awful, but I didn’t dare tell her that.

  “You’re beautiful.” I grabbed her face with both hands and gently kissed her on the forehead.

  I searched all of the bodies and grabbed some keys from the Statie and found my Glock on Flat Ass. I checked everyone’s feet and saw that Fat Face’s were almost as big as mine, so I unlaced his boots and slid them off.

  My feet were bruised and cut, and now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, I could feel the pain growing. The boots were tight on me, but I was happy to have them, so I squeezed my bare feet into them with a grimace and left the laces loose.

  Frances was doing her own searching and she came up with a pack of cigarettes. She tore them open and lit one. I cautioned her not to, but she ignored me. “I gotta die sometime, Jack,” she said curtly.

  “I meant that there might be some gas in the mine, so lighting a fire probably isn’t a good idea.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think of that. Oh well, we didn’t explode, so we’re fine.” She took a deep drag on her smoke. “This tastes like shit.” She flicked the cigarette away, hit the wall, and created a shower of sparks. She lit another match and studied the pack of cigarettes. “No wonder, they’re freakin’ menthol. Yuck.” She threw them away with a scowl.

  “Let’s get out of here. We still have work to do.” I’d found a flashlight on one of the dead bodies during my search, and I flicked it on. It was dim but provided enough light for us to follow the rail on foot. Hopefully, if we didn’t take a wrong turn, it would lead us out.

  I held Frances by the elbow and escorted her up the old rail line, taking it slow to ensure sure footing. We walked between the rails, which was the smoothest part of the tunnel, but there were numerous areas where water was dripping from the ceiling, making our trek slippery.

  I prayed that the rail wouldn’t present us with a fork in it. As long as that didn’t happen and we kept climbing uphill, we’d eventually find the entrance. As luck would have it, there were plenty of splits in the rail, but they all led downhill and we didn’t have to make any fork-in-the-road decisions.

  While piled on top of the dead bodies in the mine car, I had been smart enough to count Mississippis on the slow ride down. I’d reached two hundred and thirty-nine. I figured that the ride down was twice as fast as the walk up, and when I reached four hundred and fifty Mississippis, I started to get excited. We had to be almost at the entrance. Finally, something was going right for us.

  And there it was. A bolt of adrenaline shot through me. We’re going to make it.

  “I see it,” Frances shouted. “I see the exit.” She grabbed me and gave me a big hug. “I knew you’d get us out of this, Jack.” She laughed, all giddy now. “I just knew it.”

  We exited the mine, and after making sure that the area was clear of bad guys, I took in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Between the burlap bag and being in the mine, it had been hours since I’d taken a clean breath.

  Frances tugged on my arm. “I just thought of something. Where are we?”

  26

  Where’s a Map When You Need One?

  Damn. She was right. I had no idea where we were.

  I saw a pickup truck parked next to an SUV. I went over to the truck and searched for a GPS device, but there wasn’t one on the dash. I looked in the center console as well as the glove box, and the only thing I found was a paper map of Columbia County. Since we didn’t have a starting point and the map was county-wide with a limited number of small roads on it, it did us no good.

  We could just drive around in hopes of stumbling onto a town or major road that was listed on the map, but in this rural setting, that could take hours. Or longer. Heck, I could run out of gas by the time I stumbled onto something. This was totally crazy.

  Frances came up with a great idea. “Why don’t you look in the car that they used to kidnap us? Maybe you can find a local map inside. Or maybe it has GPS?”

  I left the truck and went over to the SUV. It was a late-model Chevy. I looked inside and saw a display on the blood-drenched dash that must have been for GPS navigation. But I didn’t have the keys. Without the keys, I couldn’t turn the car on. I kicked myself for not grabbing the keys from Fat Face when I’d searched him, but I knew we wouldn’t be driving his blood-and-guts-soaked vehicle, so I hadn’t bothered. Rookie mistake.

