Then Alex's eyes opened wide.
"I just realized it!”
“Fine, I’ll bite. Realized what?”
“Where I know you from! Holy-flying-vaginas I can't believe it just hit me!”
Jones raised an eyebrow. “I can assure you we don't know each other. I'm great with faces. Besides, I would have never associated with you. We have never met.”
Alex started laughing. “Danton, Arizona ring a bell?”
“Of course. That city was one of my next projects. I had it all set up to be the greatest middle class resort in North America. What about it?”
Despite his utter inebriation, Alex remembered the graffiti on the front of a dilapidated store. The one that depicted a graphic scenario of Harry Jones’ mother and a half-dozen incarcerated men.
“Those people straight up hated you, Jonesy. You don't wish prison men running a train on someone's mom without hating them.”
“Whatever. Bunch of wetback border jumpers and backwards hicks in Arizona.”
Clint had just returned from his search and followed West and Travis into the Captain’s Lounge.
“We have an update,” West started to say, when suddenly and to everyone’s surprise, the landline telephone on the desk started ringing.
"Is the phone ringing?" asked Travis.
"Do you really need someone to answer that question? Si, el telephono is ringing-o."
"Shut up, Jones," West said drawing near to the desk. He grabbed the cordless unit and pressed the speakerphone. The red light came on, but West remained silent.
"West, oh West...come out come out wherever you are. Sergeant Major Craig West. I know you can hear me. Come on, Gramps, don't make me talk to myself."
"Daytona,” West growled.
"There he is! The man of the hour. How's it going, buddy?"
"How'd you find us?"
Daytona sighed heavily. "You're going to make me tell you before you say anything else, aren't you, Gramps?"
"That's right, kid."
"Fine. So basically our satellites tracked you from the airfield. Nice try staying below radar, but the techs did their tech shit and since the power grid is still functioning in the area, they patched me through to this number and blah, blah, blah. You get it, right? Now can we talk?"
West covered the microphone and spoke to the others. "We need to leave now. We aren’t safe here."
"Yoo-hoo, West...I know you're thinking about getting out of there, and that's fine. Just know that we'll keep tracking you," Daytona said, confidently as though he could hear the muted conversation.
"What do you want?"
"Oh, good. For a second, I thought you took off. What do I want? It's simple. I just want to sit down and have a nice little talk."
"What do youreally want?"
"Fine, you got me. I don'tjust want to talk. I want to look you right in the eyes when I kill you. And I know what you're thinking, but I'll give you a reason why you'll want to see my handsome face-"
"Don't do it Craig!" cried out a panic-stricken voice on Daytona’s end.
"Shanna! If you've touched her-”
"Seriously, talk about Déjà-fucking-vu. That's exactly what you said last year. But to be honest, her and I have done a lot more than touching, haven’t we, baby,” Daytona said, making kissing sounds to a distressed Shanna. “I'll give you a hint, Gramps, it's what comes after third base..."
A large vein on West's dark forehead pulsated.
"Hey, is someone talking about baseball over there? I love baseball. Angels are the best. Haven’t been to a game in-" Alex rambled, but when he received scowls and looks of “this isn’t the time for lighthearted comments,” Alex looked away, but in the wrong direction as his eyes fell upon the vomit and urine covered mess.
"...I know I know, I kinda broke our promise from last time,” Daytona continued. “To be fair, you broke your promise too."
"Cut to the chase. What do you want?"
"I want the mission paraphernalia and you, dead. Come to think of it, I believe I said the exact same thing last time."
"Deal."
"Wait, what? Seriously?”
“Yes, you have a deal.”
“Wow that went a lot easier than I thought. I figured there would have been some demands. At the very least thought we'd do this back and forth dance for a bit, where you tell me you don't have the documents, then I say I know you do and threaten to kill your girl, then you say fine but you want assurances, and I say no and...I admit, I’m at a loss. That really cut the time down."
"Where and when?"
