Rough Company

by R. A. McGee

  “He bummed around a little bit until he met a few more military malcontents. Grouped them all together, then boom, he’s running a private military corporation. There was an article about him in the magazine Soldier of Fortune. Profiled his company, even showed off his personal collection of airplanes,” Amy said.

  “How does a guy like that get involved with Stacy Brown?” Porter asked.

  “I have no clue. I’ve done research and made calls, but it isn't like I’ve spoken to either of them,” Amy said.

  “What’s this?” Cat said, holding up a piece of paper.

  “State tax records. I’m not sure of all the property he owns, but I ran checks in Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina to start. These are all the places registered to him, or to his holding company.”

  “What’s the closest place to us?” Porter said.

  Cat scanned. “Looks like there’s a one-point-seven-million-dollar home, about an hour from here.” She pulled it up on the maps application of her phone and showed the table the street view.

  A large house with expansive grounds popped up on her phone’s screen. There were enormous metal gates and an iron railing surrounding the property. Porter took the phone and switched the map to aerial view. The property had a pool, what appeared to be several holes of golf, and in the rear, a thick white line that traveled the entire length of the estate.

  “That what I think it is?” Porter said.

  “Do you think it’s a private runway? Because it is,” Amy Olson said, using her breadstick for punctuation as she spoke. “Vance is quite an airplane-head. He builds private little airstrips everywhere he goes.”

  “Must be nice,” Badway said.

  “Nice? Nice? To be that monster? How could you want to be a killer?” Cat said.

  “Some of us got paid a lot less to kill people,” Badway said.

  “I can’t believe you,” Cat said.

  “I think all he’s trying to say is that it would be nice to have an airfield. Right?” Amy gestured to Badway.

  He nodded. “That’s all.”

  Cat stood up. “Which way’s that restroom?”

  Porter pointed to a general direction. He didn’t have a clue.

  “She’s wound pretty tight,” Amy said, watching her leave.

  “I don’t blame her. Today’s been rough for her,” Porter said. “You don’t seem as affected by what you’re hearing.”

  “After college, I spent time overseas reporting. Running around with the funny ballistic helmet, flak jacket, and everything. Not saying I’m Michael Yon, but I have been around a little. Plus, I grew up the youngest with four brothers. Hell, that was rougher than anything I saw reporting from a war zone,” Amy said with a laugh.

  Porter smiled. Amy was even more beautiful when she laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Badway staring. He nudged his cousin under the table.

  “You guys are serious about finding that little boy?” she said.

  “Not so much anymore,” Porter said.

  Amy looked at him.

  “That’s what I was in it for, sure. Help Kevon find his son, make sure he can spend some time with him. Now? Finding the son doesn’t do much for me. I’m not social services, I can’t watch a kid. He’s better off with his crazy mama.”

  “But—” Badway said.

  “But,” Porter said, interrupting his cousin. “But, I think someone needs to get to Vance. Make sure he regrets killing Kevon. Make sure he knows that he can’t just shoot at people at a storage unit. Basically, make him hate the rest of his short life. I’m in for that. Because why the hell not?” Porter said.

  Badway smiled but didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” Amy said, “your best bet will be at his house. Maybe you can ring the doorbell and ask if Vance can come out and play?”

  “I intend to,” Porter said. He finished the last of his bacon and wiped his mouth. Picking up the bottle of vodka from under his chair, Porter set it in front of him next to his plate and debated pulling open the top.

  Badway finished his food, and Amy soon after.

  “So, how is… uh… being a reporter?” Badway said.

  “It’s not what I expected,” Amy said. “I thought I’d maybe get on the news, talk about the events of the day. Maybe be a segment reporter, live from happening places. In reality, I’m more of a journalist. That’s the way my career skewed. I’ve never had the chance to be in front of the camera. But I enjoy it. I guess I’m good at digging up things.”

  “Looks like it,” Porter said, thumbing through the file Amy had brought.

  “They should put you on the air,” Badway said.

