Lonely Coast

by Jack Hardin

  “So...who is this?” Hailey asked.

  “Better that you should ask me why today is your lucky day,” he said.

  Ellie was ready to get the game over with. “Why is today our lucky day?”

  “Because Vincente Garcia’s oldest son was killed four years ago on June the third. And every year, on the anniversary of his death, Garcia pays his respects and prays to the Holy Virgin. If you are still having problems finding El Oso, then you should do like the saying you Americans have. Go to the horse’s mouth.”

  Ellie felt a surge of excitement course through her. “You’re getting us a meeting with Garcia?”

  “In a way. Cooper is a good man. But he is right. His hands are tied. Mine, however, are not.”

  Ellie looked out her window and smiled at the unexpected turns of events. “Okay,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The enormous mosquito hummed around his head, ducking, weaving, avoiding his disorderly swats like an Olympic bullfighter.

  Carl held still.

  The buzz grew faint, and he slapped at the back of his neck with the flat of his hand. The thing about going for a mosquito on the back of your head is that there’s only one way to know if you got it. He brought his hand around and smiled victoriously as he saw bright red blood mingled with bits of smudged black on the tips of two fingers. He carelessly wiped it all down the front of his sleeveless denim jacket, an act that left a smear two inches long just below the pocket.

  He didn’t bother to wipe off his neck.

  There was a tattered beer can near his feet, the colorful markings that had identified it as Keystone Light nearly sunbleached away. Carl brought back a boot and kicked at it. It jumped a little, but the long tendrils of grass tangled inside kept it securely fastened on the ground. Carl stuffed his hands in his pockets as he looked around the property and sighed. He had been out here for two days now. He was bored. There was no internet, no cable or satellite TV, and the few stations the broken antenna did pick up presented programming he wasn’t the least bit interested in.

  His boots clunked up the front steps, his weight eliciting a creak from each board as he ascended. He went inside and stood in the kitchen for the better part of five minutes just drumming his fingers on the formica counter.

  He could just pack up and go right now. The problem was, he wasn’t sure where to go. He had a crummy little apartment in Kentucky, but he would probably just let the rent lapse on that. They could throw the stained mattress and the tattered couch out on the curb. The flat-screen they would probably resell. That was fine with Carl. He had stolen that from an old lady he had followed home from the grocery store one afternoon. As it turned out, she lived in a little cottage just outside Bowling Green that had a treeline which blocked out the view of her nearest neighbor. Carl pulled off down the road and only had to wait a couple of hours for her to go back out. She even left her front door unlocked. Carl had her 52” plasma in the back of his Subaru in less than three minutes. He’d left the power cord, of course—nothing was ever that easy for Carl—and he had to make a trip to Best Buy to get one.

  He started to think that maybe he would just stick around here. Florida was nice enough, and his two impromptu visits to Katie helped him to remember just how much he liked her. He’d get her to come around yet. Maybe he’d have to slap her around a couple more times, but she’d come around. And the kid, Chloe, he would make sure she stayed in line too. Then there was his old group of friends, Wally York foremost among them. He could probably jump in with them and find some new trouble to get into.

  Carl scratched at his beard and looked around the kitchen. He wasn’t sure what he might be hoping to find, but he started to open drawers, moving farther into the kitchen as he went along. They were filled with the usual stuff: silverware, matches, pens, old receipts, a lighter, a half-empty pack of Kool menthols, napkins, and...a gun.

  Carl snatched it up and inspected it. It was an Old Slabsides, the immortal, plain-Jane 1911 known to generations of veterans and used in multiple wars. Carl wasn’t an expert on much, but boy, did he know his guns. The gun was easily recognizable by its stirrup-type trigger, single-stack magazine, fat mainspring housing, and a beaver tail that served to reduce hammer bite. The cool metal and the solid grip felt good and familiar in his hand. He raised it and looked down the sights, then brought it back in and ran his fingers across the matte black finish. He dropped the magazine and inspected it. It was empty, so he opened a few more drawers until he found what he was hoping for: five untouched boxes of 230 grain, full metal jacket .45 ACP. He snatched one up and slid the tray out. The bullets gleamed up at him like large golden teeth. Carl smiled to himself. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Basilica of the Holy Assumption stood over the city like a guardian angel, rising high over the low and unadorned buildings that made up a predominant part of the city, and it stood as a testament to a bygone age when the lives of men and women turned around their views of the afterlife and eternal reward. In the three hundred years since the church had been erected, the hive of the city had moved further east, nearer to the modern institutions like banks, business complexes, and the airport.

  Now, the ornate building stood in the center of a dormant, sleepy square, surrounded by dust-covered shops and abandoned businesses. It was hemmed in by a thin run of green grass, which was punctuated by the occasional palm tree or yucca that grew up close to its walls. At its front, fifteen broad steps led up to the massive wooden doors that stood like guardians to the interior, and thicks spreads of oleander rose up on either side.

