by Jack Lively
In the passenger seat, Willets was a pulverized mess. Like someone had introduced a strawberry pie to a stump grinder. Around the other side, Deckart was alive, but not doing well. I came up to his window, shattered into half a million pieces all over him. His head was lolling on a broken neck. The mustache had somehow remained connected to his upper lip.
I said, “Did you do that to the moose?”
He was just about alive enough to look at me with one eye. The other eye didn’t seem to be working, but this one worked just fine. He was shocked and fatally damaged, but he might have had an hour of life left in him. Who knows, these days medical know-how can perform wonders.
I said, “Answer my question. The moose.”
He looked at me again with that one eye, confused, but largely coherent. I realized that he couldn’t speak. Maybe his brain was attempting to make words, but the rest of him just couldn’t understand what the brain wanted, couldn’t get the message because the wires were cut. Which meant that Deckart wasn’t going to answer my question, so I put a 9mm bullet through his head. Not a fancy shot, just a single round into the forehead.
I recalled mentioning to Ellie that Deckart wouldn’t last the week. Sometimes you just know things about a person.
A phone rang from somewhere in the destroyed car.
I looked at Deckart. Wasn’t coming from him because I’d taken his phone. I looked at Willets. There wasn’t much to look at, more like some kind of birthday party accident. But the ringing was coming from over there. I went around to the passenger’s side, caved in and collapsed into what used to be a human form. The phone rang, insistent and annoying. Not to mention loud. I looked in. There it was, a rectangular plastic thing, somehow intact. I guess whatever had been around it was softer than the phone, which had survived. I reached into the gore and plucked it out.
I pressed the button. When Willets had been alive and breathing and talking, he’d had a whiney voice, the few times I’d heard it. I tried to do an impression.
“Yeah.”
A woman said, “You’re on speaker. The board is here. We wanted to get a status report.”
A man’s voice cut in. “Is it done?”
I said nothing. I was listening. Two people so far, but I had the impression there were more.
The woman said, “Can you hear us?”
A third male voice. “They might be out of reach in the woods. Maybe we should hang up and call again, get a better connection.”
I said, “It’s done. Now I’m coming for you.”
Silence on the other side. Then the woman speaking urgently and quietly. “That’s not Deckart. Not the other one either.”
There was a frantic round of whispering that I couldn’t understand. Then the woman’s voice once again, not fussed to whisper. “It’s the guy. Keeler. That right?”
I said nothing.
A fourth male voice spoke quietly in the back. “Means the others are dead, so don’t finalize the gift card credits.”
The woman sighed. She said, “Keeler. We admire your work. It doesn’t need to go any further. Will a cash payment do? We can probably reach six figures.”
I said, “There is no price. I’m going to drink your blood and then spit it out so the sharks can feed.”
Silence. The third guy’s voice came, quiet in the background. “Does that mean he’s near the water?”
The woman said, “You’re making a mistake, Keeler. We’re very well protected here. Really. You can’t buy better protection than what we have.”
The second guy said, “You won’t last the hour, Keeler. Just take the money. Cash, wire, crypto. You name it and we can handle it. Otherwise, it’s just a shame. One more body to add to all the rest. Unnecessary, unfortunate.”
I said, “You can’t buy protection from me. Nobody can. If I were you, I’d consider some kind of collective suicide. I hear there’s euphoria before communal death, except for the last guy or girl left standing. They get lonely. Maybe you’d be best off drawing straws or rock paper scissors. I don’t know for sure if suicide is the answer, maybe there is no answer to your problem.”
The woman said. “That’s bullshit. You won’t make it past the first perimeter. But let me ask you something, Keeler. What is it all for? Why the useless crusade?”
I said, “That’s a good question. I’ll ask myself that once it’s over. But right now it’s game on and I’m starting to enjoy myself.”
The fourth guy spoke to the others. “So, he’s just insane.”
There was silence and the phone line crackling. I pictured a conference table, oak or maybe teak. Four executives gathered around. Maybe they had a tray of sandwiches and a coffee machine, bottled spring water and chocolate chip cookies. And then I pictured a package of Mister Lawrence cookies. I hadn’t ever seen them, but I could guess what they might look like.
I said, “I’ve never tried your product. Any good?”
The woman said, “Come on over and try some of our new cakes, right off the production line. You’ll like them, Keeler.”
The woman addressed me again, voice clearer. “Alright Keeler. Last chance. Six figures, in a suitcase or on a keychain. We don’t care. Take it or leave it.”
I said nothing. There was a long pause, devoid of any possibility. Then the line was cut as someone pressed the disconnect button on the speaker phone.
The front end of the Toyota was a heavy metal wreck that wouldn’t be going places tonight, that’s for sure. The doors worked fine. I took Guilfoyle’s Remington out of the back seat and slung it over my shoulder. Then I hiked back to take care of the moose. The animal would recover from the tranquilizer, but not from four severed tendons. The moose would be picked to pieces by morning. The only question would be wolves or bears.
