The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “Deputy Willis’s number. Call him direct if there are any issues.”

  I took the paper slip and nodded.

  “Take this as well.” He fished in a shirt pocket and pulled a business card. “This has my personal cell phone number. Believe me, I don’t dole these out like candy. But call or text if there are issues. Issues with you, or the mining operations, or issues with Deputy Willis. Are we clear on that?”

  “We’re clear.”

  He leaned back and crossed hands over his belly, chin down, eyes hard.

  “You’re one of those people who live in the shadows, Mr. Lee. I do not trust shadow residents. I like bright sunshine. But I’ll tell you this. I run a clean ship here in Elko County. If there is funny business going on in my county, I will bring the hammer down.”

  Chapter 25

  I departed the sheriff’s office with a satisfied smile. Several items stood out. Sheriff Manuel Garza was a solid man. Yeah, he’d viewed me with a jaundiced eye, but hearing my own statements about unknown clients, living on a boat, and run-ins with Russian operators at different places around the globe painted a murky Case Lee picture. I’d have been skeptical in his boots.

  He had no truck with Nevada’s governor. It may have been their past history. But smart money related it to the governor’s strong-arm attempts with the sheriff about Simko and KDB. Garza was the law in Elko County, end of story. This Reggie Willis cat smelled dirty, and Garza had made it crystal clear he wouldn’t tolerate outside-the-law activities among his people. The sheriff had a low tolerance for BS, and would take action if necessary. That was a biggie. If my goal was low profile, report out, and leave, then he was a man who would step up to the plate and address issues, make things right.

  I had a while before the Wells meeting with Deputy Willis, so a quick Elko tour, a liquor store visit, and a coffee shop sit-down rounded out the morning agenda. A small city with twenty thousand inhabitants, Elko sat surrounded with sagebrush desert and nestled against the towering Ruby Mountains. I well imagined those peaks were snow-covered for six months of the year. Not a bad place, clean and tidy, with small casinos scattered throughout downtown and several pleasant neighborhoods.

  From downtown I headed for the Humboldt River at the town’s edge and passed through a cluster of legal brothels, their business signs on grand neon display. You’d think they’d be evening-only operations, but they were all open for customers. And one customer was Nevada’s governor.

  He might have figured midmorning would help disguise his activities or perhaps he, and the voters, didn’t care. Either way, a large black window-tinted SUV sat parked in front of an establishment. Two dark-suited guys stood alongside wearing sunglasses and having a smoke. I pulled over a half-block away at a tire shop. It took a minute fishing for the camera with the zoom lens from the rucksack—an accoutrement I carried at Jess’s insistence. Ten minutes later the governor strode out the front door, turned and chatted with the madam, then slid into the black SUV’s back seat. The man had places to go, people to see. It was campaign season. A fact I was certain he’d use if now recognized. He was campaigning at the bordello, nothing more. Right.

  I scanned the dozen shots I’d taken. Several showed him displayed with the establishment’s sign as backdrop. Now, I’m a live-and-let-live guy. Leveraging a photo or two about a person’s private life fell into the realm of dirty tricks, and I wasn’t prone to pull that trigger. But it was a back-pocket option, one I’d keep in reserve.

  A liquor store provisioned me with Grey Goose, and a coffee shop provided coffee and a place to peruse my laptop. Jess had sent a long email with links detailing the Willamette Valley wine business. I replied that the same wine expertise was available among the vast Montello estate vineyards. There were no communiqués from Mom or Jules or anyone else. As a borderline lark, I researched the governor’s campaign website. There were multiple shots with him, his wife, and two teenage kids. Plus an English sheepdog. Alrighty, then. I searched and found Deputy Willis’s home address in Wells, downed the coffee, and hit the road.

  I avoided the interstate and took back roads with the windows down while an AM country station played. George Strait lamented his ex’s living in Texas, antelope herds lifted grazing heads as I passed, and jackrabbits dashed across the road at irregular intervals. Salted peanuts and a Diet Coke were more than sufficient company.