  Ellie was studying it through the hazy glass plate window of what she assumed had once been a craftsman’s shop. A pile of old walnut boards lay along an interior wall. A dull handsaw and an equally dull chisel lay forgotten on the floor among a carpet of wood shavings, sawdust, and several empty bottles of wood glue littered the floor. A thick film of fine desert dust covered everything. From her angle at the window, Ellie had a clear view of the eastern side of the basilica. Hailey stood beside her, Arturo beside Hailey. Antonio, the man Arturo had picked up behind the grocery store, stood behind them with his rifle expertly clutched in front of his chest. Arturo pointed to a two-story building to their left.

  “Antonio and I will be up there on the roof. Garcia will arrive with probably two or three vehicles here, on the west side, and his men will escort him to the door. They will inspect the interior before he enters. They are thorough and will probably take five minutes. Perhaps more. Once they have cleared it, Garcia will go in alone to pray. That is when we will open fire on his men.”

  “The vehicles they’ll arrive in,” Ellie said. “They’re bulletproof?”

  “Yes. But when the drivers see that Garcia’s bodyguards have been attacked, then even they will exit the vehicles. Wait for us to neutralize them and then you can proceed inside.”

  “What’s my time?” Ellie asked.

  “Four minutes. Maybe less. The drivers will call it in before they attempt to come in as reinforcements. It is well known that Garcia will not carry a weapon or a phone into the church. He says it is irrespetuoso. What is your word? Disrespectful. They will not expect such a bold move against him. People here are too scared of the...the…”

  “Consequences?” Ellie offered.

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Hailey asked. “Did Cooper ask you to?”

  “No. He does not know. And I will not tell him.”

  “So, why then?”

  “Garcia has done things to people that I still see when I close my eyes at night.” He looked away. “My hands also have much blood on them. I know this. But he has the blood of many children. If El Oso has truly been supplying Nueva Generacion with weapons, and if he is anywhere in Zacatecas, then Vincente Garcia will know where he is.”

  Tyler leaned over his truck’s open tailgate and reached for the sixty-pound bag of concrete si
tting near the wheel well. He pulled it toward himself and snatched it up, heaving it onto the bed of the Kawasaki MULE UTV behind him. He repeated the action for the remaining three bags and then slammed the tailgate home.

  He was adding another long range lane on the western edge of Reticle’s property, in addition to the four he already had. The new one would be six hundred yards downrange. The target, like the others, was a steel plate suspended by thick steel wire connected to a post on either side. The concrete was for the posts. Tyler already had the land cleared, a backbreaking project that took most of his free time the last two months. All he had to do now was dig the holes for the posts and get them in the ground. Once that was complete, he could open it to his members.

  The radio on his hip crackled. “Tyler?”

  He grabbed his radio up and keyed it. “Go ahead, Sam.”

  “You still up this way?”

  “Yep. Just finished unloading.” He slipped into the front seat of the MULE.

  “Can you come over here? Got a situation you might want to handle.”

  “Okay.” Tyler released the parking brake and backed the MULE away from his truck. He put it in drive, and its 933CC diesel engine puttered loudly as he put the gravel parking lot behind him and cut his way across a field of wild grass. He pulled up at the side of the painted cinder block building that held the range’s offices and the pro shop. Along the outdoor shooting bays, brass was flying as patrons focused on targets downrange and worked to better their aim.

  Sam Malin was coming towards Tyler at a quickened pace, appearing a little flustered. That was saying something. Sam had worked out at the range for the better part of two years, and the only time Tyler could recall him getting agitated was when he overheard someone say that AR-style weapons should no longer be available for public purchase. Tyler got a little irritated at that too.

  Sam’s bushy white mustache twitched as he frowned. “There’s a guy down in bay three. Eric said he’s been cursing loudly and not following proper etiquette.” Eric was the rangemaster currently on duty. “He can’t get the guy to behave.”

  “Did he rent a gun or bring his own?”

  “Brought his own Slabsides. But there’s nothing for him to turn in if that’s what you’re getting at.” Tyler cast his line of sight to bay three. He couldn’t see much from here. “He’s a pretty big guy,” Sam said. “And Eric said he looks a little like Jerry Garcia. When he was young anyway.”

  That was when something Ellie had once said surfaced in the back of Tyler’s mind, popping out from under the water like a shark’s fin. “What’s his name?” he said cooly. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

  Sam scratched at his chin. “It was an out-of-state license. Let me see...it was…Carl. Carl Trueman.”

  Tyler’s nose flared as the name sounded in his ears like alarm bells. A fresh tension entered his arms and shoulders as he started walking towards the pistol bays. Eric was standing back from bay number three, keeping a close watch and looking rather unhappy. Tyler nodded at him and waited for the man in the sleeveless denim jacket to finish emptying his magazine.

  “Excuse me,” he finally said. The man cursed a long string and shook his head without looking over his shoulder, either not hearing Tyler or choosing to ignore him. “Excuse me,” Tyler said a little louder.

  Carl spun around quickly. “Whhat?”

  Tyler tapped a finger on an ear. Carl tugged on his earmuffs until they slid around his neck. “What already? God, between you and this guy”—he waved a hand at Eric—“I can’t get enough quiet to hit the broad side of a barn.”

