Wyrd Gere

by Steve Curry

  It was no time to talk about this stuff in front of the ladies though. Just a couple of miles from the checkpoint she’d pulled over and burst into tears. Pedro and I both looked around and shrugged rather helplessly at each other. Seemed like Mr. Charming Smirk didn’t handle feminine outbursts any better than I did. Finally, I settled for patting her shoulder until she stopped gasping for breath.

  Once she had some of her poise back, Elena slipped off her seat belt and sniffled a couple of times before asking me, “Mr. Moose you wanna drive, please? I’m just so tired of being scared. You drive and I’ll try to catch a nap. Wake me up if you need me por favor.”

  I didn’t even have the heart to correct her about my name. Instead, I nodded and climbed out of my side and around to hers. She was small enough she just swapped seats without exiting.

  By the time I’d adjusted seats, belts, mirrors and steering wheels the girl had curled up sideways in her seat and was nodding already. Rather than risk waking the worn and weary young lady I drove us on into Arizona and turned off to get us down near Sedona.

  If you’ve never been in that part of the country it’s pretty special. You come out of the tawny plains of New Mexico into some bluffs and volcanic rock. Then those bluffs get higher and higher until you're into high hills or small mountains. At first, the trees and plants stay about the same. High desert with lots of buffalo grass and mesquite gives away to timberlands with evergreens and mossy rock. Around about Flagstaff you turn south and come out of the mountains into someplace envisioned by older beings that were more about beauty than rules and right and wrong.

  Pillars and whorling spires compete with rocks shaped as if sculpted by the hands of gods into fantastic beasts and ships and buildings. Hel there’s even a rock that looks like Snoopy laying on his dog house. And the colors are full of reds and pinks. Scientists tell you it’s because there was so much iron deposited in the rock back when water covered the land.

  The Yavapai people native to the area tell other stories. New age psychics and ancient stories alike speak of the red rock area. A well of warm mineral water from a now known source is rumored to come from the very heart of the earth. Another cave was supposed to be the birthplace for the “first people with medicine”. The red of the rocks could be the blood of the earth itself or painted by the desert sunsets to bless the tribes of that enchanted land.

  When you come down from the tall green mountains into that sculpted and raw painted landscape any of the stories seem believable. The people that live and visit there all seem to agree. There are more psychics, mystics, new age bookstores and crystal shops in that little village than in most of California, the land of kooks and dreamers.

  We drove through at the perfect time of the evening to get the full impact of that sunset. When I asked about pulling over for food though Pedro shook his head. “Resort prices, man. Food’s not bad but expensive as hell. We get a few miles down the road and I’ll get you some pozole and tamales for a few bucks. Taste better than that shit in Sedona too.”

  We stopped and had dinner with the ladies. Elena calmed down in the shabby little railroad car with cheap plastic tables and chairs. Maybe it just felt familiar or maybe it was the way the old couple that ran the place fussed over her. The food was everything promised as well. By the time my belly was stuffed I wasn’t even that mad anymore.

  I was half dozing with my belt loosened while Perro and Elena talked. Their conversation was a mishmash of Spanish and English, what people call Spanglish. If I hadn’t been so comfortable and tired I might have paid more attention. As it was I woke up when the girl shook my shoulder to say goodbye.

  “Thanks for helping us, Mr. Moose. I’m sorry about my cousin and I don’t blame you for getting rid of him.” I’m not very tall at all, but the girl was so petite she had to tiptoe just to reach my cheek with her kiss. I even got a hug from her grandmother while I was piecing together what she’d said. I guess maybe since it was my guns that got him arrested she thought it was my fault. I just shrugged and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of having met some nice people and getting to part with them before anything bad happened.

  They caught a ride from a son of the restaurant owners. He piled them up in a beat-up old F-150 pickup and drove on their way. When I looked up, Pedro was gone as well. The old man brought me a cup of coffee in styrofoam and handed me a handwritten note on a napkin. He also gave me the ticket for fifty bucks. I’d had worse food and service for more money though. Besides they were kind of a sweet old couple. I dropped four twenties and left the change.

