Rough Company

by R. A. McGee

  The impact was incredible. Porter was slammed around and there was the sound of rending metal, but somehow the airbags didn’t deploy.

  Porter couldn’t have been happier that Badway hadn’t hooked up a detonator to the explosive charge he’d set, or the impact might have set the entire thing off.

  He looked in the rearview mirror. The gate was pushed partially open, but still holding strong. He repeated the procedure.

  This time the front airbags deployed. Porter was hit in the face by the hot blast of air and polyester fabric, and his head was slammed backward. He grabbed at his pocket, pulling out his Spyderco and cutting large, jagged slashes in the airbag. Stale air filled the cabin.

  Once the airbag deflated enough to get out of the way, Porter jumped out of the cab.

  The second slam into the gate had produced a better result. The entire left side of the gate sagged open, and there was a large enough space for a person to fit through.

  Porter grabbed the rifle and scanned the area. There were no guards on either the right or left. He had lost them. But he’d found Badway.

  His cousin came barreling out of the front door, a grown person slung over his shoulder like a child. The added weight had little effect on his speed.

  Once his cousin cleared the staircase and dropped off the porch onto the flat ground, Porter shot several feet over Badway’s head, sending rounds into the open front door—a suppression technique. The shots would deter anyone thinking about following Badway’s exodus.

  Badway covered the distance to the gate, handing Porter the limp body on his shoulder.

  It was Alex Vance.

  Badway jumped into the bed of the pickup. Porter handed him the rifle and got back into the driver’s seat, shifted into drive, and punched the gas.

  The truck was stationary for a moment, metal from the tailgate fused with metal from the gate. Porter feathered the gas then punched it again. With a groan, the truck pulled free.

  Behind him, Badway shot more rounds at someone Porter couldn’t see.

  Porter drove for twenty minutes, Badway kneeling in the bed the entire time, watching their rear. He kept the rifle low so as not to attract attention—as if a smashed truck with a deployed airbag was inconspicuous.

  The late hour and the rural location of Vance’s home meant there was little in the way of traffic. Once he was sure they weren't being followed, Porter pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a closed gas station, the kind that had two pumps and didn’t accept cards outside.

  “What the hell was that?” Porter said, grabbing his cousin's shoulder.

  “What? I walked down and screwed them all,” he said, digging through the cab for his tan medical bag.

  “I think you didn’t understand my analogy at all,” Porter said.

  “To be fair, it’s a shitty analogy.”

  Vance was sprawled out in the truck bed, unconscious. Porter helped Badway pull his arms behind his back and feet together, and the pair used half a roll of duct tape to secure their prize. They duct-taped Vance’s legs to his hands, in effect hog-tying him. He couldn’t roll around, let alone stand up and move.

  “Besides, we needed him, didn’t we? No sense in putting off until tomorrow what we can accomplish today.”

  “I can’t argue with you on that.”

  While Badway put the finishing touches on the duct tape, wrapping it around Vance’s head to mute him, Porter took a few minutes to do a better job cutting out the airbag, then tossed it to the side. The cabin of the truck was now clear enough to be able to sit without needing to push the airbag out of the way.

  Porter took a minute and looked around the perimeter of the gas station. He found what he was looking for around back—a large pile of firewood, covered with a blue tarp to keep the elements from rotting the wood. Porter took the tarp and dragged it back to the pickup truck.

  “Let’s leave him back there,” Porter said. “If we get stopped by the cops, it’ll be tough to explain the gimp in the back seat. No one’s checking the bed. Hell, he could be a deer we got under the tarp.”

  Badway took the tarp and stretched it over Vance, careful to tuck it in such a manner that it didn’t look like a human body.

  Porter grabbed several armfuls of the firewood, stacking it in the bed for further effect. He slammed the tailgate of the pickup, now dented and twisted, with sufficient force to straighten it enough to stay latched.

  Badway broke his rifle down, placing it back into the case and sliding it behind the front seats, on the floorboard.

  “I’ll drive,” Badway said.

  “What’s the matter, am I too rough on your precious baby?” Porter said.

  “I mean, look at it. That ugly is to the bone now.”

  “You made me do it,” Porter said.

  “I made you do it? I definitely didn’t hold a gun to your head and tell you to crash my new truck,” Badway said.

  “You did when you went off script and ran into Vance’s by yourself. What was I supposed to do? I needed to make a way out.”

  Badway was quiet for a minute. “I should have a better comeback, but I don’t. I’ll let you have that one.”

  “Just report it stolen. We can park it somewhere, insurance will take care of it.”

  “That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of committing insurance fraud?”

  “You will if you want a new truck,” Porter said. “Come on, get this thing moving. You willing to bet that Vance’s guys won’t follow him?”

  Badway pulled out of the gas station, onto the main road and back to the highway once again. “Where am I going?”

  Porter thought for a few moments. “I have an idea. You might not like it.”

  “I never like your ideas.”

  “That's not true. Remember the time we put skis on the dirt bike and tried to ride it across the lake? You liked that one.”

  “Porter, my dirt bike sank to the bottom. Once they got it out of the lake, it was ruined. It never started again. That was a bad idea. A really bad idea.”

