by Robert Boren
Sam nodded and they got back behind the boulders, taking positions with a good view.
“Smell’s gone, pretty much,” Sid said softly. “Used to hit me faster.”
“I wouldn’t want to open the door to the clubhouse,” Sam quipped.
“You look worried,” Yvonne said. “Think somebody’s gonna show up here?”
“No, I’m worried about George and Malcolm,” Sam said. “If somebody shows up here, the cavalry will step in.”
“I didn’t see them around,” Yvonne said.
Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I didn’t see them the first time we came back here either. They sneak in like a thief in the night.”
“Amazes me how they keep those horses quiet,” Sid said.
“We probably should slow down on the talking,” Erica said. “It’ll carry sometimes.”
“She’s right, honey,” Yvonne said.
The two couples settled in to watch.
***
Mr. Black finished his coffee. He looked at his cellphone. Mateo had been inside Juniors for over an hour. The restaurant was packed now, most of the theaters having dumped their patrons out onto the street. The Starbucks was filling up as well, the manager giving him the eye every so often for taking up space. He sent the pretty barista over to roust him.
“We have a policy about how long you can sit here,” she said, her brow furrowed.
“I understand, but need to stay for while longer. Meeting somebody. I buy more coffee? Maybe cookie?”
She nodded. “I’ll refill you. You already paid enough earlier.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling warmly at her.
“Are you from Bulgaria?”
Mr. Black grinned. “I am. How you know? Accent?”
“You look like most of my family,” she said. “I’m half Bulgarian myself.”
“Oh, really? Not many around here.”
“There’s more than you think. I’ll get you that coffee.” She took his cup and scurried away. The manager was still watching him, but Mr. Black gave him a friendly nod, and then the barista told him something. The manager nodded back and smiled. His phone dinged. Message from Mr. White.
They standing up, already paid check. Get ready to follow. I don’t think we hit tonight. Too many innocents around.
Mr. Black returned the message, as the barista brought his coffee.
“Here you go,” she said. “I left room for cream again, but I didn’t see you get any.”
Mr. Black chuckled. “I clumsy, spill too often. Best if cup not so full.”
She smiled. “I figured. Stay as long as you want.”
“Sadly, I leave soon, but thank you. Maybe I see again sometime.”
She smiled, then turned and walked away.
Another text. They come out side door, near where I am on Schubert Alley. Be ready, but don’t come out until I send text. We don’t want to be together. Somebody might remember from inside Juniors.
Mr. Black typed his reply, and waited, watching again, sipping his coffee. He could see the entourage moving out of Schubert Alley now. They started towards 7th Avenue, walking slowly, chatting happily with each other. Mr. White rounded the corner, his phone out, typing a text.
Follow on your side of street.
He acknowledged the text, and got up to leave, shooting a smile at the barista and her manager on the way out.
There was still a decent-sized crowd on the sidewalk, making it easy to cover himself, traffic on the road still bumper to bumper as well. The entourage crossed 7th Street, continuing on, some of the entourage peeling off, going a different direction, leaving Mateo with three friends and two bodyguards. When they were half-way down the block, they entered the Hyatt. Mr. Black stopped, leaning against the wall across the street, pulling out his phone, waiting for the text he knew was coming. The phone dinged in his hand.
Intel wrong, Mateo live here. Friends ordered Uber, waiting in lobby. Mateo and bodyguards went to elevators.
Mr. Black chuckled, replying that he’d stay put and watch from across the street. He got a reply right away.
I hungry. Get sidewalk table at Bobby Van’s. We watch there.
Mr. Black replied, the young man at the host stand smiling at him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Mr. Black smiled. “Table for two on sidewalk open?”
“Of course sir. Follow me.” He pulled two menus out of the holder and led the way.
“What time kitchen close?” Mr. Black asked as he sat down.
“Very late, so don’t worry,” the host said. “There are still shows running. We’ll get busy in about forty minutes. Would you like a drink?”
