Shotgun Mine

by Jim Heskett

  As soon as he opened his car door, a set of headlights entered behind him. “Shit,” he muttered as he closed the car door. Beckett had a good reputation around these aging grunts with their bad knees and American flag bandannas. He showed up often enough that they’d accepted this town newcomer as one of their own. But he didn’t like the idea of these vets seeing him park here but not make it inside the VFW. That raised too many questions.

  He wasn’t above killing a grizzled vet or two to ensure they would collectively stay quiet. But he hoped he wouldn’t have to. Beckett had enough work keeping the operation on track, he didn’t need extra dead bodies complicating things.

  And he didn’t have to take action. As soon as the car parked, a fat man rumbled out of his car and toward the VFW entrance without even a single look in his direction. Apparently, they still had quite a lot of beer left over from a birthday party last weekend.

  Once the man had left without incident, Beckett entered the maintenance room and then moved the mop collection hiding the door. Through that, he walked along a darkened corridor until he reached the main lobby of the indoor climbing building, where he and the others gathered. This room had natural light via banks of skylights above, which helped, since the building itself had no power.

  Beckett sat the paper bag on the wobbly table next to the check-in desk. He noted a cluster of empty beer bottles sitting on a table near the water fountain. The men had tossed a few back here last night. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but things were so tenuous right now… they shouldn’t invite additional complications.

  Beckett needed this to go well.

  The bosses would see him growing and adapting to leadership, and they would treat him and his enterprises in Shotgun with the proper respect. No one had taken him seriously so far. Too young, too inexperienced. How was he supposed to gain experience when no one ever let him take charge?

  Beckett removed the sub from the bag and set it atop a napkin. Juicy meatballs leaned out of the side. For some reason, he thought of the head he’d been using for target practice at the hill.

  And he remembered he’d left it there.

  “Damn it, B,” he mumbled to himself. He considered driving back up to the hill north of town to grab it, but he had meetings this afternoon and had a slim window to enjoy this sandwich. Also, there were a couple of guys currently at the hill, discussing the logistics of moving large barrels up and down the mountain. They could scoop up that bloody mess for him.

  The door opened and Roscoe entered, small and unobtrusive, just like always.

  “Perfect,” Beckett said. “Just the man I was hoping to see.”

  “I’m here. What do you need?”

  “Can you ask our two friends at the hill to pick up our other friend’s head? I left it behind.”

  Roscoe gave a grim nod. “No problem.”

  “Why do you look like your dog just died?”

  “I have the results of Layne Parrish’s background check. I was going to call you, but I figured you’d be here.”

  “And?”

  Roscoe grimaced. “It’s one big, blank hole. Like he’s never had a credit card or any contact with law enforcement in his life.”

  “But that can’t be possible… can it?”

  “Correct, sir. It probably means he’s a government employee. CIA, FBI, maybe NSA. He has a credit score of 810, which seems a little hinky for someone with no credit history.”

  Beckett felt a crawl of unease working its way through his system. Nothing good could come from an NSA or FBI agent poking around their budding operation.

  “Any way you can confirm this?”

  “Not likely, sir.”

  Beckett quickly ran through scenarios in which he killed Layne Parrish. With so little info, it made predicting outcomes a challenge. Not impossible, but not a good idea for many reasons.

  And getting rid of him might only be the first crack in the dam. Soon, this town would be flooded with federal agents, and they would unravel the whole plan.

  That couldn’t happen. Beckett couldn’t fail. Everyone back in Denver already thought he was too impulsive and too reckless. No need to prove them right. Unfortunately, the leadership of the Disciples of the True America weren’t too fond of handing out second chances.

  “But,” Roscoe said, “even those guys usually leave some sort of paper trail. It’s much more likely that he worked for a covert special operations team. There wouldn’t be much reason for an FBI agent to wipe his history; it’s too extreme.”

  “Why do you say ‘worked,’ as in, past tense?”

  “Given his age, he’s probably retired. Most of those covert ops guys don’t make it past forty.”

  “Changes things, doesn’t it?”

  Roscoe shifted his weight, lips swishing back and forth. “Potentially. I just don’t have enough info yet.”

  Beckett studied the meatball sub, still feeling hungry, but his stomach had soured. “These retired special ops guys, do they still have access to government resources? Like looking up criminal records, ongoing investigations, satellites and that sort of thing?”

  Roscoe shrugged. “Like I said, potentially. No way to know for sure. I’m going to keep digging, but I had to call in a few favors just to get this much.”

  “But, bottom line… he’s not actively working for the government now.”

  “As far as I can tell.”

  “And if that’s true,” Beckett said, thinking through the logistics in real time, “if he disappeared, there wouldn’t much hoopla for a man who kinda doesn’t exist. Like, the government isn’t going to create a task force over the death of a non-government employee, or one they don’t acknowledge is a government employee, right?”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  Beckett adopted a grave look. “We can’t screw this up. We won’t get another chance after this.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Keep a close eye on George Parrish. He probably won’t talk, but we need to make sure.” He considered this a moment, his thoughts firing rapidly, trying to map out scenarios in his head. “How many extra guys did you request for Denver to send?”

