Bravo grinned. "WE know nothing about it? You mean, YOU know nothing about it, Alpha. Hell, I'm not involved with anything that happens on your ranch. I live in California, for heaven sake, I don't . . ."
Byrne growled, "I get it, Shepard, but I'll tell you right now that I'm not going to go down for those five guys that YOU buried in my mine road, and . . ."
Bravo laughed, "I wouldn't put it past you, Byrne. You'll want company in whatever maximum security prison they send you to, and you will probably pick me."
Byrne fired off four fast rounds from the .22 pistol, and the sound was barely discernible. "Nice, Bravo—if you can stand the recoil."
Bravo snorted. "Recoil from a Standard Speed, 22 long rifle cartridge? Only you would claim that one, Byrne."
They tried all of the captured guns. One of the .45 Caliber M3 sub machine guns required head spacing, which was accomplished by rotating the barrel to the rear an additional two clicks.
Bravo was admiring. "I always liked these stamped out pieces of bent sheet metal. They hit like atom bombs and have almost no recoil. Why did the military ever do away with them?"
Alpha had to guess. "I figure it happened when the Army went to the 9mm pistol cartridge. You know the military—make all the ammo compatible with NATO or something."
Shepard expressed disdain. "9mms just make people mad. .45s put 'em down."
Byrne looked around. "We'll leave the fired brass for the CSI guys to look over, pardner. That'll keep them busy for a few minutes.
"Come on, it's time you saw what I've got to offer."
The mine and some of its secrets took two hours. Bravo was in awe. Not of the interesting weaponry in particular, but of Byrne's dedication in gathering the survival stores that could allow a small group to hole up in secret rooms for years without venturing outside.
Shepard examined shelves of medical supplies. "Damn, this could equip a hospital." He openly smirked, "You planning on operating on yourself, Byrne? Or maybe you figure to gather an elite band of exceptional people who will survive in here while the outside world returns to the Stone Age."
Alpha was unperturbed. "Probably the latter, Bravo, and don't plan on knocking on my door when things go to hell, and you are fighting for dumpster leavings somewhere out there on the left coast."
Bravo took time with the .338 Lapua Magnum that Byrne had used on the sniper.
"This is one hell of a fine rifle, Alpha, but it is a long range gun. Why did you pick it for shooting that guy in the woods?"
"I couldn't be sure where the people hunting me would come from or try to go to. They could have marched up the road, and ranges would have been long. I might have had to stop a motor vehicle, and that takes real power and a heavy bullet.
"I also suspected that anyone attacking my place would have a sniper or two hidden where they had good fields of fire. I was right, and if the booby trap in my outhouse hadn't done a clean job, I could have been fighting some kind of a running battle through the timber and maybe across the valleys.
"I would have kept everybody at as long range as I could, but the guys with the sub-machine guns would have kept edging in with a lot of suppressing fire while the sniper kept me pinned and being damned careful of how I peered around."
Bravo understood unspoken ramifications as well as the tensions of the battle Alpha described.
Instead, Byrne had gotten all but the sniper with his outhouse bomb. Outstanding!
Of course, Bravo would not say that aloud. Byrne might get bigheaded with too many compliments.
Then they packed. The plan would be to drive the sniper's pickup and tow the trailer. They would live in the trailer most of the time, and their weapons could be safely stored in the hidden drawer.
They would drive at normal speeds, and their first destination would be Chicago. Jocko would be located, and they would discover what that middleman had to say before they braced Dewey Lavender in Washington DC.
Thereafter? Neither man had a clue. How did you get a crime family of great wealth off your back? Even if you did kill a pile of them, how could you ever be sure it was over and done with? They had brushed against that twenty years before and had believed they were in the clear.
Suppose . . .? They would suppose all the way to the east coast, but in the end they would just be playing whatever cards were dealt.
Doctor Don Byrne feared that his medical practice and his beloved log home with his silver mine and hidden treasures would become pleasures of the past.
If that happened, Alpha vowed that someone would pay and pay dearly.