On the way back I found the vehicle the prison guards had used. An old GMC Sierra truck. I was happy about that. Another steel body to potentially use as a weapon. The more the merrier. I found some interesting gifts in the cab behind the seat. Six boxes of 12 gauge ammo. Two boxes of Brenneke slugs, two boxes of buckshot, two of bird shot.
The sight of all that good stuff produced a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart.
I retrieved both Breachers. I opened up the tailgate of the truck and laid the shotguns side by side. A winch was installed into the back of the bed, which is how they’d maneuvered the big animal. The guns were beautiful and brutally ugly, all at the same time. Both were tricked out with side saddles for an extra six cartridges each, mounted on the outside of the stock. The guns were from the correctional facility, with inventory stickers on the stocks. They were loaded with light bird-shot, because that’s what they use in prisons. But bird-shot wasn’t going to cut it out here. I pumped out all four lightweight shells from one Breacher, and four from the other. They hit the dirt and I didn’t give them another look.
I loaded both Breachers with a happy new combination. One Brenneke slug, one buckshot cartridge, Brenneke slug, buckshot, repeat. Five rounds in each mag, one in the chamber. Six rounds clipped into the side saddles. Which combined was enough firepower to stop a herd of moose, or elephants, or pretty much anything. I figured I could line up the board members of Mister Lawrence and take them all out with a single Brenneke slug.
The first chambered slug was for the wounded moose, even less happy than before, the tranquilizer was wearing off big time. I walked around the animal and found what I was looking for. He’d been hit by a car up on the main road. The impact had broken one of his hind legs. The prison guards must have brought him down here in a fit of alcohol-inspired sadism. They had gotten their just deserts in the end.
I caressed the moose’s neck again and whispered into his ear. He was calm and ready.
I set up about ten yards out and aimed above his front leg, a third of the way up his body, looking to penetrate the big heart through both lungs. The chunk of heavy metal punched into the beast at around one thousand miles per hour. A perfect shot. Instantaneous and painless. The noble moose shu
ddered and slumped into eternal rest.
Forty-Nine
The phone retrieved from inside the mess that had once been Willets lay on the passenger seat. When the truck rolled onto smooth asphalt, I picked it up and wiped it on my pant leg. The jeans were no longer clean in any case. I dialed Ellie’s number with my thumbnail.
“Chandler.”
“Keeler.”
“Where are you?”
I said, “Change of plans.”
“What do you mean?”
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Dashboard glow lit up the side of my face, peppered with shot. I knew that if I slowed up now and stopped moving, the stiffness would come on fast. I’d lose the ability to smile, which would be tragic. I needed the adrenaline to keep flowing.
I said, “I’m on a roll. Tell me what I need to know from the plans you found.”
There was a pause on the other end. I heard Hagen’s voice asking what was up. Ellie ignored him. I pictured her moving from the kitchen to the dining room. I pictured the plans laid out on the table, her standing over them.
She said, “I’ll give you the salient features. The lot is 700 acres, most of it woodland. The house has two floors. The other built structures on the property are marked as test production facilities for the Mister Lawrence product. Two 5,000 square foot one story buildings, lined up next to each other, about five hundred yards west of the house. Each of them has an annex. One is marked as an office, the other as a lab.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, just about.”
“Nothing on the Bell Island facility?”
“Nothing. What do you want me to do?”
I said, “You should call the morgue, tell them to figure out some extra capacity. Tell them it’s urgent.”
There was silence down the line.
I said, “How’s Hank?”
Ellie said, “He’s sleeping, Keeler.”
“Good.”
She said, “Do I need to be worried about you?”
“No."
I heard Hagen’s voice in the background.
I waited a moment. Listening down the phone line while keeping the truck straight on the road ahead. There was a fumbling on the other side, Ellie passing the phone off. Hagen taking it and putting it to his ear.
Then his voice came through. “Keeler. I got a call from Chapman. She’s in the house with them. She wasn’t able to speak but I got the message to her that I had spoken with you, and that you are an ally. You copy that?”
I said, “She wasn’t able to speak. What does that mean, Hagen?”
He said, “Sorry. I wasn’t clear. Chapman used the phone keys to communicate in code. The beeps. She was in the room with somebody, I assume. Perhaps she gained control of a phone without being seen, such as hiding it under covers or beneath clothing, or in a pocket. We are trained for this kind of communication.”
“Using the phone keys without looking.”
“Yes.”
I said, “Okay, thanks.”
I thumbed the button and hung up the phone.
I was cruising fast, on the road toward Ellie’s house. A minute later I passed the turn-off. I thought of her, Hank, and Hagen. Sitting around her kitchen, hopefully safe and sound. Kind of like a happy family. The Mister Lawrence property was three or four miles west, off the Tongass highway. When I was a mile out, I flicked off the headlights. By now the moon was up and the road was straight. I could run dark without any issues. Half a mile from the property’s front gate, I pulled the truck off road and killed the ignition.
I sat in the cab, windows down. It was quiet out there. The air was still and smelled like ocean algae. Dark Alaskan rainforest all around, in a 360 degree circle. I felt centered, in the palm of a gigantic living hand. Things died in the wilderness and were born again. Trees and plants, animals and fish. A vast and barely comprehensible web of life operating in a cosmic cycle, or so they say. But not for us, humans don’t get to be born again. We just die once and that’s it.