  “You said a handful, so I asked for six.”

  Beckett turned toward the little slice of window not boarded up, watching the midday sun reflected off the windows of Main Street in Shotgun. A surprisingly blue sky day, but the burgeoning afternoon clouds were already peeking over the mountains.

  “Double it.”

  “Twelve? You want me to ask them to send twelve guys?”

  Beckett nodded. “And you have to make it seem like it’s routine. Like we’re just asking for extra help to keep the operation from running into snags. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do my best.” When Beckett eyed him, Roscoe stammered for a second. “I’ll get it done, sir. And what job am I supposed to put all these extra guys on?”

  “Killing our problematic mystery man. I don’t care what it takes, or what they have to do, but that becomes number one on everyone’s list. By this time tomorrow, I want Layne Parrish dead.”

  Part II

  East Mine, West Mine

  15

  Unfortunately, Layne couldn’t hear most of their conversation. He kept rooted to his spot, hiding behind the trunk of the maple tree. Instinct told him to find a better vantage point, but he couldn’t risk it. Moving from cover to cover would leave him too exposed for too long. If Layne had been wearing a white coat and white pants, maybe he could drop to his belly and crawl through the thin layer of snow covering the ground.

  Aside from the clusters of trees and boulder chunks around the hill’s main clearing, there weren’t many places to hide. In order to improve how well he could hear them, he would have to enter the clearing.

  But that wouldn’t work. He didn’t know what sort of weapons these two had, plus his head still vibrated from his losing fight with a rock. Lack of focus leads to mistakes. That phrase that popped into Layne’s head in moments of distre
ss, something one of his old teammates used to say.

  The two Disciples talked as they meandered in a circle around the clearing.

  So, Layne closed his eyes and concentrated, but he was only able to parse various bits and pieces. Not enough to build a profile of coherent conversation.

  He also kept his eyes closed because of the bullet-riddled severed head sitting in the grass in front of him. Based on the state of the flesh, Layne put the date of death at least a few days ago, but no more than a month. He wasn’t an expert at high-altitude decomposition.

  No way to tell the owner by looking, but Layne had a sneaking suspicion this might be the head of the man who had vanished in town. The one who had driven a truck to the hardware store, abandoned it, and then never appeared in town again.

  Layne couldn’t say for sure but he thought he saw the hint of an eagle tattoo near the man’s neckline. A small section of black that could have been a bird’s wing. The more Layne thought about the missing man, the more he leaned toward the conclusion that the Disciples hadn’t killed a local or a tourist, but one of their own. Either way, he decided to pilfer a couple of hairs to test the DNA. How Layne intended to do that, he wasn’t sure yet.

  As he was debating leaning over to take his sample, the conversation suddenly grew louder and more clear. They were walking in his direction. Layne prepared himself to flee or fight, but then the footsteps halted.

  “…get the barrels,” said the tall one.

  “But only if the trucks have chains or something,” said the stocky one. “You better believe I am not hauling those heavy-ass things myself if a truck can’t make it up the mountain.”

  “Too true, dude.”

  “And, to be honest, I’m not sure if he and Denver are on the same page.”

  “How so?”

  “Some of the ideas he has… sounds like he’s going against a lot of the things they used to tell us. Does that make sense?”

  “Not really.”

  One chuckled. “Well, I’m not dumb enough to get any more specific than that. But if it gets us to Shotgun Mine, then it’s worth it, right?”

  Layne perked up at the mention of this mythical Shotgun Mine. So far, it had all been conjecture. Here were two people on the inside, confirming the whispers and rumors Layne had heard so far. But why didn’t any of Layne’s friends and contacts know anything about it?

  Layne had already done the research to rule out an old mine that had its name changed. He had looked into other mines in the region, and none had ever used that particular name.

  But now, here they were, talking about it.

  “What do you mean if it 'gets us' there?”

  “It’s just a figure of speech. Shotgun Mine is a means to an end, not the actual end, right?” After a pause, the same man said, “Jeez. I don’t know why you have to be so literal all the time.”

  “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”

  “What people?”

  “Don’t worry about it…. Oh, wait. I just got a text from the boss.”

  Layne prepared himself to make a mental note of the name, but they stopped short of actually saying it.

  “What’s he want?”

  Now Layne knew it was a man, at least, but that didn’t help much. Layne had never even seen a female member of the Disciples before.

  “It says he left a head in the grass, about fifty yards west of the clearing.”

  Layne looked down at the head below him and gritted his teeth, prepared to run. If these men marched in his direction, Layne would only have a one or two second head start.

  “Is it…” asked the stocky one.

  “Yeah, it’s him.”

  Stocky guy sighed. “I wish they hadn’t killed him. I liked that guy. He made mistakes, sure, but he was fun to have around, you know?”

  “I do know, and I think you should keep your mouth shut about it.”

  Layne surveyed everything within eyesight, hoping to find another hiding spot he could transition to. But there was no place within sight he could access without revealing his current hiding spot. He did not want to have a gunfight with these two. Not in his current wounded state. His head felt way too foggy to aim a gun.

