Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  He opened the Corsica with his thumb, and cupped it in his palm, the blade flat against his wrist. He’d thrown it this way a hundred, two hundred times, standing ten feet from a soda can sitting on a chest-high fence post. Flicking it forward in one fluid, seamless motion. In practice. Just killing time.

  He saw the man also had a weapon, also down at his side. Good. Let him think he held the high ground; maybe he’d get careless.

  “I’m meetin’ you half way, Mister,” Justice shouted. “Turn the girl loose, and you can come get your dang truck!”

  “How do I know you don’t have some trick up your sleeve?”

  Justice pulled his shirttails out, used the move to slip the knife down in his waistband, behind his belt buckle. He slowly unbuttoned the shirt, peeled it off, dropped in on the road bed. The wind picked it up. It sailed, caught on the iron railing, sleeves flapping. He turned in a slow circle, and palmed the knife again.

  His white T-shirt was a second skin. “Hey. You’re the one with a gun in your hand. I ain’t got no interest in your truck load of money. Never did.”

  Baer raised his voice. “Don’t you try anything funny!”

  Justice ignored him. Show the enemy he don’t matter. Ain’t worth spit. “Did he hurt you, Pen?”

  She grabbed Baer's wrist, tried to pry him away. “Not yet,” she yelled.

  “Turn her loose, Baer,” he called. The wind whipped his words away. “Pen, if things don’t work out here, I’ll see you in Paradise!”

  “Her and seventy one other virgins!” Baer released her, turned toward Justice, the Colt down beside his leg. He thumbed the safety off. The little twat was not a player, but this cock sucker would haunt him to the ends of the earth. He knew the type. Time to put a hollowpoint in him and end this annoyance. Aim high, go for a headshot. A bullet in the truck’s radiator would spoil everything. He started walking toward the little bastard.

  Pen ran to the truck, leaned over the bed, found the sixgun in the go-bag, hurried back to the bridge. The rough roadway bit into her bare feet. Baer was fifty feet away, halfway to Bob

  She aimed at Baer’s back. The back of the man who had killed her brother. Time to cross that line, join that band of brothers. Avenge Davy, save Justice. Lord, forgive me for what I am about to do.

  The last time she had fired a pistol. . . There was no last time. However, she’d seen a million movies, and knew the basics.

  And Davy had showed her how to shoot, with the .22 rifles at the Fair. Five shots for a buck; she’d won a pink cat.

  Pen closed one eye, put the front bump in the back notch, both on the big bastard’s back, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. Empty, unloaded, broken. She lowered it to her side and watched Baer close on Justice. Twenty feet. Watched him raise his gun. Saw it jump, saw a little flash of flame, heard a loud pop that was ripped downstream by the wind, saw a spark from the iron bridge next to Justice’s head.

  Watched Justice take two quick steps, vault over the side, before Baer could get off a second shot.

  Justice remembered why you never bring a knife to a gunfight.

  Pen raced back to the truck, slammed it in gear, turned around, sped to a rendezvous in Paradise.

  “Son of a bitch!” Baer ran to the side of the bridge, looked down at the white foam and black water. Gone.

  —o—

  Harry and Clara Masella left their house, and drove his new three year old Crown Victoria up River Road, heading for a movie in Sunbury. He’d gotten a nice bonus from the Navigator sale, and together with his trade-in and employee discount, the Crown Vic had been almost free.

  There was a vehicle stopped in the middle of the bridge, and a man walking toward it. “Son of a biscuit,” he said, turning to his wife. “That's the man who bought the Navigator! I wonder what he is doing, walking across the bridge?”

  They watched the man, Mr. Baer was his name, edge between the truck and the side of the bridge, watched him open the door, try to squeeze in. Watched him roll the window down, slam the door, try to climb through the window. Get back down, kick the door four-five-six times. Break off the side mirror, throw it on the road bed. Stamp on it.

  Harry’s wife put he hand to her cheek. “What in the world?”

  They watched him come back to the front of the truck, and point at the windshield. There was a loud pop and the windshield crazed into a spider web. Harry turned to Clara. “Holy moly, he’s shooting at that truck!”

