Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  Had they come here, found the truck missing, thought he had it? Possible, but doubtful; such deductive thinking was beyond their intellect. He returned to the Navigator, eased behind the broken steering wheel.

  Think-think-think. Who else could be a player upon this stage?

  The dead man’s sister, the school teacher. Penelope Driver. This did not appear to be the work of a school teacher. It did, however, fit the profile of what Pederson had called an ‘old Army buddy’.

  Jackson, Justin, no; Justice! He thought he knew where to start his search for this mystery man, and he took the second pistol from the door pocket, shoved it in his waistband, slammed the crippled Navigator into gear, and sped past the hotel, to Maple Street.

  Chapter 65

  Danny Bosell loaded the digital images into his computer, and composed an e-mail to Snake8R2U, a defender of the First and Second Amendments.

  Exercising the first right, he published an online newsletter devoted to the second. Not only did he keep and bear arms, he aided and abetted other patriots in acquiring them, including some that the government considered unsuitable for civilian consumption.

  Danny added the photos to his explanation as to how a Claymore was blocking access to a truck load of home heating oil, and waited. With a glass of wine and a closer perusal of FM 23-23.

  He was pouring a second glass when the annoying little voice told him he had mail. Which he opened, read, copied, printed, closed. “Ho ho ho,” he chortled as he clicked delete.

  Russ did not pick up his office phone. His cell was busy. His wife did not know where he was. Russell, Russell. You swore you would be waiting with bated breath. Because, and I quote you verbatim: 'Something tells me if we don’t get into the truck tonight, we won’t have another chance.' And yet, here you are. Not!

  Danny armed himself with a five cell flashlight and the big bolt cutters. ActionMan, cleverly disguised as mild mannered Danny Bosell, leaps into the ActionMobile, cleverly disguised as a three year old Tahoe, and speeds to the garage, ready to rescue untold millions from gruesome destruction. He-he-he.

  He was torn between several emotions when he braked to a stop. One, elation; that he would not have to execute Snake’s instructions. Two, annoyance, that the truck was gone, and he would not be able to impress his brother-in-law with his expertise. And Three, anger that Russ had cut him out of a share of the spoils. Dirty rotten, double crossing scoundrel! He drove the Tahoe in ever widening circles, searching for either the truck, Russ, or both.

  Chapter 66

  Pen cradled the teacup in her hands. The heat reminded her of the sweat lodge; the cleansing of both body and soul.

  Tonight they would write the final chapter, and close the book on her brother's death. The simple way would be just find this Major Baer, and kill him. Her solution. An eye for an eye, Hatfield and McCoy.

  But Bob had surprised her when he said it was a bridge too far. One he had crossed many times, so she would never have to.

  In the sweat lodge she'd told him Mom and Davy were gone, all she had were memories. And he said no, they had just 'moved along'. Said their spirits will always be with you. Maybe so. That, or Bob was Davy's doppelgänger.

  Someone turned from the street into the driveway, and stopped below the apartment.

  She parted the curtains. Looking down in the gathering darkness, she saw the top of a big black vehicle. Looks like he didn't have as much trouble with the truck as he thought.

  She heard quick, heavy footfalls on the steps, and threw open the door. “That was fas—”

  A meaty paw slammed into her chest, and she flew backward, fell hard. Pen looked up at the biggest man she'd ever seen.

  Scrambling to her feet, she realized he wasn't any smaller.

  “Hey, puss. You must be the school teacher. The sister of the squirt with the broken neck?” He slammed the door behind him. He saw a well-worn man's wallet, a set of keys with a Ford fob, and a cell phone on an old blue table. “Where's Sergeant Justice, and where is my truck?”

  Sergeant Justice was a hundred feet away when his cell rang. Caller ID said it was Pen, and he said, “Hey, good lookin', what you got cookin'?”

  “I'm about to cook up a world of hurt on this little redhead, if you don't bring me the thing they call the Roachmobile.”

  Justice let the seconds pass.“You must be Mr. Baer.” If he had Pen's cell, then he had Pen. Justice rolled to a stop at the driveway, saw a big black SUV parked beside his truck.

