by C. R. Daems
"As we arrived back at Miss Vansise's house…" I gave a reasonable accounting of the events. I was just finishing when the door opened. I spun down into a snake stance, gun out. The man at the door stopped and Wilson had the sense to remain motionless. "Freeze," I said as the man's hands moved toward the front of his blue FBI jacket where he probably intended to show me the FBI badge hanging around his neck.
"I'm FBI Agent Babbino. I'm in charge of Miss Vansise's detail."
"The detail, which arrived a half hour before she was due to return home, which failed to alert the police that men with bats and threatening signs were blocking the entrance to her house, and which failed to come to her aid when they attacked her. That detail?" He took a step forward. "One more step and it's your last. I don't know you and will assume you intend to harm Miss Vansise."
"I'm an FBI agent!"
"This bullet won't care. As far as I can determine the FBI has provided Miss Vansise no protection and caused Captain Wilson and his men a great deal of trouble. And now you feel the right to barge in here without being invited and demand attention. If you want to talk to Miss Vansise call for an appointment. Now, out!" I pointed to the door with my left hand, which had a knife in it. He glared at me for a few seconds, then backed out the door and shut it. I uncoiled into a standing position.
That would probably get me a complaint, but what was the alternative? Wilson had apologized for his officers when it wasn't their fault, and he had been respectful of my position. I had reciprocated by being cooperative, although I didn't have to. Conversely, Babbino's agents hadn't provided Vansise the promised security. If he had, this problem would never have happened. Now Babbino believes he's in charge, entitled to an explanation, and blaming me for the problem—not his incompetence. I began to understand the problems Lynn has had—some men couldn't overcome their cave-man instinct toward women.
"Well, thank you, Miss Vansise, for the coffee. And thank you, Kazak Megan, for your time. It's been interesting." He left grinning.
"That's it. You shoot someone and no charges, no investigation, no statements. And you can throw the FBI out of the house. I've seen it but I don't believe it." She took a long drink of wine. "A bodyguard would have trouble with those two men with bats, and I doubt he could or would have stopped that man smashing my window and my head. And if he shot someone, he'd be in jail. I was considering getting rid of you and hiring a bodyguard. Now I understand the difference. For the extra protection of a Kazak, I get extra inconvenience. My head's spinning."
"Too many grapes."
"You're driving me to drink."
"Can't. I don't have a license."
"Let me see that tattoo," she said, rising and walking over to me. I rolled back my sleeve. She stood there holding my arm, one finger tracing the tattoo. "Hard to steal. I'm going to bed. I guess you’re staying?"
"Yes." I took her arm and walked her around the house, checking out windows and access into the house and the potential exposure in each room. The house was an older three bedroom red brick, ranch-style with a bow window in the front. The property backed on to trees and bushes, and led to a small river. Not good. I made sure all the windows were locked and, more important, covered with something heavy enough to avoid a shooter seeing her shadow or mine from the outside.
"All right, the house is as safe as this house can be."
"Are you going home now?"
"Miss Vansise, I'll be a constant itch until you decide you don't need or want me."
"Day and night? Seven days a week? No one can do that." She stared at me in horror.
"A Kazak is trained to do just that. What time of the day, day of the week, or place do you think you're safe from the whack jobs who want to hurt or kill you?"
"Are you coming to bed with me too?" She looked exhausted.
"No. I'll move a comfortable chair so I can see the door to your room as well as the front and rear doors. Please leave your door open."
"Good night, Megan. If someone breaks in don't wake me." She staggered off down the hallway and into her room. I didn't hear a shower so she must have gone straight to bed.
* * *
The next three weeks settled into a routine, and I was pretty much ignored. She prepared breakfast at home, arrived at the office around 7:00 a.m., held a staff meeting at 9:00, worked through lunch, and left work between four and seven. She usually ate dinner alone at one of several restaurants. Once she ate dinner with a company lawyer, Harold Vanderhoff, and once with the company geologist, Charlie Creeden. They each made a good attempt at ignoring me. By now Vansise forgot I was there most of the time, resigned to losing any argument with me concerning her safety.