  “Why?” Amy said with a wry smile.

  “You know, because you’re pretty,” Badway said, and immediately closed his eyes. “I mean, because anchors are good-looking and so are you. But you’re good at your job, that’s the thing, too. I…” Badway shut his mouth and smiled. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  Amy laughed and Porter joined her. He’d never seen Badway so flustered around someone.

  “Thank you for the compliment, I think,” Amy said. “I’m going to go check on Cat.” She slung her messenger bag across her chest and strode away.

  “The hell is your problem, Sarge?” Porter said.

  “I don’t know, man. I’m just… you know…”

  “I’ve never seen you like this. Not since we were kids and Jenny Geremini let you grab her boob. You talked about that titty all summer,” Porter said.

  “You see her smile? Are you kidding me? Just don’t let me talk anymore,” Badway said.

  The men sat in silence for several moments.

  “Here she comes; don’t say anything,” Badway said.

  Amy’s mouth was a slit and her lips couldn’t have been pursed any tighter. She stepped over hurriedly. Her nearly-white hair was splotched pink along the left side of her head. When she placed her hand on the table, it was covered with blood.

  She spoke in a low tone. “I found Cat in the bathroom. Someone cut her throat… she’s dead.” Tears filled her eyes, but the dam hadn’t broken and they held. “I tried to help her.”

  Porter shot to his feet.

  Amy grabbed him by his arm. “Listen, I think the guy bumped past me on his way out. He had a dark hoodie on and went toward the back. He bumped right into me and kept going. You guys go find him. I’ll deal with the cops.”

  “You sure?” Porter said.

  “You guys can’t have another murder floating over your heads. You’ll be in jail for a week while they sort everything out. Cat gave me your number, I’ll call. Go find that asshole.”

  Porter and Badway tore out the back of the restaurant. The cooks seemed surprised to see Porter again, and that he was back with a friend. As they made it through the door, Porter heard a scream manufactured by Amy Olson.

  The door slammed behind them. Porter and Badway looked left and right. To the left, where Badway parked the truck, there was the sound of a car being started. Porter sprinted toward it, outpaced by Badway.

  As Porter rounded the corner, he heard a shot. He found Badway kneeling behind his tailgate. Porter went up the left side of the vehicle, past the driver's door, and leaned against the front quarter panel of the truck. Glock drawn, he saw the taillights of a sedan pulling away. Too far for a good shot, especially considering he had no idea what was at that end of the street.

  Porter had a strong constitution for violence, but the thought of a child on a playground catching a stray round was unacceptable. He holstered his pistol.

  Badway was next to him. “Get in.”

  Porter jumped into the passenger’s seat and Badway pulled off, Porter’s door slamming through momentum. He fishtailed for a moment, pulling through the dirt. The tires chirped once he hit the asphalt.

  “What kind of car was it?” Porter said.

  “Late-model sedan. Honda or Toyota. When I turned the corner, they shot at me. I didn’t get the best look.”

 
Badway pushed the truck faster, turning past a post office and several closed businesses.

  There was the flash of taillights ahead of them. “Left, left,” Porter said.

  Badway took the turn at an unsafe speed, flooring the gas during the straightaway. There was another flash of taillights ahead and Badway followed to the right.

  Running two red lights to keep up, Badway followed another right, and then stopped the car.

  The small street emptied into a parking lot. A shopping mall loomed over a sea of cars.

  “Shit,” Porter said.

  Badway’s truck crawled from row to row as the cousins strained to find a sedan needle in a parking lot haystack. With no firm make or model to go on, any of the sedan-type cars could have been the one they were looking for.

  The one that held Cat’s killer.

  Porter eyeballed every person they drove past. Any of them could have been who he was looking for; he couldn’t be sure.

  As Badway rounded the back of a row, a shot rang out, spiderwebbing the window of his truck. Reflexively, he and Porter leaned low in the truck.