  An hour and a half later I hit Wells, population a little over one thousand. It sat at the intersection of the interstate and the long, lonely two-lane that ran north ninety miles to Idaho’s border and one hundred fifty miles south to Ely. There were scattered houses in Wells instead of defined neighborhoods, and Deputy Willis’s small house sat at a gravel road’s end. Largely nondescript, it displayed one interesting feature. An almost-new mocha Cadillac Escalade, polished and parked in his driveway.

  We met at a small café in town. Dust covered his parked cruiser, and he didn’t appear thrilled to see me. Middle-aged, he was tall and thin with dark slicked-back hair. We shook, sat, and I ordered a turkey sandwich. Willis ordered a soda.

  “Now who, exactly, are you?” he asked.

  “Private investigator.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Investigating issues between KDB and Exponent.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “My clients always remain unnamed. I work through a clearinghouse.”

  The server brought him the soda. She fished a straw from her apron, and Willis reached for it. His sleeve slid up his arm and revealed a Rolex. An expensive Rolex.

  “I’m sure the sheriff told you I work this section of Elko County,” he said. “I haven’t heard of any mining site issues.”

  “What about the report you filed regarding a shot fired at an Exponent vehicle?”

  “That would be a nonissue.”

  “Nonissue? A bullet through the window?”

  He bent his head sideways, stretching his neck. A trucker at the next table sat with head in hands, staring at his coffee.

  “You’re not from around here,” he said. “The deal is, this is empty country. Some guy wants to sight in his rifle before deer season. He won’t be too careful checking his backstops because there’s nobody around. It was bad luck when the mining vehicle got hit. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Exponent drivers have experienced bullet strikes multiple times. That’s a weird string of bad luck, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “An Exponent employee.”

  “Who?”

  “I didn’t catch his name.”

  The woman at Exponent’s site entry knew Willis from her working girl days in Wells. Willis would take her revelation personally. I wouldn’t have that on my hands.

  “What I’m hearing is tales from an unknown source regarding multiple events never reported to me. Should I jump in my cruiser, hit the lights and siren, and head for Montello? Is that what you’re asking for?”

  There was no doubt Exponent’s manager had reported multiple instances to Willis. Any manager worth his salt would have.

  “How about filing a report mentioning my bad luck bullet?”

  He didn’t bother answering, sucked on his straw, and stared out the café’s window.

  “I acquired a high-velocity hole in my vehicle’s windshield. The exit hole is through the driver’s window. For the uninitiated, or for dumbasses, that translates into a rifle bullet passing inches from my chest.”

  We locked eyes.

  “I’ve already told you. Deer season is five weeks away. Stray bullets are a fact of life out here.”

  “You don’t want to see the evidence? It’s that SUV.”

  I pointed out the window toward my vehicle. Willis threw a hard glance at my vehicle and shook his head.

  “Look. I’ve got plenty to deal with besides potshots out in the boonies. Why don’t you tell me why you are really here? Wh
o’s paying you to stir up shit?”

  “The Sultan of Brunei.”

  We shared a silent moment. I smiled. He didn’t.

  “Okay, smartass. Listen and listen good,” he said as his face flushed. “You have no idea what you are messing with here. Or who you are messing with.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a pretty good idea on the who. Simko and I met yesterday. By the way, he didn’t mention you. If you’re looking for bosom-buddy status with the man, I’m afraid you’re not there yet, Willis. I did hear of a borscht shortage in Montello for the Russian security team. You could score big points fixing that situation.”

  He entered full-blown rage mode. I didn’t care.

  “I’ll tell you something, asshole.” Spittle formed at his mouth’s corners. “You are on my turf. Empty turf, where a man could disappear without a trace.”

  “I sense a country song coming on. Reggie Willis, man of many talents.”

  He shot a quivering index finger across the table.

  “You are over your head, Lee. Way over your head.”

  Willis stormed out, slammed his cruiser into reverse, kicked up gravel dust, and took off. I took a bite of the sandwich and considered, for the umpteenth time, my utter and complete inability to play it smart. Low profile was out the window. Collecting more enemies was back on the menu, big time. Man, I was a freakin’ genius.