  Two more shots, then Baer climbed over the hood, crawled through the shattered windshield, wedged himself behind the wheel.

  “Heavens to Betsy; what next?” Harry’s wife got out her phone and called her sister.

  What next was Baer turned on the lights, and the front of the truck lifted six inches, then came back down, and the roadway buckled, and the truck slid sideways, and slowly rolled over, fell twenty feet into the white foam and the black water. “Lord have mercy!” Harry said, and dialed his own phone.

  —o—

  Justice hit the water with his feet together, knees bent, arms tucked, hands protecting his face. It worked for jumping out of airplanes, so probably it was a good way to go off a bridge. He surfaced a hundred feet down stream, and sucked in a deep breath of air mixed with foaming river. Coughed, wretched, tried again.

  Son of a gun, but the water was cold; it had hit like a hammer when he first went under, and just drawing a breath was a struggle.

  A SEAL had told him eight minutes was the survival time in the North Atlantic. Hypothermia killed quicker than drowning. Well then, he’d best turn his attention to reaching dry land.

  That’s when Baer turned on the lights. Justice didn’t see the flash and didn’t hear the blast. He was busy learning a new skill as he swam for his life.

  On your back, feet down stream, steer with your arms. And stay away from stinkers or swingers or whatever his Jersey pals had called the dangerous spots.

  Trouble was, under the soft moonlight, everything seemed dangerous. And to think that people did this for fun! Of course people also jumped out of airplanes for fun, so he guessed he’d not be one to throw stones. Besides, if a SEAL could do this, how hard could it be?

  —o—

  Pen had the truck on the ramp, headlights reaching out into the gloom. Where Alph the sacred river ran, down to a sunless sea. Except Paradise Park was a poor substitute for Xanadu, and there wasn’t a Khan in sight.

  She’d made the drive in less than five minutes. Now what? She had to be doing something, anything.

  Call 911? How? Baer had taken her cell phone. Besides; what would she say? By the time anyone arrived Bob would either be here, downstream, or dead.

  If he wasn’t dead he would be half frozen. She turned the heater on high, and the blower began blasting hot air; hot enough that she soon had to leave the cab. Pen stood at the river’s edge, her bare feet turning blue on the wet cobbles. She glanced at her watch. How long did it take to swim a mile and a half in a raging current?

  —o—

  Long enough that Justice began to lose track of time.

  It was cold, it was dark, and swimming white water was way down on his list of ways to spend an evening. Better, however, than taking a bullet in the head.

  Let the current take you, they said. Align yourself with the river, they said. Don’t fight it, use it. Not a bad philosophy, and a pretty good way to not only make it to Paradise, but live to enjoy it.

  Except at water level it was a whole different scene. From up on the road, jogging along the blacktop, the thundering white current seemed to have some order to it. Flowing around the smooth black rocks, swirling in foam-flecked eddies, you could make out patterns, select the best routes downstream.

  Like reading the map, before dropping down a hundred feet on a hip-rappel from a UH-60 Blackhawk. Once on the ground, in the midst of the noise and smoke, facing small arms fire, the map became a sterile fantasy.

  Davy’s video games were that way. The action was taking
place behind a computer screen. Here he was through the glass, where it was loud, cold, wet. And painful.

  The waves bounced him against unyielding rocks, tossed him like a hickory chip in a tub mill's tailrace. With his eyes just a few inches above the surface of the water he did not have enough information to make good decisions. Helpless. It was not a situation he was accustomed to. In combat you were briefed on the pre-op intel, had studied the terrain, and knew your force strength. And you had the endless hours of training to draw upon.

  All he had now was some idle chatter from a couple of weekend kayakers. Don’t try to stand up. He remembered that. Given his current situation, it hardly seemed necessary advice. What else had they said?

  Holes. Formed where water pours over a ledge, the backwash is fed back upstream, and the water underneath flushes downstream. Small ones are great play spots, one of the bond traders had said. A place to do cartwheels, enders, show off your skills. Big ones hold you under.