  “I’m not saying it was good, just saying you liked it,” Porter said, a smirk on his face.

  “Fine, what is this idea I won't like?”

  Porter told him.

  “You’re right. I don’t like it. Don’t you think it hits a little close to home?”

  “I already wanted to get my hands on Vance. If he had Cat killed, too,” Porter shook his head, “he’s done. All we need to do is figure out what to do with his body. Use my plan and we can cause your buddy Petrosian a little heartache at the same time. Two for one.”

  Badway pushed the gas and the truck accelerated.

  “So?” Porter said.

  “I can't think of anything right now, so I’ll go along with it. If I can think of a better place, I’ll veto.”

  “Fair enough,” Porter said, settling back into the seat and stretching his legs.

  Badway followed the sign for the highway and took the turn-off around and onto the highway, heading back to Fairfax.

  Trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, Vance didn’t make a sound.

  Twenty-Eight

  Badway didn’t come up with an alternate plan, so the beat-up truck carried the cousins and the restrained Vance back toward the industrial area that housed the Bump House. Rather than park in the lot to go to the club, Porter directed Badway to circle around, looking for the right building.

  “What about that one?” Porter said.

  “No. He’s just the realtor for that, he doesn’t own it.” Badway peered through the windshield as he drove the truck around. “That one’s his.”

  He stopped in the street next to a large warehouse, engine still running.

  “He owns it?” Porter said.

  “He bought it at a foreclosure auction last year, I think. He’s not selling it, just waiting to take the rest of us out of business so he can develop everything at once.”

  “You sure it’s his?”

  “Damn, man, I already told yo
u. It’s Petrosian’s.”

  “Good. Pull in,” Porter said.

  Badway pulled into the overgrown, grassy lot in front of the building. A large streetlight blazed through the darkness, giving enough light that Porter could get a decent look at the structure. It was made of faded red brick, with a small metal door on the far side and two large roll-up doors in the front. There were windows near the roof, a skyline to let light in during the day.

  “You got an extra pair of those gloves?” Porter said.

  Badway reached into a bag and pulled out a worn pair of soft gloves.

  Porter slipped them on and stepped out of the truck. “Give me a minute.”

  He waded through the tall grass, pants and Chuck Taylors getting soaked from the morning dew. Several steps later, he came to a rickety wooden staircase that led to the small, metal entrance door.

  Stepping carefully, Porter moved to the door. The handle was rusty, and the formerly white door had been overtaken by the green tint of moss.

  Porter checked the handle. Locked. He turned, back to the door, and stepped back as far as the stairs would allow, then bent at the waist and launched a mule kick at the door handle.

  The door gave way with no protest.

  Inside, enough light from the streetlight was filtering through the overhead windows that Porter didn’t need a flashlight. Concrete stairs led from the entry door down to the floor, and the hard surface ran throughout the rest of the space. On the far right were offices, hastily erected walls, and flimsy doors. At the rear of the space were more roll-up doors and a bay of stainless steel washing sinks.

  This will work.

  Porter pushed the doors to the offices open. They contained identical metal desks and clunky wooden chairs. Porter grabbed one and dragged it to the far left side of the warehouse, near the sinks. He gave one knob a twist and there was a groan from the pipes, but no water came out.

  He walked over to the roll-up door and located the chain that hung from the ceiling, then pulled it down toward him, hand over hand. Porter was thankful he was wearing gloves, as he wasn’t sure how up to date his tetanus shot was. After a few moments, he felt the tension in the chain increase, and the roll-up door in front of him lifted from the ground. A dozen more pulls and the door was wide open. Porter waved Badway in.

  The Ford glided through the wet grass, crushing it underneath its tires as Badway maneuvered through the open door and into the empty bay. Porter closed the roll-up behind him.

  “This’ll work,” Badway said, looking around the space.

  “How’s Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Good question,” Badway said. He and Porter lifted the firewood off the tarp and pulled it back to reveal Alex Vance, very awake. Anger burned in his eyes.

  Porter wasn’t surprised. People didn’t stay asleep for very long when they’d been knocked out—two or three minutes tops. Anyone who was out longer than that usually had a larger complication, such as brain damage. For Vance to have still been asleep when they’d duct-taped him, more than twenty minutes after dragging him from his house, was a testament to how hard Badway had hit the man.

  Porter grabbed Vance underneath the arm and pulled him from the bed, setting the man down on the dirty concrete floor. Badway pulled on a pair of gloves, similar to the ones he’d loaned Porter, and helped drag Vance to the waiting chair.

  A pocket knife helped unbind Vance’s legs, which they then re-taped to the wooden chair with the rest of the duct tape roll. They did the same with his hands, unbinding them and re-taping them to the armrests. Porter left the tape around the man’s head and mouth.

  During the entire ordeal, Vance didn’t struggle once. Eerily calm, he watched as the men worked around him, even setting his own arms into place to be taped.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” Badway said.

  Porter pointed to the offices. They walked across the open bay into an office, and shut the door. “What’s the word?”

  “I want to make sure we’re on the same page here. About what we’re doing to Vance.”

