by L. J. Martin
21
He eyes me with interest, then nods and says, "The van it is."
As we head for his car, I am not just a little surprised to see a familiar face. How many girls would be out in twenty-below weather, flashing open a down coat that hangs to her ankles, showing a pair of orange hot pants over yellow tights, with hair now bright orange contrasting nicely with her very dark skin? She's headed for the coffee shop, slipping and sliding across the icy parking lot, a red wool scarf wrapped around her face up to the eyes and over her head like she's a Muslim maiden.
"Vanna?" I call out, and she stops short and almost goes on her butt.
"Who dat?" she asks and moves closer.
"You remember me. We met at the truck stop in Billings." [He’s still in his disguise so how would she recognize him?]
"I meets lots of boys," she says and giggles.
"How's tricks?"
"Super, but I'd rather be in Billings or heading sout'. I 'bout to freeze my titties off. You knows what I mean?"
"What brought you back?"
"Man came got me."
She's been looking down but glances up, and I can see a puffed eye. "Speck punch you?" I ask.
"Yeah, he da daddy…but he send dat fat prick, Emmitt, to get me. He done punched me."
"Did he hurt you bad? Anything other than the black eye?"
"Been peeing some blood. Gots to go to the head."
I call after her as she hurries away, "I gotta go, but I'll be back." I pull a Repairman card out of my wallet—nothing but a phone number to an answering device owned by Pax and an e-mail address routed through India and Malta—hustle after her and hand it to her. "Vanna, you call me. I'm gonna help you get where it's warm."
She nods and smiles, and I think but don't say, and you're gonna help me get rid of a bunch of Russian scum.
"Let's get it done," Tony yells, and I hustle to the Chevy.
As soon as I get seated, I go to my iPhone, look up the recents on Driving Directions and get the route started again. As we drive out to the northeast, to the old farmhouse where Pax had tracked Speck's phone, I try to make sense of the mess of bad guys. It'll help if I bounce it off someone else. Who knows what DiAngelo knows that he has yet to share?
So, I start to ramble. "I met Speck when I first walked in Rosie's. He was with some big bald dude who we haven't made…."
"Augie Romanski. I've got a folder on him. He's nothing but dumb muscle, but he carries a cannon, one of those .50 cal monstrosities."
"Then I tangled up with the Indians, and this guy, Emmitt, Maggie the bartender's son."
He laughs and cuts his eyes to me as he drives. "Yeah, I got the word you busted his nose and creased the skull of his two Indian buddies."
"The assholes were trying to bust into my trailer, right in the parking lot at Rosie's. And then I stumbled into the boy in the Jesus Loves Me bus, Curly, and his two buddies, Al and Tamale. To be truthful, I think my employer had a good idea that some bad shit was going down where it was suggested…” (I don't tell him that Owens-McKittrick was paying my rent on one of their properties) "…that I stay where I'm parking my camper."
"I know exactly where you're parked and who else is resident on that lot."
I shrug. "Good for you. Anyway, then there's the Russians this guy Al, Two Cents is his nickname, is tied up with."
"Two Cents, how'd you find that out? We haven't been able to make the guy."
"A bad, bad boy who escaped from Atascadero State Mental Hospital in California. You can pick him up anytime, but the world would be a better place if he pulled a gun on someone who was legally carrying, like you or me, and the state was spared the expense of a trial and three hots and cot for the rest of his days."
He merely nods and by the way his jaw clamps, I'm sure he agrees totally. Then he asks, "What got him locked in the loony bin?"
"Rape and murder, in the worst way. One of his rape vics was over seventy years old."
"Too bad about him getting the shit shot out of him," he says, again shaking his head.
"Yeah, too bad, now to actually make it happen." His jaw clamps even tighter, and I can see he means to do just that. So, I hope to bring it all together and ask, "Anyway so how does this all tie in?"
