by L. J. Martin
"Then let's hit the second door."
"I'll open, you throw, then I'll go in first," I say.
"Fuck you. Me first. You got yours."
"Okay, I'll open, you throw, and after the blast, you go first."
"Cool," he says. The first guy is only half blocking the doorway, but his shotgun is still within his reach. I pop the light on and off quick enough to locate it, grab it up, and spin it across the aisle and under the railing of one of the stalls. He's staring into space and dead, if I ever saw dead. We put our backs to the wall on either side of the door. I'm happy to note they haven't locked it. I pop it open and drop even farther back, and it's a good thing I do, as an automatic stitches holes in the wallboard where I was leaning. Tony throws the flash grenade. We both turn away. In a count of three, the room lights up like the New Mexico desert when Fat Boy, our first atomic weapon, exploded and changed the world.
It's time for us to rock the world of whoever is inside. Tony goes in, firing indiscriminately, with four quick bursts, at anything looking human in the glare of his combat light.
There's nothing left for me to do, I realize, hearing nothing in return but moans. I find the wall switch and turn on an overhead light, at the same time sweep the room with the muzzle.
Amber is partially avenged.
Big John Broken Toes is on his back on the cold concrete floor, stitched with 5.56's from his belly to his throat, and he's not gurgling. Emmitt Radiston is on his back, on a bunk, holding his belly and moaning. He's also been hit in a thigh. He was not present when Amber was killed, so I cross the room, jerk his belt off, and put a tourniquet on near his crotch. It seems to stem the flow of blood.
"What the fuck are you doing," Tony asks.
"He wasn't there when Amber was shot. But we're not through. We’ve got two more doors, plus who knows who's in the room with the ladies."
"We'll get 'em," Tony snaps, "But this guy's a fucking witness."
"So are the women, and we're not doing them. They can haul his ass out, if he lives."
Speaking of hauling, I reach in his pants pockets and get a set of car keys, cross the room, search for the same with Broken Toes, but find none. Then I step back to the door and am going through Albert Many Horses pockets when a door at the far end of the barn slides open and a guy's outlined. A shotgun in his hands roars. With the quick glance I get, I recognize the short stocky body with the oddly twisted arm on one side, as he pauses in the doorway and fires. I hit the ground, and the shotgun roars again. Pellets cut the air over my head, and Tony ducks back into the room. It's the guy they call Lobo—the one seldom seen.
As I lower the weapon and push my way back to my feet, another guy sprints out of the darkness and through the door—a very big bald guy, a full head taller than the first. Speck's bodyguard. He lets fly with a couple of rounds from the .50 cal pistol he carries. It lights up the room with four-foot-long muzzle blasts and reverberates even more than the shotgun.
The door on the far end of the barn is an easy target, but I'm not fast enough as I was using the rifle to push my way to my feet.
"Fuck," Tony says, busts by me and runs to the other end of the barn seventy-five feet away, and I'm on my feet and after him. We both exit the barn carefully, into the blowing snow. I check for tracks and see that the guys have rounded the barn and are heading back to the far end. We sprint after them and get there just in time to see the candy apple red Caddy's taillights disappearing into the snowstorm.
"Goddamn it. Damn it. Damn it," Tony yells in frustration.
"Don't sweat it. Watch this," I say, pull my iPhone out of my coat pocket, dial a number, then punch in a code—my birthday. "Keep watching," I say.
Just as the Caddy crests the hill behind the barn, maybe three hundred yards from where we stand, the whole world lights up and, in the explosive flash, we see the Caddy lift off the ground, do a one-and-a-half in the air, and land on its roof. Then we see it again as it explodes, lighting up the world almost as bright as the first time, and it begins to burn.
"Jesus H. Christ," Tony mumbles. "I don't know how the fuck you did that, but good work. It sure as hell solves that problem."
I have to chuckle. "Don't thank me. Thank the Marine Corps demolition class at Pendleton."
But he's still out for blood "Let's see who's in the ladies’ room."
