by Christa Wick
High winds built as the Steel Tide rolled through Billings. By the time we hit the last intersection before the highway onramp, the traffic lights were blowing horizontal.
Dust whipped along the road, blasted at my cheeks. Pervasive, the particles found their way beneath my jacket, behind the vest and down my t-shirt.
Small pebbles whipped across the road like shrapnel as the procession reached Melville. Despite the debris biting at my skin, I was thankful in one respect. People in Melville knew my face—or they had when I was younger. Luckily, all those people were inside waiting for the wind to die down.
The same was true for the residents of Harlowton.
Heading west from there, the tightness in my chest eased fractionally. A mere eight miles north, my mother was probably in her knitting room. Or maybe she was out on the porch, Delia sitting next to her, the two of them chatting as they drank another cup of tea or coffee.
Whatever they were doing, they were safe and unaware of what was happening so close to them.
Reaching a long dirt drive, I signaled for the convoy of motorcycles to turn. Every bike but Junker's drove past me and stopped just beyond a narrow break in the trees. Junker waited with me for the delivery van to appear, its arrival deliberately spaced fifteen minutes later than the bikers.
The van made the turn, Junker and I fell in line behind it. Clearing the tree line, the driver slowed. I pulled ahead and signaled a stop. Junker obeyed, rage flaring in his gaze after he lifted his driving goggles.
"I don't see anyone," he growled.
With the wide circle of trees protecting the exchange site from the worst of the wind and dust scouring the air, I scanned the area. The land was part of an abandoned cattle operation I had a passing familiarity with from childhood. This section held the pens and the ranch house. The rundown buildings ended half a football field from the banks of the Musselshell River.
Hood, my contact with the militia group, had waited until Wednesday morning to give me the location. Before then, Junker and I knew only that the exchange would occur near the borders of Elkhead and Wheatland County.
"I spot four so far," I said.
"Bullshit!" Junker challenged. "You ain't seeing what I can't see."
I pointed at a rotting pile of stacked lumber likely purchased ages ago for fencing. It stood some eight feet high and eighteen feet long, but with a two-foot gap of space in the middle. An unnatural cluster of rocks and what looked like foliage and small tree branches filled the gap. The rocks and branches were real, but the foliage was a ghillie suit.
Next, I pointed to a cluster of three canoes turned upside down. This time, the cluster of rocks was smaller, but they were the same general size and positioned just right for a man laying on the ground to rest the barrel of his rifle upon them.
I tried to remember the family that had owned the place. A man with three daughters, I recalled. The cattle operation had always been barebones. It grew barer each time one of the girls graduated high school and moved away. One married a trucker on the east coast. One joined the Air Force. I wasn't sure, but the third one—the oldest—might have been arrested a couple of times in Billings.
After a time, the father finally drank himself to death and the property went into probate with all three of the women still fighting over it.
"Those barrels," I said, pointing to another hiding spot. "And straight ahead on the river."
"The river?"
I locked the derision I felt at the back of my throat instead of letting it edge my words.
"Yeah, that's a duck blind, not a bunch of bushes. Erected less than a week ago, I'd say."
I lowered my bike's kickstand and dismounted. Holding my hands up, I walked forward while Junker continued straddling his Harley.
The barn door slid open a few inches. A rifle barrel poked through. I stopped walking, stopped breathing until the barrel disappeared. The door opened a few feet. A late middle-aged male I recognized as my contact stepped out.
"Your men were supposed to wait in the trees. They need to pull back," Hood said as he shouldered his rifle.
"Fuck you," Junker shouted from his bike.
Calling for silence on both sides, I raised one hand higher.
Hood snorted, but his gaze moved from Junker back to me.
"I've seen the goods," I told him. "Now I need to see the money."
Hood looked up, the air above still hazy with flying dirt. Knowing the man was paranoid and a conspiracy nut, I figured Hood was looking for evidence of surveillance drones.
