by L. J. Martin
Pax says he put three down and I put three down. The odds are getting better.
Looks like we take the time to do a little fishing in Lake Mead in the morning. It's a good place for a planning session, and if memory serves, it's five hundred feet deep down near Hoover Dam. We'll have to weigh the weapons down to get them to sink to the bottom.
Good thing my buddy Pax has a party boat he keeps out at Horsepower Cove in the Lake Mead Marina, and a CJ7 Jeep to get us there.
Who wants to take a Jag to go fishing?
21
It's after midnight by the time I've visited the doc in the box and had a pretty little redheaded physician's assistant shave a spot just over my right eye and a little to the side and do her handiwork with a dozen or more stitches.
She does question the origin of the wound as she says it looks like a burn, but suspiciously like a possible gunshot which she'd have to report; but I lie and put on all the charm I can muster, telling her I was working under the car and hit the hot muffler with my forehead. Even after three nice stiff Jack Daniels', I've got a hell of a headache caused by the blow from what I imagine was a .223 from an assault rifle. She gives me a prescription for some Percodan, which I don't bother to fill as Advil is about as serious a med as I put in my body. I know that Percodan is basically Oxycodone and I've seen too many dip shits who've ruined their lives with the crap. I'll take the headache if the ibuprofen can't handle it.
She offers to take a look at Skip's nose, which is now swollen and discolored, but he fends her off…and when Skip fends you off, you stay away.
As we're leaving, me with a two inch by four-inch dressing on my head, the redhead advises, "You know you're gonna have a scar."
I glance back and only slightly exaggerate, "Yeah, number one hundred twenty seven." And wave as we hit the door.
I'd like to get to know the redhead better; good-looking and gets twenty bucks a stitch.
Wally offers her spare bedroom and Skip is more than happy to occupy the master with her. They've been clinging to each other with only the sincerity that a near death experience can muster.
Pax drives my Vette home, leaving us the Jag, as we need the room. We have no plans to leave Wally alone, so she's going fishing. We make plans to meet back up with Pax at the iHop out on Boulder Highway at eight for some breakfast and then head to his boat for a morning of fishing…and saying goodbye to the .223 and the .308. It will be a sad parting for me, but the fact several dozen bullets, traceable to the respective firearms, are scattered over Warm Springs Ranch, some probably imbedded deep in cartel members, makes it imperative that I suffer the loss of these two old friends.
The morning news reports a small war having taken place at Warm Springs Ranch, involving the killing of four gang bangers, probably the result of a gang war. I know there's a good chance a couple more bit the dust, but were probably hauled off by their homies then bled out from lack of care and will be found somewhere in the desert at some later date, bones chewed by the rodents.
Two of the four who flew to Santa Barbara are history, only two more to go…but one of those is the head of the snake and on top the list.
We lock the condo up tight, keep our handguns near, and sleep the sleep of the innocent. Not a long night, but a restful one. We presumed the cartel boys were licking their wounds...but wouldn’t be doing so for long.
The four of us are at breakfast, me enjoying a fajita omelet and some buckwheat cakes, when my phone jingles with an unknown caller ring. "Reardon."
"You’re still among the breathing?"
"Why, Detective Bollinger, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"
"Pleasure? I doubt it. Fact is we had quite a shoot ‘em up last night."
"Not me. You told me it was bad for business."
He chuckles. "Actually, I told you to take it out of town, and this little battle happened to take place half a hundred miles to the north. Place called Warm Springs."
"Never heard of it."
Again, he chuckles. "Clark county sheriff’s department gave me a call right away, as they know I was watching the same boys who got the shit shot out of them last night."
"Really. The cartel boys from out on North Lamb?"
"Sure enough, Sherlock. Four bodies found there and one dumped halfway back to town."
"I’ll pray for them."
"Bullshit. Anyway, one interesting piece of evidence caught my attention."
"Tell me."
