by Michael Kerr
“I’m not about to get shot for a warehouse full of food,” Charlie said.
“That’s good to know. Is that your Chrysler out in the yard?”
Charlie nodded.
“Put the keys and your cell on the desk and then step back three paces.”
Charlie did what he was told.
Logan retrieved the keys and phone and said, “Are you positive that there is no one else in the building?”
Charlie nodded.
“Outside,” Logan said. “I want you to go to the rear of your car and stand twelve feet from it.”
When they reached the vehicle, Logan opened the trunk and checked for a release lever. He found one, gripped the T-shaped handle with his left hand to twist and wrench it free from the slot it was hanging from. The cable behind it snapped back out of reach. He then removed a can of gas from the trunk and told Charlie to get in.
Charlie had waited for the chance to disarm Logan, but didn’t get one. The big guy kept his distance, and the barrel of the gun aimed at him didn’t waver.
“I’m going to be no more than a couple of minutes,” Logan said. “I don’t think you’ll have enough time to kick the rear seat out and escape, but if you want to give it a try, just hope that I’m not on my way back when you do, or you’ll wind up on that slab I mentioned.”
It went from broad daylight to pitch black as the lid clunked shut. Charlie didn’t panic or attempt to break out. It was hot and stuffy in the trunk, but not airtight. He could breathe, so just did his best to relax. He wanted to make it home and be with his wife, Millie. If the guy who said his name was Logan had intended to shoot him, then he reasoned that he would already be dead.
Logan went through the office to the warehouse and found an aisle with pallets of Wesson cooking oil in five gallon drums. He put a bullet in each of three of them and watched the golden jets spout out onto the stone floor. He then twisted the cap of the gas can and poured some into the pooling oil, before backing out the way he’d come, leaving a highly flammable liquid trail into the office.
Keeping the empty can, he took a disposable lighter from a pocket of the rucksack, crumpled and set light to some computer printouts that he found on the top of the desk and tossed them on to the gas.
The resulting bright orange flame streaked back into the main storage area, and Logan beat a hasty retreat out to the car, climbed in and tossed his rucksack on the passenger seat and the can in the foot well in front of it.
“You okay back there, Charlie?” Logan shouted as he fired the Chrysler up and put it in Drive.
“I’m not complaining,” Charlie said. “What now?”
“I’ll drive for a while, then toss your cell in there with you. When I do, I suggest that you give Cassidy a call and let him know that this has just been a warning for him to back off. Next time it will be his house that gets burned down, with him in it.”
Logan heard the first explosions from the blazing warehouse as he made a right on to 310, that headed south to where he could pick up I-90. It was a half hour later that he parked at a strip mall and got out.
“I’m just going to get a cup of coffee,” he said as he opened the trunk and tossed Charlie’s cell phone in.
Charlie had no time to react. The daylight blinded him momentarily, and then he was plunged back into darkness.
“I suggest that you refrain from calling out or doing anything that would give me reason to open the trunk again,” Logan said loud enough to be heard through the thin metal. “Just make your call.”
There was no particular hurry. Charlie couldn’t tell anyone where he was, because he didn’t know. He would eventually realize that he had been left, and then presumably attempt to kick the back of the rear seat down, or find a lug wrench in the car’s tool kit and force the trunk open.
Logan walked across the parking lot to the highway and stuck his thumb out as he ambled along the shoulder. Vehicles sped by, but after several minutes a flatbed truck carrying timber signaled and pulled over sixty feet ahead of him.
Climbing in and setting his rucksack down between his feet, Logan thanked the driver.
“What’s your name and where’re you heading?” John Daniels – known by the nickname Tennessee Jack, though he never drank the sour mash – said.
“I’m Jim Drake,” Logan said. “And I’m only about ten miles from where I need to be. I’m paying my sister a surprise visit.”
