Peterson climbed into the vehicle and stared up the engine. He then followed the long line of traffic out to the main highway.
The second and third week of November
During the next two weeks, the four men began to prepare for their battle with the quai vat. They were all staying with Freeman in his condominium. While Malloy used a sleeping bag in the living room. Rogers and Peterson occupied the two spare bedrooms upstairs, and Freeman kept the master bedroom for himself.
The kitchen table was where a map of the neighborhood was lying. Freeman and the others diligently studied it as they planned their Search & Destroy operation.
******
Using his contacts through the police department, Peterson met a weapon’s seller on the tenth day of November, outside of the city in the opened desert. The tall man had the rear door of an old station wagon down, while the ex-homicide detective checked the slide action on three Heckler & Koch MP5SDs with thirty-round magazines.
Peterson fired each of the automatic weapons at a bunch of empty soda cans ten yards away and made them dance in the air. He then smiled at the seller, letting the man know the deal was a go.
******
Near the end of the second week, Malloy paid a visit to an old Army buddy who happened to own a gun store on Main Street. Both men were in the back room with a Barrett 98 Bravo sniper’s rifle setting on a table.
The barrel of the large rifle was resting on a bi-pod. There was a night scope on the rifle, along with a flash suppressor and carrying case.
Malloy and the owner of the store haggled over the price for the rifle. Malloy finally nodded his agreement and withdrew a wad of hundred dollar bills and started counting them out to the other person.
******
Later that afternoon, Malloy was out in the desert with three large pumpkins lined up two hundred yards away on a low rise. He lay on a green wool blanket kept from his Army days and adjusted the scope on the rifle with a tiny screwdriver. Then, staring through the lens, Malloy fired three loud shots, shattering a pumpkin with each round.
******
It was during the third week of November that Peterson visited an Army surplus store in downtown Las Vegas and purchased three bulletproof vests and three sets of camouflage gear.
******
Later that week, Ben Freeman and Buddy Rogers visited a professional shooting range to test fire the new Smith & Wesson .50 caliber magnum revolver that had been ordered. Both men were wearing eye and ear protectors. A crowd of people were standing a little ways behind them, watching as Freeman fired the four-inch-barrel handgun. The report was loud, and the muzzle lift high, but Freeman still hit the target in the distance.
The men behind him cheered.
******
At the end of the third week, Malloy went to the Spy Store on East Tropicana. While he was there, he checked out a number of miniature communication/transmitter devices, and then bought four sets of them.
The first night of the fourth week in November
Malloy, Peterson, Rogers and Freeman were huddled around the kitchen table, drawing red marks on a map of the neighborhood to pinpoint the best locations for observation and attack. Three of the guys were dressed in jeans with knit shirts, or Hawaiian short-sleeve shirts. They had on running shoes or sandals. Freeman was the only one who was bare-chested. Both his front and back were covered with bright red scars that zigzagged their way down to the waistband of his jeans.
Freeman was also antsy as hell.
The center island in the kitchen was packed with the H&K MP5SDs submachine guns, the Barrett 98 sniper’s rifle mounted on its bi-pod, the new Smith & Wesson .50 caliber magnum revolver, a shoulder holster rig, four receiver/transmitters, the camouflage gear, four Marine K-Bar survival knifes in black nylon sheaths with Velcro fasteners for the leg, and a large Rambo-styled blade, sheathed in leather.
Walking over to the center island, Freeman picked up a K-Bar knife and removed it from the sheath. He held the K-Bar by its handle and examined the sharp blade.
“I think we’re ready to go now,” he said.
Peterson glanced back at him, and then gave Malloy a questioning look.
“It’s only been three weeks, Ben,” he said. “Another few days would be better for you and us. Besides, this creature only seems to strike on a full moon. The next one isn’t until the night of Thanksgiving.”
Freeman flipped the knife up into the air and caught it by the blade. Then, in a motion so fast that it could barely be seen by the others, he threw it across the room so that it stuck in Thanksgiving Day on the calendar hanging on the wall.
“I don’t know if I can wait that long,” Freeman said.
Malloy stared back at Peterson and shrugged. They then gazed at the calendar with the knife sticking in Thanksgiving Day.
“I’m glad you still have the reflexes,” Malloy said, turning back to Freeman. “Patience, however, is what we need at the moment, Ben. I have to know that you can handle yourself if worse comes to worse.”
“You mean cover your back, don’t you, Mike?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. You’re not ready yet, but you will be in few days.”
Freeman smiled at the subtle rebuke, gave Malloy’s comment some thought, and then nodded his agreement.
“Thanksgiving Day it is,” he said.
“We need to start restructuring our sleeping schedules,” Buddy said.