  He felt his feet lift skyward, and he dropped, head first, through a mix of air and water, then plunged through another ten feet of churning foam, before his face hit the scoured slate of the river bottom. He tasted salt, swallowed blood.

  This one was a monster pour-over, Class IV, and it held him down, pinning him against the bottom until his lungs were bursting. He tore his fingernails clawing at the flat rock face, trying to pull free, strained his muscles trying to push up through fifty tons of water pushing down. His pulse pounded in his ears and white lights flashed. A minute passed. Two. He felt his life slipping away.

  What a way to go out. Me and Davy, our candles snuffed in dumb twists of fate. Somewhere deep a voice said go with the flow. Davy’s, Meemaw’s, maybe his own. He stopped struggling against the current. Let the water work its will.

  The river tired of the game, swept him away from the pour-over, sent him downstream, and spat him out into the moonlight. He saw headlights to his left and sucked sweet, icy air.

  He angled toward the lights, spent to exhaustion. He drifted ashore at the boat landing. His ass scraped bottom and he figured it was OK to stand up. Except he couldn’t.

  That’s when Pen waded out and dragged him ashore.

  Chapter 69

  Harry called 911, Clark answered. “The bridge blew up! That man that bought the Navigator, the one was in the showroom, shot the truck, and the bridge blew up!”

  “Thelma, you are not going to believe this! We are at the bridge, the old one. Me and Harry are on our way to Sunbury, to the movies- Yes, I know you told me the Post Gazette said it wasn’t any good, but Harry—”

  “Will you kindly shush! I’m trying to—no, not you miss, the missus. Harry, Harry Masella. What? 931 Oak Street. But I’m not there. What? I’m at the bridge. The one that blew up. What? Well, I’m trying to tell you!”

  “And this man, Harry says he bought the Navigator, that’s how we were able to afford the new Crown Vic—”

  “No, miss, he didn’t shoot the Navigator, he shot an old truck. That’s my wife. Clara. She’s on the phone with her sister. Thelma. Thelma Turner. You probably know her, she cooks at the firehouse, weekends. What? No, the Navigator isn’t here. It was another truck. And there was a flash and it blew a hole in the side of the bridge!”

  “Hold on, Thelma. Harry, that’s not the way it happened at all. The truck didn’t blow up until that man got in it. Trucks don’t blow up when you shoot at them!”

  “They do in the movies. Miss, the truck fell in the river. I can’t see it, because we’re in the car. No. The Crown Vic. I don’t know where the Navigator is.”

  “That’s because the hero shoots at the gas tank. And that man shot at the windshield, I saw it with my own two eyes! Harry, give me the phone and I’ll tell the police what really happened. Here, you talk to Thelma.”

  —o—

  What happened, was Justice had put the Claymore under the seat with the convex side down, the side clearly embossed FRONT FACING ENEMY. Embossed, so that it could be set up by feel in the darkest night.

  Therefore, when it exploded, it did not blast up, through the seat, sending 700 ball bearings and Baer through the roof, but down, through the floor of the truck, where the force of the explosion, added to the weight of the truck, was too much for the old bridge.

  The truck hit the water on its side. The bolts connecting the tank to the chassis sheared off with the impact. When the truck settled beneath the raging torrent the tank—filled mostly with air, some shrink-wrapped paper, and a few hundred gallons of insecticide—floated free. Riding high, it aligned itself with the current, and headed southeast.

  The rest of the truck quickly settled, rear end first, to the bottom. The river was ten feet deep at that point, and white water broke over the hood, rapidly filling the drivers’ compartment.

  The bench seat, torn free by the blast, floated up, and out the opening no longer occupied by the windshield. It was followed by Baer, who had the fingers of both hands firmly wrapped around the springs that crisscrossed the underside of the seat. Both the seat and its passenger followed the tank downstream.

  The blast had ruptured his eardrums; with his inner ears filled with water his sense of balance was gone. Hypothermia crept up his legs.