  “What we're doing to him? He or one of his goons killed Kevon. Same with Cat. He’s going to tell us why.”

  “I agree. That’s not my issue. Amy Olson said Vance was a pilot in the Navy, right?”

  “So?”

  “You need to keep in mind he probably went through SERE school.”

  Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape school was a training program the military sent its special forces soldiers through. In many instances, pilots were sent as well. In addition to learning how to survive in hostile places, and tools to evade a group of people searching for them, part of the curriculum of SERE school involved learning how to resist torture and interrogation. In order to accomplish this, trainees were often subjected to the torture themselves, so it wouldn’t come as a surprise if it happened in the field.

  “So?” Porter said.

  “I’m saying, if Vance went through SERE, he may not be a soft nut to crack. Keep that in mind,” Badway said.

  “Is SERE as bad as they say?”

  “It’s mostly dumb stuff—make you land-navigate in unfamiliar terrain, stay awake for a couple weeks. But they do introduce advanced interrogation techniques. They waterboarded the shit out of me,” Badway said.

  “I’ve never been waterboarded. How is it?” Porter said.

  “Not as bad as you’d think,” Badway said.

  “So waterboarding’s out.”

  “Porter, I’m serious. We have to handle this right.”

  “Sarge, this isn’t my first time with ‘advanced interrogation techniques.’ The physical stuff will come much later, if at all. I try to avoid it if I can, because you can’t trust what someone tells you when you’re pulling out their fingernails. Let’s talk to him first. Good?”

  “Very,” Badway said.

  The men exited the office, walked across the open floor, and stood in front of Vance. He stared back at them. Porter again noticed Vance’s odd eyes. Two different colors, one brown and one blue, giving him a predatory look—like an eagle staring at a lake full of food, or a starving pit bull.

  Porter flicked open his Spyderco, laid the blade flat against Vance’s cheek, and slid it vertically, cutting through the duct tape.

  “Figured you would rather me cut it off than give your head a Brazilian wax,” Porter said.

  “You figured right.” Vance worked his jaw around, opening and closing it a few times.

  Badway walked back toward the offices, returning a few moments later with two more chairs. Porter put his several feet in front of Vance and off to the side. Vance would have to turn his head to see him as he spoke.

  “You’ve been a busy guy,” Porter said.

  “That’s the life,” Vance said, head and eyes shifting to Badway sitting on his right.

  “No rest for the wicked, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You’re a tough guy to get a hold of,” Porter said.

  “Not tough enough, apparently,” Vance said. “I was surprised to see you in my house. For the amount I pay some of these guys, that sort of thing shouldn’t happen.”

  “Every business owner’s dilemma, finding good help,” Porter said.

  “I should hire you two,” Vance said. “Seems like you got your shit together.”

  “Your guy Hylands gave me a card, but I had to turn him down. You know the guy doesn’t wash his hands when he pisses?”

  “Imagine that,” Vance said.

  Badway stood and began to pace back and forth.

  “I have a bunch of questions. Where would you like me to start?” Porter said. His congenial nature belied the truth. Porter had conducted thousands of interviews in his life. He was always good at that part of the job. Couple that experience with an almost innate sense of when someone was lying to him, and he was great at getting what he wanted.

  Allowing Vance to steer the conversation was just a ploy to get the man talking. Porter would pick through his
answers later.

  “How did you know where I live?” Vance said.

  “I wish I could say I was a ninja hacker or something, but it’s all public record.”

  “Would you believe I paid a fee to the county to have that information made private?” Vance’s eyes shifted from Porter to the entry door.

  “I guess it didn’t work,” Badway said.

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “Where were you going this morning?” Porter said.

  “Who says I was going anywhere?” Vance said.

  “I did. No way a jet-setter like you was going to stay put, not with that cool little plane at your house.”

  “Montana,” Vance said. “I like the open space.”

  Porter knew that was a lie.

  “Montana? I’ve never been. Is it a good place for kids?” Porter said.

  “The best,” Vance said.

  “Were you taking Stacy and Trey with you?” Porter asked.

  “Never heard of them,” Vance said.

  “What do you mean you never heard of them?” Badway said, his voice rising. “You don’t know your fiancée?”

  Porter looked at Badway. Calm down and let this play out.

  “Fiancée?” Vance said. “I’m all about hookers and cocaine. You sure you kidnapped the right guy?”

  “Man-napped,” Porter said.

  “What?”

  “You got man-napped. It’s a thing I like to say, but it’s never gained much traction.”

  “Clever,” Vance said. “Are you sure you man-napped the right guy?”

  “Maybe not,” Porter said. “We better keep you here for a while and get things sorted out.”

  “Why did you kill Cat?” Badway blurted.

  “I don’t have a cat,” Vance said. “Isn’t killing animals the mark of a serial killer or something? Now I know you have the wrong guy.”

  “At least admit you know her, you piece of shit. At least admit that much.” Badway stepped closer to Vance, looming over him.

  “Hey Sarge, can I talk to you?” Porter said.

  Twenty-Nine

  Porter walked Badway over to the offices, pulled him inside, and shut the door.