by Jim Heskett
There had to be some way to make sure this little adventure wasn’t a complete waste of time and effort.
He followed the noise, not sure what it was. Not like voices echoing off the canyon walls, and not quite like footsteps in the dirt floor. Something in between, perhaps. After another turn, Layne noted a steep incline leading out of the canyon. A hundred feet up at a forty-five-degree angle, with a knotted rope leading the whole way down. This was the official exit to Snake Bite Canyon. Quite a fitting name.
He hadn’t found the suitcase. But, maybe he could still learn something about the people in the RV.
With his hands on the rope, Layne trudged up, digging the toes of his shoes deep into the soft sand as he climbed. Heart racing, shoulder aching as he had to rely on the rope to keep himself from slipping back down.
When he neared the mouth of the canyon, he slowed and tried to poke his head above the top line. He could see the RV off in the distance, meaning the canyon had taken a circular route. But no gangsters in front of him. Nothing but the sinking sun and the heat of afternoon baking his exposed arms.
And then, he heard the cock of a shotgun.
Layne turned his head to see the six men from before standing behind and above him at the lip of the canyon, all of them armed, all of them pointing their weapons at him. No suitcase with them this time.
A man with long, black hair in braids took a step forward, to the edge of the canyon. A sawed-off shotgun in his hands. “Come on up out of there, white boy.”
21
Ronald sat back in his recliner, paging through the newspaper. He didn’t normally like to partake in leisure activities during the middle of the afternoon, but he was in a holding pattern until Cornelius reported back his activities following Layne for the day.
Mr. Parrish didn’t seem like he was too invested in finding the NSA report. That was unfortunate. Maybe he would change his mind if he received the same Polaroid pictures Harry had. Maybe one of his daughter Cameron, another of his ex-wife Inessa. Something of the two of them, snuggling on the couch of her Broomfield home, perhaps taking the little one to daycare.
Or, maybe Layne didn’t respond to those sorts of threats. Layne had been an assassin and a spy for the US government for years. He had probably been threatened multiple times. Perhaps the former shadow needed something stronger. A lock of Cameron’s hair.
Or, maybe her right pinky finger.
But, would it even matter at this point? Tomorrow, everything would come to a head. The deadline with the buyer, the lack of report, all of his responsibilities. He kept telling himself not to worry about it until the picture became more clear, but he couldn’t seem to find any peace.
Ronald pondered his mental state while four of his employees were playing cards at the living room table. They’d invited him to join, of course, but he had declined. They didn’t actually like him. They were only humoring him because he gave them fat envelopes of tax-free cash every Friday to guard his person and property and do whatever other tasks he required. No, these were not his friends. Only Ashleigh and Cornelius had any sense of true loyalty to Ronald. Hired hands were only good as long as their wallets stayed fat. Real loyalty took more than money to secure. It took a sense of duty, bought by persuading them into believing in the end goal.
And, as if manifesting her directly, Ashleigh walked across the living room. A couple of the card players stopped what they were doing to gawk at her. She had a habit of turning heads when she came through.
She ignored them, however, and caught Ronald’s attention. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. It wasn’t her job to make Harry feel comfortable, but she needed to keep him sane and compliant. When they recovered the report, they might still need him. He could serve another useful purpose or two before this would all end.
If they did recover the report. Ronald wasn’t sure if trusting Layne to take care of it was the smartest thing to do.
She picked up her purse from the end table next to the couch and stopped in front of him. “I’m going out for a little bit.”
He lowered his newspaper. Out of his peripheral, he saw a couple of the guys at the table take note of their conversation. “Oh?”
“Yes. I should be back in an hour or two.”
For some reason, he found himself gripping the edges of the newspaper, but he didn’t know why. “Where are you going?”
“Just some errands. The bank and a couple other stops.”
He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to tell her to stay right here.
“Unless,” she said with a slightly confused look on her face, “that’s not okay?”
“No, do what you need to do. As long as our guest is situated, there’s nothing else I have for you to do right now.”
“Okay. No problem. I’ll have my phone with me if you need anything.”
As she walked away, Ronald felt the strangest sense of absence. Like she shouldn’t leave. Like she had no right to go out and have her own life and take care of her own errands. He had no idea why this feeling passed through him, but he shrugged it off.
She left by the front door, and he watched it close behind her. His eyes drifted back to the newspaper, and he resumed reading the Sports section. After a few seconds, the odd feeling had passed, and he was back to being bored and waiting for Cornelius to call him.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, Ronald caught a whiff of something at the bottom of the stairs. A momentary blur, and then it was gone.
He sat up in the recliner and folded the newspaper. Had Cornelius returned? No, that wasn’t possible. The last time he’d checked in, he was all the way up near the Big Ditch. And, he was supposed to call as soon as he knew why Layne was going on a long car ride up north.
Ronald did a quick head count, trying to think if there was anyone else on the grounds today, other than his four bodyguards and Ashleigh.