  Still, I had no intention playing shoot-’em-up with anyone in Elko County. Get through the next twenty-four hours, check in with Exponent’s site manager, and file my report. I’d watch my ass, sure, but would perform the remaining activities fast and efficient, with no wild hairs on my part. There was more than enough intel for my Global Resolutions report—players and events, personal perceptions outlined and referenced. Good stuff.

  I finished the sandwich and reflected on kicking off a few parting shots. I pulled the cell phone and texted Sheriff Garza’s private number.

  Met with Willis. He wasn’t interested in the shot fired my way. Or filing a report. Enjoyed meeting you, all the best, Case. PS – You must pay your folks well. Willis drives a new Cadillac Escalade and wears a pricy Rolex.

  Back in my vehicle, I transferred the most telling photos from the governor’s little cathouse campaigning expedition to my laptop, found his generic email address, and shot him a note with the photos attached, deep web. It wasn’t traceable.

  RE: KDB vs. Exponent. Back off, buttwipe.

  Generic email or not, it would get to him. It wasn’t my usual operating mode, the sharing of revelations on Willis and the governor. Still, I hit the road toward Montello with a satisfied smile.

  Chapter 26

  Half the adhesive tape at my door’s bottom hung loose, unattached. Could have been the owner who’d entered, but I doubted it. Could have become unstuck on its own. Doubted that, too. It was late afternoon, the sun low, heat dissipating. Montello was dead quiet with no highway or train traffic. Overhead in a black locust tree, a desert dove’s coos drifted soft across the scene. I stood at the door with my rucksack slung over a shoulder, holding the rifle, shotgun, and Grey Goose bottle. I’d clomped across the motel’s gravel. Anyone inside knew I’d arrived and where I stood. Not a good thing.

  I retraced my steps and unloaded my kit back into the SUV’s rear seat. The pistol remained holstered at my waist. There were two options. Drive away, call it a day, and find another motel an hour or more away. Or take on whoever lurked in my room, if anyone. It took half a second to consider the first option. Wasn’t going to happen.

  The motel was L-shaped. The office occupied the tip nearest the highway. My room was at the other tip. The L held a small firepit and two park benches, the motel’s amenities. My room’s front window faced the firepit. The shades were drawn, as I’d left them. There was a small window, too small for ingress or egress, in the bathroom. Vast experience said a man waited inside. He wasn’t there to sell me a bowling shirt.

  Entering was a poor move. I’d acknowledge his presence and get him outside where I held the upper hand. I pulled my Glock and circled around the room toward the motel’s back. The dilapidated houses and trailers were farther south, a black locust grove my only immediate neighbor. West, beyond the trees, sagebrush and rock for miles.

  I stood at the back corner, pistol aimed along the building’s side, rapped my knuckles against the room’s back wall, and delivered a loud, terse statement.

  “Come out.”

  “I am out.”

  The voice was low, the accent thick. One consolation—decent odds the bastard at my back wouldn’t gun me down during daylight. A tight crack sounded as he stepped on a small fallen tree branch. He’d hidden inside the locust grove. I lowered my weapon, kept it pointed at the ground, and turned my head. Thirty feet away, a Spetsnaz operator smiled behind his pistol’s two-handed aim toward my back. Son of a bitch.

  I’d let my guard down, filled with certainty an adversary was inside the room. Deputy Willis must have made a phone call, or Antonov the site manager might have sent this guy under Simko’s direction. One thing was for sure. However this played out, it would play out here and now. I wasn’t entering any vehicles for a ride.

  Then the situation’s suckage increased. My motel room door, beyond my sight, squeaked open. The operator at my back spoke Russian, and a single voice replied. They held a brief conversation, enjoying the situation. I wasn’t. The operator behind me spoke again with broken English.

  “Drop weapon. We will not shoot.”

