by Nobody, Joe
It seemed like an eternity before they were finally underway, gliding south down the Mississippi toward New Orleans. The old Cajun was skilled, keeping them in the center of the river’s ever-changing channel. He knew what was on the line if they ran aground and were captured.
As Ketchum watched the dark shoreline pass, he couldn’t help but congratulate himself. While the value of the gasoline under his boots was considerable, what was more important was his reputation. His men would spread the word of their victory throughout New Orleans. Blackjack had outsmarted Uncle Sam’s Army. He had hijacked not only a fortune in fuel, but he had acquired an expensive towboat as well. They hadn’t suffered a single causality. It was a raid worthy of legend, a robbery on the scale of the famous Antwerp Diamond Heist, or the lucrative Gardner Museum theft.
The sun was just threatening to rise when the tow’s robust diesels changed their pitch. Ketchum, still basking in his glory, was forced to focus on the here and now.
Ahead, the barge began to turn to the east, the towboat’s captain applying power to the vessel’s massive propellers as they changed course. On the far shore, Blackjack spied a slight opening in the wall of dark vegetation lining the river’s edge. A few moments later, and they were pointed directly at the bank.
New Orleans wasn’t their destination. Ketchum’s captain claimed to know of a few side channels and seldom-used inlets, where in the past, he had waited out a storm or heavy traffic on the river. There was supposed to be a canopy of thick vegetation over this specific spot, enough to obscure the barge from the meddlesome helicopters he expected would be sent to track down the missing gasoline.
Just as Jones was sure they were going to slam into the shoreline, the tow’s motors screamed with a surge of power and the barge began to pivot. Water boiled up from the tug’s stern as the enormous propellers worked to bend the river to their will. With only a few feet to spare on either side, Blackjack watched in amazement as the mariner maneuvered them into what appeared to be a bayou or draw.
For another six minutes, they pushed further into the secondary waterway, the canopy of trees overhead completely blocking out the new sun in the east. Finally, after a few hair-raising brushes with the bank, the tow stopped pushing. “We can’t go any deeper,” the captain announced. “I’ve been shoving the barge along the bottom for the last half mile. Please ask your men to tie her off to the biggest trees they can find.”
Again, the deck was bustling with activity as Ketchum’s pirate band secured lines to both the tow and the barge. “In about a month, the river’s depth will start dropping,” the Cajun reported. “If it gets too low, we won’t be able to get out of here until next spring. You’ll have to move her before then.”
Nodding his understanding, Blackjack replied, “We’ll wait a few weeks until the heat is off and then take her to a spot where we can unload the fuel without prying government eyes.”
It took almost two hours before the drivers Ketchum left in Baton Rouge arrived at the remote location. Even then, the pirates had to hike nearly an hour before they arrived at the nearest paved road. By the time the sun was high in the sky, Blackjack’s victorious crew was rolling south toward New Orleans.
Chapter 4
Captain Holt stood at the pier, his eyes taking in every detail of the pandemonium Blackjack’s gang had unleashed.
Shaking his head, the officer pointed to the dark, greasy outline staining the surface of the concrete apron. “That’s how far the fire spread before burning itself out,” he stated to a hovering sergeant.
“Yes, sir,” the NCO nodded, wondering where his commander was going with this line of thinking.
“Your men stated that there were three dock lines securing the barge?”
Again, the sergeant indicated the affirmative with his head and throat. “Yes, sir.”
Motioning his subordinate to follow, Holt executed a short march along the water’s edge, not stopping until he reached the next bollard. Pointing, he stated, “The gasoline fire didn’t reach this far south. There’s no way the barge’s dock lines were consumed by the inferno. Somebody must have either cut or thrown off the ropes.”
For the first time since his captain had arrived, the sergeant was surprised. “You’re saying someone stole a fuel barge? From right under our noses?”
Before Holt could answer, a first responder jogged up to the soldiers, the letters on his heavy, smoke-stained coat advertising that he was a fire marshal.
