by L. J. Martin
"Insurance will cover it."
"No theft insurance, just liability. This doofus has so much of the public’s initial offering money, he paid cash for it. So no requirement I guess."
That makes me smile. "Sounds like at least three mil."
"I'll have a full file on him, the plane, his employees and relatives down to third cousins when you get back. So, get back here safe and ready to make me a pile of dough."
"From your lips to God's ears, brother. I should wind this up in a couple of days, with luck."
"Stay well. Stay alive. Get me some prints," he says and rings off.
Since I'm already on the phone, I dial Tony DiAngelo, who's only across the room, but neither of us wants to be seen with the other.
"What's up?" he answers.
"I'm off to visit a fun place this P.M. You going, or is your…." I start to say blood-lust satisfied, but I am talking on a cell, so I refrain, "…Yourself available, or do you want to pass?"
"Meet me out back. I'll go through the kitchen. You go out the front."
"Yes, sir," I say and act like I'm still talking after he rings off.
My van is only two parking places from the front door, so I drive, and by the time I get around and into the alley, Tony is waiting by the dumpster.
He doesn't bother with a howdy. "I'm going, but I'm driving myself. It’s time I started distancing myself from the very, very illegal side of this crap."
I have to chuckle. "Hell, seems like we were defending ourselves last night."
He shakes his head, seemingly a little astonished, "Yeah, blowing a retreating vehicle half way to the friggin' moon is definitely self-defense."
I shrug and can't help but smile. "Well, there is that." Then I get serious. "You having second thoughts?"
"No, I'm not. I want Amber's soul to rest in peace, if at all possible—just not while I'm doing twenty-five to life in a place where ex-cops have to be in solitary for the duration. By the way, I registered you with the department as a confidential informant, so we have some reason to be talking back and forth."
I reach into the glove compartment and dig out a handheld radio. "That's fine, but still, better we don't use the cell phone. My tech guys have rigged these to a channel that's not on the normal scans, so we can talk freely. I've got some homework to do, then I'll call you on the cell. Subtract three hours from any time I mention, and that's when I'll be here." I hand him a note with a map to the Quonset huts. "When you get within three or four miles, turn on your radio. Leave your cell phone in your desk, just in case anyone wants to track your whereabouts via it."
He nods.
So, I continue. "Let's clean this place up." I head out of the alley for the camper.
I've been remiss in not tagging this guy Nickleston's car with a tracking device, so I look up the offices of Bakken Production and head north on One hundred Thirty-sixth, and am not surprised to find it's only about a mile past the turnoff to the doublewide trailer he owns and some of the scumbags occupy.
BP's office appears to be a remodeled school building; one that might have had half a dozen classrooms at one time. There's even a bell tower over the entry.
I drive around to the back of the building where a number of vehicles are parked. There are a dozen tan trucks, all crew cabs, most GMC's, and a few cars, both company vehicles and private ones. But there's only one crew cab, tan truck with a camper shell on the back, and it's one of only four that appears brand new.
There's a parking space right beside it, so I slide in even though I can see that the concrete bumper in front of the space has a name on it. I don't plan to be here long. I slide across into the passenger bucket seat of the van and study Nickleston's truck for a moment.
From my elevated view in the van, I can see there's a Coke can in the holder and a couple on the floor. I step out, open his door and gather up three Coke cans and a couple of cigarette butts out of the ashtray.
I then circle the van, climb back into the driver's seat and start it up. As I'm backing out, some old boy with a puss gut runs out of the back door of the building shouting at me.
I presume Nickleston's office faces the rear, and he saw me burgling his car. As I slip the van in gear, he hits the end of the walkway and slips on the icy walk, tries to recover, then his feet go out from under him, and he hits flat on his back, hard.
It's the first good laugh I've had since well before the humor went out of my life as I held Amber's head in my lap and stared into formerly beautiful blue eyes, now gone glassy.
He's trying to get up as I make the turn at the end of the building. It's childish, but I can't help but give him the finger as I disappear from view.