  Now I had to go back down into the mine, find the tunnel we’d just been in, grab the keys, and find my way out. Again. Without getting lost. I knew from our trip out of the mine that it had multiple tunnels and offshoots, and the first time the rails divided, I’d have a 50/50 chance of going the correct way. It would take all night, and without a good flashlight, it was entirely possible that I’d get lost forever in the mine. Jeez, that thought scared me. It was one thing to get killed in battle, go out on your shield sort of thing, but to get lost in a coal mine and die? Not me, thanks.

  “Want these?” Frances asked.

  I turned around, and God bless her, she held out the keys to the SUV. She winked at me and said, “I figured that, you know, for old times’ sake, you might want to sit in the backseat and relive the fond memories of our intimate moments together.”

  I laughed and grabbed the keys. “Goddamn, Frances, you sure are something.”

  I unlocked and opened the door, and the stench of blood and guts hit me right away. Frances gagged and coughed up a lung. I’d been in this situation before, and I knew how fast blood and pieces of flesh started to rot in an enclosed environment, so I was expecting it. In hindsight, I guess I should have warned poor Frances.

  I pushed the start button, and the engine came to life. A few seconds later, the navigation screen came alive. The GPS signal locked in and I zoomed in and out on the bloodstained screen, my finger sticking to the glass and leaving perfect prints on it.

  I found our location. We were just off an access road that connected to Big Mine Run Road, which ran into the center of town. Nice. All I had to do was hang a right on the access road and a left on Big Mine Run Road, and we’d be back in town. Simple.

  I popped the gas cap door from the inside and turned off the car, then unscrewed the gas cap and tossed it inside the car along with the keys. I stepped back about thirty feet, just to be safe, and fired off a round into the gas tank. Bullets fired into a car’s gas tank don’t usually ignite it, but they do create a nice little stream of gas leaking all over the ground. With the gas tank cap off to help the air displacement, the gas flowed out faster than a nervous racehorse relieving himself at the Kentucky Derby.

  I climbed in the truck, made sure that Frances was buckled in, and started her up. I pulled out to the access road, well clear of the racehorse-pissing SUV, and put her in park. “Lighter, please?”

  Frances dug around in her purse and took out her pink lighter. “I want it back.”

  I smiled at her.

  I went over to the car, found a running stream of gas about twenty feet from it, and lit it up.

  In Hollywood, the explosion would have been so massive that it paused the earth’s rotation, but in real life, the little trail of gas ignited at a fast pace until it made its way to the larger pool of gas under the car. From there, it whooshed into a good-sized fire. No explosion. But all my DNA and bloody fingerprints that were inside the vehicle went up in flames, the smoke drifting towards the mountains to the east.

  I ran back to the truck, handed Frances her lighter, and made a right on the access road.

  Within ten minutes, we were back in town. I pulled up to Peter’s Motel, and right away I noticed that my BMW was gone. Those bastards. Now they’ve crossed the line…

  27

  I’m
Back

  I walked in the front door. No one was behind the desk, so I rang the little silver bell on the counter and waited.

  Mullet Joe strolled out of the back room and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me pointing the 9mm at him. His eyes grew wide, and I swear his skin went three shades whiter before my eyes.

  “I knew it,” I said. I stepped around the counter, placed the gun against his forehead, and backed him up into his office. I was greeted by a row of small black-and-white security monitors. I removed the VCR tape from under the one that covered the parking lot and front entrance, and examined all of the others.

  The security system was pretty basic, except for the last monitor, which had a very familiar view. Yep, that was Frances’s trunk in the corner of our room, no doubt about it. The bastards had a camera in our room.

  “So you like spying on people, eh?” I asked while unplugging all of the camera feeds. I pulled the ends off the coax cable and shoved each one into an electrical outlet for a good ten seconds. The smoke from the outlet box pretty much confirmed that I’d fried each and every camera in their security system.

  “It’s just my job. I didn’t have anything to do with last night. I swear.”