No. No one else should have been in the house. Not without checking in or without one of his men letting him know.
He returned the recliner to the upright position and set the paper on the stand next to it. When he stood, he took an umbrella from the canister against the wall. The one with the weighted marble ball at the end.
A couple of his bodyguards took notice, and then they all quieted. “Sir?” asked one.
Ronald held up a hand to silence the guy as he crept across the room. His dress shoes tapped on the tiles, but he kept his footfalls light to minimize the noise. All of his guards took out their pistols, but none of them made a move to stand. Good. Better to not spook this potential intruder.
And who could this person be? Not police. They didn’t send in spies. No, more likely, this was a competitor. Someone hoping to glean a little information. Maybe someone wanting to know if the NSA report was already here.
Or, not that at all. It could be their guest. But, if it was their guest, then how did he get out?
Ronald pushed into the hallway toward the kitchen as he raised the umbrella, holding it with the marble ball high. He breathed in through his nose and out his mouth. Gripping the umbrella so hard his hand ached.
He slithered toward the turn to the laundry room, and then he saw what he’d hoped not to see. Harry Boukadakis, pushing open the door to the outside. His little bird was not in his cage. Instead, free and clear, the one thing Ronald could not abide.
Harry turned at the last second, and his eyes jumped wide with panic.
“How did you?” Ronald began, and then he didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Harry shoved the door open and fled outside. A panicked yelp came as he tried to hustle.
Behind him, Ronald now heard his four bodyguards jump up from their seats. But, they wouldn’t be necessary. Ronald knew exactly how to manage this situation. Anger climbed up from his feet, making his skin flush and his head thrum.
He raced outside after Harry, onto the patio. The rear patio, leading out to the backyard. No danger of Harry being seen. Plus, the chubby piece of lard was alr
eady wheezing, five steps out the back door. There were a few ways out from the backyard to the trails in the open space.
Harry paused for a split second, looking unsure which way to turn.
Ronald took three large steps to catch up, then he swung the umbrella down on Harry’s head. It whiffed through the air on the way down.
“You!” Ronald shouted as Harry crumpled to the ground. “I’ve been nice, you piece of shit. You think it’s as easy as slinking away from my patio door? You think you can run off? I’m not done with you.”
He brought the umbrella down again, this time cracking it against Harry’s hand as he tried to shield himself. The fat computer engineer cried out as Ronald listened to his finger bones breaking. Then, again, hitting him in the leg. And again, this time directly on his knee.
Ronald caught himself as he raised the umbrella. He wanted to finish it. He wanted to see Harry’s blood all over the patio. But, he couldn’t. He had to keep himself from going too far. They were going to be different with Harry. Ronald had promised. If he killed Harry, that would reflect poorly on him.
Harry tried to pull himself into the fetal position, weeping, snot dripping from his nose. “Please,” he wailed, trying to curl up. “Please stop.”
Ronald loosened his grip on the umbrella. He had to unclench his jaw to be able to speak. “I’ve been patient with you. I’ve been nice to you. I’ve given you books and a bed and haven’t kept you in chains. Well, all that is about to change, you ungrateful little shit. I’m going to start enforcing the rules around here.”
22
Layne took the last few steps up the canyon incline, holding his pistol by the grip, finger off the trigger. He was still a few feet below them, and they were stationed in a semi-circle around the small lip of the canyon.
One of the men aiming their weapons at him nodded toward the sand, and Layne pitched the pistol. He took care to let it land at least a few feet away, so it looked out of reach. But, he knew full well he could somersault forward and snatch it in one move. A trick he’d learned from Daphne herself, back when he’d first joined her team of shadows.
Layne raised his hands and faced the half-dozen men. Five of them were darker skinned, either Native American or multiracial. But the sixth was Caucasian, with bright blue eyes. That one hung back, holding a sawed-off shotgun, pointed in Layne’s direction.
The man with the braided black hair stood in front of the group. While the others were quiet and unassuming, that one carried a certain charisma to him. Layne assumed he was the leader.
“This is private property,” the leader said, a deep voice cutting through the breeze. “You’re trespassing. I’m within my rights to shoot you, you know.”
Layne, hands still up, cleared his throat. “Yeah, man, I know. I’m sorry about that. I’m looking for someone, and I hoped you might know where he is.” He also noted he didn’t see the suitcase anywhere, so they must have stashed it down in the canyon. Or, back in the RV.
And, ultimately, it didn’t matter what was in the suitcase, because it probably didn’t have anything to do with Harry. Whatever Brendall had given these men was between him and them.
The braided one made an exaggerated show of looking left and right across the hilly plains and then shrugged. “Unless he’s down in the canyon, then I don’t think your friend is with us.”
“I can see that. I need information, and I’m willing to pay for it. Someone kidnapped my guy, and it’s very important I find out who aided the kidnapper. I don’t have a lot of time. This has to happen by tomorrow.”
“Do we look like snitches?” asked another of the crew as he pointed a revolver at Layne.