"Nothing up there," I said. "At least not anything that can see us with this shit blowing around. Now take me to where the money is or I'll have to think you're stalling for the worst of reasons."
Hood dropped his gaze, jerked his chin toward the barn. I led the way, the door closing behind us right after Hood crossed the threshold. Two younger males in combat fatigues were positioned inside. Portable lights dangled from bungee cords hooked to the barn's support beams. Someone had staged two barrels in the center of the building and laid a piece of warped sheet metal across them to form a counter. Four gym bags rested on top. Beyond that, the barn was empty except for a rusted-out tractor, rotting hay, and a thick layer of dirt.
"Nice job spotting my men," Hood murmured.
"Nice job placing them," I answered, my voice sincere despite my actual impression. There was no need to antagonize the toy soldiers. Just because Hood's men were mediocre at camouflaging their nests didn't mean they couldn't shoot.
Moving to the table, I unzipped the four bags they had laid out. Rolls of money with rubber bands wrapped around them filled the interiors. None of the rolls were the same size. I pulled one randomly from each bag, took the band off and did a quick count.
Each roll was a thousand dollars, some of it with hundred-dollar bills sprinkled through, most of it in tens and twenties.
I locked eyes with Hood.
"You're fucking kidding me. Even if I rope all those idiots in here to count, it'll take them close to an hour."
Hood's chest bounced with a trapped laugh. "Don't reckon most of those dirty fuckers can count that high."
I closed my eyes, centering my mind with a mental run through the placement of my 9mm and the four extra magazines clipped to the tactical vest. Finished with the exercise, I left the barn to speak with Junker.
Hearing the complication, he laughed.
"So, how you getting your twenty-five thousand to Cabo in fives and tens? Sticking a tube up your ass like that movie?"
I cracked my neck. "We're increasing our exposure time if you want every last roll counted—"
Junker waved off the idea. "Count twenty more random rolls than you already did, then count all the rolls. When we get to the clubhouse, we'll pull out the biggest bills and send them to…"
Junker trailed off before he unintentionally named the manufacturer of the methamphetamine. With the field already narrowed down by Maddy, I was confident I would get the name once I had Junker in handcuffs. Smiling, I motioned for the delivery van to pull up to the barn.
"Would be nice to let them inspect the rifles inside," I said. "Keep the dust from shitting over everything."
Nodding, Junker got off his Harley and followed me into the barn.
I got to work counting. Five rolls in, I slid my jacket off so my weapon and spare ammo were more accessible.
"All American made," Junker crowed, strutting around as he watched Hood's inspection of the rifles.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Hood growled as he picked up an AK-47 made in China. "Where are the pills?"
Junker tossed a look at Mongo. Mongo walked out, hopped into the delivery van. With the wind finally in retreat, I heard the sound of a drill being used inside the vehicle.
Mongo returned a few minutes later with a backpack he handed off to Junker. With a hard throw, Junker tossed the bag at Hood.
Pathological.
The word bounced around inside my head but never m
ade it past my lips. Junker had to do his little psycho routine whenever he felt there was an alpha male to compete with. This was exactly why I didn't want to spend time counting money. I wanted the deal done and the two groups separated so my teams could swoop in on each.
Glowering at Junker, Hood handed the bag off to a younger male who seemed to be his second-in-command. The similarity in facial structure and an exact match in hair color and early thinning up top suggested that the man was related to Hood.
I buried the idea before it could take hold. If Hood and the other male were kin and one had to watch the other die before the day ended, so be it. As long as my agents were safe, I didn't care how high the bodies stacked or how many of them were brought down by one of my bullets.
"Test and weigh it, Samson," Hood told the man. He poked his chin in the direction of the second assistant. "Bobby, those guns look good?"
Returning an AR-15 to its crate, Bobby offered a bored shrug.
Junker flicked his middle finger at Bobby as Samson opened the bag, randomly selected pills from each then crushed and dropped them into small vials. In an instant, the liquid inside the vials turned dark blue.
