Sunday is the final day of advanced training, and we start with another quick run through of everything else, then they test us on a variety of weapons and divide us by the results. Turns out I would have made a fine sniper. I'm better with the long range rifle than I am with the pistol, with a lot less practice.
Meet Perez at mom and dad's for dinner afterwards, who lets me know the MMM boys hit again, but after I was back home, so it doesn't help me narrow the field any. So it's back out to see what I can do, though it's another miserable night with winds, rain, and no luck.
Running Monday morning, it occurs to me that we haven't found any drugs recently, so I head out to the airport early, spend some extra time with Taylor, and then make the world's longest walk around inspection before my flight. Doesn't help, I get no hits. On board, we are once again making the 7 right takeoff, which forces us to transverse half the airport to get to the runway, but all seems quiet.
Captain Amos takes me for every dime I have on me at the Waikaloa golf course, my balls and the water spending most of the afternoon together, and not in a fun way. I pass on dinner with the crew, something I never do, to go for a second run of the day until finally the sun goes down and I can hit the molecules and begin the search again.
House number one is dark, so is number two, and both motorcycles are parked in their respective garages. I get lucky at three. About fucking time. There's some activity in the garage, followed by the door opening, and a black motorcycle with a black clad rider exiting. High above and behind, I follow him out onto the 60 freeway, heading east. He circles north on the 15, then back west on the 10 to where he started, then continues west. Probably making sure he wasn't followed. That's an oops on his part. He should have looked up.
Another 10 minutes and another motorcycle joins from the 71 freeway and the three of us accelerate toward some very bad neighborhoods. We cross into downtown, a quick jog south, onto the the 605 freeway then the 105, 20 minutes east of the airport.
They hit the surface streets, I assume in telephone or radio contact since they did all of this without taking their hands off the controls. It's not hard to find the drugs around here, one of the streets is famous for them. They make a sweeping left turn at 60 mph through a red light and head straight for three kids standing on the next corner.
Maybe they are super (or fog) powered, since they obviously knew the kids were there before they could see them.
The riders jump their bikes onto the sidewalk, one west and one east of the kids, blocking them from escaping. Two seconds later, they are pounding the three of them, blood on the concrete, screams, sounds that might indicate broken bones.
I have seen enough. A couple spare molecules part from their particles, and I am 10 feet above the sidewalk, directly over the completely one sided fight.
"That's enough." I say it as loud and commandingly as I can. It must have been loud enough, or commandingly enough, or just coming from a strange enough angle because they obey.
I look at the kids. "Get the hell out of here, and find another line of work." They run, or wobble, away.
"What the Hell," I look at the two, not in the eyes because their helmets don't allow it, "are you two thinking? What would you have done if they were armed?"
The visors go up. One white guy I recognize from the driver's license search we did. Joshua Barnes. Two tours in Iraq. The other guy a black man I have never seen before, but I bet we won't have too much trouble figuring out who he is.
"You need help, man." It's the second guy, I don't know which one is the sidekick, and whose the leader of the pack. "We're here to provide it."
"You're here to die. You are going to end up on the pavement." I keep floating, maybe my height will convince them they need something other than leather and cool bikes.
"We're careful. We know what we're doing. More people need to stand up. We're going public soon, gonna recruit for you." He's a believer. Good cause, bad choice.
I shake my head at them. "Good sentiment, but it's not going to keep you alive. You have to stop."
It's Joshua who replies this time. "Marcus' kid sister was shot while we were gone. She was 11. We aren't gonna sit on our asses. We can fight back, just like you. Make them pay."
"Fuck. I'm sorry." I say it and I mean it. A crowd is gathering, small, but big enough to worry me. "We'll finish this some other time. Get out of here. And stay alive."
The visors go down, and they are quickly on their bikes and on their way. No one seems to follow, more interested apparently in staying with me. I wait a couple minutes to let the MMM's clear, then I push for altitude and back to the freeway entrance. I find them, heading west, then making another big circle up to the 210 before splitting up. I follow the one I think is Marcus until he gets home, data for Perez.
Then it's back to Kona, swim with the rays for a while, shower and off to Keahole for the trip home. More clouds, rain, and wind tonight as we descend toward 24-left, hopefully that will keep the MMM's safe for another night.
I brave the bad weather in search of them (OK, it's not really too brave of me to be out here), battered by the wind gusts, soaked, but not really cold, and not going to catch one. No one but me seems to be stupid enough to be out tonight, no MMM's, no drug dealers, no bad guys or good guys anywhere I look.
I visit the MMM's homes, their motorcycles seem to be parked in the garages, but I don't take too close a look, and I resist the urge to knock on their doors. I sniff around LAX looking for drugs, find none, and decide it's time to go home.
Halloween and I party til dawn, then I go running, followed by a morning catching up on some reading and house cleaning. There are never bugs in my place, Halloween loves meat on the hoof, or whatever bugs have, but dust does seem to accumulate just the same.