I had spent ten years chasing a dream and I wasn't disappointed. My assignments were everything I had hoped for—I got to watch VIPs up close and personal and to see behind the façades. Vansise was a good example. In public, she listened to people like she was interested, considered their positions, and meant to follow up on their suggestions. She avoided confrontations and never got angry. In reality, she was a no nonsense person who did her homework, had reviewed alternative views, understood the issues, and knew her position. The work Vansise and the public Vansise were two separate and distinct persons. I liked the real Vansise.
At the morning staff meeting, Vanderhoff announced the company had acquired the natural gas rights in the northeastern part of Montana. After the meeting she met with Creeden and decided to visit the proposed site at the end of the week.
* * *
That morning a limo picked Vansise and me at seven-thirty and drove us to O'Hare where Luxury Air Jets had an eight-passenger Citation waiting. There we were met by Creeden, Vanderhoff, and Gary Waxler who would be responsible for the project. Waxler was short, thin, receding hair, and glasses. As such, he was in stark contrast to Creeden who was a heavy set mountain man looking individual with a full beard and mustache, and Vanderhoff who was tall and distinguished looking with his gray-streaked brown hair and clean-shaven face. The only thing they all had in common was the brown leather briefcase each carried.
I entered behind Vansise and after surveying the seating—eight leather seats, with two sets of two seats facing each other—I directed her to the rear of the plane.
"Why?"
"So I can see everyone."
"Why, you know everyone here?" She sounded frustrated.
"True. I'll sit there. You can sit wherever you want." I smiled and nodded, conceding her point. I was being a bit too paranoid. She snorted and sat down where I had indicated, facing me. Creeden and Waxler sat across the aisle from us. Once in the air, a good-looking flight attendant served us a light lunch and drinks. Vansise spent most of the time discussing the proposed schedule, potential production, and cost of the new site. The flight to Williston, North Dakota was short as it was less than a thousand miles, and we arrived well before noon. A new-looking Land Rover and a Jeep Cherokee were waiting when we arrived. Since I insisted on sitting with Vansise, only one of the others could go with her. Creeden won, which didn't please Vanderhoff, who looked to have taken it personal.
We left Williston on Highway 2, heading west, and reached the Montana border in a half hour. Five minutes later, the driver turned off on a two-lane road designated Route 1004.
"Miss Vansise, our rights extend from the North Dakota- Montana border to Route 1004 to Route 2054, which is approximately five miles from Highway 2. The total area is approximately twenty-five square miles," Creeden said and waved his arm in a semicircle to encompass the area.
"That’s very mountainous terrain. We need roads and that limits the available drilling sites," Vansise said as she slowly scanned the area.
"It is, however, I've been over it in a helicopter. I believe there are forty to fifty potential drilling sites. I've visited a dozen of those sites, and they could contain huge gas fields. The best part is that the area isn't inhabited. An excellent place to try new technology and work out any problems before using it near populated are
as."
We continued on Route 1004 to just short of the Route 2054 intersection, where Creeden had the driver stop. When he did, we got out to stretch our legs. Creeden walked slowly with Vansise, giving her a short dissertation on why this area had large deposits of natural gas underground. I couldn't see Vanderhoff, who I assumed was off somewhere pissing. Waxler stood next to the Jeep, talking to the driver, who was pointing out the window to something to the east. Our driver had also stayed in the vehicle. He looked to be talking on the phone, which was strange since my cell indicated no coverage.
"Back to the Jeep," I said quietly so only Vansise and Creeden could hear.
"Why?"
"Something is wrong." I had no sooner said it than two Hummers approached. One approached from Route 2054 and stopped next to the Jeep Cherokee and the other from Route 1004 and stopped next to the Land Rover. One man from each Hummer exited with what looked like AK-47s or AR-15s.