  “This is no good,” Porter said. “We have no idea where he is and he’s taking potshots at us.”

  “Let’s un-ass. We can find him on foot,” Badway said.

  “No good. We don’t know who he is—hell, we don’t even know where he is. We’re sitting ducks. Hit the gas,” Porter said.

  “What about Cat? We can’t let this bastard get away,” Badway said, pushing the gas and turning up the next aisle. “We can get him.”

  “Badway, this isn’t worth dying over. Not here. Not like this. We’ll get this guy. Just get us out of here.”

  Badway let out a frustrated yell and pushed the gas again. This time, he turned away from the preceding row and turned the truck toward the exit. After a few moments, Porter sat up and cast a quick glance behind them. “Okay, you can slow down now.”

  Badway was silent. He kept the pedal floored, darting in and out of traffic.

  “I said slow down,” Porter said.

  Badway ignored him and continued his aggressive driving.

  “Fine. At least tell me where we’re going,” Porter said.

  Badway cut through a break in the oncoming traffic, skidding to a stop in the parking lot of a large chain pharmacy. “I don’t know. I don’t know where I’m going, Porter.” Badway slammed the shifter into park and hopped out. He paced back and forth in front of the truck.

  Porter joined him.

  “What kind of people are they?” Badway said. “I don’t care that they shot at us. The game we’re playing has big-boy rules, I get it. But how do they sneak in and kill Cat? She’s a damn lawyer, bro. A lawyer. She never pulled a trigger in her life.” He slammed his fist into the hood of the truck.

  “Feel better now?” Porter said.

  “Shut up,” Badway said, shaking his hand out.

  “You have to understand something: we aren’t in the Army right now. We aren't in the middle of a desert, shooting at savages who have their own AK-47s. This is a subtle game. People move quiet and sneaky. We have to do the same thing. I know your usual operating procedure is to power through a threat, but we need to be smart. Careful. Take our time. It’s like the old story about the bulls.”

  “What the hell you talking about?” Badway said, looking at his knuckles.

  “The old bull and the young bull?”

  Badway stared at Porter.

  “Two bulls are on top of a hill. One is old, been around for a few years. He knows how things work. One’s new—young, only a couple years old. So the two bulls sit on top of the hill, and they look down into the valley and see a bunch of cows. Sexy cows, as far as cows go. The Amy Olsons of cows.”

  “Those are sexy cows,” Badway said.

  “Exactly. The young bull looks into the valley and says, ‘Hey old-timer, let’s run down this hill and screw us one of those cows.’”

  “Run down and screw a cow?” Badway said.

  “Sure. If you were a bull, you’d want to screw cows. That’s just what you do,” Porter said.

  “Okay.”

  “You know what the old-timer says? He says, ‘Why run down and screw one cow when we can walk down and screw them all?’ That’s what I’m talking about. We run after this guy, maybe we get him, maybe not. But we can walk down the hill and get them all.”

  “How the hell we gonna do that?” Badway said.

  Porter held up a crumpled piece of paper. It was the document Amy Olson had brought that listed all Alex’s Vance’s known properties. “Because we know where the cow sleeps.”

  Twenty-Five

  The big house Vance owned was an hour away. Five o’clock traffic usually choked the interstate like a vine, but since it was the weekend, traffic rolled at a steady pace. The men were making good time, and Badway pulled over at a filling station about halfway. He put the nozzle in the gas tank, then stepped away to make a phone call.

  Porter got out and stretched his legs, glad the front seat of his cousin’s truck gave him a decent amount of leg room. On his way into the gas station, he took a minute to look at the thick grove of pine trees that surrounded the station. Much different from the sparse palm trees of his home.

  The wind was stiff and cool, and he wore a T-shirt.

  Porter stepped into the filling station, clean and neat with shiny floors. A shiny new business carved out of the forest meant to tempt travelers heading south to North Carolina. He selected four one-liter bottles of water, two bags of sunflower seeds, and asked the cashier to throw a pack of Goody’s headache powder in with the order. The grainy headache medicine tasted horrific, but Porter’s head was pounding with every step.