The leader lifted a hand toward the man, waving him back. “We don’t want to help you. Not now, not ever.”
“Look, we don’t have to make this personal,” Layne said. From his current position, he figured he would go for the braided man first. He was closest, and the one with the biggest gun. The best plan would be to rush him, then put the man between Layne and the other five targets. A human shield wouldn’t stop their bullets, but they probably wouldn’t shoot him. The problem, though, was that this man stood in an elevated position, and Layne still had a few feet of mushy sand between him and the others. He couldn’t run well across the soft sand. The best he could manage would be a hop, and with six guns against none, none of them had to be a marksman to take him out. Maybe a couple of them would shoot each other in the crossfire, but a few of those bullets would find their way to Layne before he could get into position. No doubt.
“If it’s not personal,” said the leader, “then what is it?”
“Transactional. I have access to resources. Money, weapons… whatever you want. Your business is your business. I’m only looking for information, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.”
Of course, Layne had no intention of providing arms to criminals, but, given his situation, he had to tell these people something.
“You a fed?” asked the white guy in the crew.
Layne bit his lower lip, studying their faces for a pre-reaction. But, as stoic as they were, he couldn’t gauge one. “I’m retired. But I have access to lots of things. All I need to know is if you’ve ever heard the name Harry Boukadakis.”
Layne thought a couple of them might have twitched at the mention of the name, but he couldn’t be sure. They were all too hard to read. Tossing out Harry’s name had been a gamble, but Layne hadn’t seen any other way.
“It’s time you come back to the trailer with us,” said the braided one. “We want to ask you a few more questions.”
The white man at the rear of the group brandished a set of handcuffs, a toothy grin on his face.
“We can talk here,” Layne said. “I’m good right here.”
Then, a blur of beige clothing appeared to the left. Like a flash. It had come from behind a cactus.
Officer Brendall materialized from out of nowhere, a Glock in his hand. He wrapped an arm around the braided one and nestled the gun against his temple.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked the leader as Brendall hugged his body to him. He’d stolen Layne’s human shield idea. But, Brendall had been smart enough to approach it from the right angle. A luxury Layne hadn’t possessed.
“Pick up your gun,” Brendall said to Layne. “Pick up your gun and join me over here. Do it now.”
Layne took a few steps toward his pistol, and several of the men raised their weapons. The braided one muttered something in a language Layne didn’t understand.
He hesitated.
“Pick up your gun, now,” Brendall said. “They’re not going to do anything.”
Layne picked up his piece and then stood, awaiting instructions.
Brendall moved back a step, pulling the leader with him. “The rest of you, walk toward the RV. Do it now, or he gets a bullet."
Everyone paused. A few lips twitched, a few eyes narrowed. But no one seemed willing to pull the trigger and make the first move.
Collectively, they all sneered and grumbled, but the five other armed men stepped back, toward the RV. Brendall waited for a few beats until they were out of shouting range. Then, he released the braided leader and stepped away, keeping his pistol trained on him.
Brendall looked at Layne. “Please join me over here.”
Layne did as he was told, baffled. Spiked adrenaline made him want to jump and make a break for it. But, if Brendall intended to shoot him, then why had he ordered him to pick up his gun? Layne didn’t know how to sort the events of the last thirty seconds.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the braided one said, venom on his face. “Whatever favor you’ve bought with us is now over. This will come back on you, white boy. Both of you. I can promise you that.”
“It’s fine,” Brendall said as he and Layne backed away. “You do whatever you need to do. Now, please turn around and go join your friends.”
When the leader did, Brendall holstered his weapon. He
grabbed Layne by the arm. “We need to get out of here, right now. They’re going to change their minds in about five seconds.”
23
In the car, headed back toward Highway 179, Layne finally exhaled. Next to him, Officer Brendall drove, hands tight on the wheel. His jaw was clenched. He looked on edge. He was leaning forward in his seat, his elbows pointed out. If there had been music playing, Layne imagined the man might’ve been aggressively bouncing up and down in his seat. Brendall looked like the sort of person who would bang a fist against the interior roof of the car when a good beat came on.
Layne eyed him. “You need to tell me what’s going on here, man.”
Brendall winced and shook his head. He opened his mouth a few times with false starts before he finally spoke. “I owe you an apology. What happened yesterday and this morning? That wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but it wasn’t. The me who did all those things wasn’t thinking in his right mind. It’s because I had a slip.”
“A slip?”
“A relapse. I had ninety-one days clean, then I relapsed two days ago. I went out of my mind. And I owe you an apology because I’m not the sort of person to lash out and start fights like that. My head is clearing, and it’s all like a big mess. I did that. I made all this big mess.”
“Okay, okay,” Layne said, trying to process everything. He noted the cop’s eyes were not as red as they had been. “What was that back there? Where did you come from?”
“I was nearby. I heard them talking to you, and I went around. They were so focused on you, they had no idea I was coming.”
“I didn’t either. You have moves.”