"Gramps, you really are taking the fun out of this. Fine. Here's how this is going down. You’ll fly back here, and we will make the switch. I let Shanna go, you give me you and all the Fareshtegan-eh Marg mission related shit you never gave me, and we call it a night. I don't even care about your band of wannabe heroes. Well, I do, but I'll deal with them later. I’ll enjoy a good hunt after you and I are done."
"We can't."
"Oh, I think you can."
Another painful scream from Shanna echoed throughout the Captain’s Lounge.
"No, stop!” West pleaded. “Our jet is un-flyable. In case you forgot, you put a bunch of holes in it, and we were forced to make an emergency landing at this airport."
"Then get another one."
"What do you think we’ve been doing? There aren't any available."
"Gramps, you are seriously testing my patience-"
"Look, there's an amateur ice rink a mile east of the airport," West said, remembering the enclosed arena when they flew in. "We meet there. Center ice. If you want to trade that's where it will go down."
“Fine, see you in five hours. Oh, and in case you were going to try anything stupid, well, you know what happens."
The line went dead.
"That was intense! Classic hostage trade scenario!" Alex exclaimed, excited. He mimicked Daytona's voice and continued, "I let Shanna go, you give me you and the documents and we call it a night. I don't even care about your band of wannabe’s…classic!"
Ignoring Alex, the men turned to West.
"What are we going to do?"
"You have documents from your mission?"
"You can't seriously consider it!"
"I still have everything. All the original reports and information including my mission objective, parameters, and other intel. I even have a small amount of the virus; the stuff they told me was a state of the art tracking device.”
"That's hard evidence, hermano!"
“Exactly! You can’t even be considering handing that over!” followed Clint.
You would do anything for Shanna, but the others can’t know that, especially Travis, not after he just asked you. You can’t give them a reason to question your motivation and leadership, West thought, then said, "Don’t worry. I don't plan on giving up the evidence, even if I had it on me.”
“So where is this evidence?”
"Secure, far away from here. The man who saved my life, he has it. I’ll give you instructions on how to retrieve it. Make sure you get it to the right people. But you guys need to get ready to move. You don't need to be a part of this."
Jones appeared confused. "West, I thought you said there were no planes?”
"I lied."
"I found a Cessna 340, two hangars over,” Clint explained. “Twin prop. Needs fuel but should be airworthy. Jones, you can fly that, right?"
“Of course, but-”
"No buts. You guys need to get out of here. I'll deal with Daytona. I just ask that one of you stick close enough to grab Shanna, then meet up with the plane at an alternate location.”
“West-”
“Save it, Travis. It’s up to you guys to finish this thing. Taking LIFE down for good, that’s the mission. Otherwise, all of this was for nothing."
Clint nodded. “He's right. We should get moving."
Travis stood defiantly. "Not happening, West. No way I'm leaving you to that guy.”
"Not your decision."
"Like hell it's not. I'm staying."
West didn't physically draw a gun, but he said, "If you stay, I'll shoot you."
"Is the dead guy the only one who sees the silver lining?" said Alex from his bound position. "Finally you give me some attention. I was sitting by myself just talking to myself-"
"Alex!"
"What?"
"Silver lining?"
"Oh ya. Why don't you guys just set a trap for him? You capture Daytona, he can lead you to the woman-person's secret lair or wherever bad guys hide out. One bird, two stones."
"You mean two birds, one stone,” Jones corrected, annoyed.
Alex burped. "I've heard it both ways. I think?"
West’s hands dragged down his nose and met in a prayer like fashion over his mouth. "Actually, that could work..."
1447 hours
"I'm surprisedyou're still here, Jones,” West said, walking through the Captain’s Lounge door after returning from the ice rink. “Figured you'd be long gone by the time we got back.”
“I have my reasons.”
West snapped his finger and the others joined him around the table. "We need ideas fast. We only have three hours and forty-three minutes."