  “There’s more,” one of them said. “We have a new top priority.”

  “How many top priorities can we have? We’re already busting our balls getting everything ready for the day after tomorrow.”

  “George Parrish and Layne Parrish. These two are priorities one and two.”

  Layne pursed his lips at the mention of his name. It was only a matter of time before the Disciples found out Layne Parrish was investigating them. Apparently, less than twenty-four hours.

  “I know who George is, but who’s the other guy?”

  “His kid. Here, he sent a picture.”

  “Oh, that guy. Yeah, I saw him in town last night.”

  “Well, the boss put out a kill order on him. Also, a kill order on George, but only if Layne causes any trouble.”

  “Gotcha. Let’s go find that head. You got a bag or something?”

  “No.”

  “You want me to carry a rotting head in my hands?”

  Layne lost a couple seconds of their conversation as he steeled himself. He had to make a quick decision. Run? Kill these two? Would killing them mean an immediate death sentence for his father? It certainly didn’t advance his investigation, and could only end up hurting Layne.

  “I think it’s over there,” said the thin one. Shuffling of feet through grass. Voices growing louder.

  Layne pulled his hoodie up over his face, jerked the string tight, and then launched forward. As he moved, he snatched a chunk of hair from the head on the ground and then raced down the hill.

  Within half a second, gunshots and loud voices followed him, but he didn’t look back. He kept running until he found his car, then he jumped inside and burned rubber away from the hill.

  If Layne showed his face in town again, he and maybe his father would both end up dead.

  16

  Winnie Caldwell slowed as she neared the bottom of the Diamond Lake trail. She hadn’t hiked all the way up to the lake, because in the middle of the afternoon in October, it probably wouldn’t be frozen enough to walk on. A lot of the upper portions of the trail were too slick with fresh snow, anyway.

  Also, to the lake and back was an eight-mile round trip, and Winnie was a little too drunk to make the complete trek.

  She hadn’t intended to day drink while she still had work to do. She had set out to steal a quick hike up to the halfway point and back, then return and shower before the afternoon budget meeting. Refreshed and looking sharp, she would be all smiles when the meeting kicked off.

  But, sitting in the car, looking up at the trail, something had told her to take the flask. That a few nips here and there would keep her warm and motivated on the trail. That part of her problem in recent meetings had been her anxiety over everything. It had colored her tone, made her quick to snap or become defensive. She figured a couple sips would loosen her up, as long as it didn’t go beyond that.

  Sips then turned into a deep dent into a pint, and now she worried about twisting an ankle on the way down. The last few hundred feet of the trail were the rockiest, remnants of leftover scree from an avalanche a few years ago. Her boots had worn down tread and didn’t give her the best support.

  Winnie worried about a lot of things, not only her ankle. She worried about the budget meeting, for one. She had to share some unpleasant numbers today, and stand next to a powerpoint presentation as she did it. While the numbers weren’t entirely her fault, she would be the one whose face they saw next to the dismal pie chart on the screen. The numbers would then blend with her, and when everyone in the room needled her about the current situation, Winnie would have nowhere to escape.

  The present financial hardships the town was experiencing wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the Big Cat Sanctuary outside of town. They were at the root of so many of
Shotgun’s (and therefore Winnie’s) current troubles. Their team of lawyers had been relentless and vicious at every step. And why? To bully a little town who had almost no lunch money left to give?

  Winnie’s days were consumed by it, and her nights were clouded by it, too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had eight full hours of sleep without a pill to help.

  Maybe that’s why she hadn’t able to create anything lately. Maybe without all this legal stress, she could ease up on the alcohol and then she’d be inspired to work more on content for her online videos. If she could only get back in her groove, then it would be easy. Back to making regular sand-creation slicing videos, back to angling for clicks and ad revenue.

  There had to be a way to get her career back on track. And as far as Winnie could tell, it all ran through the sanctuary. Perhaps not through the legal system, even. Maybe they could arbitrate something, or use some sort of third-party to make everyone slow down with the lobbing of the mortar shells? The courts had yielded little relief so far.

  “Little relief,” she mumbled to herself, then laughed. She thought it would make a good name for a band. Then she remembered the mints in her back pocket and crunched a couple, taking breaths to steady herself. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  She wasn’t that drunk, but she was definitely drunker than she’d set out to get when she’d set out to get drunk. Or, hadn’t set out to. Still within acceptable driving range, maybe, if she sat in the car for another thirty minutes or so? Maybe a super-quick power nap to revitalize?

  She checked her watch. A half-hour nap would push her close up against the start time of the budget meeting, but better that than drive off the edge of the road and crash headfirst into Shotgun.

  Winnie shook her head to clear some cobwebs and then stopped a little short of the trail’s end to stretch. With one hand against a tree, she pulled her heels one-at-a-time back toward her butt. A little wobbly, that liquor sloshing around inside of her with each movement. At least she didn’t have the giggles. That was one occasional unfortunate side effect of day drinking.