Bravo? Tommy Shepard had never sunk deep roots. He might even enjoy a dramatic change in life style or life direction.
Maybe Bravo had something when he spoke of buying Marlon Brando's tropical island.
There was always Pitcairn Island where the Bounty mutineers had hidden out. That was said to be as far from everything as a human could get.
But first . . . first there were bones to be made. Someone had sent killers to get them, and those bastards would be weeded out no matter what the cost.
Chapter 16
The mysterious Jocko was not hard to find. Bravo checked the Yellow Book telephone directory and found a half-page advertisement for Jocko's Military Surplus on a back street in nearby Cicero. Neither unpracticed investigator doubted that this would be their Jocko's, and Byrne believed the address significant. In 1930, Al Capone had operated out of Cicero.
Weaving the truck and trailer through the heart of a city had been clumsy, but Jocko's street was almost empty of traffic and few cars were parked along the curbs. Alpha made a single pass circling the decaying block of half-empty business fronts before parking across the street and only a few doors before Jocko's narrow storefront. Byrne cut the engine and they stared at the "Closed for Lunch" sign on Jocko's heavily barred entrance.
Shepard was dismissive. "This guy can't amount to much. Hell his shop isn't much wider than our camper."
Alpha said, "Maybe the building is deep, and he may have a backyard full of tanks and artillery pieces."
"Baloney. Jocko will turn out to be a veteran of one of our wars who couldn't walk away. Ever since he got out, he's been trying to make a living out of the only interesting years of his miserable life."
Byrne looked admiringly at his companion.
"That is amazing, Tommy. You should become a psychiatrist—or maybe a crystal ball reader. You can look at the outside of a ratty old building and describe the occupant's entire life. How many wives do you think old Jocko has had?"
Shepard was not insulted. "You know what I mean, Byrne. When we were young, World War II and Korean War vets ran these joints. Now they are mostly owned by Vietnam era people." He grinned to himself, "I'll put five bucks on Jocko wearing a green beret when he shows up."
Alpha answered, "No bet. I used to think berets were rare back then, but now it seems that every Vietnam veteran alive was in some sort of beret-wearing Special Forces. Hell, they all wear berets."
Bravo said, "You're right, but if Jocko sells them, I'm buying one. I'd look good in a beret."
"You weren't in the Vietnam War, Bravo. You were too young, just like I was. If you start wearing a beret, I'm turning you in to the Secretary of the Army—or even to the first Sergeant Major I come across."
Bravo pointed his chin at a short and thick figure marching toward them along the cracked and broken cement sidewalk. The man was clearly on the wrong side of middle age, and he wore some sort of US Army fatigue jacket. An old style military overseas cap topped a shaven skull. The face was mostly hidden behind a ratty looking gray beard that appeared to be rarely trimmed.
Bravo said, "That'll be our man, Alpha, and frankly, I like that overseas better than a French-looking beret any day."
Alpha made his voice sound irritated. "Will you just get off the beret thing, Shepard? You've always been sour because as a civilian you couldn't wear one with some sort of big and brassy insignia on it."
Sure
enough, the short man halted at Jocko's portal and fitted keys into a number of deadbolt locks before pushing open an obviously heavy steel door.
Alpha said, "Now that's a door, pardner. Jocko may not wear a beret, but he must have something inside that dump worth defending."
Bravo asked, "So, how are we going to do this, Alpha?"
Byrne pretended to consider. "Well, we will each grab a grease gun and pull a neckerchief over our noses. We'll go in and demand answers to any questions we can think up once we're inside. Faced by two menacing guys like us, Mister Jocko, will fold and tell us everything."
Byrne played along. "That's better than most of your plans, Byrne, but maybe you had better add a little detail before we dive through that doorway."
Alpha turned serious. "All we can do, Tommy is walk in and explain who we are looking for and what we need to know."
Bravo appeared thunderstruck. "Oh, that is dynamic, Byrne. Old Jocko will collapse on the spot—from laughter, of course."
