by Don Winslow
“Whatever,” Cal said. He got off the sawhorse, squatted in front of Neal, smiled, and said, “And guess what, Neal buddy? The reverend just finished praying about you. Guess what old Yahweh told him?”
Neal didn’t answer. He wanted to ask about Cody. He tried to. But he was afraid to move as much as a muscle, he was so close to crying, or throwing up, or worse.
Cal saw it, and the psychotic gleam in his eyes flared more brighdy, and he answered his own question. “He said you and the one-armed bandit here was both sent by ZOG. That you’re both in league with Satan. That we need to make you howl.”
Neal felt himself shaking. He tried to control it but he couldn’t. His right leg just started jumping all on its own and he felt as if his head were drowning, and tears were just about to overflow from his eyes when he heard Joe Graham’s blessed, blessed voice.
“When you pick out my goat,” Graham said, “make sure you get a pretty one.”
The door opened again and the Reverend C. Wesley Carter walked in.
Neal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Now it starts, he thought.
Cal turned to Graham and grinned. “You’re first, smart-ass.”
Graham knew that. It’s why he’d mouthed off.
Randy and Cal took the cuffs off Graham and stripped him. Then they laid him on his stomach across the sawhorses. They wrapped a heavy rope under his arms and tied it down. They did the same to his ankles so that Graham was stretched out across the sawhorses, his feet hanging off one side and his head off the other. They arranged it so that his face was a foot from Neal’s.
While they were doing this, Carter was tying knots into another rope, saying, “We have to find out who you are and why you’re here, and we have to find out quickly. I’m very puzzled that you helped us rob the armored car, and I’m concerned that the shipment of arms—in fact, our entire haven here—is in jeopardy.”
He finished with the rope, raised it over his head, and asked Graham, “Who sent you?”
Graham struggled for breath. His back already felt as if it might snap from the strain of holding his weight.
“Satan sent me,” he answered.
Neal made himself look at Graham as the rope came down on his back.
Graham sucked in some air. “Satan or Tom Landry, one of the two.”
The rope lashed down on his shoulders.
Two, three, four, five more times before Carter spoke again.
“Who sent you?”
“Harley McCall’s ex-wife. Alimony.”
The rope came down again.
Graham’s face was red with strain. Sweat dripped off his jaw. His back was already raw.
Neal tried to reach out and hold Graham’s head, but the chains were too short.
“You’re killing him!” Neal yelled.
“Shut up,” Graham snapped at him. Then he asked Carter, “Hey, what about my goat?”
Five, six, seven times Carter’s arm swung. Flecks of blood flew across the cell with each stroke.
Cal stepped around to the front of the sawhorses and lifted Graham’s chin.
“You got anything funny to say now, smart-ass?” he asked Graham.
Graham swung his head back and forth. Sweat poured from his face.
Neal kicked Cal in the back of the leg to get his attention. “I’ll kill you, you dirty bastard,” Neal said.
“You’re a hoot, Neal,” Cal answered.
You’re doing this for me, Dad, Neal thought. You’re buying time for me. You mouthed off to Cal to make him mad, to make him start with you instead of me.
Carter raised his arm to start again.
Neal shouted to Carter, “Hey, Rev! Is it true what I heard about Yahweh and little boys?”
Graham craned his neck and shook his head at Neal.
Neal ignored him. “For that matter, is it true what I heard about you and little boys?”
Carter dropped his arm and stared at Neal.
“Shut up, Neal,” Graham murmured.
“Yeah, Rev,” Neal said, forcing himself to smile, “I’m not sure I heard it right, because your wife’s mouth was full at the time, if you catch my drift, but I thought she said that you liked to—”
Carter stepped over Neal and raised the rope. “You piece of filth,” he said.
Come on, come on, do it. Start on me for a while.
“But your time will come,” Carter said. He turned back to Graham.
Sorry, Dad. I tried, I tried.