Taylor Mankat joins me for lunch at a little bistro on the beach, then we go play a par 3 golf course. Takes only a couple hours, and she encourages me to help straighten out her stroke more than once, which means me completely draped across her back, adjusting her legs, and her arms. When we're finished, my stroke is anything but straight. Or it is really straight. Or. OK, she's totally got me turned on, she's totally gorgeous, she's totally smart, and she totally implies it might be time to learn to snorkel in Kahalu`u Bay.
I drop her back at her car near the beach, she gives me a full on kiss on the mouth, and then runs off without saying a word. Fuck me. And she just might.
Not wanting to go home, the mall beckons and I make it home just as the sun is going down, proud owner of several new pairs of magic underwear, a new golf outfit, a new duffel bag, and a stomach too full of tacos.
Then it's off to resume my nightly hunt for MMM's. I drive out to Upland, change, then fly off the Mr. Barnes place, only to find he is already gone. Flash as quick as I can over to where I think Marcus lives, and he is gone as well. Fuck me, I should have passed on the free taco refill.
I try the stupid ever expanding circle search pattern crap, which locates nothing of interest, but does make me slightly nauseous. There is just too much territory and too many spots they could be. My own stupidity plays a part too. I could have brought my scanner and phone, and maybe picked up a hint of where they are from the police or from the net. But no, I am my usual dumbass self.
Finally I just go back to Joshua's house and wait, floating high enough that no one will see me. It's a beautiful night, no wind or rain, and the lights are at least enough to keep me from getting too bored. Planning some too, I make a mental list of my future observation strategy.
About 1 am, the motorcycle roars into view, one MMM seemingly fine, and I watch him walk into his house before zooming over to his partner's, who also seems to be home and breathing. Now I can too.
I go harass some drug dealers on my own in my favorite neighborhood, then back home to polish my shoes, shine my leather, and clean my gun before tomorrow's (actually it's today now) LAPD adventure.
Perez and I spend the morning biking through the airport parking lot
s, opening car doors, chasing down one purse snatcher, and otherwise keeping an eye on things. Lunch time we park under the skyway at gate 75, and head into the terminal to buy a California cuisine pizza, and then back into aircraft to eat it and talk about the hydraulic systems in a 757.
Then we go into the office in the terminal to investigate our newest friend, Marcus, who turns into Marcus James, former member of the same Marine unit as Mr. Barnes, whose sister was in fact killed by a stray bullet while walking home from school. He doesn't own a black motorcycle, is a registered Harley owner, but I didn't see that at his place.
Perez looks up from the computer screen. "Do we rat them out?"
I already know the answer she wants, otherwise she wouldn't have used the word "rat."
"No. They deserve the same respect from us that I would want. They may be stupid, but I'm not going to help the assholes in narcotics run them down." I haven't liked the narcs since they beat my butt in training just for the fun of it.
"I agree," she's nodding her head, "but that won't save their lives. The Guerrero won't show them any respect."
My turn to nod. "I have to keep working on them. Maybe I can get them to join the LAPD." She laughs at me, and we go collect our bikes and pedal out to the parking lots. An uneventful afternoon, mostly taken up with conversations about why we haven't found any heroin for almost a month.
We have dinner at her tia's, whose actual name is Ariela, but neither Perez or I call her that. Between tacos and flan, we put together a little plan. Then I'm off to look for the motorcycle morons, and Perez is headed home.
I find them scuffling with six bangers outside a bar on a street they have visited before. I fly in to break it up, the bad guys quickly unconscious on the sidewalk. Dumbass though I am, I forget to keep my eye on the bar, and I look up just in time to raise my right hand and catch two 9 millimeter rounds heading straight for me, fired by two dudes standing just outside the door.
Shaking my head at the assholes who fired at me, I open my hand to show them their bullets, drop the shells onto the concrete and take a half a step toward them. They run into the bar, and if me ears are telling me the story correctly from the screaming, everyone inside is running for the back exit into the alley. I'm fine with that, though I make a mental note to harass Fog Dude again for the lack of x-ray vision.
By the time I remember why I am there in the first place, Joshua and Marcus are gone. I'm sure I could find them, they can't be more than a mile away in that short amount of time, but odds are they are going home. I kill some concrete molecules, pop straight up and a little to the south, keep an eye on the quickly dispersing crowd in the alley behind the bar, then rocket off to Joshua's house.
He must have taken another round about path to get home, because it takes him a half hour to appear. Quick stop at Marcus' to confirm he's home too, then I loop around LA looking for trouble.
There's a fight at a country bar that I decide not to stop, but just to watch. There's a couple accidents on the freeway, but I don't feel like making the vehicle owners rich by touching their cars, so I pass on those as well. I hear random gun fire a couple times in different neighborhoods, but can't locate anything quick enough to do anything. Maybe I should give the LAPD a fucking Bat signal.