Junker snatched up a bag as the man went to weigh it. Grabbing two pills, he crushed them to powder in his palm, stuck his nose down and snorted.
His head snapped up, the protruding eyes wilder than before.
"That's how you fucking test it," he said, throwing the bag down. "That is prime shit right there. Just like the fucking guns!"
"Done," I said. "It's all here."
The announcement was a lie. Or it was the truth uttered without full knowledge of the facts. I had only counted out thirteen of the rolls before I stopped to see how many rolls there were. And I hadn't reached a hundred of the two hundred rolls that should be present.
At the end of the day, the count didn't matter. The money wasn't going to the clubhouse, it was going to a federal evidence locker after getting counted by a currency machine. The Steel Tide would pull away from the abandoned ranch and, before they even got close to Harlowton, Tactical Team One would throw a net around them. The second team would surround Hood and his men.
All I had to do until then was get Junker to leave before one side or the other decided to take everything and leave nothing behind but dead men.
"Finish weighing it," Hood ordered, his gaze locked on Junker.
I returned the remaining money rolls to the bags, moving slowly as I kept one eye trained on those around me.
Seeing Mongo ease out of the barn, I zipped the bags and slung one over my shoulder.
"Getting ahead of things," Hood warned.
"You checked the guns," I said. "That's five hundred thousand confirmed."
"Either it's all good, or none of it is," Hood said.
The door on the delivery van slammed shut. The engine started.
Junker smiled at me.
"Bring me the money when this dumb ass figures out how to use the scales."
Bobby slammed a magazine in the AR-15 he was putting away then hit the bolt catch. Chambering the first round, he lined up the barrel's tip with Junker's chest.
"We'll tell you when to leave," Hood said.
Junker sneered at the man.
"This is the last time you get my dope."
Hood smiled, his top lip peeling back as he chuckled. "I expect so."
I eyed the distance between where I stood and the rusted-out tractor. If I could get on the other side of it, the metal might protect me from bullets being fired inside the barn.
I could make it with a good dive, I decided. Arching my back, I rolled my shoulders, swung my neck left and right. I flexed my thighs, testing how much stiffness had settled in from the hard ride during a dust storm and the time spent counting. Discreetly pointing my toes up, I stretched my calf muscles, then lightly rested my gun hand on my hip.
Samson tossed the last of the bags onto the scale.
"Twenty-two pounds total."
Hood flicked his gaze in my direction before zeroing in on Junker.
"Take your money and go."
I re-shouldered the first bag then stalled on the second as Junker put one palm up.
"I think all you pretend soldiers owe me an apology," Junker said. "In fact, I know you do."
"They owed you seven-hundred thousand dollars," I corrected. "Let's go."
Junker's head rolled to the side, his brows shooting up with the same heavy exaggeration that lifted the corners of his mouth.
"You said just this morning that they were playing at being soldiers. Probably never killed someone, you figured. I agree. I've been in this barn half an hour and all I can smell is a whole lot of pussy."
I remained quiet, my hand tingling with the urge to pull my 9mm before the other men could grab and fire their weapons.
"All right, all right," Junker said. "I'm not too proud to admit I'm an asshole. Allow me to beg your forgiveness."
With a rough laugh, Junker dropped to his knees on the ground.
No, I thought, the laugh wasn't rough. That was the wrong word. It was…crazy and…jagged. Just like the night of the cage fight.
He's throwing another sucker punch, I realized, my body instinctively diving for the tractor.
Just as gunfire erupted outside the barn.
18
Emerson
Bullets punched holes in its rotting wood. Hood took one in the chest. The impact knocked him off his feet. Holding tight to my pistol, I hunkered low as more bullets tore through the brittle wood.
For a few seconds, I could tell it was just the bikers unloading their weapons. A lull of a few heartbeats followed as they reloaded. That's when Hood's men fired back.