  The napkin with its note wasn’t even clean. There were pink spots where someone had cleaned up salsa with it before Perro wrote his note. “You got a room at the Best Western in Sedona. It’s on this end of the main street through town. Get some sleep and I’ll meet you at the breakfast bar.”

  I wasn’t sure if he had more business that was going to delay my own trip, or if he just wanted to avoid the little “talk” we were scheduled to have just as soon as I could arrange it. He still owed me for the duffel bag full of comfort and reassurance.

  Without many options, I went and checked into the Best Western. They put me in a ground floor room with parking about forty feet from my room door. Since the closest parking place was empty I locked up the van and left it there. With my gym bag in hand, I entered the room.

  It had been a long day so I went straight for a hot shower and some clean clothes. Within half an hour I was clothed and sitting at the table. My first task was a phone call.

  “Shoot”. That was Bill’s typical response on this particular line. He had another for normal business and as many as two or three other phone numbers for various personal and private reasons. The “hot-line” as he called it only went to a few select clients. I was one of them.

  When I first got to Austin, William “Wild Bill” Woolly had done me some favors. He was, without exaggeration, one of the best hackers and technophiles anyone around could refer me to. He’d provided me with identification and documentation for decades back that had kept me covered and out of trouble for years.

  That faltered a little when a spook from one of the Alphabet Agencies got interested in my little...idiosyncrasies. Bill had discovered that certain government prototypes were better than even the stuff he had put together on his own. Once he was hacked, and extorted into giving up some info on me, that same spook had compensated Wooly with some new toys and blueprints for his own super-secret spy type stuff.

  Now Wild Bill ran “Woolly Electronics and Geek Room”. As advertised he sold computers and parts and assorted techno gear. He also did software and repairs for high-end gaming units and such.

  His unadvertised services were what I needed though. “Woolly, it’s Mouse. I need a few files inserted wherever they need to go. Get me an EMT license with the school records etc. Use my current ID’s and stuff. Shoot it back several years and give it to me as soon as possible.”

  He took a few notes, asked some questions and then shot me an estimate. There were times I appreciated having some funds from more interesting times. Say what you will. If a mercenary doesn’t mind taking some risks and living in some rough conditions he can make some money.

  For the first dozen years after Vietnam, I wasn’t really current on modern morals and beliefs. Living in the bush for months at a time with people of very questionable morals hadn’t really helped me with more progressive thinking. It had, on the other hand, padded my bank account and left me some contacts that most people don’t have in their friend’s list or Rolodex.

  I dickered halfheartedly but Woolly knew if I wanted it ASAP that I was going to be ready to pay. I ended up paying more than I wanted to and less than I’d expected.

  When I hung up there was a minute of pondering. Part of me wanted to get out of the hotel and find someplace where nobody would look for me.

  I could always walk down the street and find another hotel or just another room in this Best Western. Nobody should suspect that wi
th the van parked by this room as a decoy.

  Another part of me wanted to just go to sleep and wait for the morning developments. And a third part was listening to that little voice that doesn’t trust many people. That voice had been yammering ever since Pedo threw that first measuring sideways glance.

  It was the voice that settled me. Rather than head out the door I sat down and started working to reassure myself that I wasn’t bugged or being tracked. First I piled up the gear he had given me. Then it was just a matter of checking over all of the pouches and pockets and gear as well as even the stitching of the clothes. I didn’t find any hidden bugs or mikes or anything. As close as I got was some weird patches of cloth stitched into the holster for the cheap throwaway cell phone. Of course, the phone could be used as a tracker all by itself for that matter.

  While I had it apart I did a little work on the knife and even inscribed a couple of runes onto the high carbon steel with a permanent marker from my bag. It wasn’t ideal. Such a cheap means of putting the rune on tended to limit any real power you might want to put into it. In this instance, I figured the knife would be just a touch sharper and maybe twice as tough as normal. That ought to last for a couple of minutes or maybe just a few good swings once it was triggered.