"When I start shooting, run for the Jeep and leave," I said, realizing they weren't here to rob us. Validating my thoughts, both drivers got out. The one near the Land Rover stood behind his vehicle with a rifle pointing in our direction. The other exited, pushed Waxler aside, and fired in the direction Vanderhoff had wandered.
"Now!" I shouted and fired at the man near the Jeep, hitting him in the chest. Then I shot twice at the man behind the Hummer next to the Jeep. He was turning toward me when at least one bullet hit him in the throat or head and blood sprayed in a halo as the impact spun him around. The other two men had frozen with indecision as Vansise and Creeden raced for the Jeep. As I turned toward them, they swiveled their guns toward me. I shot the one in front of the Hummer in the chest and dove sideways as the ground exploded where I had been. I got off two rounds, missed, but caused the shooter to duck back behind the car. SHIT! When I looked to see how Vansise was doing, I saw the man I had shot in the chest rising to one knee and reaching for his gun. He, and probably the others, was wearing a bullet proof vest. I tried to ignore the rock and dirt blasting around me and took careful aim, shot, and rolled back in the opposite direction. Pain scorched my leg—a bullet or two, in addition to exploding rock. The Jeep was moving away and I needed cover. I jammed in a new clip, rose firing as I ran, with a lurching limp, hoping my leg wouldn't collapse before I reached the cover of some small trees twenty yards away. Although I was shooting at the tires as I ran, it had the effect of making them seek cover. When I reached the edge of trees I dove over the bank and landed in a small creek. The impact knocked the breath out of me as my chest impacted rocks and debris in the shallow water. I lay there exhausted, weak, and bleeding.
One thing those who survived the Hill learned—pain, injuries, and exhaustion were no excuse to quit. You found that place deep inside you that somehow overcame those inconveniences—at least temporarily. I rose to the roar of automatic weapons and bullets shredding trees, ground, and rock. I crawled up the bank just in time to see one of the men running hard toward me, looking berserk, laughing and firing as he ran. I fired twice, hitting his thigh and knee. His leg collapsed. As he hit the ground I put a bullet in his head. I wondered how many rounds they had left because I was running low—a full clip and the one in my Glock half full. The firing had stopped. The driver was back on the phone. That didn't bode well for me. While there was a lull in the fighting, I tied off my leaking thigh and calf. Sometime later a truck and another Hummer pulled up. Six men jumped out and the group huddled for several minutes. Then most took cover, guns pointing in my direction, while one of the Hummers slowly made its way to the dead berserker, dragged him into the vehicle, and drove back to the others. Seemed strange until I realized they intended to leave. The Hummer with the flat tire was hooked to the truck and they drove off.
"Where you going? The party's just starting!" I shouted as loud as I could, which got me several bursts of automatic fire as the cars sped away. I laughed and immediately regretted it. I had lost my internal control and hot searing pain hit shot up my leg and consumed me. Besides the wounds to my leg, my clothes were ripped to shreds and the skin underneath scraped and bleeding where flying shards of rock had found me. For a moment I considered walking to the car, but it didn't seem worth it. I rolled back down and lay in the freezing water. The cold water felt wonderful. I must have slept—Kazaks don't pass out—because the sun was beginning to set when I heard the chop, chop of a helicopter. I crawled to the bank and saw six men exit in swat gear and noticed a Blackhawk circling overhead. I hoped the party was over and I could go home.
I crawled over the bank, raised my hands, and began hobbling toward the helicopter. Guns swung in my direction. If it had been Lynn she probably would have shot them. I laughed long and hard at the thought and collapsed, unable to go any farther.
* * *
I woke in bed, my leg raised in a sling and a man, no, a Kazak since he was standing—not sitting.
