Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  Levi watched Michael leave, then placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be doing it for the job.” He paused. “Listen, when I’m done with this case we’ll get blasted on beer. Count on it. Now come here. We have some unfinished business.” Brian stepped forward, his arteries throbbing in his neck, while Levi dug into his back pocket and produced the pliers. Then he twisted the lock off the dog collar with a quick flick of his wrist, and pulling it off he flung it away. “Now, you’re free.”

  Brian stretched his neck and traced his fingers across freed skin, still not able to believe that he’d been relieved of the collar’s yoke. He turned to Levi in agony.

  “That collar never stifled your soul, Brian. You’re a man of honor and you’ll always be my brother.” Levi touched a finger to Brian’s Swastika. “I’ve arranged for laser removal of your tatts. There will also be an excellent plastic surgeon at your disposal, to repair any damage should you wish to remove the piercings.”

  Brian stood tall and nodded. The two men shook hands. Levi watched him get in the van, and after it disappeared from sight he set the alarm for seven and crashed.

  The alarm buzzed at seven. Levi wolfed down a fried egg and a piece of toast, dumped a cup of lukewarm coffee down his pipe and got dressed. When he was ready he shoved the .45 into his waistband. Spotting Brian’s dog collar on the floor, he picked it up on impulse and put it in his coat pocket. After stepping out into the cool dawn air he mounted his Harley, stood on the kick start and dropped his weight on it. The engine caught on the third attempt, sputtered and fell into its rhythm. Levi looked over his shoulder at the cabin, then revved the motor and headed off to the compound. Today would mark the beginning of the longest journey Dragon Team would ever take.

  18

  Brent Kruger found his new adjutant on the range and told him, “I placed the order for that hypoallergenic ink. It’ll arrive in two days.”

  Levi thought, he’s planning an assassination but has time for this nonsense? He fired, hitting the bull’s eye.

  Kruger went to his office and phoned his chief of security. “I haven’t seen young Brian today. Look into it if he doesn’t show by lunch.”

  Amahl paced the decrepit hotel room and chain smoked while he considered his next move. He had never felt anxious before, but Zurich had changed all that. All at once a door slammed in the room below. His heart skipped a beat, but a child’s voice from below calmed him. He made a fist and cursed whoever tracked down his favored son, then went to the kitchenette and got the bottle of Canadian Club from the cupboard. It might be morning, but he needed a bracer.

  Levi went to Kruger’s office later. “My woman got a call from San Diego last night. Her aunt’s sick. I asked Brian to drive her there. It’s okay, though. I trust him.”

  Kruger went bug-eyed. “Why didn’t you take his car and drive her yourself?”

  “I still need training. Brian’s done had his.” He stepped toward Kruger as a subtle means of emphasizing his truthfulness and planted his Doc Martens on the floorboards.

  Kruger’s glare could penetrate steel. “You should’ve checked with me first. Well, the damage is done.” He leaned back, rested his boots on the desk and clasped both hands behind his head. “On the other hand, while she’s gone you can father a child or two. I’m quite certain our good doctor can identify which of our women are ovulating.”

  This guy’s beyond obsessed. Levi thought fast, hooked his thumbs inside the red suspenders and leaned forward. “Lotta trust fund babes come to the Sunset to get banged by a bad boy, you know. Some a them want more. They wanna shove a belly full a some thug’s baby in daddy’s face. Then daddy has to notice the princess.” He cocked his hip at an angle. “Right now I’m screwin’ two a them rich-ass babes, an’ there’re plenty more waitin’ to piss off daddy.”

  “You enjoy defiling wealthy men’s daughters. Don’t you?”

  Levi pulled his shoulders back with an indolent, tomcat grace. “Yeah, I do.”

  A silence hung in the air until Kruger grumbled, “Okay. But I want to see results.”

  “No problem.” Hell, only a lunatic would buy that drivel. He wants productivity? Fine, I’ll show him productivity. But it’ll be smoke and mirrors all the way—babe.

  At five he drove home, the headlight bouncing with every crack in the road and stabbing the cold night air with flutters of light. He swept the cabin for bugs, then called Tucker. “Get Jackson ready. He goes down the day after tomorrow.”