Holding out a flattened palm, the local official showed Holt several fragments of blackened, charred metal. “Do you recognize these, Captain?”
Frowning, Holt reached for the largest piece of scrap. “No? Should I?”
Pointing to the fragmentation grenade attached to the sergeant’s load vest, the local inspector explained, “These are pieces of a casing. I found them under the burned-out tanker. Somebody lobbed a little party favor under the truck to set the fire. This was no accident. It was arson.”
Briefly, Holt’s eyes grew wide at the implication. Had one of his men deliberately started the blaze? Had there been a plot to steal the gasoline? Were their criminals in his unit?
The sergeant, however, put Holt’s fears to rest. “Sir, we didn’t issue fragmentation devices to the men stationed here last night. I didn’t consider the threat level high enough to warrant anything more than small arms.”
“Could one of the men have smuggled in a grenade, Sergeant?”
“I suppose anything is possible, sir, but I doubt it. We only deployed with one case, and I’d bet my next paycheck that all of ours are present and accounted for, sir.”
Before Holt could speculate further, the sound of a helicopter interrupted the conversation. All three men looked to the south, watching as an Army Black Hawk made its approach and then landed on the pier.
One of the lieutenants assigned to Holt’s command jumped out of the bird and hustled toward his commander. “No sign of the barge, sir. According to the information provided by the port’s manager, there is no way it could have drifted more than sixty miles downriver. We flew almost eighty miles south and didn’t see any sign of it.”
“I don’t think it was adrift,” Holt stated with a scowl. “I think it was stolen.”
Pulling the tiny nightshirt over Hunter’s head, Terri cooed, “Put your arms in the right holes… there you go… now we’re all ready to go nighty night.”
“Read me a story, please,” the tiny voice begged. “The one with the dinosaurs, Mom!”
“Okay,” Terri replied, hefting her son off the bathroom counter and snuggling him close. “But just one story tonight.”
“Ohhh,” Hunter protested.
Carrying her son into his bedroom, Terri flipped on the light and scanned the interior before entering. Hunter was cradled in one arm, her free hand resting on the butt of the pistol inside her belt.
“There are no monsters in here, Mommy,” the perceptive child advised. “It’s safe!”
“From the mouth of babes,” Terri mumbled, stepping to deposit her son on his bed and then watching as he scrambled under the covers.
As she turned to a stack of colorful books residing on the nightstand, the whine of a car engine sounded from the street. Again, her hand moved to the 9-millimeter’s grip.
Terri inhaled sharply when the motor’s noise suddenly ceased. Someone had just pulled up in front of her house and turned off their engine. It was too early for Bishop to be home from work at Pete’s. Her heart began to hammer in her ears. “Get in the closet! Hurry!” she hissed at the now-confused Hunter. “Go on! Just like we practiced!”
Drawing her weapon, Terri watched as a wide-eyed Hunter did as he was told. There was something in his mother’s voice that told him this was no drill.
After watching Hunter enter the dark closet and close the door, she repeated her previous instructions. “Not a sound, young man. Don’t answer to anyone but me or your father. Understood?”
“But it’s dark in here,” Hu
nter weakly responded. “I’m scared, Mommy.”
“You be brave, just like your dad, okay? I’ll be back in just a minute, and I’ll read you two books. Is that a deal?”
“Okay,” the dejected youth replied.
Closing the closet door, Terri switched off the light and then hurried out of the bedroom, quickly slinking toward the living area. Images of Nick lying on the ground and bleeding flashed through her mind, but only for a second. There was no reason for anyone to be at her home at this hour. No good reason.
Ducking behind the couch, Terri faced the front door and covered the entrance with her pistol. While the thin material and padding of the furniture wouldn’t stop bullets, Bishop had been the one who had pointed out the tactical advantage of that exact spot.
Her position was the only place in the house that afforded a view of both entrances, the backdoor clearly visible through the kitchen, the main threshold less than ten feet away. Unless Ketchum Jones crawled in through a window, she would kill him before he could get inside.