I get home in time to run a double loop, then get to the airport early so I can visit with my favorite dispatcher. The weather is miserable again, which does not mean I am going to get wet inside my jet, but means I have to plan a take off to the east, adjust my speeds for the wet runway, add some extra fuel, and do a pre-flight walk around in the wind and rain. It is an excuse for extra Taylor time, so not all bad.
That is, until Don the Perfectionist shows up to be my captain of the day. I do what I think is a fine job of navigating the weather, with ATC handing out lots of unusual requests to us as they keep the aircraft spaced further apart than normal, but Don finds enough wrong with me to fill the entire five hours to Kona. Even my perfectly smooth landing is apparently a couple inches off of the center line.
I want to go play golf after we get in, but so does Don, so I take the flight attendants body surfing and treat them to lunch at the shrimp place on the ocean.
When darkness falls, I use the bad weather in LA as an excuse to avoid going home, and fly to Korea. First, and most important, I locate a couple of golf courses. I want to play as him, and this seems like the logical place to do it.
Second, I go back to my nuclear site, which is already being reassembled. The main building is almost back together, the side buildings are back together, and there are a swarm of workers building bigger fences and new guard towers, adding a second set of electrical cables from the outside, and framing out a couple of new buildings near the reconstructed ones.
All in all, it looks almost functional, though the web gurus insist that the actual apparatus inside cannot be replaced for years. I am suddenly not believing them. There are two other, supposedly less important, nuclear facilities connected by a set of special purpose railroad tracks, within 10 miles. They too appear to be busy. So much for grinding this operation to a stop. Might be time to revisit.
The next morning dawns to find that Don has mild food poisoning from eating something he shouldn't have, which makes for a thankfully quiet flight home. He leaves quickly once we land, leaving me to do the paperwork. I don't mind at all.
I should go out looking for the MMM's, but instead I just go home. The paper has no mention of them from yesterday, thank the rain, and I'm hoping that maybe the trouble they were in the other night will make them see the light. My light does not think that I know what I am talking about.
Sunday I go to the gym, then head over to mom and dad's. My grandparents (mom's side) are in town for the weekend from Ohio, and they get to meet Perez, who really is just part of the family now. She has "her" seat at the table, has her chores to do as part of dinner, and is the one that Bruno the boxer licks first when we walk into the house.
She has worked out the details of the plan we created during our bike ride. All three of the drug shipments we've intercepted left their respective airports, either Dallas or Houston, between 4 and 6 a.m. on a Monday or Tuesday. She asks me to go to Dallas, hands me a list of the four flights departing DFW between those hours headed for LAX or SFO, and asks that I make a scan of them and their cargo. We haven't found anything at our end, this will be a test to see if that's because something's changed at the front end.
I haven't felt anything on the ground the last four weeks, and she thinks it would be suspicious if she put me on a leash and had me sniff the cargo on incoming flights. I am flying out on another mission tomorrow morning, also planned by Perez, but she's given me time to extend the courtesy of the Dallas stopover.
The flight numbers are easy to find online. Three 767s and a 737, American, United, PSA, and Southwest. They all take off within 20 minutes of each other, and only two other flights are sandwiched inside them, none heading west.
I go into my airport charts, dig out the departure routes for DFW, and get a mental picture of the initial route of flight they will take.
We say goodnight to my parents and grandparents and walk to our cars. I follow Perez to Upland, where I park Starbuck in the hotel lot, she tells me to be careful, I do my best imitation of Simba laughing in the face of danger, she tries to hit me on the arm, but I am too far away, so we exchange a final set of smiles and she is on her way home and I jog behind the restaurant and stuff my stuff in a safe spot.
From there I rocket east, naked, to Dallas. DFW is easy to spot, it is as bright as daylight even in the middle of the night. I can't get comfortably close enough to remain hidden and get a feel for the flights, but that's not a problem.
I barbeque some Texas molecules, and climb up to what I think is 30,000 feet, due west of the airport, and wait. There are high clouds this morning, remnants of a storm system that just moved through. They, along with the darkness before sunrise, will provide cover.
The American is f
irst. I see it on the runway, normal takeoff roll, climbing out and heading for its first navigation point. I stay higher, swing east of it, and then approach from the rear. Two minutes of hanging off its tail and I think it's clean.
Back around, the United is already airborne, so I climb and roll over the clouds until I am comfortably behind it, then I put on a little extra thrust, and do station keeping for a minute or so. Clean.
The PSA is screaming at me while it's still in its takeoff roll. I find a nearby cloud and float on top of it until the aircraft has climbed well above me, then I circle around and follow. It's in the rear cargo compartment. The feeling of it bothers me so much I have to break formation. Climbing away, I get several miles above it and hit my thrusters until I am close to the speed of sound.
I beat the PSA to LA by 45 minutes, landing quietly behind my favorite Ralph's on Santa Monica, Perez there in her Mustang to pick me up. I climb into the passenger seat, me in my underwear she stashed for me behind the store, close the door, start to reach into the back for my bag, and get whacked really hard on the arm.
Fog Bastards 2 Destination Page 8