“It’s good to visit with family,” Jack said. “I’ve got folk in Memphis. I grew up near the airport, just a hop and a skip from Graceland. Saw the King on what they call Elvis Presley Boulevard nowadays, back in seventy-four. I was thirteen years old and riding my Raleigh Chopper like the wind, and this Stutz Blackhawk car slowed down alongside me. Elvis was at the wheel, and shouted ‘be careful, son, if you go any faster you’ll fly like a bird’. I nearly fell off as he smiled at me and sped away. That car was the last one he ever drove through the gates of Graceland.”
“That’s a fine memory to have” Logan said, and meant it. He’d been born in sixty-three, so had been fourteen when the King had died and shocked the world in seventy-seven.
They enjoyed easy conversation, and then they were due east of where Logan wanted to be, so he asked Jack to stop and let him out at the side of the highway.
There was a dirt road that cut through forest. It brought him out near the roadhouse where Mike had left him. He went in and ordered coffee and a Reuben sandwich with a side order of fries, and mulled over what action to take next as he ate. Cassidy would now know that one of his food depots had been destroyed, and who had done it. The guy should have the sense to back off. Maybe he would, but Logan didn’t think so. His experiences of assholes’ way of thinking over many years had led him to expect them to be almost bereft of respect for those that they deemed to be enemies. They had the belief that they could always overcome any opposition that presented itself as a threat. Cassidy was of that ilk. He had the mindset of someone that could not acknowledge that he had been outmaneuvered. He would talk the talk and make a deal that he had no intention of keeping. Actions always spoke louder than words. Logan knew that he would have to do more than raze a warehouse to the ground to deter the man from covering his tracks by killing Ellie and him. Cassidy was like many gangsters he had come up against, lacking the good sense to appreciate that they were not immune to someone prepared to be as bad if not worse than them to resolve a situation.
Back at the strip mall, Charlie scrolled down to Nathan’s number on the glowing screen, phoned his boss and told him that a guy calling himself Logan had set fire to the warehouse.
“What else did he have to say?” Nathan said.
“That it was a warning, and that next time it would be your house, with you in it. I’m locked in the trunk of my car, boss, but I don’t know where. He drove for a while before he parked up.”
“So kick the rear seat out, then phone me again. If he’s taken the keys I’ll have you picked up and you can tell me the full story.”
Charlie waited for what seemed an age but was probably no more than twenty minutes, before deciding that Logan was not coming back to the car. He then twisted round, brought his knees up to his chin, knocked the back of the seat down with one powerful kick, and climbed into the main body of the Chrysler to exit through the rear passenger door and take deep breaths of fresh air as he straightened up and stretched his aching back and leg muscles. The key was still in the ignition, but he was sweating like a pig and needed to go in to the nearby Denny’s restaurant to rinse his face with cold water, then take a piss and have a cup of coffee before giving Mr. Cassidy a callback.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ED walked up to the door and knocked on it and shouted, “Anyone home?”
There was no need for Mike to think that whoever was outside was a threat to them, but he went to where the shotgun was leaning against the wall, picked it up and held it out for Ellie Mae to take.
“Go in the bedroom,” Mike whispered
. “I’ll get rid of whoever it is. If anyone gets past me and Henry, then don’t hesitate to shoot.”
“You think―”
“I think it will be someone that’s seen the sign for my place and wants to look at my work. I get a lot of passing trade.”
Ellie Mae went into the bedroom and left the door open just wide enough to shoot through the gap if necessary.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, Mike told Henry to sit and stay, then opened the door to be faced by a man of a similar age as him. He was dressed casually, had receding gray hair and wore glasses.
“Hi,” Ed said, smiling. “My name is Steve Harrison. I’m looking for a couple of friends. Their car is on the highway just at the end of your track. I thought they may have broken down and called by for a helping hand.”
“I haven’t had anyone visit for five or six days,” Mike said. “Maybe they walked up to the store a half mile farther on.”
The two men searched each other’s eyes. Neither believed what the other had said.