Malloy stepped over to his brother-in-law and placed his arm around the man’s shoulder. “I guess that means we stay up tonight and reminisce about old times.”
******
Later in the evening, Ben Freeman was sitting in a lounge chair on the balcony outside of his bedroom with the sliding glass door open. He had his feet propped up on the railing and was smoking a cigarette. Because it was chilly out, he was now wearing a knit shirt and a new bomber jacket that was zipped up to keep him warm.
Freeman blew smoke into the quiet night, listening to sounds of nearby traffic on Eastern Avenue with an occasional car making its way down Reno. He finished the cigarette and was putting the butt into an empty Diet Coke can when Malloy pulled aside the drape and stepped out onto the balcony.
“Mind if I join you?” Malloy asked, standing there with a bottle of beer in his hand.
“I was just heading inside,” Freeman said.
“This won’t take long.”
Freeman pointed to the chair opposite him and watched as Malloy sat down in it, and then took a swallow of beer from the bottle.
When Malloy was ready, he looked at Freeman and said, “I don’t want you to think I was putting you down in front of the others. You almost died in that alley behind the Pizza Hut. Few people could’ve come back from what you’ve experienced.” He stopped for a second and took another swallow of beer. Then--“I know you want to kill this thing as much as I do, but we need to be at a hundred percent capacity before we go after it. We’re only going to get one shot at this. We need to make it count, Ben.”
“I hear what you’re saying, Mike. I just hate standing around and doing nothing.”
“You’re not doing anything,” Malloy said. “You’re healing. Plus, we’re taking the necessary time to plan this operation out. It would be nice if we all came home after this is over.”
“I’ll wait till Thanksgiving night,” Freeman said as he stared at the other condominiums opposite him. One had a light on in the downstairs living rom. The rest were dark. “After that, I’m going after the creature with or without your help.”
“Understood,” Malloy said.
The second evening before Thanksgiving
Both Peterson and Buddy Rogers were sitting at the kitchen table in Freeman’s home, cleaning the Heckler & Koch MP5SDs assault weapons and listening to a Country & Western station on the radio by the sink. The weapons had been meticulously taken apart and were lying on old towels as each man cleaned the parts with gun lubricate.
When the sound of the glass door b
eing slid open came, they both shifted their attention to Ben Freeman. He entered the warm room, carrying two large pizza boxes in his hands with a large tub of chicken wings on top of them.
Seeing pizza and chicken wings, a happy grin appeared on Frank Peterson’s face. He stood up and hurried over to help Freeman find a spot on the counter to put the food. Buddy got up, snatched his set of keys from the counter, and headed outside to lock the back door. When he returned to the kitchen, Peterson was already eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
Buddy helped himself to a slice of the pie and looked at Freeman. “We were starting to get a little worried about you, Ben,” he said, biting off a piece of pizza. “Jesus, it’s after midnight.”
“Sorry,” Freeman said. “The pizza place was getting ready to close when I showed up. I had to offer each man an extra twenty if they would fill the order.” He paused for a moment and stared at the ex-cop. “Where’s Mike?”
“Up on the roof,” Peterson said.
“I’ll go check on him.”
“He’s probably looking through the neighbor’s window with that scope of his,” Buddy said. “He has everything set up, but it smells like dog piss up there. This pizza is sure better than the peanut butter sandwiches you’ve been feeding us.”
“Hey, I lived off of sandwiches as a kid,” Freeman said. “Besides, the dog piss is so the creature can’t smell his scent when the wind is blowing.”
“You and he can have the roof.”
“Thanks,” Freeman said. “I’ll let Mike know there’s food down here. Don’t eat all the pizza.”
******
Exiting the sliding-glass door to the master bedroom, Freeman stepped out into the darkness of the balcony and gave a low whistle.
A minute passed, and then Malloy stuck his head over the edge of the roof and looked down at his brother-in-law.
“Lower the ladder,” Freeman said in a low voice.
Malloy, who was dressed in camouflage fatigues and had his face covered in black and green camouflage paint, lowered the metal ladder down to Freeman. The ladder was now painted black so it would blend in with the darkness.
Freeman climbed slowly up the ladder, attempting to be as quiet as possible on the metal rungs. When he reached the top, he eased over onto the roof and pulled up the ladder behind him.
Laying the ladder down, Freeman turned around and examined the area as Malloy squirmed back into the tent that was made of ghillie camouflage netting. The Barrett 98 Bravo sniper’s rifle was set up inside the tent with its barrel resting on the bipod and aimed at Reno Avenue. An extra clip of ammunition was to the side. There was also a long, black-foam pad for Malloy to lie on, a set of Nikula night-vision binoculars, a plastic hospital pee bottle, an opened package of beef jerky, an opened H&K pocket knife, a gallon jug of water, and one of the H&K MP5SD submachine guns with two extra clips ammunition.
