Shotgun Mine

by Jim Heskett

  “Just like everything else in Shotgun.”

  Layne considered the hit the local Disciples boss had put out on him. He’d only seen one of them, but there could be many more out there, better at hiding than the newspaper reader.

  Investigating anything with thugs on his trail would be a challenge. He might not be able to spot one of them mixed in with the crowd, particularly at a potentially crowded place like the VFW. And if he did venture inside, civilians might catch bullets in the crossfire.

  Better to take Keegan’s word for it, for now. Layne put it on the later list.

  They entered an industrial washroom, with full body showers and large sinks. It smelled of bleach and sour plumbing.

  Keegan turned on the lights, blinding overhead fluorescents. Layne’s old high school friend looked tired, worn-out, his forehead dotted with sweat.

  “Thanks, man,” Layne said.

  “You’re welcome. How many Disciples did you see on your way in?”

  “At least four, maybe more. Definitely more than yesterday.”

  “I think they must have ordered backup. To deal with you, probably.”

  Layne sucked his teeth. “Could be.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “When we were in high school,” Keegan said with a wistful look in his eye, “you were the one person I told everything. Like, when I was going through that stuff with my mom…”

  “You were a good friend, too.”

  Keegan smiled a sad smile. “I’m not fishing for compliments, dude, I’m trying to work up to telling you something. Because when I almost fell through the hole in the mine yesterday, maybe it was a wake-up call. I’m tired of the secrets."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Before, you wanted to know why I came back to Shotgun? It’s because I failed. I failed out there. I got married and moved to Denver, but I couldn’t take it. I didn’t like learning public transportation, the noise, the crime, having to lock my front door… I felt lost in the big city.”

  Denver wasn’t a big city, but compared to Shotgun, it was a metropolis.

  “I understand.”

  “When things went south in my marriage, it was easy to come back home, even though I hate it here. I’m sorry about the tombstone in the cemetery the other day. It was in poor taste.”

  Layne nodded. “I appreciate that. But, to be fair, it was a good joke.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?”

  “Next time, how about a little warning, though?”

  Keegan nodded. “Will do, Layne.” He paused, grinning ear to ear. “Despite the circumstances, it’s good to see you again.”

  “You too. I was just thinking about the time we went to the alpine slide in Crested Butte. Our little after hours adventure?”

  Keegan appeared confused for a second, then the realization dawned on his face. “Oh, right. I remember that. You wouldn’t think the ski resort people would be so upset about a couple of teenagers sneaking in after hours, but they were.”

  “I felt guilty about that for months after.”

  “I’m not surprised. You always were kind of a boy scout, Layne Parrish.”

  “Yeah, you’re not the first person to apply that nickname to me. I thought it didn’t feel right, but other people disagreed.”

  Keegan led Layne through the washroom and out into the hallway. This early, there were no muted shots coming from the range. Only an empty place of business, with Molly Waffles behind the register, comparing something on her phone to something on the register screen.

  “Morning,” she said. Layne nodded a greeting as she tilted her head toward a percolating coffee maker in a kitchenette behind the counter. “Sleep okay?”

  Layne had slept on her couch, since Keegan hadn’t offered. He didn’t recall Molly Waffles being an early riser back in their teenaged days, but he supposed people could change quite a bit in a quarter of a century. When they’d last been acquainted, Layne didn’t know then how to snap someone’s neck with one hand. Now, he did.

  Molly finished her task at the register and then slid her phone in her pocket. “So, we need guns, right?”

  Layne nodded. “Lots of guns. My aim’s not what it used to be, so something with a good sight is a must.”

  “I got you covered.” Molly turned to the wall behind her. On a metal grid hung every sort of firearm imaginable. It was like mercenary Christmas. Were the circumstances lighter, Layne might have let out a whistle at Molly’s collection. Instead, he grunted.

  “This is a good start,” he said.

  24

  Layne took a slow route around town and to the road leading to the mountain pass. He had seen more and more of the Disciples out and about, wandering town on foot and in cars. In cars, they traveled by twos, which meant one for driving and one for reconnaissance.

  That fact alone told Layne they were organized. An enemy who was both trained and had a decentralized power structure made for a difficult challenge. This deadly snake had no head to sever.

  Eventually, Layne drove up the road through the foothills until he reached the cabin. He waited until he felt sure no eyes were on it. This proved easy, since the cabin was surrounded by the lower part of the mountain on three sides. And there weren’t many good hiding spots nearby in the rocky foothills. Layne had explored this area for countless hours in his youth.

  He watched his father appear and disappear in the windows, going about his morning routine. Since George was home and the surrounding grounds were barren, Layne decided this was the perfect time.

  He waited ten more minutes. Ten more boring minutes, to be extra sure.

  After enough time had passed, he approached the front door and considered knocking. Layne wore a ballistic vest and kept two 9mm Sig Sauer P320s in concealed holsters. While he normally liked large guns, he figured stealth was more important at the moment. Molly Waffles had recommended this pair specifically. They hadn’t been on the metal grate. She’d kept these guns under the register, and that told Layne they were special to her. He would have been a fool to refuse her suggestion.