  They were upstairs, the man was most likely armed, and he had Pen. Tactical advantage Baer. Never met the man, but I know his kind. Impulsive, ruthless. Two can play that game.

  “Mister, I got me a truck full of cash, and I'm on my way back to Tennessee with it. You can keep the redhead.”

  “Nice try, asshole. If you came all the way from Tennessee because of a dead army buddy, I'm betting the sister, sitting here with your wallet and keys, also means something to you.”

  Justice ran scenarios, examined angles, threats, and possibilities. “You win, Baer.” The first morning in town he'd met a pair of kayakers at a bridge on River Road. A dark, secluded place to exchange prisoners. “I'm about to cross a bridge. An old, single lane one, outside of town. I'll wait for you there.”

  Chapter 67

  Howie slowed at the one-lane bridge. “If we dump him over the side, he'll float away down river, and we're home free.”

  Chick turned in the passenger seat, peered through the window, studied Bumpsy, lying in the bed. He wondered if the title to his new bike was on him.

  “No way the two of us can lift him up over the rail, Howie.” He paused. “Go to Paradise Park, the boat ramp. We can slide him out the back.” But search him first.

  “Good thinking. I'll drop the tailgate, stick her in low gear, and floor it. Bumpsy will shoot out the back, and into the river. We won't even have to touch him.” He shifted into gear.

  “And it's closer to the garage. I wanna be there when Mr. Baer opens RoachMobile up.”

  —o—

  Carl Oxenhammer, Chief Schmidt's right-hand man, spotted the red truck as it backed down the boat ramp. His headlights caught the 911 suspects in the act of lowering the tailgate. With just the one set of handcuffs, he improvised, then radioed the chief.

  The chief told Clark to dispatch all available units for backup. Unit One—Sergeant Oxenhammer—was already there, and Unit Two—Officer Morgan—was Code 7, at Paolo’s Pizza.

  Chief Schmidt rounded up Forensic Freddie and his FBI crime scene kit, and met Morgan at Paradise Park.

  Where they found the pair of screwup sitting on the cobblestones, cuffed hand-to-hand on Carl's bumper, and the paramedics loading Bumpsy into their ambulance.

  Morgan began setting traffic flares in the middle of First Street, while Sergeant Oxenhammer reported to Chief Schmidt. “These two have a wild tale. Claim Baer shot the decedent, out at the Bergen farm. Then gave them the gun, told them to get rid of it, and the body.”

  The chief lit a cigarette, and listened without comment. No mention of the exterminator truck. If they emptied the money, why was there still a Claymore on the hatch? “Sounds unlikely, Carl. But we’ll have to check it out. If it’s true, we have some kind of conspiracy involving the four of them.”

  Not to mention the goddamn hillbilly, and his pal with the broken neck. This needs to be kept in-house, before it turns into a cluster fuck, one involving the State Police.

  “Freddie, ride back with Sergeant Oxenhammer, get those two printed, mugged, and booked. Run a Gun Shot Residue test on both of them. Then fume the weapon for prints. Morgan, we need to find Baer. Run out to the old Bergen place, see if he’s there.”

  Morgan's voice was apprehensive. “Without backup?”

  “You remember the saying 'we go to war with the army we have'?” Morgan was one notch above a school crossing guard. “Approach with caution, but do not try to apprehend.” The last thing he needed was a dead cop on his record.

 
Chief Schmidt stood in the middle of the street, watching the scene gradually dissolve, until he was alone with a flare, guttering like a dying candle in the mist. He tried shuffling the deck into some kind of order, sensed that there were cards missing. Where the hell was the truck? And who has it?

  “Chief!” Clark’s voice on his shoulder broke his train of thought. “I have a citizen complaint. Joseph Carney, 309 Maple. His bowling night, and a black Lincoln Navigator is blocking his garage.

  “He knocked on his tenant’s door, a Ms. Penelope Driver, got no answer. You have a BOLO on the vehicle, so I thought you’d want to know.”