“Thanks anyway,” Ed said, making as if to turn away, then hesitating. “Could you spare me a cigarette? I’m fresh out.”
“Sorry,” Mike said, “I don’t use them.”
Ed moved quickly. One second his hand was empty, the next he was holding a gun in his right hand. Raising his left hand he put his finger to his lips to signal that he wanted Mike to stay quiet.
“There’s a pack of Salem and a lighter on the table behind you,” Ed said. “If Logan and the woman are here, just nod your head.”
“There’s no one here but me and my old dog,” Mike said in a low voice. “If you’re here to rob me, I’ve got a couple hundred dollars in a cookie jar.”
“Back up very slowly and sit in the chair next to the table,” Ed said as Tim Garvey appeared around the side of the cabin to join him, also holding a gun.
Don Collins had moved in from the trees to the rear of a building that was smaller than the cabin. It looked like a workshop or woodshed. It was possible that Logan and the broad were hiding out inside it. With his gun drawn, Don kept to the back wall and stealthily made his way to the corner, to peer around it and jump back in surprise as he was faced by a huge figure.
Even as he pulled the trigger, Don knew that he had made a mistake. The giant bear didn’t flinch as a bullet drilled into its solid stomach. It was carved out of wood.
The crack of the gunshot startled Ed, Tim, Mike and Ellie Mae.
Mike reacted first, throwing himself against the door, to slam it shut in the gunman’s face, then pull down a thick plank that was bolted to a log at the side of the jamb, for it to slide home in a steel bracket and prevent entry.
The windows were his next priority. He closed the shutters in the living room and locked them with the same simple but highly effective plank and bracket method, then pushed past Ellie Mae and repeated the process in the bedroom.
Ed fired at the bedroom window as the shutters came together, and the bullet broke the glass and whined past Mike’s head through the gap like an angry hornet, to bury itself in the thick timber wall at the other side of the room.
“Go around the back,” Ed said to Tim. “Quick, before he has time to lock up.”
Logan was walking down the track towards the cabin when he saw a figure outside the front of it. Slipping into the trees he hurried as quietly as possible to position himself behind the trunk of a cypress that was just a few yards from the rear of the workshop. Next to the east-facing doors was the stump of a tree with a long-handled ax leaning up against it. Picking it up, Logan hurried back to the rear of the workshop, past the life-size wood sculpture of a grizzly bear.
The shot caused Logan to hunker down against the log wall. He heard a man’s voice say, “Shit!” so came back around the corner at speed, to pass the bear and lash out at the man holding the gun.
Another gunshot rang out, drowning Don’s scream as the sharp, heavy blade of the ax hit his forearm, knocking it back against the wall to cut through and sever it completely before burying deeply in the wood behind it.
The lower right arm with the hand still holding the gun fell to the ground, and as Don’s knees buckled, Logan kicked him in the throat, to then bend down and remove the weapon from limp fingers.
With no hesitation, as the man fell on his face fighting for breath, Logan went back around the side of the building and saw another guy standing at the back door holding a pistol.
Tim saw the movement from the corner of his eye as he reached for the door handle. He turned quickly, but before he could bring the gun to bear on the approaching figure he was hit in the neck by one bullet and in his left hip by another. The impact spun him around as he pulled the trigger, and the slug went well wide of its mark as he crumpled to the ground.
For a very tall man, Logan moved with the speed and grace of a panther, to reach what was his fallen prey, stamp on his gun hand and then kick the released weapon away into long grass.
“Who sent you?” Logan asked the badly wounded man.
“Nathan Cassidy.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Three,” Tim whined as he wondered if the man standing over him was going to finish him off.
“Where’s your vehicle?”
“Back at a launch point, we came by canoe.”
“How did you know where we were?”
“We didn’t. We found your canoe in the reeds and followed a trail to this cabin.”