“Just water, thank you.”
The host smiled, then went back to his stand. Mr. White crossed the street and joined Mr. Black at the table.
“You sure he live there?” Mr. Black asked. “Why think that?”
“He go up elevator with bodyguards only. Picked up mail.”
Mr. Black smiled. “Okay. I convinced.”
“Gets better. He tell his buddies about massage parlor down street. Really shouldn’t talk so loud, a man in his position, no?”
“Bullshit, he use call girls. Have big expense account.”
Mr. White chuckled. “That what friend tell him. Mateo likes experience with young Asian girls.”
“Watch self, here come barista and manager from Starbucks.”
“Dammit,” Mr. White said. “You tell anything? That girl pretty, looks like Bulgarian.”
“No, tell nothing, but friendly with.”
“Think with little head again,” Mr. White said.
“Shut up, I older than her father. They’re coming in here. Girl just made eye contact.”
“My hand on gun,” Mr. White said.
“Don’t shoot. Didn’t notice before. Manager Bulgarian too. Something going on. No Globalists in Bulgaria.”
The young woman chatted with the host, who pulled menus and led them to the table next to Mr. Black and Mr. White.
“Oh, hello again,” the barista said. “My name is Albena, and this is Penko.”
“Didn’t notice manager was Bulgarian,” Mr. Black said. “Why you here?”
“We know you work for Ivan,” Albena whispered. “We part of Manhattan resistance.”
“You’re planning a hit on Mateo,” Penko said. “Us too.”
“This interesting,” Mr. White said. “How strong your group?”
“Two hundred members,” Penko said. “Not just in Manhattan, though. We’re also in the other boroughs.”
The waiter walked over. “Who’s ready to order?”
Mr. White and Mr. Black both ordered appetizers. Penko said they weren’t ready to order yet, but asked for waters. They watched as the waiter left.
“How you know?” Mr. Black whispered.
“We had an operative in Juniors when you guys messed with the UN creeps,” Albena said. “He took a picture and ran it through our facial recognition system. You both came up.”
“Why resistance still in place here?” Mr. White asked. “War over.”
Penko chuckled. “Mid-Atlantic and New England states are still controlled by the globalists. They receded after the war ended, but most of the principles are still in place. The war isn’t over until we take them all out.”
“I see. What want from us?” Mr. Black asked.
“We’re offering help if you need it,” Albena said. “If you have a good plan, we’ll leave you alone, or we could watch your back.”
“Convince us you’re really resistance,” Mr. White said. “Pretty face not affect me as much as my friend here.”
“Shut up,” Mr. Black said.
Albena smiled at him. “We use the tools we’re given.”
“Ivan is from Torrance, California,” Penko said quietly.
“That not common knowledge, but many people know,” Mr. Black said. “DOJ know, figure out while building case against him years ago. You could be with them, no?�
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Penko shrugged. “If you really thought that, you’d be gone already, and we’d probably have our throats cut.”
Mr. White chuckled. “Okay, you right there. What else?”
“Ivan’s main funder is the same as ours,” Penko said. “Jared Carlson of the Samson Corporation. Loved those battle wagons and the off-roaders.”
Mr. Black and Mr. White glanced at each other, then back at Penko and Albena.
“Okay, they convince me,” Mr. Black said. “You?”
Mr. White nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” Penko said.
“I overhear conversation with Mateo and his friends,” Mr. White said softly. “He like massage parlor around block. We hope he sneak out for late-night treat.”
Penko chuckled. “Pig.”
“Why would he go to a cheapo massage parlor?” Albena asked. “He can do better than that. His organization has raped the world for funding. He’s got money coming out of his ears.”
“Some like sleaze factor,” Mr. White said.
The waiter showed up, putting the appetizers in front of Mr. White and Mr. Black. They dug in.
“So what you do to cause problems for Globalists lately?” Mr. Black asked.
Penko leaned in closer. “Lance Evans.”