Graham lifted his real hand, smiled weakly, and slowly raised his middle finger at Neal.
“Did ZOG send you?” Carter asked.
“Zog who?” asked Graham.
Carter raised his arm and was about to bring the rope down again when the door opened and Bob Hansen walked in.
He looked worried and excited at the same time.
“The truck is here,” he said. “The arms have arrived.”
Carter dropped his arm. “We have to move quickly. These two can wait and tremble in the fear of Yahweh’s wrath.”
He dropped the rope and paced to the door. Carlisle and Strekker followed him.
“Untie him!” Neal yelled. “For God’s sake, at least cover him up!”
Strekker turned around. “I’ll be back,” he said and shut the door behind him.
Graham craned his neck up. His face was pale with pain. His hair was matted with sweat, and blood was dripping off his back.
“We’re winning,” he rasped.
Cal stepped out into the compound and saw a rented moving van parked outside. The truck was bright yellow with black stenciled letters that read TROJAN TRUCKING on the side.
“People think I’m carrying rubbers,” the driver said as he hopped down from the cab, “but actually I went to USC.”
That’s kind of funny, Cal thought. But neither Carter nor Hansen laughed, so he put on a scowl and gave the driver the cold eye.
The driver rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “It’s a little colder here than it was in LA,” he complained. He looked at the compound and asked, “You guys expecting company?”
“Would you be Mr. Mackinnon?” Carter asked him.
“I wouldn’t be if I had a choice, but I don’t, so I am.”
“I’m Reverend Carter, this is Bob Hansen.”
“Nice to put a face to the voice.”
“I’m surprised you came alone,” Carter said.
“I can take care of myself,” Mackinnon answered.
Cal heard this as both a comment and a threat.
The Mackinnon guy looked around at all of the boys and smiled. He sure enough looked like he could take care of himself. He had a body like a bear, and anyone looking hard could see the form of a large pistol holstered at his belt.
Hansen asked, “What have you brought us?”
“I’ve brought you enough stuff to send a whole battalion of kikes and niggers back to their maker,” Mackinnon said. “But unfortunately, I can’t give it away.”
“The money is in the safe,” Hansen said.
Mackinnon smiled. “That’s good enough for me. After all, we’re all on the same team, right?”
Cal stepped forward. “I want to take a close look at this stuff before we pay,” he said, trying to stare Mackinnon down.
Mackinnon didn’t stare down easily. “And who are you?” he asked.
Hansen stepped in. “This is Cal Strekker. He has ranger training. He’s our tactical instructor.”
“Well, Cal,” Mackinnon said, “I’m looking out here at all this flat ground and those hills back there and I’m thinking about what you’re going to need to defend your perimeter. I brought some mines that can be tripped off by contact or blown by switches from your watch-towers. I brought some rocket launchers same as the Afghanis have been using to shoot down Soviet helicopters. You’re familiar with them, I’m sure. Carry them right on your shoulder, pull the trigger, and whoosh. I brought five crates of M-16s, and they have the bugs worked out of them by now—they d
on’t jam the way they used to during the southeast Asian war games. I even brought a .50 caliber air-cooled machine gun you can set right in that bunker over there and chop up any assault coming across that flat. And I even brought you some mortars, because that’s going to be a problem for you if your enemy has any mortars of his own sitting back in those hills. He could turn this into another Dien Bien Phu unless you have some arty of your own to dig him out.”
Cal was impressed but didn’t want to show it. He said, “Well, we plan on doing more than just defending ourselves.”
“Of course you do,” Mackinnon replied, “so I also have two very nice sniper rifles—Swiss—some infrared scopes, and three superb .22 automatic pistols.”
“We ain’t plinkin’ cans here, mister,” Cal said.
“Of course, it takes a real professional to use one, but a well-placed .22 in the brain will get the job done quickly, neatly, and quietly.”
“Silencers?” Cal asked.
Mackinnon spread his arms wide and said, “But of course.”