I drive straight to a pack-and-ship and get a strange look from the clerk when I buy an overnight Fed Ex box, stuff it with the garbage from Nickleston's truck, and spend almost fifty bucks to ship it overnight to Las Vegas. It's all I can do not to talk in tongues to the kid so he's absolutely convinced I'm a fruitcake, but instead I wish him a merry Christmas and head out.
It's time to check out the Wells Cargo trailer and see what I might need to make the world come to an end for a gaggle of scumbags.
26
This time I might just have the opportunity to get in some sniper work. When you may be up against multiple enemies, it's imperative you give yourself all the advantage you can. And distance. When guys are shooting short-barreled weapons such as automatic pistols, and short-range weapons such as shotguns and most pistols, distance is an advantage. Particularly when you have a SASS, a semiauto sniper system.
I was unable to find a Marine Corps model after having to deep six my last one, but I found the US Army XM110 Semiautomatic Sniper Rifle with daylight telescope sight, night vision telescope sight, bipod, and quick-detachable sound suppressor. It's painted in desert camo, but where I plan to set up is amongst the fallen branches of a cottonwood, so it should be fine.
Trying to determine who might be at this surfeit of skunks, and deciding that it should be at the minimum a half-dozen Russians—Bogdan the bear; Vasily aka V-1 and Vlad; Victor, aka V-2; Luthor with the missing ear lobe; and maybe other assholes I've yet to meet—and of course Alverado Cenzano, aka Big Al and Two Cents; and Guillermo Soto aka Tamale—I take six clips of .308's.
I've replaced the short barrel on both of the Colt M4's. I take them and another six sets of two thirty-round clips taped together. The spare is in case I tie up with Tony and he wants to go the fully auto route again. I load my belt, my battle rattle, with three flash grenades and three concussion grenades, but doubt if I'll have use for them. Crashing into a room is one thing, but crashing into a Quonset hut that's over a hundred feet long and probably open the whole way is another thing altogether—particularly when it's full of armed a-holes. On one thigh, I'll have a .40 cal Glock with three extra clips and on the other, my combat knife—not that I can imagine getting close enough to use it. As this may be going into the jaws of hell, I also load my Kevlar body armor and MICH Level IIIA Advanced Combat Ballistic Helmet, also Kevlar.
Should my former Marine staff sergeant be watching, I'm sure he'd be a little surprised to see me dig in a cabinet, retrieve a pretty little yellow and green teddy bear, and put it with my load of goodies.
I don't dress all in white but load my snow gear in the van. I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Locking things back up, I head for the driver's seat of the van and hear the doors on the bus next door open and close. I move around to see Curly's skank heading for a Subaru wagon and give her a yell, just to satisfy my curiosity if nothing else, "Hey, beautiful. Is Curly home?"
"Yeah, he's inside, suckin' on a beer as usual."
I wave, walk over and beat on the doors, and he opens them and stands there in a rag of a robe, sweat socks, and Uggs, looking like a refugee from Bergen-Belsen Nazi concentration camp with his long hair, sunken cheeks, and sallow complexion. "Wha's up?" he asks.
"I got a few errands to run, but then I'll be back here, about six, with some piz
zas and a six-pack. You guys gonna be around?"
"Shit yea," he says and gives me a smile flashing yellow teeth.
"Cool," I say and head for the van. The skank is standing by the Subaru. I guess she’s curious why I'm coming to see Curly. I hear him yell at her as I climb into the van, "Who the fuck was that," and laugh as I realize I'm sans the blonde hair, beard, and mustache.
"Our neighbor…I think," she answers, as I fire up the van and head out.
Obviously Curly's not in the inner circle of scum bags if he's not invited to the meeting.
It's only mid-afternoon. I'm sure as hell not hungry. I had a fat meatball sandwich and bowl of zuppa trippa and ate it all only a couple of hours ago. Nonetheless, I stop at Wildcat Pizza and order six of the mondo size—three meatatarian and three Hawaiian—and blow one hundred thirty-five bucks, which is maybe a little more than enough for my supper—but I have a plan for them.