Mr. White looked up, grinning. “You did hit? We all think it Charles Livingston.”
“That wasn’t a hit, it was a wounding,” Penko said. “We knew he had a vest on. Our man told him Charles ordered the hit, knowing he would survive. Sadly, somebody killed our operative. We’ve been researching the killer, thanks to bystander video that was posted on YouTube. You won’t believe the connections we found.”
Mr. Black grinned. “You get them fighting each other. Nice.”
“What connections?” Mr. White asked.
“Lance’s family has a pretty crazy criminal background. Murders and torture. We haven’t figured out if Lance was a participant, or if it’s just family baggage. The man who killed our operative is suspected of several rather grisly murders, and there’s others related to him that are worse. Malcolm Davis would be very interested.”
“You know about Davis?” Mr. Black whispered. “Nobody know he tied to Ivan. Could’ve convinced us with that alone.”
“I would’ve said he was tied to General Hogan, not Ivan,” Penko whispered.
Mr. White chuckled. “I like, nice to have allies. Perhaps we work together, no?”
“Well, there’s more here than Mateo, and he’s not going to last long,” Albena whispered.
Mr. Black laughed. “Look, he going out for late-night snack, and goons not with him.”
Mr. White looked over, watching as Mateo hurried down the street towards 7th Avenue, crossing to their side of the street at the corner.
“I’ve never seen massage parlors this close to Time Square,” Albena said. “You know exactly where he’s going?”
“Upstairs in building on 44th and 7th Avenue,” Mr. White said. “Sixth floor. He very descriptive to buddies.”
“That’s a huge building with several ways out,” Penko said. “Good place for a hit.”
“We go?” Mr. Black asked.
“Give him minute to dip wick,” Mr. White replied. “We go in, nail him, leave.”
“We’ll hang around on the street, just in case,” Albena said. “Give us your phone number. We’ll text you if we see cops or bodyguards.”
“What your number?” Mr. Black asked. Albena read it off to him and he punched it into his phone, then called her.
“You just wanted phone number,” Mr. White quipped.
“Shut up.”
Albena smiled. “I have some Bulgarian girl friends closer to your age. They’d be interested.”
Mr. Black smiled. “Later. You text if authorities raid? Mateo might get call out before we find him.”
“Won’t be authorities,” Mr. White said. “Bodyguards. He have at least two. Probably more in hotel suite.”
“We should go,” Mr. Black said.
“You go, we’ll pay the check,” Penko said.
{ 10 }
Steely’s
I van, Ben, General Hogan, Ted, Haley, Dick, Robbie, and Morgan were in the intel room when Ivan’s phone dinged. He read the message, getting an alarmed expression, walking away with the phone to his ear.
“Wonder what that’s about?” Haley asked.
“Hopefully nothing went wrong in Manhattan,” Ted said. “Mr. Black and Mr. White are there now. I don’t trust the leadership of that city one bit.”
“George and Malcolm ought to be in place now,” General Hogan said. “This makes me nervous as hell. I hope the two of them can handle it.”
Robbie nodded. “I’m worried too, but remember how close the other location is.”
“I haven’t been impressed with these operatives so far,” Dick said. “Going up against George won’t be easy. He has a way of spinning situations into his favor.”
“Anybody can get lucky,” Ted said.
Ivan came back in. “Mr. White and Mr. Black are in place. They think Mateo is coming to a restaurant they’ve staked out.”
General Hogan’s phone dinged. He looked at it. “New message in the drop box. I’ll pull it up.” He did that, reading the message. “Both teams are in place. No sign of anybody yet.”
“So now we wait,” Ivan said.
“Are your guys really gonna hit Mateo?” Ted asked.
Ivan nodded. “The rules still apply though. No way out, no hit. We’ll just gather more intel on him, then send a larger team in there.”
***
George drove the Jeep CJ into the parking lot of Steely’s, in full view of the street. He and Malcolm got out, Heidi following.