Byrne did not grant a point. "We go in and we ask. We aren't police or even private eyes. We can't muscle this guy, and who knows, he may have two or three clerks in there with him—or the instant we get hard he will drop a holding pen around us, and we will be there when the cops arrive."
Bravo grumbled, "I'll wait in the truck," but he crawled out when Byrne did, and they started for Jocko's place of business.
Alpha led through the shop's entrance, and his immediate thought was that the place needed more lighting. Bravo bumped into him when he paused to allow his eyes to adjust. Clearly his backup wasn't seeing too much either.
They heard Jocko's greeting before they could clearly make him out. The man said, "Welcome, men. I figure you are the two hombres that were sitting in the fancy truck just down the street."
Bravo groaned just loud enough for Alpha to hear.
Byrne plastered what he hoped was a smile on his face and admitted that had been them—waiting for Jocko's to reopen.
His vision adjusting, Byrne saw Jocko ensconced behind a steel counter and protected from countertop to the ceiling by a sheet of what looked like bulletproof glass. There were various openings in the glass wall, closed at the moment, but obviously placed to allow passage of many-sized articles. Displayed in the room behind Jocko were instruments and equipment of war. It appeared that in Jocko's lair, customers did not browse, and Byrne wondered how the business made money.
Byrne had seen pawnshops so protected in city slum areas, and he supposed that Jocko's materials appealed to the same class of needy patrons. Any malcontent attempting to rob or molest Jocko or his business would need heavy firepower.
Alpha asked, "Are we speaking with Jocko himself?"
The fatigue clad figure seemed to think about it before he said, "That's me. What can I do for you?"
Alpha said, "We need some information about a . . ." Jocko's raised hand cut him off.
The shop owner pointed to a large sign with military looking stenciling on it. The sign read,
There Are No Secrets In Here
Everything I know is for sale.
Keep that in mind before you ask, discuss, or complain.
The two customers studied the sign thoughtfully. Alpha nodded and resumed his sentence.
"We are looking for information concerning an individual we encountered who had your name and number in his possession."
Jocko's bald dome nodded. "If I have it, I sell information like that."
Alpha said, "No matter who the individual is?"
Another nod from Jocko. "That's right, Mister—including selling to anyone who comes in asking about you two."
There was momentary silence before Jocko felt a desire to explain. "There isn't much military surplus anymore, and ATF leans all over shops like mine just hoping I do something illegal." Jocko examined them closely. "In fact, you two look like ATF guys—are you?"
Byrne and Shepard vehemently denied association with the ATF or any other governmental body. Their need to know was personal.
Jocko nodded acceptance that did not demonstrate belief. "All right, we will go with that."
He threw a small switch near his left hand. "A couple more details before we get too far along.
"First, from here on out, every sound in this place is recorded on a system located many miles from here. My security cameras are even better.
"Second, one of my feet is on a release plunger. If my foot lifts, this shop slams closed so tight it would make an oyster claustrophobic, and we will all be here, about as we are now, when the police arrive.
"Now, anything I know is for sale, but the price varies from moment to moment, so don't use my time unless you have the money to pay for my information."
Alpha turned to his partner. "Can we deal, Milo?"
Bravo nodded approval for spending money, and his new nom de plume of Milo. If Jocko sold their presence to anyone, it would include a phony name.
Jagged and discolored teeth showed behind the matted beard before Jocko added, "So, what is it you need to know?"
There was silence until Bravo asked, "My God, can you make a living doing this?"
Jocko said, "Yes, and that will be five dollars. Pay now, please." He opened a small slit in his protecting wall.
Alpha laughed aloud, but Bravo's face darkened in exasperation. Byrne said, "Pay and keep quiet, Milo. This is his game, and we are customers." Bravo fumbled a five dollar bill from his wallet and slid it through the slot.
Alpha turned to Jocko who had not cracked a smile or uttered an extra word. Alpha held an identification card removed from the dead sniper's wallet against the bulletproof glass and requested, "Tell us about this man."