  Badway was on the other side of the parking lot, pacing back and forth on his phone. Porter’s own phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize as he crossed the tar-black asphalt.

  “Yeah?”

  “Porter? It’s Amy. Did you find the guy?”

  Porter gave Amy a brief overview of what had happened. “He got away.”

  “We’re gonna find him, whoever he is. Trust me. How are things there?”

  “For now, the madness is over. They took her away, white sheet covering her and everything. She was just so still…” Amy said.

  “You okay?” Porter said.

  “Not really, but I’m keeping my shit together.”

  Porter changed the subject. “Cops give you any issues?”

  “They asked some questions, and let me go.”

  “Nothing about us?” Porter said.

  “Sure. The waitress said there were people at the table with us, but I told them you guys were our blind dates, and the blood scared you off. I’m not sure they bought it. They said they want to touch base with you two.”

  “No time for that,” Porter said.

  “I know. Listen, I have a couple ideas about how to pinpoint Vance’s location.”

  “You don’t think he’s in his big-ass house?” Porter said.

  “Just because he owns the place doesn’t mean he’s there right this second. Are you at home right now?”

  “Good point. We're gonna go check it out anyway. If you get any more info, let me know?”

  “Good,” Amy said. “Porter?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Say hello to Baddie for me. You guys be safe.” She hung up.

  Badway was stuffing his phone into his pocket as he returned to the truck. “That was Erin,” he said across the bed of his truck.

  “How is she?” Porter had nearly forgotten about the poor girl.

  “Said she’s feeling okay, all things considered. I told her to call everyone and tell them we weren’t opening tonight. I hate to make that call, bro. My people need that money to make ends meet.”

  “To be fair, you’re a little preoccupied,” Porter said. “Not sure how you can run a bar tonight.”

  “She asked about you,” Badway said.

  “Erin?”

  “That’s who I’
m talking about.”

  “Funny thing is, I spoke with Amy and she didn’t mention you at all,” Porter said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Nah,” Porter said. “I think she likes your mustache.”

  Badway smiled for a moment, then fired the truck up. Soon, the wheels were humming along on the road.

  The noise was soothing and reminded Porter how little sleep he’d had. His eyes were heavy and his head throbbed at the site of his staples. The scenery flashed by his window and he pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

  The throbbing in his head woke him. Porter was unsure of how long he had been asleep. It was dark, and when he looked over, Badway was gone.

  Porter stepped out of the truck. The ground was soft with fallen pine needles and leaves, and the truck was surrounded by trees. He whistled two short notes.

  From somewhere in front of him, one long note came back.

  Porter walked through the grove of trees, wishing he’d worn a heavier shirt. If he had his Yukon, this wouldn’t be a problem. He had an entire wardrobe in the back of that truck.

  Picking his way through the woods, Porter recognized the soft green glow of night-vision goggles illuminating Badway’s face.

  “Where’d you get those?” Porter said.

  “Grabbed them when I ran into the Guard’s armory. They have a few toys I can borrow from time to time. The NVGs I had when I was in the service were much better than these,” Badway said, “but they’ll get the job done.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Not much. I’ve been looking for a while. Big-ass house. Tall-ass fence. One roving guard, two cars in the driveway. A prop-job airplane to the right on a little parking pad. I’m not sure if Vance is in there or not. I haven't seen anyone go in or come out.”

  “Cameras?”

  “Surprisingly, no.”

  Porter rubbed his hands together. “Are you kidding me? All that money and no cameras?”

  “What do you want me to say? I’ve been looking, I don’t see any.”

  Porter fixed his eyes on the front gate of Vance’s home. The wood they were hiding in was across the street and offered a great view of the entire area. There was one other home in the clearing, to the left of Vance’s. That home had its own fence and gate as well. There was nothing on the right save the small pad the airplane rested on. Beyond that, more forest and trees.