"And it does. At least I'm starting to put it together. The Indians, led by Speck who's a white-eye, rent girls from the Russians. The Russians buy dope—Mexican brown, marijuana and coke—wholesale from the Indians who have ties all the way to Mexico. And the Ruskies manufacture meth somewhere nearby. They are at odds; but they need each other. The Indians and the Russians have the town and the counties around divided up. The Indians have everything south of Fifteenth; the Russians have everything north. They’ve separated the counties into territories. There's a guy, a guy with a twisted arm, and he’s in place with the Indians, put there by the Russians, to watch them. The Indians know exactly what's going on and put up with him. You don't see him hanging with them, but he's around during any major transaction. He's the Ruskies’ eye-in-the-sky. And he's a bad sonofabitch. We think he's the Russians' major enforcer. His nickname is Lobo."
I'm nodding my head as it seems to make sense. "So, what was the big conflict in Rosie's all about?"
"A couple of the Russians, that big ugly fuck they call the Bear and one they call Vasily, beat the crap out of the girl we checked out in the morgue. She was on duty for the Indians at the time, and they recruited her out of Seattle. It was a minor spat as far as all those pricks are concerned. I've got a CI who hangs at Rosie's. I got him aside after I failed in my pursuit and returned to the parking lot. He says there's a major meeting somewhere tomorrow late afternoon."
I nod knowingly, and he asks, "Okay, someplace else you didn't mention?"
"Yeah, a couple of Quonset huts in the middle of a section of snow-covered fallow ground. There's a major meth operation there. It's on top of my hit list."
"Okay, now we're getting somewhere."
"What do you have on a suit—a guy who's a field superintendent for Bakken Production—name of Nickleston?"
"Never heard of the guy."
"Speck met with him for a nice long private talk out of earshot of others. I'm waiting for some background on the guy."
"I'll be interested."
My van, thank God, is in Rosie's parking lot where it was left, sitting cold and lonely, covered with new-fallen snow.
I invite DiAngelo in the back. He sits on my narrow bunk while I go to the cabinet over my tiny sink and find the two levers that allow it to swing away from the panel behind, where a pair of fully automatic Colt M4's await. This is the same rifle I carried in Iraq, except these two have been modified even more than the original was from the M16. The weapon is only thirty-three inches with the stock fully extended, and these are configured so the stock folds away. That and a shortened barrel—from fourteen and a half inches to seven and a quarter inches, only a half inch in front of the foresight, leaving just enough to thread for suppressors—make it little more than an auto pistol. She's not as good beyond two hundred yards as she once was, but great in tight quarters. Under where DiAngelo sits is a long reaching .308 semiauto sniper rifle for distance work, a SASS or semiauto sniper system, but I doubt if that'll be needed tonight as the snow will inhibit any long-distance shooting, even with the night vision scope.
The M4's both have combat lights mounted on the muzzles and Sightmark battle sights for quick target acquisition.
He whistles like he's eyeing a long-legged blonde when I hand one over. "Fully auto," I say, then reach back into the hidey-hole behind the cabinet and fish out two canvas bags, each holding six thirty-shot clips that have been taped together in twos. I hand him one of those as well. "Don't hold the trigger down. At almost a thousand rounds a minute, you'll eat up those hundred eighty rounds in a couple of heartbeats. I point at the rapid-fire switch. "I suggest you set her for three round bursts."
"I wish we had these at the department," he says, eyeing the weapon with som
e admiration.
I dig into the cabinet under the sink, hit another pair of tiny levers, and the side pops open, revealing another hideout spot. I hand him a pair of grenades. "Flash grenades. They'll give us a few seconds advantage, if we have to charge in after these pricks."
"Those I've used," he says.
"You got extra clips for your sidearm?" I ask, as I recover a combat thigh holster for mine and strap it on.
"Two. Each with fifteen, plus a fifteen-shot clip in the weapon, and one in the hole."
"Great. Me, too. You ready to rock and roll?"
22
I can see the determination in DiAngelo's dark eyes. "I've been ready. Now I'm even more ready."