Inside the barn, blood already pooling beneath their boss, Bobby and Samson were slow to react. Bobby moved first, vaulting over the rifle crates. Lunging at the man, Junker ripped the AR-15 from his hands, swung around, pulled the trigger and put three holes in Samson's gut.
"Shoot him!" Junker yelled at me, jabbing the end of the rifle toward the crates Bobby used for cover. "I said shoot him, you fucking rat bastard!"
I eased out of Junker's view. The position of the portable lights hanging from the rafters meant I could still see his shadow.
"As always, have to do everything myself," Junker laughed.
On the floor, Hood wheezed.
Shadow dancing with Junker, I slid forward. The biker was trying to tuck himself against the opposite side of the tractor as he aimed the assault rifle at Bobby.
Seeing a flash of silver on the floor by Hood, I jerked back. In the space of three rapid heartbeats, I heard a deafening crack, the thick ping of a bullet ricocheting off part of the tractor, and Junker screaming in rage-filled pain. Another quick look revealed Hood struggling to aim a double barrel .45 Automatic Colt Pistol for another shot.
The weapon was a beast. The bullets must have hit near the tractor's exposed engine block with its thick metal. Anything else and the bullets would have punched it like a blowtorch through butter. It was Junker's bad luck that a ricochet hit him, but it was the biker's good luck that Hood was too weak to properly aim and that the ricochet had slowed the bullet down.
Retreating behind the machine, I relied on my hearing to track the positions of Bobby, Junker, and Hood. It didn't take long for me to pick out something scraping along the ground. Judging by the groans and badly labored breathing, that something was Hood.
I leaned forward, leading with the barrel of my gun. I saw Hood crawling for cover. I didn't think living was the man's goal. Even with the air ambulances on standby, there was too much blood on Hood's shirt for him to survive. Hood's last remaining interest had to be taking out as many bikers as he could before dying.
I watched as the man, his grip increasingly unsteady, pointed the ACP in Junker's last observed direction.
"That you spying on me, Reaper?" Hood asked, swinging his gun toward the rear of the tractor.
The 9mm I carried made a much smaller pop tha
n the double .45, but the bullet hit true, tunneling through Hood's brain before blowing out the back of his skull.
Junker's maniacal laugh sounded over the repeating chorus of bullets outside.
"Wasn't sure whose side you were on."
"Mine," I said. "You always meant to screw me over. I wasn't sure before. Now I am."
"Bobby!" Junker yelled. "How you doing there, bud? Reaper just killed your boss. That make you angry? I think Reaper wants to take it all, at least all that he can carry. Money, drugs."
Junker waited a second to let his words sink in before he delivered the last insult. "Now, Bobby, way I see it, you're some kind of bitch ass pussy if you let that go."
The goading worked. Bobby popped up, both hands wrapped around the grip of the .380 I had spotted strapped to his hip earlier.
I fired two rounds.
Pop. Pop.
The first bullet went through Bobby's throat. The second one went through the barn wall as Bobby crumpled to the ground.
"Damn, Reaper! That's some fine shooting."
Ice spread down my spine. Junker had not only played Bobby and me off against one another, he had also used Bobby as a diversion while he crept around the backside of the tractor. He wasn't there yet and his voice cracked with pain, but he was, without doubt, stalking me.
The gunfire outside subsided to nothing more than random shots and half-hearted return fire. Sirens sounded in the distance. Easing into the shadows, I shot out the portable lights. Thin shafts of sunlight penetrated from outside, but it was dark enough to throw off the aim of an inexperienced—or badly injured—shooter. I hoped Junker was both.
"Just you and me," the biker said, his voice filled with a rasping wetness.
Blood was getting into the biker's lungs or windpipe. Or maybe it was coming up from his stomach.
"Those your sirens I hear?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Air ambulances inbound, too. Toss your weapon. I'll make sure you get medical help."
The sirens grew louder. The barn door slid open a foot. Mongo staggered in, a halo of sunlight around his shaggy head.
"Reaper's a cop," Junker barked. "Shoot him!"