"We should look at this in terms of pros and cons," Jones suggested from a comfortable chair. "Look, I know I'm not a military strategist, but I am a business strategist, and glare at me all you want, but strategy is strategy. Layout the pros and cons then figure out a plan based on the data."
West leaned back from the table and folded his arms. "Go on, Mr. Businessman. Let’s hear it."
"Cons first, always. Well, it's safe to assume we'll be outmanned and outgunned. And Daytona will be expecting a trap, so he'll be even more cautious..."
Faces were bleak as the cons were quickly stacking up.
"Maybe we should switch to pros. Let’s go around and say our strengths. I’ll start. I have a background in building and engineering."
Clint frowned. “This is a waste of time, West.”
“Humor him.”
“Fine. Former Marine, then Secret Service. Background dealing with counter threats and security.”
“Travis?”
“Studied strategy in the Army. Then went on to Special Ops control. Good with my hands, fixing shit or fighting.”
“Good, now environmental.”
"For one, the city's power grid is still functioning, so we can control the arena’s lighting and use it to our advantage."
"And we know the layout of the rink, they won't,” West added after Travis.
"True."
“What else?"
"There are multiple points of ingress and egress."
"That can be good or bad. Escape routes or choke points."
“This isn’t working,” Clint groaned, throwing up his hands. “We are spinning our wheels. Daytona's expecting you at center ice in three hours and forty minutes now."
“More like center water,” Travis replied, dejected.
Being left on post-outbreak, the ice rink’s cooling system had long since burned out, leaving behind a grimy pool dominated by mold and fungus.
"We need a plan, people."
Alex looked up at West, though it took his dilated, veiny eyes a few seconds to focus. "You mean you don't have one?"
"No."
"That's shocking...no, I’m being serious. I am legitimately shocked,” Alex said, smacking his chalky lips. “I mean you took down Jimmy Sanchez back at Camp using zombs, a knife and some c-4. This would seem like a walk in the park."
West leaned against the wall, rolled his head back, and closed his eyes.Come on, Chucky, think! She’s counting on you!
As the others argued back and forth, West zoned out their voices until it was quiet in his head. When his eyes opened, he found himself staring at the ceiling light. He could practically hear the vibrating energy resonating from the bulb. And in that odd moment, an idea hit him.
"I think I got it," West said in a way that indicated he was still piecing a plan together. "Alex, you just might be a drunk genius."
"Thanks?"
"This is what we do..."
West explained the plan, drawing out a rough sketch on a notepad. There were a limited number of steps, but each was as critical as the next; just as was each person's role. By the end, West was met with mixed replies and mostly negative expressions.
"Are you serious?"
"You think that will actually work?"
"Seems like suicide."
"It might be, but it’s what I got.” West set down the pen and paced back and forth. “Look, I know Daytona. We stick to the plan and it should work.”
“Betting our lives on ‘should’ doesn’t make me too excited,” grumbled Jones.
“I’m open to alternatives,” West said, but no one suggested any. “Okay, then it’s set. Does everyone understand their part?"
"I love my part," Alex said somewhat coherently. "Stay tied up and act drunk. Got it. Don't think I'll need to do much acting."
Jones rolled his eyes. “Fantastic.”
Travis did his best to appear supportive but felt obligated to ask, “West, are you sure?"
"This is the best plan I've got. Daytona will be expecting a trap. I'm planning on it. We have a lot to do and not a lot of time. Let's get moving."
"Hey, seriously though, before you guys go play action heroes, can someone fill up my drink?"
Travis opened up a beverage refrigerator and pulled out an energy drink. “Drink this.”
Eyebrow raised, Alex asked, "Are you going to get the vodka to mix with it or should I?"
1815 hours
On the back row of the helicopter, Albert sat quietly, fidgeting with his phone.
Coming out of her pharmaceutically induced intoxicated state, Shanna’s body was slumped against the side wall.