We've got a twenty-mile drive and drive it in silence. It's snowing lightly, and he's having to pay attention to the road. "How much farther?" he asks.
I check the driving directions on my phone. "Two miles. You still up for this? Chances are this playbook is not in the Williston PD good-cop manual."
"I guess if there are no witnesses except those of us who are culpable, the playbook is what we say it is."
"I doubt if we'll want to hang around to have to explain anything. That work for you?"
"Anything about what? I'm home in the sack getting my beauty rest. And I dropped you off to pick up your van after we'd talked a couple of hours."
"Just in case there's anyone inside who's innocent, who stays alive, I've got full-face ski masks and suggest you wear one. Wouldn't want you to get frostbite—or recognized."
"I've got a knit cap in my pocket, but full face is way better."
I dig under my seat, and next to the tire spikes I use to throw out behind me and flatten tires in case I'm being pursued, I find the face masks and hand one over.
But I keep up the caution. "If we walk away from this and don't get back to the trailer, these two beautiful weapons will have to find a resting place at the bottom of the Muddy River. We throw a lot of brass and don't want it to come back to us."
"That we can do," he says. "But why only if we don't get back to your trailer."
"I got wise and have extra barrels and firing pins for them. New barrels, new markings on the bullets. New pins, new markings on the casings. They might tie the casings to the chamber, but what kind of proof is it if the bullets and pin strikes don't match? The snow's getting worse. Good. It's good cover."
In another few minutes, we're at the gate that’s, again, locked with a simple master lock. Once again, under the headlights of the van, I quickly pick it.
I climb back into the driver's seat, and as we pull away, Tony asks, "I presume you were a B and E man before you went in the Corps?"
"I've picked a few locks in my time. All for good reason, of course."
"Of course," he repeats, then I hear the bolt being thrown on the M4 and caution him, "You know where the safety is?"
"Yep," he answers.
I pull off the two-track driveway before we reach the crest of the hill where we can be seen from the barn. I nose the van off, then back up so we're facing back the way we came. I turn off the headlights and back up and over the crest.
"Let's check this out," I suggest and stop. We dismount and walk to what's now the back of the van, facing downhill.
But the falling snow is thick enough that we can't make out the barn, and we see no lights.
"It's two hundred yards or so to the barn. Let's get a hundred yards closer, then go in on foot."
"Works for me," he says then asks, "Are we going in, or should we try and lure them out?"
"Let's let the quality of the lock on the door help determine that. I've got another trick you might not have seen."
"Okay, Houdini. Lay it on me."
I hold up my iPhone.
He shrugs. "So, an iPhone…."
"Yeah, but did you ever hear of the FLIR One?"
"Flyer?"
"Nope, this is a heat sensing app. There’s small hardware, as you can see, that wraps the iPhone much like a spare battery case—a visible-spectrum camera much like the very high-end ones the Military uses. This one's been ramped up by my tech buddies and is even more sensitive. The good news? It's not forty grand or even four, it's more like three hundred fifty bucks."
"So, we can see through the walls?"
I laugh low and am straining to see as I back closer to the barn. "Well, you can't peek at the girls in the locker room, but you can outline warm bodies, particularly if they're close to the outside walls. Not only that, you can video record the session. It was actually developed for uses like detecting insulation leaks. It's good for a one-tenth-degree difference in temperature detection."
"Amazing."
"If you can thunk it, someone somewhere can dunk it."
He's ready, even eager. "Let's put it to work."
We're a hundred yards away, and I can only make out an outline of the structure in the snow-occluded moonlight.
I motion to him, show him that I've placed the keys under the driver's seat, and we're out in the cold and moving toward the barn. Two vehicles are parked near the big double doors in front of the barn, and I can make out a couple more near the rear, but have no idea of make and model, or even color, as all are white, snow and frost-covered.
I speak as low as possible to be heard over the wind, which is beginning to moan a little as the snow is getting thicker. "You watch our six. I'll have to concentrate on the screen."