"Three of them were shot with .223’s, not unusual as that’s the primary round for most assault rifles...but the remaining two, including the one dumped outside of town, had .308 rounds, both center-punched like somebody was highly skilled and taking extra special aim. Lot’s of .223 brass around, but whoever was using the .308 cleaned up after himself...like a trained sniper might. Kind of unusual, don’t you think? No powder burns or powder spackling on either of them, so they were shot from some distance."
I’m glad I’m talking to him on the phone as the .308 is outside in the rear of Pax’s Jeep. "What’s unusual about a .308? Hell, there must be thousands of them in Nevada. And no spackling, ten feet or more away from the target and there wouldn't be, and picking up your brass? ...I’d think anybody with half a brain would do that."
"Clark County CSI boys have already identified the bullets as military issue. I don’t imagine you and your ex-Marine buddies—"
"No such thing as an ex when it comes to Marines, detective."
"Even one who was railroaded out?" he asks, his tone sarcastic.
"Especially one who left that way...you been digging into my dossier?"
"Yeah, and you had some sniper training as did your buddy Weatherwax. And if memory serves, isn’t the .308 the preferred weapon of Marine snipers?"
I laugh. "Boy oh boy, is that ever a stretch. Fact is I hear the boys favor the .50 cal Barrett these days. Hey, I’m in the middle of my breakfast and my grits are getting cold."
"Eat up, you’ll need it. We hear the Oxiteca boys are going to the mattresses until they get rid of some asshole who’s been picking them off. They called in some more troops from down south, the way I hear it."
"Thanks for the heads up."
"Stay in touch."
"Yes, sir, will do."
After I pound down a couple of more bites, I turn to Pax. "Did you finish the rest of your journalism endeavors?"
Wally looks up from her egg white omelet. "I thought you were a computer guy, Pax?"
"Yes, ma’am, I am. This is just a little side work." Then he turns to me. "Yes, I did, and I sent them off, via our Indian buddy, early this morning. I’ll bet they’ve already landed down near the border."
Wally knows something is up and we’re avoiding telling her. She winks at me. "Mike, my daddy is Jewish as they come and he wants me to get my butt—"
"Sweet butt," I suggest.
"Sweet butt back to work. Of course he doesn’t want me dead, so when are you guys going to make this end so I don’t have to move to Brooklyn?"
"Soon," I say, and turn to Pax. "Soon, right?"
"I’ll be surprised if there’s not a lot of email traffic by the time we get back with a string of stripers to fry up."
"From your lips to God’s ears," I say.
Wally eyes us both, and then asks, "What’s email got to do with anything?" And both Pax and I shrug.
I keep chewing, but am glad Pax is on the move with the big plan, and hope Jefe Grande down in Calexico bites on Pax’s bait, then wants to take a big bite out of Beltran Corrado’s skinny ass. For one thing, getting heat from down south will take Beltran’s mind off me.
Speaking of bait, I’m ready to go fishing.
And disposing.
22
We looked like a jolly group out for a day’s fishing, all of us in bathing suits on an eighty-five degree late May day on the huge Lake Mead, the largest reservoir in the United States with a million and a half acre surface area. The good news, the dam and the deepest part of the lake is only four
and a half miles from where Pax keeps his boat.
No one notices when we take aboard two rifles, wrapped in blankets along with some fishing rods sticking out the ends, alongside some long umbrellas and a couple of cold boxes loaded with beer and sandwiches. The boat is twenty-two feet of two story—a deck on the top of the sunshade—pontoon party decadence, with a great stereo system, comfortable seating, twelve volt refrigerator, and plush carpet all driven by a ninety horsepower outboard Honda. It’s almost a sin to fish off her, but Pax is no prude and we’re trolling for stripers by the time we putt out of the marina. In fifteen minutes the two rifles, with Wally distracted in the bow of the boat, are sunk off her stern each weighted down by four five-pound lead fishing weights. I don’t know how deep they’ll sink, but the lakes almost five hundred feet deep, so they won’t be found until Hoover Dam splits down the middle, and I don’t expect that to happen any time soon.
Wally, to her great pleasure catches her first fish and the largest of the four we bring in, a five-pound striped bass. We’ll eat good tonight.