  Clark was worth her weight in owl feathers. “Roger that. Morgan’s in Unit Two, on his way to the Bergen farm. Get him turned around, meet me at 309 Maple. No lights, no siren. As soon as Carl gets to you with his prisoners, fill him in, tell him we may have a hostage situation.”

  It suddenly became clear: if Baer didn’t have the RoachMobile, then it had to be the hillbilly; what the hell was his name? Justice. Talk about your irony.

  —o—

  The cop car came up fast on the pickup's bumper. River Road had more curves than a ninth inning closer, and there was enough oncoming traffic to make passing next to impossible.

  In fourth grade Pen joined Campfire Girls, because her best friend had. Most of it was dopey, but the Morse code came in handy, during study hall. They tapped messages back and forth with pencils on desk tops. Sharing giggles. About all she remembered was three dots for S and three dashes for O. Enough, she hoped, for the cop to pull her over for suspicious activity. Her left foot crept to the brake pedal, and she began to transmit.

  Morgan swore. A small woman and a big man in an old truck, mooning along at five miles below the limit, when everyone else routinely traveled this road at ten above. Her brake lights began a series of flashes.

  Probably had a couple too many. A DUI would be a good collar, but the Chief wanted him to check out the old Bergen place, and right now the man had a wild hair.

  He was about to activate the light bar, get her the hell out of his way, when the radio crackled. Clark. The Chief's fair-haired girl. She had something more important than DUI’s, and old farms. He slowed, executed a three point turn, and headed, fast and quiet, for Maple street.

  Chapter 68

  Justice turned onto the bridge, paused. The sign said three-ton limit, and he wondered just how far over he was. What the heck; falling in the river was the least of his concerns.

  He crossed the river, turned around, and pulled to the side of the road, facing back toward Shaleville. He now had the right of way, and a view of the approach from the other side. He killed the headlights and waited for a woman he cared a lot about and a man not at all.

  Waiting was a way of life; ‘hurry up and wait’ was funny only because it was true. Roll out of the sack at zero dark thirty, bust your hump to get someplace, form up, and wait. For whoever or whatever showed up an hour later.

  The worst wait was for the action to begin. ‘We attack at dawn’. Only clocks slowed, and dawn never came. So you checked your gear one more time, went over the plan, the backup plan, and the plan for when all the plans went out the window. And checked your watch again an hour later, only to find that five minutes had passed.

  Justice checked his watch. Thirteen minutes had passed since Baer’s phone call. More than enough time to drag Pen downstairs, and drive here. He hoped she wouldn’t try something stupid; she seemed to view combat as something an amateur could take up as a hobby. Kick the knife out of his hand! Too much TV, made by people who had watched too many movies.

  The way the boys in the Presidential Suite had told it, this Major Baer wasn’t a man to mess with. Of course they were civilians; probably hadn’t faced anyone rougher than a couple of drunks with baseball bats.

  He took off the fanny pack, dumped it on the seat, looking for the perfect weapon he had selected for this mission. Mini mag, 5 in 1, Corsica; a few other items useful for breaking and entering and stealing. The mission had not included this. Should have brought that Ruger. Shoulda coulda woulda. He searched the cab, the glove box, under the seat. Except for the Claymore and a set of emergency road reflectors tucked up in the space above the seat springs, there was no weaponish items. Not even a tire iron.

  SF didn’t need weapons. They had been taught early on that they were weapons. In combat all armament is merely an extension of the soldier. The well-trained man will defeat the well-armed adversary every time.

  And years later over too many bottles of San Miguel in a KTV girl bar on Mabini Street, a retired Command Sergeant Major had told him and Davy that combat is the ultimate sport. Why do we play games, compete?

  The Mongols played polo with human skulls, the Incas played handball with human heads, and little kids play capture the flag. Just practice for the ultimate game, where the winner walks away with his life as the trophy.

  Soldiers don’t give a damn about the geopolitical reasons for war; they know on some gut level that it is just a perverted kind of fun. The ultimate drug. You can’t explain it to someone who has not shared it.

  The old man had been drunk, but that didn’t make his philosophy any less acceptable. Besides, he had a beautiful Filipina wife a third his age, owned the bar, and the beers for his new Special Ops friends had been on the house.