  “Right. Hope you enjoyed the show, because it was your last.”

  I whacked him upside the temple with the butt of my pistol, and he fell to the floor, his forehead bouncing against the ceramic tile like one of Max’s runaway pool shots. I probably should have caught him…

  I went out to the car and got Frances. She was limping when she got out of the car, and I was worried about her. Tough as she was, it was easy to forget that she was in her nineties.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, peachy keen. You took a chunk of thigh skin out when you grabbed my dress with your teeth to hike it back down in the car, that’s all. I’ll be fine. But boy are Max and Gus gonna be mad at you! They’re very jealous, in case you haven’t noticed. They still haven’t gotten over the summer I went touring with André the Giant. And that was before I even knew them, almost fifty years ago.”

  We went back into the motel, and I threw the unconscious Mullet Joe over a luggage dolly and wheeled him down the hallway to our room. I dumped him on the floor, took off his belt, tied his hands behind his back, and sat him up in the corner.

  “Whatcha gonna do with him, Jack?”

  “Get intel.”

  Frances rubbed her hands together. “This should be fun. Can I go first?”

  28

  Torturing Mullet Joe

  “No. I’ll be right back. Don’t touch him.” I went into the bathroom and grabbed my shaving kit. I had a few tabs of ecstasy left over from my last mission, so I decided to put them to good use.

  Mullet Joe was coming to. I grabbed a cup of water and shoved the two smiley face pills into his mouth. I poured the water in his mouth and held his nose closed. He swallowed, gagged, coughed, and convulsed.

  “Jesus, Jack, don’t kill him. Are you sure two pills isn’t too much?” Frances asked. “He’s a skinny little bastard.”

  “He’ll be fine,” I said. “And if not, oh well…” I shrugged.

  While waiting for the love drug to take effect, I searched the room for our stuff. Frances’s trunk was lying on its side, and they’d gone through everything. She sat down on the bed and started to organize her belongings.

  My keys and go bag were nowhere to be found.

  Within an hour, Mullet Joe had spilled his guts about everything. Nothing was off-limits, and over the next two hours, I collected more intel than I knew what to do with.

  “Wow, you hit the mother lode,” Frances said. “Silly bastard wouldn’t shut up. I’m disappointed.” She sighed and put her red knitting needles away. “Looks like I won’t be needing these.”

  “I know. Man, Joe Rogan was right,” I said. “Second time I followed his suggestion about using ecstasy to interrogate someone, and it worked like a charm both times.”

  “So I have him to thank for not having any fun? I’m gonna kick his ass in. Who’s Joe Rogan anyway?”

  I looked at her, shaking my head in disapproval. “Really?”

  “What?” She shrugged.

  “Never mind.” I sighed. I picked up the phone and dialed the BMW 800 number to report that my X5 M had been stolen. They tracked it via GPS satellite while I waited on hold, and once I verified my law enforcement credentials, they told me where it was. The operator asked me if I wanted her to render the vehicle inop.

  “No, don’t disable it. I’ll take it from here, thank you.” I hung up the phone and looked at Frances. She was on her hands and knees, digging through her trunk like a treasure hunter.

  “I got ’em!” She raised her hands in victory, holding a box of .22-caliber shells in one of them. “Let me have the Derringer.” She loaded it and handed it back to me.

  “Here, you take it. That thigh holster is giving me an awful rash, and between your love bites and other bruises on my private parts, I’ve got enough to explain to Max and Gus.”

  I took the little gun and stuffed it in my side pocket. “Pack up everything, we’re moving out.”

  “I’m packed. Ready to roll. What about him?”

  “You go wait in the truck.” I threw her the keys, and she caught them with one hand. “I’ll take care of him.”

  She shook her head at me in feigned disgust. “You hog all the fun.”

  She closed the door behind her.

  29

  That’s MY BMW!