She heard footsteps outside; then an outline of a man appeared through the thin drapes covering the main entrance’s glass. Somebody… a man… stepped onto the porch.
“Miss Terri? It’s Butter,” called out a voice. “Hello? Miss Terri? It’s me, Butter!”
All that Terri could hear was Ketchum Jones’ gravelly voice. The shape outside, silhouetted by the porch light, was a large, broad-shouldered man. She cocked the pistol. The intruder was now at the door.
“Miss Terri, you okay?” Butter called out, warning of his approach, followed by a polite knock. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Again, Terri could only hear her nemesis. The nightmare was coming true. He was here, in Alpha, at her home. He wanted his revenge.
From the edge of her vision, something moved. It was inside the house! Blackjack had sent another man inside while he distracted her!
The front post of her weapon moved, a smooth, practiced motion to cover the man inside. Her finger tightened on the trigger, ready to execute the intruder.
“Butter!” squealed Hunter’s excited voice as he darted from the shadows, scurrying for the front door.
At the last instant, Terri pulled her weapon high. She wanted to scream at her son, wanted to scold the child for leaving his assigned hiding spot. Turmoil, anger, fear, and regret boiled inside her tortured mind as she realized what had just transpired.
As Hunter managed the front door, Terri collapsed behind the couch, her mind on overload, unable to process the fact that she had almost killed her son and one of her dearest friends.
Her pistol hit the floor with a clunk a moment before her head joined the weapon on the hardwood. The world went dark.
It was a slow night at Pete’s. Sitting at his usual perch, Bishop pretended to laugh at Harry’s jokes while he sipped his coffee. He had heard them all before, at least twice. Lord, please send in another customer before he tells me the one about the farmer’s daughter… again… for the fourth time , he silently pined.
Sure enough, the prayer was answered.
A brawny fellow appeared in Pete’s doorway, his shoulders so wide he had to turn sideways to gain entry. Bishop, piqued by both the heavenly intervention, and the sheer girth of the customer, watched closely as the gent stepped inside.
The new arrival was well dressed, sported a high and tight buzz cut, no neck, and yet was extremely light on his feet. There was something familiar about the guy.
Before Bishop or Harry could announce the standard greeting, the muscular man silently scanned the bar’s interior, pivoted abruptly, pushed open the door, and stepped back outside. All without a word.
“I know him from somewhere,” Bishop started to inform the bartender as he slid from his stool. “Where have I seen that guy?”
Before Harry could respond, Pete’s door opened again, this time admitting an even beefier customer. “Hey, Bishop!” sounded Nick’s voice booming through the threshold. “How ya doing?”
Surprised at his friend’s appearance, a broad grin spread across Bishop’s face. “Well, hell’s bells… look what the cat drug in,” he replied.
As the two men hugged, Mr. No Neck reappeared, taking up a position beside the door.
Noticing Bishop’s eyes, Nick explained, “You remember Moose, don’t you?”
Nodding as he put the name to a face, Bishop responded, “Now I do. He’s the runt of your security detail.”
It then occurred to Bishop that Nick wouldn’t have bothered bringing along a hired gun if something wasn’t wrong. “What brings you to Meraton, my friend? I’m sure you haven’t graced our humble abode just because you’re thirsty.”
Shaking his head with a knowing smirk, Nick answered, “You’re right. I’m here on business. Let’s have a seat at the table in the corner. I have news.”
“Need anything to wet your whistle?” Harry offered from behind the bar as the two men sauntered toward the empty table.
“Coffee, please,” Nick smiled. “And could you get a cup for Moose? I don’t want him drifting off over there.”
After Harry had delivered two steaming cups of java, Nick got right down to business. “An hour ago, we received a communication from Washington. It seems that someone has hijacked Blackjack’s barge of gasoline… the one the Army had just seized in New Orleans. From the sound of it, the culprits pulled off a pretty sophisticated heist.”
It didn’t take Bishop long to put two and two together. “So, Ketchum is still alive. Terri’s been right all along,” he stated in a low voice.