Switching on the unit, we begin to slowly work our way along the length of the building, letting the FLIR do its work. I make out nothing, then pull up and study the screen as I'm getting a bright red image.
"Somebody?" Tony whispers.
"No, a water heater."
It's about a hundred feet on the long sidewalls of the barn, and maybe the building is fifty or sixty feet wide. Just after we pass the midpoint where the water heater was seen, I get another reading, and this time I think it's human. I show Tony the long horizontal reading, about bed height from the floor.
He smiles tightly. "Some big fat fuck. I'm surprised we can't hear him snoring, or snortin' like a hippo."
We move on and, in six feet, get another reading. He smiles again. "Another big som'bitch. I think we've scored."
But we're not through. As we near the end, we spot two more; one I'd guess at only five feet in length, one just a little longer, probably working girls the boys have stashed here. Then I realize they're stacked—bunk beds. There are two sets next to the outside walls.
As we turn the corner at the rear of the barn, we see two more vehicles. I walk to one I think I recognize and wipe the snow away enough to see, even in the dim light, a candy apple red color. I'm pretty sure Speck is in the morgue as I saw the meat wagon haul him off from Rosie's parking lot, so, one of the other dipshits must have driven it here.
I think we've hit the jackpot.
There's another pair of vehicle-size barn doors on this end as well, but there's also a passage door. The barn doors seem to be barred from the inside as there's no lock, yet they're immobile. The passage door is the Hollywood type with a window in the top half. It's locked, but rather than pick it, and with the wind now howling and my hands gloved, I break the glass, reach in, and the lock pops when I turn the inside knob.
We stand quiet for a moment, just on the slight chance we've been heard. But nothing.
"Let's move," Tony says over my shoulder, and I shove the door open.
The alarm clangs loud enough to wake the dead in the next county and doesn't stop.
23
We bust inside at a run, panning our combat lights from side to side, then realize that, to our left, is a line of horse stalls—at least eight from front to back. On the right, with a twenty-foot aisle separating them, is a line of rooms. The one nearest our end is much the largest, if the spacing of the doors is any indicator.
"Cover in the stalls," I yell to Tony, who moves to the fourth stall and vaults the railings while I do the same in the second. We don't have to wait long. As t
he alarm is turned off, a light appears under the second door. The second door bursts open, light floods the aisle from that room, and some very big boy in a coat, no pants, and pull-on snow boots stumbles out. He has a pump shotgun in one hand and a handheld floodlight in the other. I've turned my muzzle-mounted combat light off, but Tony hasn't, and the guy swings the light Tony's way. Just as the door fills with another big boy, also with a weapon in hand, the first one pumps a shell in as he's raising the muzzle to follow his light.
We fire at the same time, the boy with the shotgun and me. Muzzle flashes light the big barn like disco strobes as I put a quick burst in him, then into the dark doorway with the second burst, but the second guy has faded back out of sight. I presume he's not hit as the light in the room goes out.
The first guy slams back against the doorjamb, falls slowly and tumbles on his face, unmoving.
There is at least one additional guy in the room, as I hear at least two shouting back and forth. Then the door to that room slams shut.
The first door opens as I turn my combat light back on and realign the muzzle to a new threat, but it’s women, as I suspected. The girl in the doorway, in a robe with bare feet, and two looking over her shoulder, are wide eyed.
I blind them with my muzzle-mounted combat light and yell, "Get back inside and get down." That door slams as well.
A burst from the shotgun went Tony's way, so I quickly move to his stall and yell, "Coming your way!" and get there to see him on his feet but picking splinters out of his face.
"Thought I was shot," he says and gives me a stupid grin, then growls, "Kill the light, you're blinding me." I redirect the light and my muzzle back to the second room and sweep down the bank of rooms making sure no other doors are opening. Then I kill my light again.
"One down," I say, as he works a slider on the stall door and this time walks out. "At least two to go."
"The first door opened for a second," he says.
"Women, as we thought. At least that's all I saw."