I follow him back inside through the Hollywood door, and he moves to the first door that the ladies peeked from.
We flank it. I reach out and try the knob. It's locked.
"Me first," I say, and he looks disgusted, but nods.
I show him that I have a flash grenade in hand, and he moves back from the door as I cock a foot and boot the door off its hinges. I toss the grenade in and scramble to the side. Again, on the count of three, the room does a Fat Boy light-up, and we charge in, panning the room with the combat lights. We see nothing but women.
A dozen women.
And the crescendo of their cries hurts my ears. I walk over and flip on the light to see them piled against the wall at the end of the room, shuddering, wailing. Some of them look even younger than fifteen.
"This must be the hooker wannabe dorm room," Tony says.
"Or more likely the human trafficking supermarket."
"But they looked out the door earlier. It's not like they were being held prisoner."
I nod, "Maybe, maybe not. Where would you go in this snow in your high heels?"
He concedes. "Point taken."
One of the women steps forward, and in decent, but accented English asks, "Are you going to kill us?"
"Why?" I reply through the ski mask, knowing she can't see my smile, "Have you done something to deserve killing?"
She shakes her head rapidly.
"Good, there's a man in the next room who might live if you get him to a hospital." I hand her the keys from the pockets of one of the two dead guys and from Emmitt's. It's a little hard to let a guy die when you've met his mother, even if she wants your balls floating in a martini glass. "You have two minutes to get outside, load up and get the hell out of here."
She turns and in rapid Russian yells at the other girls, who begin scrambling around, dragging on the warmest of what they have. In minutes they’re out the door. I yell after her. "Get the wounded guy." She grabs two of the girls, and, in moments, they're stumbling toward the Hollywood door, looking strained as hell, with one of Emmitt's meaty arms across each of their shoulders.
Tony and I go from room to room, making sure no one is left in the place. Then we go from stall to stall, discover bales of straw, and, behind them, bails of bricks of marijuana. More than two tons worth, I'd guess, as well as several kilos of coke and God knows what else.
I walk back to the Hollywood door and watch the car that had been parked beside the Caddy follow another that they must have gotten from the front of the place, head out the back way. They're hauling ass, slipping and sliding on the road that's now almost a foot deep in snow.
One of the stalls on the front end of the row is a makeshift shop. Inside it is a small generator. Beside the generator is a five-gallon can of gas.
I yell to Tony. "Let's make this end, then get the hell out of here."
He nods. I grab the gas can and start spreading fuel over the bales of straw.
"You got a match?" I yell at him.
"Don't smoke," he says.
"Check the pockets of the Indians. Both of them smoke like they’re sending signals back to the rez."
He does, and, in moments, is back beside me with a lighter.
"Haul ass to the van," he says, and I need no convincing.
Just as I hit the opening where the front sliding doors have been left open, I hear a "swoosh." Suddenly my shadow is cast in front of me.
"Fuck. Run." I hear behind me, but I'm already picking them up and putting them down.
We're half way back to town, enjoying the warmth of the van and some Katy Perry on the Sirius, when we see the taillights of the girls' cars
in front of us. I'm happy to slow down and let them lead me through the storm back to civilization.
As we drive, Tony continues to pick splinters out of bleeding holes in his face and neck. We're lucky it’s not buckshot. In fact, we're lucky we both have heads.
All considered, not a bad night's work. I glance at my watch to check the time and see the date. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve.
I hope we can give the world a present and get a few more assholes out of the gene pool.
24
It's too damn early when I hear a loud rap on my camper door. I pull on some boxers and peek out to see the two detectives from Williston PD who grilled me for hours. I open up.
"You guys start early," I say. "Not much room, but come on in out of the cold."
They don't sit.
"Late night for you?" one of them asks.
"A little. I hit DiAngelo up for breakfast and didn't get in until after three."
"You sure it wasn't about dawn?" he asks.
"Nope, just after three."
The second one says, his tone accusing, "Not much snow on that van outside."