Cal grumped a little more then said, “Sounds okay, Mr. Hansen, but I think we better test a few of these things before we turn any money over.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Mackinnon answered. “I’ll need to show you how some of this stuff works, anyway.”
He stepped around to the back of the truck and started to lift the door. Cal followed him and looked inside at the crates. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and held it out to Mackinnon.
“No thanks,” Mackinnon said. “I’m trying to quit.” He hopped into the truck and said, “Cal, you want to send some of your men over here to unload this stuff?”
Cal waved the gang over and set them to work. He asked Hansen, “What about the prisoners?”
Carter stepped in. “I’ll deal with the prisoners.”
“Yes, sir.” That was fine with Cal. He was far more interested in the weapons Mackinnon had brought, and there was plenty of time to have some fun with that one-armed wise guy and that smart-ass Carey. With any luck they might break Harley’s three-week record. So let them wait.
“So far we’re winning,” Graham repeated to Neal. “We kept them talking for a half hour and now we’ve caught a break with this arms shipment arriving. With any luck they’ll be busy playing with their new toys for a while, which means more time for Ed to wake up and come get us out of here.”
“I wish he’d hurry,” Neal answered. He didn’t think Graham could survive much longer, not with the cold, the pain, and the shock. “You were great, Dad.”
“Hell with these guys,” answered Graham. “We’re not dead yet.” But we’re going to be, son, he thought. And the only thing I can do for you now is to try to keep the terror out of your mind. Stop you from imagining what the pain is going to be like. “Have you started working on your story yet?” Graham asked.
“Not really.”
“Get on it,” Graham snapped. “Think up layers on top of layers.”
“You got it.” I know what you’re trying to do, Dad, but I’ll play along. It gives us something to do, and I think we’re in for a long wait.
Then Carter and Randy came back in.
“Where’s Dad?” Shelly asked her mother.
They were standing at the kitchen counter. Karen sat at the table, peeling potatoes.
“On the roof,” Peggy answered.
“Again?” Shelly laughed. “Who does he think he is, Santa Claus?”
“Honey, your father has always thought he was Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Peter Pan all rolled up into one. He’s still working on this big surprise of his.”
Karen asked, “When do we get to see it?”
“Tonight, he says.”
Shelly rolled her eyes dramatically and said, “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
Up on the roof, Steve held the last of the wires down with one hand and pounded the U-nail down with the other. He wanted to finish up before the storm came in and made him stop.
He looked up to check out the clouds again. Yep, he thought, looks like we’re going to have a white Hanukkah.
Then he heard the far-off crackle of rifle fire coming from the Hansen place. Knock yourselves out, boys, he thought. Because I’m going to knock you out tonight.
Shoshoko heard the gunfire too. He looked up from the rabbit he was skinning and listened closely. The sound was coming from the valley, close to the base of the mountain. But what could they be shooting at, using so many bullets? Or was it just the white man’s silly habit of constantly testing his aim? A wasteful, childish game, Shoshoko thought.
Yet from his dream, he knew that the white men would be coming up the mountain and that the bullets would be for him. He went back to skinning the rabbit. They needed the meat, and it was not his fate to die in the daylight. The white men would not come until the night.
Cal could tell that the constant popping sound of the boys trying out the sample M-16s was annoying Mackinnon. The man didn’t like working with explosives anyway; his fingers looked numb with cold, and he was sweating profusely even though he was lying in the snow. But the arms dealer sure as hell knew what he was doing, Cal could tell that. He watched as Mackinnon finished arming the mine, then brushed some snow over the top of the metal disc that looked like a large dinner plate.
“Mark this down as ‘AV, RC 3,’” he told Cal, who stood above him making sketches in a notepad.
You don’t have to tell me, Cal thought. It was critical to record the location and type of the mines. This one was “antivehicle, radio-controlled number three,” the last of the mines they’d planted on the road. They’d put one right on the turnoff from the main road, another one about halfway down, and this last one right under the compound gate itself; if anything ever managed to ram the gate in, they would blow the hell out of it right there.