I stop in an alley near the edge of town, dig in the back of the van for my pizza coveralls and pull them on over my Kevlar vest and Kevlar ice skater's leggings. Then I apply my magnetic red and green stripes to the white van and a Rollie's Pizza & Chicken sign, in stylish red and green, to each side of the truck. I leave my red and green hat, with a yellow plastic simulated chicken's beak for a brim, in the passenger seat. The leggings I only use when I think I might be going into a hail of gunfire, but they do offer some protection. If you get a femoral artery blown out, it's about as final as center chest. Originally designed for ice skating speed racers to keep them from being cut up when they tangle with another racer and go down, the leggings serve my purpose almost as well.
There's no question a guy would have to be a fool to take on a dozen guys if he could avoid it, particularly when they're well-trained and well-armed. I have no idea what kind of training these guys might have had, but have no doubt they're well-armed—not as well as I am, but even a dozen badly armed guys can get lucky.
Before I head out, I make a phone call to Tony DiAngelo and ask if he's coming to the party at 9:00 p.m., three hours later than the actual starting time of the meeting. I hope he remembers to subtract three hours as I instructed. I can hear music and laughter in the background as we talk, and I presume he's at his pop's restaurant—and staying sober.
It's one of those gray days where the horizon disappears into the snow-covered hills. It's almost impossible to tell where hills end and sky begins, but at least it's not snowing. That would preclude the use of a long-distance weapon.
I'm in no hurry, so I dial up a little easy listening on the Sirius and take it slow and easy on the icy roads. Again, I get a little Katy Perry. Her Roar talks about the eye of the tiger. I decide it's time to get in that frame of mind.
The weather's holding when I reach the section of land with the Quonset huts in its middle, and I decide to drive the perimeter and do. The slight indentation of my tracks is still in the grove of box elders, and the snow is only a little deeper than it was the last time I was here, so I figure I can safely park there again. I make the full circle, passing the gate and driveway to the Quonsets and note that there's not another gate, other than a couple of barbwire pull gates, anywhere in the perimeter of the place. The swing gate at the driveway stands open, to my surprise. There are a number of vehicle tire tracks already leading into the place, and I note a black Hummer parked a couple of hundred yards up the driveway, off to the side. It's running, obviously, judging from the exhaust billowing into the cold. The windows are so dark I can't make out how many guys are checking who comes to the party.
I make another circle, only this time I stop out of sight of the Hummer, a quarter mile back from the gate, opposite the way cars might be coming from town and wait. I have one more piece of biz before I roll up the driveway. I reach into the glove department and grab the walrus mustache I've stowed there and use the makeup glue and mirror to attach it. That, and the hat with the yellow chicken beak bill, and a pair of wide-rimmed black eyeglasses, and I look like a pure dork trying to make an extra buck fighting the snow and ice to deliver pizza fifteen miles out of town. What a way to make a living!
The sun soon disappears behind me, and I check my watch. It's fifteen to six, and dark, and I, for the fourth time, check my handheld radio to make sure it's turned on. It is, and I still haven't heard from DiAngelo. Where the fuck is he?
In another fifteen minutes, I say “fuck it” to myself and fire up the van, pull it into drive and head for the gate. It's time to do a little serious close-up recon, even if I have no backup.
27
I turn into the driveway and see that the Hummer is still parked at the edge of the lane and still running. As I near, some no-neck in an oversize pair of ski bibs climbs out and walks to the center of the lane, carrying a combat shotgun. I wave like some Dudley-dumb-shit and stop and roll the window down, and he waddles up to the front fender and yells at me.
"You lost?" he asks, and I realize he has a bit of a lisp.
"Hell no," I say, "I been looking all over for this place. Two Quonset huts and a big party, right?"
He's one of those guys whose nose is half the width of his face, but turned up a little hog-like, and his brows are deep and low—shades of Neanderthal cave dwellers. He has a smoking cigarillo in the hand not holding the shotgun, with both hands in mittens. If he's not locked and loaded, he's easily taken, but then the passenger-side Hummer door opens and some equally ugly, this time cocoa brown cat—I think Samoan defensive tackle—holding another combat shotgun, stares at me through the crack between door and windshield and rests the barrel of the shotgun there.