  While I was putting everything back together there was a knock at the door. When I looked out, it wasn’t to see some sexy little maid ready to fulfill any penthouse letter fantasies. What I got was a very angry and stubborn looking guy decked out in hair, leather, and tattoos. If I wasn’t mistaken, the “colors” on his back would probably match the denim vest worn by my brief companion of the road before he was arrested.

  Dammit, I knew better than to dawdle with showers and such. The gear inspection was necessary but a change of clothes could have waited. While I was trying to decide what the best course of action would be, the knock came again. It wasn’t a pounding as one might expect from angry bikers. It also was not a timid or polite knock. If one could interpret a knock at the door I’d say this one was insistent but not raging.

  With my luck that meant the guy outside was royally pissed but had enough discipline and self-control to keep it in rein. I prefer when they lose that bit of self-control. Raging wild and thoughtless individuals aren’t as dangerous. This time a low rumbling voice carried quite clearly into the room after that knock. “Look asshole. We know you’re in there. You can come out or we can come in. Either way, we’re gonna talk to you. Fact is we’re probably gonna beat your ass. If you don’t piss us off anymore though you’ll probably live through the night and get a little smarter.”

  That snippet of conversation earlier came back to me. Little Elena had forgiven me for her cousin. What the Hel had the little smuggler told the ladies about my guns and their now incarcerated relative? More importantly at this point, who else had, he told the same shit? If I lived throughout the evening I’d address that with him at the first opportunity.

  The top priority right now was surviving. I took a few minutes to look around the room and positioned some furniture as quickly and quietly as I could. The third set of knocks was a touch more boisterous than its predecessors. Good, maybe these guys were less self-controlled than I thought. To try and keep that bit of imbalance I put the chain on the door and opened it a crack.

  I backed a couple of strides away before I said anything. “Hey, guys I’m trying to sleep in here. What the hell’s all the noise about.”

  The flimsy little chain and sliding bar pulled right out of the door by the screws. That same door banged open to be followed by the red-faced biker in his denim and leather. This guy looked like a larger version of myself. Like me, he had a chest and shoulder spread a little wider than really fit his height. The problem was that he had almost a full foot of height on me. That made his shoulders wide enough to fill the door. In fact, I’m not sure he didn’t turn sideways and duck down a little to come through the door.

  The first obstacle he encountered was the low bench I’d placed just where he’d find it underfoot. For an instant, I had to wonder if he was just going to stomp it flat and continue forward to run me over like a sweaty and profanity-laden bulldozer. As some of those Texas old-timers would say, he was cussing up a storm. The language didn’t get any cleaner when the bench tangled up his shins and allowed gravity to choose a side in our confrontation.

  Falling from that high, with all that extra heft on a body, had to be pretty painful. It probably didn’t help that I’d swung the arching floor lamp around to where it would clear my head but not by much. He caught it right at the hairline on his way down.

  This guy was a brute. I decided he needed to stay out of the way while I dealt with the two guys starting into the room behind him. Before he’d even hit the ground I jumped forward with both feet and used him like a diving board.

  My heels drove him face-first into the thin hospitality carpet. The padding underneath must have been thin as well. It barely muffled the solid wooden sound of flooring on facial bone. Since I’d known my footing was pretty unstable, I kept my knees bent for balance while my body weight drove him down and out of the fight. That little bit of balance let me launch forward almost instantly and still on a nice even keel.

  The two guys behind him were tangled up in the doorway. Their clear intention had been to rush in and spread out. A heavy armchair I’d spun around the small round table prevented them from going to the right while the left side of the door was covered by a wall and the low dresser with a tv on top. That narrowed down their options and gave me a second to deal with the foremost threat at the moment.