I shrug. "I guess it didn't snow much between three and…" I pick up my phone and see it's eight thirty. "…and eight thirty. Is it snowing now?"
"No."
"Well, there you are. I'd offer you guys a cup of coffee, but there’s none made yet."
The first one snarls, "So you didn't take a trip a few miles northeast of town after you had breakfast?"
"Curled up in my jammies just after three, right there in that sack."
"Looks to me like you sleep in your boxers."
I decide to act a little disgusted. "I haven't had my eight hours of beauty sleep yet. I'll be happy to drop by the station this afternoon if you guys want to continue to have this homo conversation about how I sleep."
"Fuck you, Reardon," one of them says and leads the other one out the door without bothering with a bye-bye. They go to the bus next door—I'm sure to see if anyone can testify to what time my van pulled in. Fat chance of getting any info out of Curly and the skank, if the cops can even wake them. I'm sure, as usual, they're floating on a cloud in cannabis heaven.
I go back to bed.
After snoozing until ten, I get up and use some lady's fingernail polish remover to get rid of the blonde goatee, re-dye my hair and eyebrows back to dark brown, then hit the gym for a few quick reps, a shower and shave. It's good to be Mike Reardon again and not a blonde dumpster diver, particularly if Speck and the Indians have any friends looking for the guy who smoked Speck in Rosie's parking lot.
I have mixed emotions about leaving my truck, camper and Wells Cargo trailer where they're parked. But knowing that Speck and the Indians were not on the best of terms with the Russians, wonder if I'm not a hero to Two Cents, Curly, and that bunch. I hope they're too busy with their upcoming meeting, and with how they'll take over the Indians' territory, to worry much about me. But I'm sure that won't last long.
Just as I'm thinking of Two Cents, my phone buzzes. "Yeah," I answer in my normal polite manner.
"What the fuck, pendejo," Two Cents says then laughs, "you let a little shoot-out keep you from doing our deal?"
I laugh quietly in return. "Didn't think you'd want me leading the cops your way."
"No shit." Then he sounds a little suspicious. "How'd you get out of the can so quick?"
"My second cousin's a bondsman over in Wyoming. He made a deal with some local guy. I told them I took the gun I used away from one of the bad guys who was trying to rob us. They doubted it, but they bought it finally, ‘cause I didn't waiver." I don't mention that I had a holster on my belt and nobody would be so stupid as to miss that, but he doesn't know it either. All I said during our meeting in his Expedition was that I was carrying.
"How much bail?"
"Fifty g's. Cost my cousin five grand. But he knows I'm good for it."
His voice seems a little suspicious. "So, cual es tu pinche pedo?"
"Hey, I don't speak that shit."
"What's your fucking problem? What'd they bust you for?"
It's time to get creative. "Hey, that fucking cop the dead broad was with had a hard on for me ‘cause I walked out the same time she did. They put accessory to murder on the paperwork, but you know that's bullshit, and so do they. They just wanted to twist me up to see what I know."
"So, muchacha, what the fuck did you tell them?"
"Hey, I know enough fucking Spanglish to know I ain't no muchacha, muchacho."
He laughs gruffly. "So, what. You spill your guts on our deal?"
"We didn't do no deal, and I don't talk shit to no cops no matter how hard they come down."
He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "You still got the two grand to make the deal?"
"Sure, when?"
"Can't do it on credit no more. You in the crosshairs of the man. Too risky, pendejo. But you bring cash, you'll get the stash. I can give you a brick for two."
"I'll think about it."
"Don't think too long," he snarls and disconnects.
It's time to play catch-up, so I check my email and see that I do have a contract to pick up Speck. I have to laugh, as I farmed out the five grand Pax negotiated with the bondsman…but it was worth five grand to dust the son of a bitch.
I also get a fascinating report from Pax regarding the BP superintendent. There's nothing in his background, at least not so far, that would make us think he's a bad guy. Then, oops. It seems he's a slumlord. He owns all three properties that are frequented by the bad boys. The section west of town, the doublewide out off One hundred Thirty-sixth, and—I hope he's insured—the barn and eighty acres northeast of town that we just visited and burned to the ground. I no more than finish my e-mail when my phone buzzes again with Pax's ring.