  He decided against the knock. And as he now opened the front door, George was sitting in his chair, listening to the news on the old radio.

  “Where did you sleep last night?” George wheezed.

  “None of your business. I’m not here to shoot the shit with you. I left a couple things in the back room that I need to get.”

  George looked him up and down. “Are you in a parade or something? Why the vest?”

  Layne crossed the room and kneeled to meet his father’s eyes. “You tell me, Dad. What’s going on in this town? Why are you working with these people? What did those two goons want with you last night?”

  George’s lips shifted and bounced back and forth, as if gumming a piece of meat. “When you’re a kid, you think grownups have all the answers. Then, you see a grownup make a mistake; you see them act human…”

  “Yeah, I remember that day. It’s probably the first time I saw you backhand mom in the yard, when you thought we weren’t looking.”

  George winced. “I wish that day hadn’t happened, but it’s too late to fix it.”

  “Yeah? What about Randall? What about me? Is it too late to fix how you beat on us, too?”

  Layne now realized as he argued with his father, the pitch of his voice had risen, just like he’d sounded as a teenager. Standing here amid all these family triggers, Layne had regressed three decades.

  “I was angry,” George said. “I was scared, and probably a lot of other things, too. You don’t get do-overs in real life, Layney.”

  “No, you don’t. What’s happening in this town? If you won’t give me any answers, I’m going to have to find them myself.”

  George sniffled, an expression balanced by the venom in his eyes. “Can I speak to my granddaughter?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Not until you start getting honest with me.”

  George stared at th
e floor, sucking in hoarse breaths. “So be it.”

  Layne studied his father, stubborn, resolute, impermeable. He put his hands on his hips and glowered, and only now did Layne realize he was giving his father the same expression the old man had worn many times.

  Why haven’t you cleaned your room yet, Layne? You were late for church again, Layne. What do you mean you don’t want to play football this year, Layne? You think I don’t know you’re sneaking off to see that Molly girl again?

  All this mental role-switching was giving Layne whiplash.

  “This town was stabbed fifty years ago,” George mumbled. “And it’s still bleeding out.

  Layne ignored the old man’s offhanded remark. “What’s Shotgun Mine?”

  George’s eyes flicked up. He said nothing, but Layne could clearly tell his father had more information on the subject.

  “The Disciples are planning something in this town, Dad. I think you could help me stop it, but you won’t.”

  George lifted a small bag of potato chips from the coffee table, and he pinched it in his fingers to tear it open. For a few seconds, Layne watched him try, but his stroke-affected motor function meant he couldn’t focus enough grip strength to open the bag.

  Layne held out a hand to take it, but George sneered at him. “I’m not an invalid.”

  So, Layne withdrew his hand and his father spent another fifteen seconds wrestling with the bag until he finally tore a hole in the top.

  “I can’t wait around for you any longer,” Layne said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What it looks like no one else is willing to do.”

  George munched a chip. “And what is that? What superpower do you have, son?”

  “Doing whatever is necessary to stop bad people, when I see them doing bad things. I used to do it for a living.”

  George cackled. “You going to sit them down and get them to talk about their feelings? You going to get them to talk about how they weren’t loved as children, and that’ll make them see the light?”

  “I’m not a therapist, and I never have been. I told you part of this yesterday. After college, I went to work for the government.”

  “You did what?”

  Layne had no idea why he was telling his father this info. He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but once he started, it all came pouring out.

  “Everything I told you before about my first kill in Seattle? It’s all true. You said it sounded like an action movie plot, but I worked as a spy and an assassin for a small government team. A team not officially sanctioned, so you never would have heard about us on the news.”

  “I don’t… I don’t believe it.”

  “All those times you thought I was traveling to New York or London for a work conference? I was all around the world, gathering intel and killing people. Bad people. Maybe you’re disappointed with how my life turned out, but I can say this: never once have I hit my child. Never once did I hit my wife. I don’t know if it matters to you, but I made something of myself. I broke your stupid cycle of violence and I’m not going to pass it on to my own child.”

  Layne could feel his pulse thumping in his neck, his fingernails cutting into the flesh of his palms. He wanted to go outside and unload a magazine into the air. He wanted to punch a wall until his fist shot through the other side. And, no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to make himself calm down.

  But rather than act out, Layne Parrish took a beat to gather himself, then he said, “I’m tired of asking you, so this will be the last time. What’s going on in this town, Dad?”

  George, eyes down, shook his head. “I had to do it.”

  “Do what? What did you do?”

  And he said nothing else. For thirty more seconds, they remained in place, breathing, listening to the relentless ticking of the kitchen wall clock, listening to the sound of sun-warmed snow chunks sloughing off the roof of the cabin to plummet to the ground. George continued to eat his chips, his expression veering between a grimace and a sneer.

  Layne collected his things from the back room, and like last time, promised himself he would never darken this door again.