  He clung to the seat. Cushioned by six inches of foam rubber and covered with vinyl, it made a serviceable flotation device. He managed to turn it over, so that the underside was up, and he clawed his way onto it, riding it through the swift water like a surfer. Only his legs were still under water. He tried kicking toward the river bank, but it seemed to serve no purpose. So he clung to the seat and rode the river. Eventually these rapids had to end. And when they did he could make it to shore and walk away from this nightmare.

  —o—

  Shaleville’s SWAT team consisted of Carl and his scoped deer rifle. While he went home to get it out of the gun case in his den, Chief Schmidt and Morgan, in vests and carrying pump shotguns, quietly walked up the driveway at 309 Maple Street. “There’s the Navigator,” Morgan whispered, pointing to the SUV blocking Mr. Carney’s garage.

  Mr. Carney himself came off his back porch, armed with a bowling bag and a flashlight. “Hey Chief. I think you need a tow truck, not a shotgun.”

  “Keep your voice down, sir. We may have a hostage situation. Your tenant, Ms. Driver.”

  “Oh, hell, Chief, she ain’t there. Nobody is. After I called you, I went back up to the apartment, used my key.”

  Clark’s voice sounded in his ear. “Chief. I have a 911 from a Masella, Harry, AKA Harold, NMI. Says the North Fork Bridge has been blown up. I find the information suspect, as it highly unlikely terrorists, either foreign or domestic, would have any interest in the North Fork Bridge. Your BOLO Navigator was mentioned several times, but he seemed a bit hysterical. His wife is with him, but she’s not much better. You want me to play the tape?”

  Chief Schmidt swore; unusual for him and surprising for Morgan and Mr. Carney. If he hadn’t known about the Claymore he’d have wondered if they weren’t having a terrorist incident. The local historical society was having a running battle with a group wanting to widen the structure. The evening was turning into the keystone cops. “Negative. Just give me your take on the situation.”

  What she gave him boiled down to Baer and a truck, sounded like the RoachMobile, were in the river. “Clark, tell Carl to meet us at the bridge. Get the EMS and the fire company back out. We may need a river rescue. Morgan, let’s go!” There was still a chance to salvage the money, even if it meant sharing with it was a whole different scene,

  —o—

  Pen draped Bob's arm across her shoulders and led him from the water’s edge to the truck. He leaned against the passenger door. She kissed him. “Artificial respiration.”

  “Mmm, I think it’s working.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” she said, and kissed him again.

  “What happened to the truck?”

  Pen stepped back, looked at his truck, puzzled. “What? Nothing. I
t’s fine.”

  “No, the other one. Baer had it rigged with an antipersonnel mine, and I, ahh, moved it. There wasn’t an explosion?”

  “I have no idea. As soon as you jumped in the river I high tailed it out of there. To Paradise. The last fifteen minutes have been the longest of my life!”

  “Not as long as mine. That water is very cold.”

  “Dummy me; get in the truck. It’s toasty warm.” She opened the door, helped him climb in, then ran around the other side, got behind the wheel.

  Justice peeled off his Tee shirt, wrung it out, spread it on the dash. He held his hands in front of the vents until feeling returned to his fingers, then took after-action inventory, starting at the top of his scalp, where there was a painful knot from an encounter with a rock. He explored with his tongue. Loose tooth and cut gum. The gum would heal, the tooth would tighten. The fingernails, torn to the quick, hurt worse than the ribs, and would take even longer to repair themselves. It never ceased to amaze him how little help the body needed. First lesson of his training had been learning when to intervene, when to let nature take its course.

  She watched him poke and prod. How could someone be so detached from their own body? “Sweetheart? You OK?”

  “I’ll live. Worst is my ribs, and that was from before my swim. How about you? Did that booger hurt you?”

  “I now have a hint of what you and Davy went through in your escapades. What it took, to get all those scars. That creep choked me, hit me, knocked me down, yanked my arm half out of its socket, pinched me.” She lifted her sweatshirt, showed him an angry red mark on her side. “Nothing I didn’t experience playing field hockey, but it's scary how casual it was. Hitting me was like swatting a fly. When we were driving to the bridge he said I’d be dead before this was over. Is that how it is, in war? People get in your way, you just kill them?”