  Tyler assessed the tall, broad man before him. He looked unkempt, like he was overdue for a shower and a good haircut. His denim jacket, or vest, or whatever it was, had a smudge across the front that looked like dried bug guts. His eyes held the kind of arrant confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. Tyler couldn’t help but wonder just what Katie had been thinking when she got together with this guy.

  “I’m Tyler Borland,” he said, “Reticle’s owner. Both your attitude and actions are making my rangemaster uncomfortable. I would like you to leave.”

  Carl smiled with all the friendliness of an irritated badger. “I’m not leaving. I’m not done firing all my ammo.” The slide on his .45 was locked back, showing that it had fired all the rounds afforded by the magazine. He still had a firm grip on the gun when he stepped out of the bay toward Tyler.

  “Sir, you need to keep your weapon behind the yellow line. Pack up your gear and leave.”

  “I’m a paying customer,” Carl said. “You plan on giving me a refund?” He took another long step forward so that he was now in Tyler’s face.

  “You forfeited your refund when you failed to be compliant.” Tyler’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Typically, a problem customer wouldn’t rile him up like this. But Katie’s purple eye flashing in front of his vision, hearing her fearful and wounded voice in his ear, it made him want to tear this man limb from limb. A rage simmered inside him that he had never known before. When he spoke next, it was in a quiet growl. “You have thirty seconds to pack up your stuff and start heading to the parking lot before I get the police involved. In fact, an off-duty officer is down there at bay ten right now if you want me to get him.”

  That got through. Carl’s body softened, although his expression continued to function as a billboard for Satan. “All right...all right. I meant no harm.” He turned, stepped back to the concrete counter of his bay, and began to load his weapon, remaining ammo, and earmuffs into a small leather bag.

  Tyler didn’t take his eyes off Carl as he packed up. He nearly rushed him when he saw the freshly irritated skin on the first two knuckles of Carl’s right hand. The kind of bright and hectic skin that could easily have come from pummeling a lady half his size.

  Sam seemed to notice his boss’s atypical disposition. “Tyler? You good?”

  “Yeah,” he said, not taking his eyes off Carl. “Fine.”

  Carl zipped up the bag and turned back around. He held up the bag and offered a taunting smile. “See? Leaving now.” His boots scuffed along the concrete walkway and then onto the dirt path that led past the pro shop and back to the parking lot.

  “Tyler?” Eric was frowning at his boss. “You know him or something?”

  Tyler was still in an angry stupor of sorts. “Uh...no. No...listen, I’m gonna head back to Home Depot. I think I’m going to be a bag short on the concrete for the target posts.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Tyler returned to the MULE and rode it back to his truck. Carl stopped at a late model Subaru Forester and opened the trunk hatch. He tossed his gun bag in, slammed the hatch shut, and then started up the vehicle. Tyler switched from the MULE to his F-150.

  He waited for Carl to pull out.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  They waited.

  As the morning sun rose high in the sky, the shadows on the face of the basilica melted back toward the earth. Ellie patiently observed the square from the relative privacy of the dusty shop. Arturo and Antonio were positioned on the rooftop across the street, Hailey a street over in the Tahoe’s driver’s seat, her laptop open. All four of them wore earpieces that Arturo had produced from a case in his Tahoe.

  The adrenaline had kicked in again as soon as Arturo had mentioned Ellie surprising Garcia with an unplanned meeting. She felt an urge to pace the floor but forced herself to stay rooted in place and focused on keeping her breathing steady while she set her focus down the empty street. As she waited, images from the destruction in Tampa flashed across her vision; she could almost see the tears and hear the heart-wrenching sound bytes from the interviews they had conducted: “She was all I had… someone’s arm, just lying alone on the sidewalk… it was her birthday…”

  But unless, by some miracle, a new piece of information fell into their laps, this would be her final chance to find Pavel Petronovich. Ellie hadn’t come all this way to fail. When they found him
, they would follow the trail to his son, Peter, and see justice fall on the men who had brought such calamity and misery upon innocent Americans.

  The sun continued its creep into the high blue arc of the sky, and at just after nine o’clock, three blacked-out Range Rovers tore around the far corner of the square and proceeded down the east side of the basilica, just as Arturo had said. They came to a quick halt, and the doors to the lead and rear vehicles flew open. Six men in khakis pants and black button-down dress shirts stepped out, each clutching an assault rifle in both hands. Four fanned up the front steps and two trotted to the rear corners of the church and took up positions there.

  “Hold,” Arturo said in her ear.

  They waited. Four minutes...five...six. Finally, seven minutes after entering the church, the four bodyguards made their exit and took up positions in front of the doors and along the steps. The doors to the middle Range Rover opened, and another three men got out. Two were bodyguards. The other wore linen white pants and a red short-sleeved button-down shirt. His arms were hairy, and the dark hair on his head was slicked back and shiny. Vincente Garcia walked up the stairs, and one of his men held the door open as he walked inside alone.

  “Hold,” Arturo said again, probably more to Antonio than anyone else. The wooden door closed, and the guard stepped in front of it and clutched his rifle. The guards were alert. They did not speak to each other and kept their focus on the streets wrapping the front half of the square and the entrances to the alley that branched off of it.

  What happened next was a brilliant display of marksmanship and skill.