  Interlude #4

  Oahu, Hawaii, United States | 9 Years ago

  The Hawaiian man plays a sorrowful version of Creep by Radiohead, crooning over the plinky sound of his ukulele. He stands on the wooden stage between two torches, sending little wisps of fire into the air as they fall victim to the breeze.

  It’s not an appropriate song for a wedding rehearsal dinner, but Layne likes it anyway. He’s never heard a more impactful live performance as the obese man sways on stage while he keeps his eyes closed. The emotion in the singer’s voice speaks to Layne, for some reason. It cuts through all the surrounding noise.

  Layne feels a lot of conflicting feelings right now, which is probably why this backyard rendition of an old song seems so epic. Every time he sees Inessa, his heart threatens to overflow. She’s radiant in a blue apron shirt with a flowing black skirt. Every smile she sends his way calms his beating heart, and he can’t wait until all of this pageantry is over and it can be the two of them. He can’t wait to start a family with her.

  But he also has work to do tonight. He has to kill Elijah Brown.

  Like a mammoth cloud darkening the sky, Daphne looms large over everything Layne does here. It’s as if she’s rented a small room inside Layne’s brain, and every time he feels any amount of peace, she smacks the roof with a broom handle to steal his attention.

  Amid the dozens of guests eating and drinking and enjoying the mild Oahu evening, Layne looks for an easy way out of the situation. He only decided a couple hours ago to take up Daphne on her operation. If they were back in Colorado and weren’t about to get married, Layne would tell Inessa he had to leave for a meeting, and she wouldn’t ask questions. But here, minutes away from the start of their rehearsal dinner, he’s going to need a reason. And while he has a mental folder full of excuses, he doesn’t want to use them. He doesn’t want to lie to his bride-to-be, but he’s run out of time to do this any other way.

  He has to sneak over to the hotel down the street and kill a man. And it has to happen now.

  Inessa takes a seat at the table, with an empty spot next to her. Opposite that empty spot is the seat reserved for George Parrish, but Layne has given up hope on that desire coming true. George received an invitation and a plane ticket, and didn’t respond to either. Most of Layne doesn’t care; his father is probably ranting and raving to some poor auditory hostages at the Shotgun Tavern right now. And, as far as Layne is concerned, the angry old man can stay there. Let him wither and wallow in his unhappiness. Layne has better things to do.

  Inessa flashes her eyes and tilts her head at the empty seat next to her. Layne puts one hand over his stomach and winces as he approaches her.

  “I have bad news,” he whispers in her ear.

  “What bad news?”

  “I need to hit the bathroom real quick. Something at lunch didn’t agree with me.”

  She wears a smile for all the guests to see, but he doesn’t miss the surprised anger lurking behind her eyes. “Now? We’re starting soon.”

  “Sorry, this isn’t something I can put off for a couple hours, if you know what I mean. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She frowns and lowers her head, without nodding or forbidding him to go. Since they’ve been dating, he’s done this a few times. There’s always a regime to topple, always a despot who needs killing, always a desert truck caravan in need of exploding. She knows some of what he does for a living, but he has to still keep secrets.

  Layne doesn’t think she senses the ruse, but she’s unhappy about him leaving. He hates the disappointment brooding in her eyes, and he wants her to stop making that face. Soon, he’s going to retire. He can’t continue segmenting these dual lives for much longer.

  Daphne will be furious, the team will feel betrayed, and Layne will feel like a quitter. And even though he knows all th
is, he’s going to step away from the team, anyway. A few more months. Definitely less than a year.

  Layne slips away and starts his route back toward the hotel, until he’s out of eyesight from Inessa and everyone else at the dinner. A couple people toss him looks as he leaves, not many.

  The overwhelming majority of guests are hers. Layne has invited a few people, but he can’t invite the team. Everyone here thinks he’s a therapist, so he can’t even share his wedding day with his closest friends. Daphne’s orders.

  Past the hotel, he picks up the pace. The neighboring hotel is approximately one city block down the road. Layne jogs, tall grass swaying along the two-lane highway circling the north part of the island. The breeze whips ocean air across his face, and the humidity drenches his shirt within two minutes. Still, he keeps on the move, trying to cut down any chance there might be surveillance on him.

  He slows near a set of crossing palm trees on a side road, then he leans against one and stretches. He keeps his eye on a spot two hundred feet to the north. A maze of spidery banyan trees on the side road to a residential area.

  Once Layne has watched the spot for a couple minutes, he decides he can’t fake-stretch any longer. Quick and casual, he turns onto the side street and approaches the drop spot. He unearths a box from beneath a pile of seaweed.

  Inside the box, Daphne has left him an assortment of materials. A black baseball cap, a garrote, a couple syringes, a hunting knife, and gloves.

  He studies the syringes. There’s no label, but he has a good idea what sort of liquid is inside. Something that will make the man’s death look like an accident. Possibly ricin.

  Layne takes the garrote and hunting knife as a backup. Because of the urgency, he’s had little time to prepare. On a job like this, normally Layne would have known for days exactly which weapon to use. He would know exactly where to find his target and would have controlled for anything unexpected.

  But on this job, it’s all Wild West out here. No rules, no backup, no oversight.