I've got to talk my way past these assholes. Luckily, the pizzas are on the passenger seat. I reach over, open a box and take half a Hawaiian, fold it in half, and hand it out the window. "I bet you guys are ready for a slice?" I ask with a stupid grin.
The Neanderthal turns to the guy in the truck and yells, "Did Two Cents or Luthor say anything about a pizza guy?"
I watch carefully as the guy in the truck sets his shotgun aside and dismounts. As he rounds the door, he yells back, "No, but he said there'd be pizza and beer, and I didn't see no pizza ovens in there. I want half of that, you fucker."
The Neanderthal puts the cigar in his mouth, reaches over and takes the half pizza out of my hand as I continue the stupid grin and idle the van away. As I do so, I hear a yell behind me, but it's not "stop," it's "hey, where's the fucking beer?" I ignore him and roll on. Topping a rise, a hundred yards beyond the Hummer, I see the Quonset huts in the distance, and surrounding them in front are a dozen vehicles. As I get closer, I see that one of them is a black Ford Expedition.
These guys are pretty serious about security. I get close enough for my headlights to sweep the front of the huts. I see another guy outside the door, standing slapping his hands together and holding a machine pistol, an Uzi maybe.
I stop, reach over and run a finger inside a small tear in the back of teddy and flip a switch on the battery-powered microphone located there.
I double park behind a row of cars and trucks facing in toward the huts and climb out carrying the pizza boxes.
"What the fuck," the guy at the door says, but he doesn't raise his Uzi to cut down a guy in a hat that makes him look like Charley the Chicken.
I yell with confidence I don't quite feel. "Pizza man, catch the door, will you?"
This guy doesn't look like he's gotten his doctoral degree from Harvard, but he does mind well. He's looking a little confused, but opens the door for me, and I sweep inside to see a forty-foot-wide Quonset hut, with some bunk beds, a heater made from a fifty-gallon drum on edge, a cord of split wood stacked behind, a couple of rooms eighty feet away which are probably a kitchen and a shower room and bath, at least eighteen guys and, I'm sorry to say, six women—and even sorrier to note that I know one of them.
The colorful Vanna White, still with canary yellow legs.
The girls are all lined up perpendicular to the head table and don't look happy. In fact, no
one does.
There's a couple of folding tables like you'd find in a school cafeteria, one of which supports a pony keg of beer in a half barrel lined with ice, and a dozen medium-size pizza boxes. The tightwads. There are at least two dozen folding chairs with their backs to me, facing another folding table where four guys are plopped on folding chairs. I can see that one of them is Two Cents, one is the stubby-eared Luthor, and two of the Russians, the Bear and one of the V boys.
A guy I've never seen hustles over and, not kindly, puts a hand in the middle of my chest before I reach the pizza table.
"Hey, we got our pizza, motherfucker. What's this?"
"Don't know, sir. It's paid for." He eases up, except for the deeply furrowed brows. I plop the boxes on the table among the others and hand him the bear.
"Free teddy bear with every four large pizzas."
"Get the fuck out of here," he says and gives me a push.
I stop a little out of his reach and look heartbroken. "Give the bear to one of your kids." Then I look even more crestfallen. "Fifteen miles and no tip?"
"Get the fuck…" he starts to say, but I spin on my heel and head for the door. It's a good thing I do as my walrus mustache is half falling off. I pat it back into place as I head out the door and pass the guard.
Over my shoulder, I snap at the guy, "Great pizza and those fucking tightwads got no tip for me."
He yells after me. "I got a tip for you. Get the fuck out of here."
I wave over my shoulder, fire up the van, pass the Hummer at about twenty miles an hour, sliding from side to side, blowing snow and mud out behind the van and am soon on the country lane and out of sight. While inside I noted a gun rack on both sides of the hut, long arms, military style. I didn't want to stare, so only glanced, but there were at least two dozen, some I recognized as AK47's, and most of them with banana clips.
I turned the handheld radio off before I approached the Hummer in the first instance and now turn it back on and push the send. "Tony, where the hell are you?"