Pax has a small but well equipped kitchen in his office, and since we are eager to check the email traffic between Vegas and Calexico, we decide to feast there with Skip cleaning the fish, Pax working the computer, me doing the cooking, and Wally doing the dishes, much to her chagrin, which results in her calling us sexists, even though she lost the toss.
I’ve split some spuds for French fries and have them browning in garlic laced oil, soaked more fillets than we can possibly eat in milk, rolled them in flour, then dipped them in egg before a final douse in cracker crumbs and have them in hot oil frying away when Pax walks in and hands me a beer and asks, "Where the hell is Vidal Junction?"
"Got me," I reply.
"I’ll Google it," he says, and gives me his back while I turn the fish.
We’ve picked up some cantaloupes on the way home and have them sliced, Wally’s made a decent green salad and browned some garlic bread in the oven, and we sit to a feast. As we’re eating, Pax hands me a print out of a map and driving directions.
Vidal Junction is a very lonely State of California inspection station halfway—east west—between Wickenburg, Arizona and Twenty Nine Palms, California. You talk about the boondocks! It rests on the intersection of Highways 95 and 62 and has some housing for the employees of the remotely located inspection station, a small motel, a cafe, and two service stations. Far more jackrabbits and Mojave green rattlers than people reside there, and probably no more than one California Highway Patrolman is looking out for the inspection station at any one time.
It’s about halfway, north south, between Calexico near the Mexican border, and Las Vegas. And it seems that’s where we're headed to see if we can stir up some trouble between Beltran Corrado, his troops, and Jefe Grande and his.
I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to the opportunity.
Skip and Wally are laughing and packing their faces with chow and paying little attention to us. "When?" I ask Pax.
"Tomorrow...supper time. Jefe says he wants Corrado there at seven and they’ll have a meal and talk about a few things. He said he didn’t want to talk on the phone, or via email, and he wants good old Beltran to come alone. After supper he says they’ll go out to the usual place to divvy up this month’s take. He says he has to go to Hermosillo so he can’t make their usual meeting just after the first. Of course all this was in code."
"Fat fuckin’ chance he’ll be alone," I say, with a smile. Then add, "I want to be there by noon. No mention by Jefe of Beltran’s new house or gambling losses?"
"Not a whisper. Jefe is playing it cool. But I did pick up an email from his computer in Calexico to one in Hermosillo with something about a thieving lieutenant…so I think the fat is definitely in the proverbial fire."
"Any idea how much dough is involved in 'this month's take'?"
Pax shrugs, "A lot, I imagine."
"Can you dig deeper and find the so-called 'usual place'?"
"I'm digging, I'm digging. Can I finish my fish first?"
"Yeah, then go fishing for 'the usual place.' And I'll head for the mini-storage. This might just be a job for my new toy."
"The Quadcopter and its passenger the GoPro?"
"Right on. You're not the only tech savvy cat in town…and it's time to dig out the SASS,…the XM110." Then I interrupt Wally and Skip, who are discussing some classic book. "Wally, we're leaving town for a while, and you can't go—"
"And I was just starting to like you guys."
"Good, but you still can't go with us. I want you out of town, and I want to put you on the plane. I hope these guys have forgotten about you since we've been shaking their tree, but we can't take the chance."
"My granny's in Miami, but I'd rather—"
"Make a reservation to get a plane out of here. Tonight or in the morning before ten…you have to be gone before ten A.M."
She turns to Pax. "Can I borrow a computer?"
"You can borrow the use of one."
"You are a techy type. That's what I meant."
"Follow me if you're finished eating."
She gives him a demure smile and a shrug. "I have KP."
Skip, being the gentleman he is, jumps up. "I got it covered."
She rises from her seat and gives him a smack on the cheek as she passes, following Pax out. My Vette is parked out back since Pax drove it here after dropping us off at Wally's, so I head over to the mini-storage and retrieve my Quadcopter.