“We don’t know that,” Nick countered. “That fuel was extremely valuable. It was a sweet prize, just sitting there at the dock. There could have been any number of criminal elements that couldn’t resist the temptation.”
“Bullshit,” Bishop snapped. “You and I both know who is behind this. Like I said in my report, Ketchum is ex-military, and so were a lot of his people. I wasn’t dealing with common street thugs in Forest Mist. Those guys were pretty damned good.”
After Nick shared additional details about the theft, Bishop was even more convinced. “That op in Baton Rouge had Blackjack’s signature stamped all over it. Grim and I saw hand grenades at the furniture factory when we rescued Terri. It had to be him.”
Finally conceding his friend’s points, Nick replied, “Personally, I happen to agree with you. That’s why I sent Butter to your house to stay with Terri and Hunter. I brought Moose along to watch the bar while you and I went back to Alpha and broke the news to her.”
“You did what?” Bishop responded, his eyes widening in shock.
“I sent Butter to your house in Alpha. I thought he and Terri were best buds?”
“Oh shit,” Bishop snapped, rising from his chair so quickly it almost tipped over.
Puzzled by his friend’s reaction, Nick stood up as well. “What? Did I do something wrong?”
“She’ll shoot him, Nick,” Bishop whispered. “She’s as nervous as a virgin at a prison rodeo.”
“I told Hunter to be careful… told him to make sure Terri knew it was him coming to the door,” Nick pleaded, now following Bishop toward the bar exit.
“Harry,” the vice-president of security barked as he rushed past the puzzled bartender, “I’ve got an emergency. Moose will stay and keep you company.”
With Nick hot on his heels, Bishop rushed to his pickup and rammed the keys in the ignition. The back wheels were throwing gravel before Nick managed to get both legs inside.
“I thought you said she was doing better?” the big man mumbled, his tone now laden with concern.
“I lied,” Bishop retorted. “She’s been going downhill, not getting better. I was trying to protect… I didn’t want people treating her any differently. God help me… I hope she hasn’t killed Butter.”
Chapter 5
There was metal in Terri’s mouth, a bitter, harsh taste of iron or steel.
Blinking away the mental cloudiness, her mind recovered in an instant. In
haling with a start, she tried to sit and regroup at the same moment.
Her first vision was Hunter’s concerned face, hovering over her own. Beyond her son, Butter’s worried expression came into focus.
“What? What happened?” she croaked, a freight train now roaring in her ears.
“I think you fainted,” Butter responded, placing one of his massive hands under her head to act as a pillow. “I heard you fall… heard Hunter yell… and busted in the front door. Mr. Nick ordered me to come by and check on you both. Are you okay?”
Her friend’s explanation brought a flood of memories back to Terri, the recollection of her pistol’s sight centering on her own son causing her eyes to flutter in distress.
For a second, Butter thought his patient was going to pass out again. Terri’s breathing became labored, her neck throbbing from her racing heartbeat. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a gentle voice. “Are you okay?”
Visions of a bullet tearing into Hunter’s tiny body swirled through Terri’s mind. She could see her son’s flesh being shredded in slow motion, his face shrouded with horror and agony. Her imagination conjured up his fall. She rushed to his side, the dying boy’s expression fixed in shock. “Why, Mommy?” his weak voice asked as the life drained from his eyes.
She shook her head, trying to clear the nightmarish movie that was playing in her brain. It wouldn’t stop.
Faster and faster, the dreadful images repeated, Terri’s internal voice screaming for them to leave her alone. On the third loop, she began to vocalize the commands, screaming, “Stop! Please, stop! No! No more!”
Butter was there, pulling her close, trying to counter her reaction. His friend, the woman in his arms, had always been the bastion of stability and calm. She was the bravest person he had ever met. He didn’t know what to do… struggled to comprehend the conflict that raged inside of her head.
“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Butter kept repeating, wondering if she was sleepwalking, or having a hallucination due to medication. As Terri’s limbs began to jerk and shudder, the big man began to feel a panic of his own.