“Go down the street, to that vacant lot,” George said to Heidi. “See it? If things get crazy, you can fire at bad guys outside, but don’t show yourself if you can help it.
“Okay,” she said, picking up her M4 and rushing away.
“Nice job of getting her away from the action,” Malcolm quipped.
“Hell, she might help us out from there, you know.”
They went in the back door off the parking lot, the tinny bell going off as the door closed after them. The store was a mess, shelves of electronic components against every wall but the front, free-standing shelves between them, no rhyme nor reason for how items were placed. Malcolm pointed to a spot on the floor, and they put their long guns there, then walked into the front part of the store.
“Hey, gents, what can I do you for?” asked a skinny old man with a bald head, sitting on a stool behind a glass counter. He was wearing faded Levi’s and a T-shirt.
“Are you Steely?” George asked.
“Last I checked. Who might you be?”
“Friends of Elmer and Sid. We hear some generator parts came in.”
Steely stood in a flash, moving faster than he looked like he’d be able to, a sawed-off double barrel shotgun in his hands.
“Whoa, old man, we aren’t here to hurt you,” George said.
“Elmer told me to watch out for anybody asking questions about the residents of Dodge City,” the old man said. “Who are you guys?”
“We think somebody is gonna try to kill Elmer and Sid here,” Malcolm said. “Came to kill them instead.”
Steely looked back and forth at the two of them. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” He eyed Malcolm. “And why do you look so damn familiar? America’s Most Wanted, maybe?”
George laughed. “Well, that actually wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Hey,” Malcolm said. “That’s not nice.”
“Wait, you’re that serial killer guy,” Steely said. “Malcolm Davis. Well I’ll be damned.”
“So will you put down that shotgun now?” Malcolm asked.
“Elmer never told me you were there,” he said.
“I wasn’t,” Malcolm said. “We were with General Hogan in Kansas. We’re working with members of the Dodge City team now.”
“Like who?”
“Well, Sam, Sid’s friend,” George said. “I go way back with him.”
“Tell me something about him,” Steely said.
“We need to get under cover and wait for the bad guys,” Malcolm said. “We don’t have time for this, Steely. If you keep us talking here, they’re liable to come in and open fire on all of us.”
“Sam lost his wife Connie to a booby trap,” George said. “He’s also ex-Special Forces, which is how I know him.”
“What branch?”
“Navy Seals.”
Steely set down the shotgun. “Okay, those are both true. Sam and I go back a ways. He’s with you guys now?”
“What’s left of the enemy is targeting resistance fighters,” George said. “We have reason to believe a hit will be attempted on Sid right here in this store. We’ve got a replica of his Jeep sitting in the parking lot.”
Steely rushed to the window, peeking outside. “Yep, that looks like Sid’s, all right. What do you want to do?”
“Hide and wait,” Malcolm said. “In two different places, if they’ve got a good view.”
“Okay, one of you can go up in the loft there,” he said, pointing. “The ladder is by the back door. The other can go back behind here. My office is there, but you can see if you get close and look through the shelving.”
“I’ll go into the loft,” George said, heading in that direction, Malcolm following him to get the long guns.
“Good Lord Almighty, where’d you get that?” Steely asked, eyeing Malcolm’s M60, it’s ammo belt swinging as he carried it. “Loved the Pig. Used one in Nam.”
“Ivan,” Malcolm whispered. “Back here, right?”
“Yep,” he said, taking him back there. “You’re gonna shoot this place up, ain’t ya?”
“I’m going to shoot bad guys. You’ll be paid for the stuff that gets damaged.”
“Keep that sawed-off handy, Steely,” George said from above. “You’re liable to need it. Or maybe you should go down the street.”
“I’m not doing that,” he said. “You got an M60 up there too?”
“Yeah, and an M4, and some grenades.”
“Grenades?”
“Last resort,” George said. “Doubt we’ll need them.”