The Phantom Quadcopter is a four-prop two-foot square remotely controlled flying machine with four rotors and a mount on its belly for a GoPro video camera, with night vision. It has some small limitations, as it's Wi-Fi controlled and you can't operate the helicopter and the video camera's Wi-Fi at the same time, as they interfere with each other, so no real time observation is possible, but you can fly it and record, then return it and view the video. It will fly ten meters per second horizontally with vertical speeds of six meters per second. I wish it looked like a turkey vulture so it wasn't so noticeable, but that's an incarnation yet to become available.
Even if spotted, it's a little disconcerting to know some unseen enemy is watching you. Drones send chills down the backs of those involved in illicit activities.
The SASS, semi-auto sniper system, XM110 is my pride and joy. Like my Model 70, which I just deep sixed, she's a .308 caliber, but this baby is semi-auto, carries a twenty round detachable magazine, a detachable scope and I have both daylight and night vision versions. A modified version of the SASS won the U.S. Army semi-auto rifle competition and the Marine Corps adopted her as the Mark 11 Model O. I bought mine civilian, and had to pick up on the black market a quick-detachable silencer, which also serves as a flash suppressor. The rifle is legal, but the silencer and flash suppressor are not.
Nor is the two pounds of plastic explosive, timed and/or signal activated detonators, and ten feet of det cord I carefully pack in a small cold box, covered with cans of Coke and Gatorade. The plastic is divided into four packages, and taking a page out of the Taliban's book, I've set them each up with not only timers but cell phone activators. Now, presuming we have cell service at Vidal Junction, I can be as deadly as some Haji assassin.
I load all the above, plus four extra magazines for each of the rifles and am back at Pax's apartment, where I've agreed to meet my buds, just in time to see them pulling the Jeep into the garage.
Wally is busy mixing a shaker of martinis by the time I get parked and inside. I'll have only one as will Pax, and we'll both watch Skip to make sure he doesn't dull his mind. I need everyone at their very best.
"When do I take you to McCarran?" I ask Wally.
She pouts. "You seem anxious to get rid of me."
"Not anxious, eager to make sure you're safely out of harm's way."
"And just what do you boys have planned that requires me to be in faraway Florida?"
I laugh. "Some things you're better off not knowing."
"That ba
d?"
"With luck it'll be bad for someone, but not us."
23
Wally gets very serious. "You know how much I appreciate what you've done."
"My pleasure," I respond. "And I mean that. You're not only a beautiful woman, but also a productive citizen. To be truthful, I had my doubts about you as you were running with a married guy, who I got to believe was and is a scumbag."
She looks a little sheepish. "You know, you don't always get to know someone for a while. He was a very, very good liar, and the first I knew of him being married was when he called me to tell me he was going to be missing for a long while. At least he called me. Of course, had it not been for him, I guess these cartel guys would have no interest in me."
"They want to scare him into not testifying, but now that his uncles have expired they may not have as much interest in him. Still, anyone who might be considered by the cartel to be close to him is at risk. I believe none of this is really your fault. Like his wife, you are a beautiful woman. And not the first one to be lied to by a married man."
She blushes. "Why thank you, sir." Then she gets serious again. "Mike, kill all those bastards if you get the chance, and now that I know more about him, I don't care if Raoul is one of them who bites the bullet."
"I don't much give a damn about Raoul…his daughter is another matter altogether. I'm only after four of them, and I have reason to believe that two of them have already bought the farm…but more may get in the way. But like I said, what you don't know is to your advantage and you already know too much. Now, when do I take you to the airport?"
"I have an eleven o'clock flight, so I need to be there by nine or so. I have to leave in a half hour. Skip's agreed to drive me…and wouldn't even take me to get some things from the condo."
"Skip was right to stay away from there. You got a purse full of credit cards." I turn to Skip. "Keep it to one martini, buddy. I need you tomorrow and these Nevada cops are getting tough on the DUI scene. No drop off. Park it and see her all the way to security." He gives me a hard look, and I know he's a little pissed about being chastised about the booze, and even more pissed about not being able to breath out of his puffed up nose, but he nods, and I turn back to her. "Fly safe."