They’d laid a dozen ‘AP, CD’—antipersonnel, contact-detonated—mines in an irregular pattern around the outside of the compound. These were the sweet little puppies that exploded as you stepped off them, giving you the cheerful choice of standing perfectly still and getting shot or hitting the dirt with whatever was left of you after the mine blew up underneath you. They also planted twenty-four dummy mines. The only way you could tell they were duds was by stepping off them and seeing whether you were alive or a memory.
The idea was to force any attack into narrow unmined lanes that you had covered with presighted rifle fire. This would equalize the firepower of your small force against your enemy’s larger one. With discipline and training, one good man with an Ml 6 could take care of his own lane while a centrally located heavy machine gun could sweep the entire field of fire. Your best marksmen stayed up in the towers with their sniper rifles and picked off the enemy’s leaders. A good fire team could turn an enemy attack into a debacle in moments. It would take trust, of course. Every man was literally betting his life that every other man was doing his own job. And Cal was going to make goddamn sure that was the case.
“Let’s go up the tower and label the switches,” Mackinnon said. “Then let’s call it a day. I’m beat.”
They’d put in a full one. They’d unpacked the crates of rifles and test-fired half a dozen of them. Then Cal had set the men to assembling and cleaning the rest and they hiked down near the base of the mountain, set up some targets, and started sighting them in. Then Mackinnon took Cal and Randy and talked them through the intricacies of the Schmidt Rubin 31/55 sniper rifle, a Swiss beauty with a bipod stand, capable of delivering a 190-grain bullet with great accuracy at long range. Then he and Cal started the long, sweaty work of laying the mines.
Now they walked back into the compound. The late afternoon sky had turned a sullen, threatening gray.
“Why don’t we put the switch box in the southeast tower?” Cal asked. “That gives us the best view of the terrain.”
“We can put a box in each tower and one in the bunker, if you want. It’s a simple matter of override switches. T
hat way you don’t have to worry about being in one particular place to detonate the mines.”
“Sounds good to me,” Cal said. He was impressed. Mackinnon had put some thought into this deal.
So Mackinnon charged four battery-run toggle-switch boxes and set the frequencies. They taped one into each guard tower and another one into the main bunker room. He showed Cal which switch detonated which mine. By the time he was finished it was dark out.
“Now you can blow the hell out of any ZOG bastard who tries to come in here,” Mackinnon said.
“That’s good,” Cal answered. “We might be needing to any time now.”
Mackinnon’s eyes went flat and cold. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“Well, we have a couple of prisoners who …”
Cal saw Mackinnon’s jaw drop in disbelief and his face flush with anger.
“Prisoners?” Mackinnon hissed.
“Yeah. Couple of prisoners, I—”
“You assholes let me bring these arms into an insecure area?”
“It’s not insecure, it’s—”
“ZOG would put me away for life if they caught me with this shipment! Are these guys cops? FBI? Secret Service? Customs?”
Jesus, the guy is flipping out, Cal thought. He said, “I don’t know who they are. We haven’t really started questioning them yet.”
“Well, we’re goddamn well going to start now!”
Cal saw Bob Hansen walking over with that sour look he got on his face when he didn’t think things were going the way he wanted.
“What’s happening here? What’s the yelling about?”
“Where’s Carter?” Mackinnon yelled.
Cal almost smiled, because he’d never heard anyone yell at Hansen before.
“He’s back at my house, having a rest,” Hansen answered.
“His ass is in the sack and he’s got mine in a sling?”
Cal had to put his hand to his mouth and fake a cough.
“What’s the trouble?” Hansen asked. Cal could tell the boss was starting to get pissed off.
“The trouble is,” Mackinnon said with exaggerated patience, like he was talking to the slowest kid in the fifth grade, “that you guys have let me drive a truckload full of illegal arms into a place the law seems to have targeted. That’s what the trouble is.”