  My head hit right under his sternum with all of my launched mass behind it. The rush of air sounded like a speeding car or something above me. It also cut off his litany of slang and obscenities in mid “SHI”. Since he was bent over, and I was down on all four after catching myself, my head was conveniently under his contorted face. I lunged up and smashed the back of my head into his face with a crunch. I think it was nose, might have been some teeth in it too. Whatever the crunch was it likely to put him a little further out of the damage dealing business. If it hurt his face as much as it hurt my head he was pretty damned discouraged.

  The first guy was barely moving at all and the second one was up almost on tiptoes above me with blood sheeting down his face. His eyes weren’t focused at all. In fact, he let them flutter closed before folding over the back of the armchair in slow motion. That left the third guy in the doorway. He was almost as big as the behemoth moaning on the ground behind me.

  With the odds back to even, except for a serious imbalance of size, I felt an urge to make some room. I lowered my head and charged again. Behemoth number two had seen this move. He sidestepped and prepared to deliver a stomping kick to my neck or head or maybe even my modelesque face. I was prepared for that eventuality.

  Using the door as a brace I adjusted my angle and drove forward and down rather than straight at his midsection. I hit his knee at the same time his other foot clipped me at the point of the shoulder with a crushing amount of strength behind it. A few inches to my right and he’d have missed me completely. Conversely, a few inches to my left would have broken a collarbone and put me at a distinct disadvantage for further negotiations.

  We went down in a tangle with him sprawling all over me while I cranked his lower leg around like I was starting a world war one biplane. Another unpleasant sound accompanied this activity. Actually, it was a few unpleasant sounds. His bellowing changed from raging to anguished, and some really nasty crackles and pops came from the vicinity of his knee. I rolled to my feet outside. I was facing the third downed assailant with his back to my door and my back to the parking lot.

  He tried to roll up to his feet but discovered that his foot wasn’t willing to point the direction he wanted it to. His knee seemed kind of loose and floppy too when he pitched back to the ground. I was busy choosing between a boot to his head, or maybe breaking the wrist he was supporting himself on.

  My choices wer
e interrupted by a sudden eruption of voices behind me all clamoring one or another version of “What the Fuck?” That didn’t sound promising. In fact, that didn’t sound even neutral or tolerant. No, that sounded bad like cardiac arrest sounds bad, or maybe amputation. They all had a similar ring of unpleasantness to come.

  Well, I still had a job half done in front of me. My old Da’ had always said don’t stop until your work is done. A stomping of my combat boot ended with a wet snap of wrist bone and a muffled scream when the guy’s face fell unimpeded onto the concrete. I turned around at the rush of bodies moving behind me.

  Turned out they were behind me, and beside me, and all around me. I didn’t have time for a headcount but it looked like close to a dozen. In fact, I was willing to bet that the guys sprawled in and around my hotel would have brought the number to an even dozen or maybe even thirteen.

  A lot of people these days consider thirteen an unlucky number. I’d been one of the ones hunting Templar’s that Friday in thirteen hundred and seven so it had only seemed unlucky for DeMolay and his troops. Standing there surrounded by pissed off bikers suddenly made me think thirteen was probably not a great number for me either. At least it was painfully unfortunate for me that evening.

  I caught the first guy coming in with a jab of my stiffened knuckles at his throat. The “bear paw” punch missed cracking the cartilage that would have killed him. It did, however, cause a gratifying and instant look of panic followed by grunts and whistles as he tried to get enough air in to prevent the blue from coloring his face.

  I didn’t have time to see if he succeeded. A boot to the back of my knee came close to making the same sounds as I had made cranking on number three’s leg. I was lucky enough to catch it more on the back than the side of the knee. The leg still went numb from that knee downward. Maybe a numbed knee doesn’t sound all that horrible unless you’re dancing or playing football.

  Let me assure you, it is also horrible when any of your four limbs become non-responsive in the middle of a parking lot surrounded by leather and denim and bad breath. I managed to slip a punch at my head and grab the arm thus offered. That became a pivot to push me towards the edge of the circle. I thought for an instant I might get to the outside and make a fighting retreat.