“Stay exactly where you are,” Logan said. “If you don’t, I’ll find you and kill you.”
Tim watched as Logan turned and walked from his view around the side of the cabin. He may have attempted to crawl to safety if he’d been trapped in a burning building, but was not about to drag himself into the nearby trees and leave a trail of blood that would be easy to follow. The pain in his hip was excruciating, although hopefully not life threatening. He had no idea whether the bullet had been deflected by bone and exited his body, or done more serious internal damage. And the blood from the neck wound was not spraying in time to the beat of his heart, just running down to saturate his jacket and shirt. Had the bullet nicked an artery he would most likely have lost consciousness by now, to then bleed out where he lay.
Ed heard another three shots. He had no idea what had happened, but considered the possibility that it could have been Logan doing the shooting. He was out in the open at the front of the cabin and felt vulnerable. Without any hesitation he ran for the trees, zigzagging across the open ground, not even pausing as he dropped the duffel bag at the edge of the clearing.
Logan saw the man run, loosed off two shots, but knew that he had missed as the figure moved erratically and made it to the tree line and vanished. Going around to the front door, he kicked it a couple of times and shouted, “It’s me, Logan. Open up.”
Mike removed the plank from its bracket and opened the door a crack, and then fully when he saw Logan standing there with a gun in his hand.
“Lock it again,” Logan said. “Are you both okay?”
“Fine,” Mike said. “A shot gave me the second I needed to shut the door and drop the plank. All we got was a bullet in the wall as I closed the shutters in the bedroom. What happened?”
“It was a three-man team. One’s outside your workshop, probably dead. Another is in a bad way out back, and the other made it into the trees.”
“So he’ll tell Cassidy where you and Ellie are?”
“When and if he gets chance to. I think he’ll be heading back to the canoe he came here in. I’ll have a quick word with the guy outside and then take off after him.”
Opening the kitchen door, Logan grasped the wounded man by his coat collar and dragged him inside. He then went around to where he’d left his partner.
Don had been totally freaked out at the sight of his arm being severed by the ax. But before shock could set in he suffered a blow to the throat and hit the ground choking, fighting for breath that he was unable to draw through a fractured larynx and crus
hed windpipe.
There was no pulse. Logan had killed the man, but was not unduly concerned. Cassidy’s thugs had come to murder Ellie and him. He didn’t play softball. You couldn’t afford to hold back an inch with people that meant to do you harm.
Logan placed the now bloodless severed limb on top of the corpse and dragged the body by an ankle, to deposit it on the kitchen floor next to the moaning survivor.
“Tell me your name,” Logan said to him as he searched his pockets and removed a cell and wallet.
“Tim Garvey.”
“Who was the guy that you and your dead friend came here with?”
“He was calling himself Steve Harrison, but his real name is Ed Jansen.”
“Where does he fit in?”
“He’s a hitman that the boss hired. He flew in from Houston. That’s all I know about him.”
“So you were sent to find and kill us?”
“We were told to get the video you have of Clayton talking out of turn.”
Logan punched his thumb into the bullet wound in Tim’s neck, causing him to howl like a kicked dog.
“And then kill us, right?”
Tim nodded. Tears dripped down his cheeks. He was in a world of pain.
“Where is Jansen staying?” Logan said.
“At the Ritz-Carlton on Canal Street.”
Logan flicked through the contact list on Tim’s phone. There was no number for anyone called Jansen or Harrison. But he now knew where the hitman was staying. It was all about having an edge, and he’d got one.
Tim Garvey passed out, and would not regain consciousness. The bullet that had hit him on the inside of his pelvis had fractured it and then been deflected at an angle to pass through his intestines. Massive internal hemorrhaging was draining him of life.
“Lock up behind me,” Logan said to Mike and Ellie Mae.
“Where are you going?” Mike said.
“To the canal. Jansen, or whatever his real name is, will be heading back to the canoe he came in. I’ll try to catch him and finish this.”