"Wha's up?" I answer.
"Not the temperature," he says. "It's cold as hell here, below freezing last night," he complains.
"You're breaking my friggin' heart. I'm in North Dakota and you're telling me you're cold?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, the computers up your way have been buzzing since midnight. You been busy?"
I relate to him the events of the last twelve hours.
"You been busy," he concurs, then adds, "you know about this big meeting late today?"
"You get a time from any of your Trojan Horse work?"
"Best we can figure it's set for six o'clock. It's a peace treaty and reorganization, since a good part of the Indian contingency is out of the picture. The Russians are even bringing the pizza and beer." That gives me an idea, but I let him go on.
"And?" I ask.
"And it's in ‘the building next to the plant,' is the best I can get."
"There're two Quonset huts out west of town. You know the spot. One of them is a meth lab, and, I presume, 'the plant' in question. The meeting must be in the other. Text or call me when you know the Expedition is heading that way."
"You got it."
Just after noon, I head for DiAngelo's and a sausage sandwich, or maybe a bowl of that good tripe soup.
It's time to be well fed as it could be another long night. I have to presume this meeting is out of town in the Quonset hut, but it could be in the doublewide out off One hundred Thirty-sixth, or anywhere else. I hope it's not the doublewide as it appeared to be housing for the stable of girls; and the Quonset is a lab for the manufacture of meth. I don't want to have to worry about a bunch of poor Russian girls, who probably thought they were coming to America to become famous fashion models, getting caught up in the crossfire.
The place is packed and I have to wait, even for a seat at the bar, and am just finishing my sandwich about 1:30 p.m. when Tony comes in. I catch his glance, and note that he's sporting a couple of bandages on his cheeks and a couple on his neck. But other than that, he again looks like he just stepped out of GQ magazine.
He ignores me and finds a table against the wall. In seconds, his table is surrounded by townspeople offering their condo
lences and trying to get the story about what happened.
I see a copy of the local paper left on the bar and ask the bartender to bring it over, but I guess the incident out at the barn was too late to make the news. I glance up at a TV over the bar and see the camera panning the burned-out barn. I can't hear the audio, so I grab my phone, find an app for the local TV station, and read about the ongoing investigation into what's being described as a dope dealer war.
I don't smile, but want to.
25
As I'm reading, my phone buzzes and I have to abandon the story to answer. "Ola," I say, knowing from caller ID that it's Pax.
He doesn't bother with a greeting. "I can't get crap on this Nickleston guy other than the property ownership thing. But I know deep in my black little heart that there's more to this asshole. Get me some fingerprints."
"I'll make that happen. Anything else new?"
"Yeah, I saw Jennifer last night."
"Cool, I'm sure she asked about me, pining for my return."
"Actually, she was with some cat who's a pit boss where she works—all cuddled up and trading spit. She referred to you as a will-o’-the-wisp."
I'm a little disappointed. I had high hopes for the girl.
"I guess that's better than a limber dick." I at least get a laugh out of Pax. "There were no promises made nor commitments," I continue with some nonchalance I don't really feel. But I'll get over it.
"She looked a little embarrassed when she saw me, but I walked right up and stuck my hand out to the guy. He seemed like a decent dude."
"Good for her." I decide to change the subject. "Nothing else business wise?"
"Yeah, you got an e-mail from some dot com cat in Santa Barbara who's missing a G5 and the SBPD and the FBI and the CIA and the DEA and the FAA and CBS, NBC, ABC and every other acronym are stumped. I guess he worked his way down to the SOB at the bottom of the barrel."
"Yeah, FU you DS. Let's see, a fifty-million-dollar aircraft should be worth a tidy recovery fee."
"What's a DS?"
"Dipshit."
"The good news…" Pax continues without a retort, "…he said a mil, but I'm sure it's worth more to him."