Surrounded by Guardsmen on either side, Daytona sat across from them, but was busy coordinating via radio with the other Blackhawk helicopter. "Simon, you and your team will land five hundred feet north of the rink and go in on foot."
"West will be planning something. What are you thinking, boss?"
"We know there are at least five of them. I counted two others in the car with West, one pilot and the kid who set our jet on fire. West knows he's outmanned and outgunned. The only advantage he has is knowing the layout. My guess is that West will have at least two men in sniper positions. He will save the others for some sneaky, Delta-force-misdirection-type-plan of ‘grab the girl and make a break for it.’ He will try to stall, so we need to make sure we get to his men before they can do anything. After we have the situation under control, West will have no plays left. Then we kill everyone and head back to base.”
“You sure it’ll be that easy?” mumbled Albert.
“Hold on, Si,” Daytona said, removing his headphones. “Yes, Albert, I do think it will be that easy. Then I’ll tell Mother, and she’ll act like she loves me again. You get your nose back in her ass, Lizzy can go fuck herself, and I sit back and get caught up on season two of Jericho until we move to phase three.”
Albert smiled. “I must admit, brother, I am somewhat impressed with your plan.”
“I’m surprised you’d actually admit that.”
“Well, we shall see how successful your execution is.”
“Boss,” interrupted the pilot.
“What is it, Miller?”
“We’re five minutes out.”
“Good. Alright men, weapons and gear check,” he said, looking out the window.
Got you now, Gramps.
1840 hours
As part of his evolving plan, West controlled the rink’s lighting. The second floor was completely dark, while only a select few bulbs on the lower level were on.
West glanced up at the snipers who were well concealed in the shadows. Communicating via radio, he said, "Has anyone heard from Jones? He missed the last check in- cancel that. They’re here. Remember; wait until I gi
ve the signal."
Two consecutive crackles over the radio indicated that the snipers understood.
"Alright everyone, it's game time.”
Through the cracks in main entrance doors, West saw the various green, white, and red tactical lighting of Daytona’s men. He watched the first Guards breach and secure the concession area, then move on to the rink where they posted up in strategic positions behind advertisements and folding seats.
Seven mercs, West counted.
The most forward Guardsman shouted, "All clear," and moments later, two men and one woman entered. Daytona walked in confidently with a firm grip on Shanna's arm. Behind him, Albert strolled, face expressing deep irritation.
As the LIFE convoy advanced down the concrete steps, the leading Guards moved in unison, positioning themselves in front, on the sides, and behind the three VIPs. At the bottom, they jumped into the water without hesitation.
Albert heard the splashes and stopped near the Zamboni access door. "And this is where I stay. Italian leather and cesspools do not mix."
Daytona pulled Shanna into the murky water with him. "Pussy."
"Blow me," Albert retorted, pulling out the smart phone from his pocket.
The Guards surrounded Daytona in a semicircle, oscillating their red lasers as they searched for West.
Using a stranded Zamboni near the penalty box as partial cover, West had a rifle propped on the edge, pointed at Daytona.
“Well hello, Gramps.”
"Craig!" Shanna attempted to run, but Daytona yanked her back. She lost her balance and fell in the bacteria infested water.
Had West been an emotional warrior, he would have taken an aggressive step forward, exposing himself completely, but he wasn't. Barrel not moving from Daytona's forehead, West was as still as a rock. "You alright, Shanna?"
Clothing drenched, Shanna rose unhappily. "I've been better. You shouldn't have come. You know he's going to kill us."
"Maybe."
Daytona kept a firm hold of Shanna and said, "Are you really going to make me tell you to drop the gun? Come on, you know how this works."
West waited seconds but ultimately pointed the gun up to the dome.
“Good boy. Trevor, go.”
“You got it,” the Guard replied. Rather than attempt to grab the weapon, Trevor said, “Throw the gun over there. If you’re planning on making a move, just know my index finger is faster.
The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side Page 39