"Hello, Kazak Megan. We heard you were partying on the job. I guess that explains why Witton has a board up next to Lynn's with your name on it. You already have a complaint from a Lt. Phillips. Seems you were aggressive and uncooperative during a routine questioning. As you were with Lynn, there are probably mitigating circumstances." He smiled. "I'm Kazak Anan the Cheetah."
"What day is it? And why are you here, Anan?"
"It's Saturday evening. They had to operate to get out the bullet in your thigh. You were lucky. It missed the bone and you didn't crack any ribs, although I understand several are bruised. That must have been some party. Witton wanted to make sure the party didn't continue here."
"Why?"
"The boys you partied with were from an anti-government paramilitary organization. You were apparently aggressive and out of control, again."
"I do seem to remember having a few arguments."
"All right, let's hear your version," Anan said with a smile.
"It started when my client decided to go to Montana…" After I finished they brought in a dinner tray. Although I didn't feel hungry I ate, knowing I needed food. I fell asleep sometime during the meal.
* * *
When I opened my eyes Witton was sitting in one of the two chairs. Anan was standing in the same spot.
"Well, Megan, I expect Lynn to come back all shot up, but not you. We agreed you could have time off after your assignments. But the Kazak you saved on assignment you now need to protect you. I think we're even," Witton said. He looked serious.
"Ah, but now I need convalescence leave."
"There is that," he said, nodding. "Kazak Anan has given me the highlights, but I'd like to hear the details from you. Consider it your weekly report, which is late by the way." He smiled this time. He asked several questions as I described the fight, probing my reasoning and thoughts before and after. When I finished, he sat looking at me like I was a horse he was thinking of buying. I considered grinning so he could see my teeth.
"You and Lynn are proof that the Hill doesn't produce men and women Kazaks. It produces Kazaks. That was good work, Megan. Not only did your client get away unharmed but so did everyone else. Yes, even Vanderhoff. The first shot produced only a superficial wound, and before the man could shoot again you began shooting and distracted him. When they reached Williston the police chief got the FBI involved. The FBI, supported by several Comanche attack helicopters, searched the proposed Shale Energy area and discovered a militia group had created several camps: one for military exercises, another as a firing range, and a third contained a stash of military grade weapons and illegal items including IEDs, grenades, plastic, car bombs, and a couple dozen portable ground-to-air missiles. The FBI believes they were trying to disrupt Shale Energy from beginning operations until they could establish another base farther north and move their equipment." He stopped and took a few sips of his coffee. "From what the FBI has learned so far, the plan was to harass Vansise, hoping to delay the start of operations in Montana. When you foiled that and they learned she was coming to Montana, they decided to kidnap her and hold her l
ong enough to get their operation moved farther north. Although shooting Vanderhoff makes one wonder if they would have released anyone."
"Damn, I should have been watching those drivers. I knew my mistake when I saw him on a phone when there was no cell reception." I banged the bed and immediately regretted it when every cell in my body sent multiple complaints to my brain.
"Yes, you wouldn't be in the hospital and I could give you another assignment," Witton said as he stood. "If your vacation plans are in the US, I'll make the company plane available. If not, Ann Marie will make your reservations. Given the client survived your mistake and it led to the discovery of the anti-government militia, the committee will pay for your vacation." He grinned before turning and leaving.
* * *
I spent five days in the hospital. I had spent some time on crutches when I was younger, and wasn't in a rush to repeat the experience. I was told if I waited, I could get along with a cane. I felt like Grandma Megan when they finally discharged me. Ann Marie had the company plane available to fly me back to Richmond.
"Good morning, Kazak Megan. I hope this is a one time injury and you aren't trying to compete with Master Lynn for her plane," Kathryn said with a serious look.
"This plane is wonderful and the service outstanding, but I'm not sure it's worth five days in the hospital and weeks of convalescence," I said as I limped to the closest chair.
"True, but now that you're here I can at least try to get the pilot to avoid all the pot holes and pamper you for a few hours."