  I drove by the FUCOFF church and looked in the parking lot for my BMW. It was empty. I kept on going, made my way around the block, and parked the truck on a side street. I’d be walking from here. I knew from my previous recon that the church had a rectory attached to the back of it. I also knew that it had a two-car garage behind it. I’d sneak around the block and check the garage for my BMW. Then I’d break into the rectory.

  I killed the engine. “Stay in the car,” I said to Frances. “No matter what. Got it?”

  “Sure, Jack, no problem.”

  I didn’t believe her.

  “I’ll leave the keys in the ignition. Lock the doors after I get out. If anyone comes, just drive away.”

  “Roger Wilco.” She saluted me and took out her flask. “Now that the sheriff is dead, I won’t have to worry about a DUI. Bottoms up!” She took a long swig from the metal container and screwed the cap on. I figured she’d be passed out by the time I returned.

  I got out, waited until she locked the door, and went for a nonchalant stroll on a warm summer evening. Nothing to see here, folks, just a man out for a walk.

  When I turned the corner onto Lancaster Ave, I caught sight of the rectory. Some of its interior lights were on. Now there was a car in the parking lot, so someone had just arrived. The church itself was dark on the inside, so I believed whoever had arrived was in the rectory.

  I walked by the church and stepped into the parking lot. I made my way back along the side of the church and reached the garage. The garage doors didn’t have any windows. I went to the side door, and it was locked. I jimmied the flimsy lock with a credit card, swung the door open, and stepped inside. I took out my iPhone and turned the flashlight on.

  There was my baby.

  I checked the interior for the key fob, but no dice. I looked in the rear cargo area and the backseat to see if my 5.11 Tactical go bag was there. It was. I picked it up and noticed that it was lighter than normal. I only had two rounds left in my Glock, so I was hoping to find some of my spare mags that I’d tossed in while I packed, but they were gone. I zipped the backpack up and threw it over my shoulder.

  I shined my flashlight on the walls, hoping to find a place to hang keys. With a little luck, my keys would be dangling there. Nothing. I left through the side door, being sure to leave it unlocked for easy access later tonight.

  The walkway from the garage to the back door of the rectory was short and unlit, but the half moon gave me enough light to avoid tripping ove
r anything. I observed the rectory. The first floor was dark. I walked over to a dark basement window and knelt down next to it to get a look inside. I studied the small casement window. It had pink insulation pressed tight to the inside of the glass. They certainly took their heat loss seriously in Centralia.

  I turned my light off and stood up. I went over to the back of the house, tiptoed up the old wooden steps, and turned the doorknob.

  Locked.

  I got out my credit card and jimmied the lock. This one proved to be a little tougher than the side door to the garage, but I still managed to get it open without making too much noise. I exchanged my credit card for my Glock and entered the house.

  The back door led into a kitchen area, and although there were no lights on, I could see the general layout with the help of the moonlight, enough to at least avoid bumping into anything and alerting anyone to my presence. On the far end of the kitchen, I saw a closed door with a stream of light coming from underneath it. I tiptoed over to it and placed my ear against it. I heard voices, but they were muffled, like from a TV. I grabbed the doorknob and slowly turned it, taking my time to avoid making any noise that would tip anyone off.

  I opened the door so slow that my hand almost fell asleep. I tiptoed down the stairs, stepping close to the stair edges, where there was more support, to avoid squeaky wood. When I reached the second-to-last step, I stopped, bent over, and peeked around the corner of the wall.

  What the—?

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up when I realized what I was looking at. Three sheetless mattresses were lying on the concrete floor, butted up against the far wall. Each one held a young girl, probably all teenagers, and they were lying down and watching a TV at the foot of the middle mattress. I didn’t recognize any of the girls as my runaway, but it was dark, and the TV obstructed the face of the girl furthest from me. All three were handcuffed and chained to a Lally column in the center of the basement. This was insane. A dungeon of teenage girls? Were they all runaways? Had I stumbled upon an underage sex trafficking ring?