  He ended the call and went next door. Bronk was there and they were clinking bottles when Dance Girl showed up. She touched his Swastika and shaved head, then undid his shirt. After gushing over his tattoos and black eye she tugged at his zipper and said, “So, ready for that blow job?” It was too coincidental, and with the club’s enforcer looking on, this battle was lost. Knowing that each debased step he took put him closer to taking down Kruger and Amahl, he seized her hand and took her to the cabin.

  The clock showed 4:00 a.m., and his boom box pulsed and throbbed as they collapsed in another sweaty, funky-smelling heap. When she finally staggered into the bathroom he fished her cell from her bag. Kruger’s number was listed. Okay, no surprise. Finding her driver’s license next, he memorized the data. He’d have the team check her out while he cultivated her as a source of intel. Poking further, he found a pregnancy test kit. Damn. When she returned he reached to his side for the hand mirror, and after they did some more coke he cranked up the boom box and took her again.

  The next day Kruger asked a haggard Levi, “Have you seen Jackson?”

  “No. Not since he hooked up with some babe the other night.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Yep. Damn fine filly, too.” He scoffed. “Don’t ask me how.” Stifling a yawn he asked, “Want me to find him?”

  “No. At least he’s not bugging me.” He stared at the bleak horizon and said after a while, “You had a visitor last night. What’re the chances of impregnating her?”

  Levi thought, you bastard—you know she’s ovulating because the Doc picked her out. But he put up a façade of braggadocio. “No sweat. Slam-dunk.”

  “Excellent. You see, I’ll acquire the child if it’s a boy and raise it myself.”

  Levi wanted to stomp Kruger’s ass. It was all he could do to keep up his act. Now about to explode, he spun and walked away. If you so much as touch that kid, I’ll…

  That evening Levi was sitting at the bar with a greasy cheeseburger and fries when the door opened and Michael walked in. Levi dipped a fry into a glob of ketchup and held it aloft, but dropped it when Michael casually looked his way. He took his time eating, and after downing a beer he sauntered out the front door. Michael stepped outside three minutes later and flicked a finger toward his black Ram.

  “We’re good here. Listen, I’m against the wall with the baby boom crap.” He lowered his voice. “I need a smoke screen. Here’s what we’ll do…”

  “Got it,” Michael said a minute later. “Anything else?”

  Levi told him to check out Dance Girl, then punched a fist into his open palm. “I hate this job.” He turned on his heel and marched inside. Michael followed a minute later.

  Potts smoked in silence as he watched them leave. A wind howling across his partially open window acted as a vacuum, sucking the smoke into the night air. As soon as the cigarette was out he went to the blonde stranger’s Dodge Ram, noting the license plate while opening his fingerprint kit. After lifting prints from the doors he returned to his car and lit another cigarette, then dragged at it until the end glowed an angry red.

  Pete showed up later and challenged Levi to some darts. After the match the big tattoo artist was forking over fifty bucks when Dance Girl appeared at Levi’s side. Pete grinned. “Hot little bitch you got. An’ speakin’ a hot, the dragon’s calling us.”

  Of course Levi wanted to avoid both the dope and the dame, but he invited them to the cabin. After turning on the boom box he laid out some coke for the girl. While sh
e got high, he and Pete held a piece of foil with a bit of heroin over the stove’s flame. Levi tried to avoid the fumes, but once again they overwhelmed his brain’s receptors and he began smoking in earnest.

  Talking nonsensically, the three of them carried on until Pete said he wanted to slam. After cooking a dose, he drew it into one of Levi’s used syringes and injected half of it before tumbling onto the couch. Levi stood over him, and as the walls tromboned in and out he swept up the needle and studied its mutilated tip. His dilated pupils couldn’t focus well, but he could see that it was sharp enough, and as a line of drool ran down his chin at the prospect of mainlining, he decided to drive that same needle up his arm.

  Then he was floating to the ceiling, although in fact Dance Girl had eased him to a chair, and was now running a finger along his tracks in search of a usable vein, looking smug when he shouted, “Hurry,” and snickering upon finding one. Plucking the syringe from his hand and touching its point to the vein, she began pushing it in.

  But just before it pierced the skin some reptilian thing within his cortex clicked, and he shoved her away. She cursed. He barked, “Shut up. I ain’t sharing no needle,” and with his need now dead but his libido revved by the dragon, he dragged her past a dazed Pete, pushed her onto the bed, and breathed fire throughout the night.