I climbed out of the cab and walked around back. The two Breachers lay side by side next to Guilfoyle’s Remington. I filled my jacket pockets with ammunition. Shotgun shells in my left pocket, .308 Sierra Match King rounds in my right. Glock tucked into the waist band. Extra mag in the back pocket. Knife in my front pants pocket. I hoisted the rifle over my back, picked up a Breacher in each hand. Like a one-man assault team.
Good to go.
I knew that the property was north and east of my position. The entrance would be over the hills on my right. I hiked for ten minutes until I was just below the wooded rise. I came up the incline, slow and soft. Walking with the heel first, then lowering the ball of my foot. Silent, or near to it. I reached the crest and brought Guilfoyle’s rifle up to look through the Leupold scope at the driveway below. The track snaked north. At the end I could see a gate. In front of it was a parked pickup truck with a double cab. Nothing moving, everything dark and misty. The mist caught the moonlight and held it, making the whole landscape glow weirdly.
I retreated below the ridge and walked another five minutes before cresting again. I laid the Breachers on the ground and got into a prone position with the Remington. I flipped the lens caps on the scope.
First the gate. It wasn’t special. No fortified entrance. Any special precautions that Mister Lawrence had taken were confined to Human Resources. Specifically, the Wagner Group mercenaries. Up here at the entrance they had one truck parked in front of the gate, and another inside the gate. I examined the vehicles. Identical Toyota Hilux models. Each contained two men in the front cab. Warm and protected by the elements.
Two trucks, two comfortable guys. One gate.
Which was shut, maybe even locked. Which meant that an attacker would have to go through it or over it. But half the guard force had the same problem. I grinned to myself. Take out the guys inside the gate, then worry about the ones outside.
I considered the Human Resources issue. My guess was the Mister Lawrence people would not be able to afford a full-strength squad of Russian mercenaries. A Spetsnaz reconnaissance squad is organized into five teams, each with five or six men. My ball park guess was two six-man teams. A dozen qualified opponents. I did a second round of mental math. One team would be close protection for the Mister Lawrence people, the other would be assigned to the perimeter. They had four guys right here at the fence, which meant that another two mercenaries were positioned deeper in. Defense in depth, a decent concept.
The first target was going to be the truck inside the fence.
I reached into my jacket pocket and fingered the Match King .308 rounds. Nice number. It has a ring to it, appealing to a certain mathematical asymmetry. The three and the eight are strangers, but the zero holds them together, like a middle sibling or something. I slipped a round into the chamber and pushed it into the internal magazine. Did the same for another four. The sixth round went into the chamber and I drove the bolt home, guiding the bullet with my finger as I did so. I was looking into the cab of the second truck, the one inside the property. The two guys in there were talking. The guy in the driver’s seat was smoking a cigarette. He was flicking the ash out the window. The passenger was eating from a plastic bag. Looked like potato chips. From that distance I couldn’t hear them.
I switched back to the first guy with the cigarette.
He wasn’t there anymore.
Fifty
I took my eye off the scope and got the big picture view.
The guy had stepped out of the truck, leaving the door open. Looked like he was going to take a leak. I let him do it. Not for any sentimental reasons, only that shifting the sights from him pissing against a tree, back to the cab of the truck was going to be sub-optimal. I watched him flick his cigarette against a tree, littering. Another karma point against him. I noticed that it was an apple tree. I let the scope wander. Beyond the fence the land was an orchard. The trees were mature and dispersed in rows. The guy was taking his time. I wasn’t in a rush.
He had maybe one more minute to live. I wasn’t going to hesitate.
I read somewhere that seventy-five percent of American servicemen never fired a shot during World War Two. Luckily, the other twenty-five percent did.
The man got back into the truck. I saw the door close before the sound of it reached me. The interior cab light went off.
I put my eye back to the scope. The gun was live. I took a breath. The guy was talking again, looking at the other guy. I put the cross on his face. Right in the middle of it. Hank had told me that he and Guilfoyle had cleaned the gun. Nobody said anything about checking the sights. I estimated a three point five pound trigger pull. I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. I let the breath out slowly and did it again. The second time I was very relaxed. My finger pulled and the Remington barked.
I switched to the other guy and eased the bolt back at the same time. Let the brass eject. No pause, no looking at the result. I worked the bolt in and used my middle finger to guide the next round into the chamber. The weapon was live. I held the next guy’s blank face in the sights. Fired.
I didn’t look. Not a single wasted thought or movement. I ejected the round. Fingered the safety back on, pocketed both cartridges and slung the rifle on my back. I picked up the Breachers with my free hands. Three seconds after the second shot I was moving back from the ridge and shuffling laterally. Once I was about forty feet away from the shooting position, I cut over the hilltop and worked my way quickly down the hillside to the driveway.
Silence, and then the sound of a wounded man.
Which is never a good sound to hear. But it’s better to hear it from the enemy than from one of your own guys. In fact, wounding an enemy is often better than killing him. Makes his friends scared, saps their morale and makes them want to take care of him. Meanwhile I could take care of them.