  There were few active collectives on this good earth that would prevent me from a lightning collapse, spin, and snap shot. Spetsnaz operators were among those. I’d catch a bullet, and perhaps two. My best bet—play along and wait until I could get close. Close enough to disarm and beat the living crap out of this guy and his partner. I lowered my Glock and left it on the bare ground. Another quick Russian conversation happened, and the operator from my room turned the corner. He, too, aimed a smile at me. The one at my back spoke and laid out the ground rules.

  “Come.”

  I turned and exposed my back toward the armed operator approaching along the motel. The one from the locust grove holstered his pistol and slid it off his belt. He placed it on the ground, eyes bright, jaw muscles working, game plan revealed. I would receive a bone-breaking thumping, an ambulance ride to the nearest hospital ass-whipping. Or a terminal beating, my body left in the Montello dust. The impediment named Case Lee removed. Screw that noise.

  We circled, predators who sought advantage, searched for weakness. A quick glance toward the other operator showed him repeat the holstered weapon on the ground routine, his weapon alongside mine. He’d join the fray in seconds, which prompted an immediate attack at my circling opponent. A false attack. He responded to my feint with a head-high sidekick followed with a spin kick, also head-high. I bent at the back, rope-a-dope, and watched his boots whip past my face, the spin kick less than an inch from my nose. Then I struck.

  As a runner sliding into second base, I flew horizontal, feet first. And drove a bootheel into his nuts. He grunted, attempted a half-second grab at my foot, and fell to his knees as the pain took effect. I scrambled over his body, straddled him, and pounded his face with right-left-right blows. His nose crunched. Another strike sounded a broken jaw’s telltale wet crack. Five punches landed before a boot toe drove into my ribs and sent me rolling off him. I continued the roll, escaped the immediate area, and leapt up, prepared.

  The second Spetsnaz operator sensed—through training or animal instinct—I was a poor option for further weaponless combat. He pulled a large lock-blade knife from a pocket and flicked it open as I approached. His partner rolled onto his side, pushed along the ground a few feet, spit blood gobs, and struggled upright. I had twenty or so seconds before he’d attempt another tangle. Sufficient time to kick his partner’s ass.

  Rule one when facing a guy with a knife—produce a gun. I burst toward our two pistols lying side by side a dozen paces away. The Spetsnaz operator realiz
ed where I was headed and joined the footrace. He transitioned from a man armed with a knife to a man holding a baton during a sprint relay. Stupid bastard. Timing his arm swings, I planted a foot and dived toward him. Frantic awareness struck as he shifted body position midstride. It was too late. I gripped the knife-bearing wrist with both hands and used momentum, sliding underneath his arm while I dropped, rolled, and twisted. A harsh cry joined the pop of a brutal shoulder dislocation.

  I leapt upright, kept a grip on his wrist with one hand, and drew my other back for a blow. He was a tough SOB, and first landed a roundhouse punch against my head. Stars exploded, but I returned the favor and drove knuckles into his throat and powered a knee into his groin. He went down, poleaxed.

  I shifted my attention back toward my first opponent. Unsteady on his feet as blood poured from his nose, he slid a hand into a pocket, fishing for a knife. Three quick steps later, I pulled the Glock from its holster and took aim. The knife flicked open as realization sunk in. He’d brought a knife to what was now a gunfight. He dropped the weapon.

  Harsh breaths sounded in the stillness. Then a semi roared past Montello, the engine’s whine and trailer’s clatter filling the space, fading as it rolled south. Each inhale hurt and indicated I may have received a cracked rib or two from the boot kick. My head pounded from the blow I’d received.

  “Where is your vehicle?” I asked.

  One lifted his chin toward a cluster of dilapidated houses and trailers past the locust tree grove. I signaled with the pistol toward the location.

  “Start walking.”

  They exchanged stares. The operator with the dislocated shoulder tried a shrug toward his partner and grimaced at the effort. They began a slow, painful walk. I followed four paces behind, the Glock holstered.

  “Tell Antonov I’m leaving in forty-eight hours,” I said toward their slow-moving backs. “Tell him no more violence. I am leaving. Two days.”