  Levi hauled himself from bed at dawn and stumbled into the kitchen. He downed two cups of java, then chased away his guests and got going; he had to kill Jackson today. After double-checking the .45 he mounted the Harley and rode off beneath sparse desert clouds. When he spotted the Ram sitting along the road, he slowed as a signal to proceed with the plan, then downshifted and roared away.

  Minutes later he found Kruger in the office. “We gotta talk. I was gettin’ gas this morning an’ ran into Jackson. He was drunk an’ running his yap.”

  A shadow fell across Kruger’s face. He pressed his lips together until the blood drained from them.

  “Said something about a couple a dead wetbacks.” Levi rolled bloodshot eyes. “Don’t know why it’s a big deal, but he’s dying to tell me more.”

  The rage in Kruger became a living thing. He locked eyes with Levi in a pact of open warfare. His words were raw. “I want him dead. Do you hear? Dead.”

  Levi glanced at his Doc Martens and their white laces. “You said I get to wear red laces when I kill for the club.” He got a hard look. “Give him to me.”

  Kruger stared through him and nodded. “Okay. He’s yours.”

  “Gimme your pickup. I’ll take Bronk along.”

  “There’s a shovel behind the seat.” Kruger reached into his khaki trousers and produced his keys. “Use the carbine.”

  “No.” Levi pulled out his .45. “I’ll use this. It needs to be christened.”

  Kruger forced a smile but fury still lurked in his eyes. “I love how you think.”

  Levi found Bronk and briefed him. “Remember. This is my kill.” Bronk set his jaw and nodded as he armed himself.

  As they arrived at the Doral Motel, Levi told Bronk to remain in the truck and went to room sixteen. Hacksaw and Sawyer were standing in the center of the room with Jackson. Levi fixed him with a stare. “Do exactly as you’re told. Question nothing. Is that clear?” When Jackson nodded, Levi took the black cowboy hat from Hack and mashed it down on Jackson’s head. “Do not take it off. Now let’s go.”

  They reached the Semtex test site an hour later. Levi parked behind two large boulders to shelter them from the incessant winds, and while getting out he grabbed the shovel and tossed it to Jackson. Then he took off his shirt to unleash the power of his bold tattoos. Pointing at the coarse sand, he said, “Dig.”

  Jackson laughed uneasily. “What’s the joke?” But Levi’s faraway look was clear, and when Jackson’s gaze fell on Levi’s drug-scarred arms, he blanched.

  Levi bared his teeth. “Dig.”

  “Please.” Jackson fell to his knees and whimpered. “Please don’t do this.”

  Bronk put his hands on his knees and bent forward until his Swastika-tattooed face was inches from Jackson’s. “Shut-the-hell-up.”

  Jackson began bawling, but when Bronk opened his switchblade with a metallic snap, the doomed man dug furiously until he formed a shallow grave.

  “Get in,” Levi commanded.

  Jackson folded his hands as if praying. “Please, Eric. I didn’t do anything.”

  Levi pulled out his .45, cocked the hammer with his thumb and fired. POW. The heavy slug struck six inches to the right of Jackson’s boot and sent a geyser of dirt flying.

  A dark spot appeared at Jackson’s crotch and blossomed, while the blood drained from his face. “Please,” he cried, then slowly got into the grave and sat upright.

  “Shut up.” Levi held the muzzle a few inches from a spot where the hat covered Jackson’s forehead. “You knew the rules. You talk, you die.”

  Bronk stood behind Levi and put his mouth close to his ear. “Do it, man. Do it.”

  Jackson swiped at his tears and let out a nervous laugh. “I get it now. You’re messing with me. You’re not really gonna kill me.”

  “No?” Levi got a strange light in his eyes and a sudden, tight smile. “That’s where you’re wrong. I really am going to kill you.” Then he calmly squeezed the trigger and blew Jackson’s brains out.

  The entire back half of Jackson’s head erupted, splattering brains and blood everywhere. His supine body jerked twice, then went limp.

  Bronk clapped Levi’s bare back. “Way to go.”

  Levi’s chest heaved with sudden adrenaline. He looked at Bronk with the same tight smile, then stared at the pistol in his hand, transfixed by the smoke rising from the muzzle. All at once he grabbed his belly and doubled over with laughter. “Did you see his brains? Friggin’ cool.” Picking up the shovel, he turned to Bronk with amused eyes. “This won’t take long.” He got to work and buried Jackson within five minutes.