  Justice peeled back his cuff. Eighteen minutes.

  Always jump with a reserve chute, and always have a backup plan. Or two. The lesson had been hammered into his skull more times that he could remember.

  Like the time he and Davy had found themselves at the top of a hundred-foot cliff, armed with nothing but their CAR-15’s and a dead radio, facing a truckload of khat-chewing Somali teenagers armed with AK-47’s.

  Since there wasn't a river conveniently running past the base of the cliff, not to mention cameras, second unit directors, and stunt doubles, a dramatic leap to safety was not an option.

  Fortunately, Davy had thought to bring along a hundred-meter coil of climbing rope, along with belay plates and Super 8’s. He secured the line with a piton while Justice supplied covering fire.

  Like most of the irregular forces they had faced in the world’s hot spots, the Skinnies used the ‘spray and pray’ method of deploying their assault rifles. Held at the hip, with one hand on the trigger, the other wrapped around the barrel’s forestock, and the selector switch on full-auto, the weapon climbs as it's fired, and at distances greater than a few yards the rounds go over their adversaries’ heads. He admired their pluck. They must train by studying old Rambo pictures.

  Justice watched them come, forty, fifty yards away, muzzle flashes like sparklers at a July picnic. You can’t run and shoot and hope to hit anything, boys; best do one or the other.

  Still, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and Blackhawk Down was fresh in his mind. He dropped to one knee, told Davy to hurry the hell up, and put a round in the leader’s thigh. The rest of the youngsters quickly retreated to the cover of their truck.

  Using a figure-eight to abseil is dangerous, because it can misalign itself across the carabiner gate, and a rapid descent can devolve into a parachute jump without the chute.

  Not, however, as dangerous as trading gunfire with a band of Somali children. They hooked on, and executed a fast descent from the confrontation.

  He reached under the seat and pulled the Claymore out, then crawled under the dash. He removed a wire from the back of the light switch, reached around front, pulled it on. Nothing. he touched the spade connection to the switch. A spark, and the headlights came back on. He pushed the switch in, re-connected the wire, added the hot side of the blasting cap wire, twisted it tight. Nothing went BANG, so he slid the detonator back in the well, and slipped the mine back under the seat.

  If all went well, when Baer swapped Pen for the truck, he’d tell the man not to put the lights on before looking under the seat.

  If all went well.

  —o—

  Pen slowe
d as she neared the bridge. Her high beams swung across the surface of the empty span. Pen stopped at the historical marker, and Baer hit redial.

  Justice answered on the first ring. “I’m here.”

  “And a good thing too, cowboy.” Baer squinted through the windshield. “Where’s my truck?”

  “Comin’ at you.” Justice slipped into gear, and slowly drove onto the bridge. The parking lights were two pale yellow eyes.

  Baer turned to the girl, both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, lips a grim slit in her face. “What’s he think he’s doing? Gonna sneak up on me, with his lights off? Jerk.”

  Justice stopped in the middle of the span, turned off the phone, climbed out of the truck. Clearance was a scant eighteen inches between the door and the peeling green paint on the cast iron girders. The water thundered twenty feet below.

  “Hey! What—” Baer looked at the phone. “Bastard hung up on me!” He dropped the phone in his shirt pocket, grabbed Pen by the arm. “Get out!”

  She opened her door, he slid across, and crab walked her in front of the pickup. Baer's forearm snaked around her slender neck. He yelled at Justice. ”What the hell are you doing? Bring the truck over here!”

  Justice closed the door, walked in front of the vehicle. So this was Mr. Baer. Had the size of one; not a man he’d want to tangle with, in close. Except he’d found that a lot of big men figured that was all you needed. Size. Wasn’t that way in the company he kept. You didn’t run across many big men in Delta, SEALs. Sometimes size didn’t matter, at all.

  He squinted into the headlight's glare. Not the big SUV, but his own truck’s lights hit him in the face, threw a stark shadow behind him. He shaded his eyes with his left hand, kept the right well clear of his body.