Besides all of that, Malloy has the Rambo-styled hunting knife belted on his side. He glanced back and motioned for Freeman to get inside the tent with him.
“I smell dog piss all over the place,” Freeman whispered.
“That’s to keep everybody downstairs,” Malloy said, laughing softly.
Wrinkling his nose, Freeman made his way into the tent, noticing how tight a fit it was. He picked up the binoculars and carefully checked out Reno Avenue. The traffic on the street was practically non-existent with only one car driving by. He crawled forward and shifted his position so he could look at Eastern to his right. The traffic there is heavier, but still slow for this time of night. When he was satisfied, he looked toward the corner of Topaz and Reno to his left. Finally, Freeman lowered the binoculars and gave Malloy a look.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No,” Malloy said. “But, the creature’s out there. I can sense it watching and waiting.”
Freeman gives that statement some serious thought.
“You think it knows we’re here?”
Malloy grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “The thing knows we’re hunting it. That’s why it killed Sheila. The monster wanted you to come after it. Of course, it also knows I’m with you and remembers what happened the last time we encountered each other.”
Freeman nodded toward the Barrett sniper’s rifle with a curious expression on his face.
“Will you be able to kill it with this, Mike?”
“What do you think?” Malloy asked.
As Freeman began to slide out from underneath the make-shift tent, he remembered why he’d originally come up to the roof.
“I got some food for us to each,” Freeman said.
Malloy picked up the binoculars and stared through them.
“Thanks,” he said.
The day before Thanksgiving
Grey clouds had moved in from the southwest, blocking out the sun as Ben Freeman cleaned up the dead flowers from around Sheila and Betty’s graves. He put the leaves and vases into the plastic trash bags that he had with him. Then, he placed new vases with fresh flowers on each of the graves and stared at them.
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to stop by,” Freeman said to his wife’s tombstone. “My body’s finally healed enough so I can drive again.” He was having a tough time getting it together. “I should have listened to you, honey. I miss you so much. Both you and Betty would be here now if it wasn’t for my foolishness.”
Rising to his feet with the green bags in his right hand, he grabbed the tombstone of Sheila’s grave and held on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Sheila,” he said with tears in his eyes. “I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch tomorrow night, or die trying.”
Late Thanksgiving morning
Ed Kulczynski and his wife, Eileen, came up the walkway with a bag and two pans of food in their hands. They’d dressed warmly for the cold morning air. Stepping up on the stoop of the Freeman residence, Ed rang the doorbell and smiled hesitantly at his wife.
“You think this is a good idea?” Eileen asked.
“I don’t think Ben and the other men staying here are going to refuse a good home-cooked meal,” Ed said.
That was when the front door opened and Freeman stood there, dressed in a wool bathrobe, staring at them with sleep in his eyes.
“Hi, Ed and Eileen,” he said, trying to appear normal.
Eileen held up the covered pans of food as Freeman unlocked the metal screen door and pushed it open for them.
“Would you like to come inside?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Ed said. “Eileen thought you could use a home-cooked meal on Thanksgiving Day.” Ed handed him the bag. “Here are a couple of bottles of red wine to go with the meal.”
“Thank you,” Freeman said. He took the rest of the food from the couple and smiled at them. “I really appreciate this, guys. You’re turned this Thanksgiving into a very special day.”
Ed and Eileen do a little hand wave as they turn around to leave.
“Try to have a happy Thanksgiving, Ben,” Eileen said over her shoulder.
“I will,” Freeman replied. “You’re been great friends.”
Ed suddenly took a tentative step back towards Freeman so he could tell him something in private.
“I’ve seen you and the other men walking through the neighborhood at night,” Ed whispered. “If you need any help, let me know. I’ll be there for you, Ben.”
Freeman found himself moved by Ed’s offer.
“I will,” he said.
As Ed and Eileen headed back down the walkway to their home, Freeman closed the metal-screen door and watched them for a brief moment.
Inside the condominium, Rogers, Peterson, and Malloy were standing on the midway landing of the staircase, silently watching Freeman as he shut the front door. He then turned around and saw the three men staring down at him with puzzlement in their eyes.
Freeman held up the food to them and said, “Thanksgiving dinner.”
“That sounds good to me,” Peterson said, movin
g down between the other two guys. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Let’s eat,” Malloy suggested. “It might be our last meal.”
As Malloy and Buddy Rogers came down the stairs after Peterson, Freeman headed through the hallway to the kitchen with the food in his hands.
Thanksgiving night
The full moon was hidden behind a thick, canopy of cloud coverage that made the night even darker than usual. A fine drizzle of rain was falling, causing a sheen to be reflected from the oil-slicked asphalt of the streets.
A Final Taste of Blood Page 8