  Bronk said later as the F-150 creaked and bounced along the dirt road, “You’re one cool bastard.” He rubbed his hands together. “Lotta punks talk, but when it comes time to ice some dude? They cave. Not you.” He laughed. “You’re one crazy bastard.”

  Levi looked at their dust trail in his mirror and said in a detached way, “I wanted them red laces.” He hawked up mucous, rolled down the window and spat. “Besides, I never did like him.” Then he lit a roach and said, “Hey, Lakers are at Denver tonight. How do ya think Peterson’s gonna do?”

  Bronk burst into laughter. “Man, you are psycho.” He settled back and they talked sports and passed the roach while dust swirled in their wake.

  Tucker and Dentz shucked their ghillie suits and executed a squad rush, reaching the grave fifteen seconds after Levi’s departure. Dentz stood watch while Tucker secured his M-4 and dug with his bare hands until he uncovered Jackson’s face. Placing a finger against Jackson’s carotid pulse, he said, “Looks dead to me.”

  “Sure does.” Dentz dug an ammonia inhalant from a pocket, crushed it between thumb and index finger, and held it beneath Jackson’s nostrils. Seconds passed. His nose twitched. Then his eyes popped open and he sat up with a start. Dentz grabbed Jackson’s shoulders. “Easy there, old hoss. You’re moving way too much for a dead man.”

  They got him out of the grave and examined him for injuries. Tucker checked his pupils to make sure they were equal while Dentz looked for signs of cerebral-spinal fluid leaking from his ears or nostrils. It had been a risky plan and Levi could have killed him by concussion alone. But holding the ruined hat aloft, Dentz said, “Guess it worked,” and tossed a dry pair of pants at Jackson. “Here. Levi said you’d need these.”

  To make it work, Monica had put her Hollywood F/X expertise to work while Hack and Sawyer kept vigil over Jackson in the motel room. First, she rigged the hat with a squib—a tiny explosive charge—and attached it to gel-packs of animal blood and sheep brains. Next, she inserted a micro-thin sheet of sensors inside the hat’s crown, then glued a thin sheet of Kevlar beh
ind it to shield Jackson’s forehead. Wires from the sensors led to the squib in the back of the hat. That morning Levi chambered a live round in his .45 so that when he fired into the dirt and sent the geyser, Bronk would see he was using live ammo. But the next round was a blank, and when Levi fired it at Jackson’s forehead, the blank’s gases struck the sensors, detonated the gel-packs, and spewed blood and brains out the back in a classic exit pattern. The gas impact also jerked Jackson’s head enough to simulate a gunshot wound, and per the plan it knocked him unconscious. Levi had loaded the rest of the magazine with live rounds to deal with Bronk in case of system failure, but the ploy worked and they had Jackson back in custody. With Jackson “dead,” Kruger and Amahl could now be lured into Dragon Team’s trap.

  Potts placed a call to the Secret Service field office. “SAC Brewer, please.” When Brewer came on the line Potts said he would overnight a set of prints to him. “I need to know who this character is.”

  Bronk wasted no time in heralding Levi’s accomplishment and sociopathic behavior. Kruger listened as Bronk described every gory detail, including Levi’s eerie look as he killed, a point that caused Kruger to nod knowingly. When Bronk finished, Kruger said to Levi, “You don’t appear upset.”

  Tilting his head to one side, Levi squinted. “Am I supposed to be?”

  “No. Not really.” He tossed a packet of red boot laces at him.

  Levi caught it with one hand. “Thanks.”

  Kruger then gave Levi four street-packets of dope. “Two each of your preferred products. Take the day off guys, and enjoy.” He looked at Levi. “I’m proud of you, son.”

  Son, huh? Hmm. Levi pocketed the cocaine and heroin. He wanted to catch some sleep. But Bronk wanted to relive their kill over coke, so they went to the barracks. Levi snorted a line and got Bronk to do three, then got him to talk. And talk he did, describing the gang rape of a woman that walked into the wrong bar on the wrong side of the tracks, bragging about men he’d raped and murders he’d committed. Levi pushed his disgust aside, and in time said, “Guess you know I’ll be on that trip to the White House. I know my job—but what’s Kruger got you doin’?”