His eyes calculating, Jocko scratched at his beard and appeared to weigh answering. Apparently deciding he said, "What I know about him will cost you five hundred American—and there is no dickering." He re-opened the same small gap in the glass barrier he had used to accept Bravo's five dollars and waited for payment.
Byrne did not hesitate. He dug out his money and slid it through the opening. Jocko examined the bills as if he feared counterfeiting—which Byrne expected he did. Bravo grumbled under his breath, but Alpha ignored him.
Jocko dropped the money through a slot in his countertop, and Byrne supposed it fell into a safe at least as tough as a bank vault. No matter how Shepard felt about dealing with Jocko, Byrne was admiring of the man's rock solid precautions. Old Jocko was the kind of man who would appreciate his cave secrets. Alpha doubted that Jocko had ever been successfully robbed, and he wondered what other, unannounced defenses Jocko's shop contained—probably knockout gas and worse. Maybe some small anti-personnel mines and booby-traps? Byrne wondered if he could buy a few for use around his property?
Jocko said, "I got a call from someone unknown wondering if I could point to a man like the one on this card."
Bravo's mouth opened to speak, but Jocko's palm silenced him before the shop owner rubbed finger and thumb together indicating that questions would cost money.
Jocko went on. "I told the caller I knew of a few such men and directed the caller to send me a money order for the appropriate amount. A later call to me would provide the names and telephone numbers. The money was sent, and I gave him this man's name and number." Jocko stopped, and Alpha and Bravo waited.
Byrne again spoke. "Same question. You have told us how you received a phone call, but you have told us nothing about this man. We need to know about him. Is he a mercenary, a cop, a criminal wanted by the law? What are his skills? Who does he travel with? Did your caller hire him? And, you have not said whether your caller was a man or a woman."
Jocko weighed his answers. "This man is a soldier for hire. My caller wanted a man who could and would do anything called for." Jocko stopped to let that detail sink in, and Alpha expected that not much more would be forthcoming for their initial payment.
Alpha laid a hundred dollar bill on his side of the counter. "We need a number for your caller."
&nbs
p; Jocko said, "He did not leave a number."
Alpha had scored. The caller had been a male.
Alpha said, "But you got his number from caller ID, correct?"
Jocko opened his small money door and said, "Add another century to the one you are showing."
Alpha withdrew a second one hundred dollar bill, and placed the two together. He held onto the money as it entered Jocko's slot.
Byrne said, "For two hundred we will also expect your best description of who and what the caller seemed to be."
Jocko's fingers closed around the bills, and his chin nodded. Alpha released his end of the payment.
Jocko leafed through a ledger before turning to a computer positioned within easy reach. Bravo supposed the man's foot never left the alarm button that would gain rapid police response.
Finding the desired number took a while, but when Jocko spoke it, Alpha did not need to write it down. Bravo grunted satisfaction, so Byrne knew he had also recognized Dewey Lavender's work number. They had been right. Charlie had dropped a dime on them. Geez, too lazy or too dumb to go to an outside phone, Charlie had given the game away from the start. No wonder the agency tied him to a desk.
Jocko gave his impression of the voice on the phone. "Middle age, well educated. Knew what he wanted. He spoke clearly and was used to telephone business. He had an eastern city accent—which matches his area code—and he knew what I had to offer."
Alpha asked, "Did you hear from him again?"
Jocko's bad teeth showed, so Byrne figured he was smiling. "I ought to charge you for that, but you have been willing customers. So, yes I did. He requested that I not mention his first call to anyone."
Bravo said, "He's got to be the dumbest bastard the government ever hired."
Jocko did not agree. "I figured he worked for the Feds, but he isn't the dumbest. Some of them, like this guy, become arrogant and appear especially stupid. I could tell you stories." This time, Jocko clearly smiled behind his uncombed beard.
It was Alpha's turn. "I doubt we could afford them, Jocko." Then John Byrne paused, "If you were to ring that number and tell the caller that men were here asking about his calls, you could collect again."
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