The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  Milton leaned back, feeling all the kinks and aches in his joints and muscles. He bit down on his lip, thinking. He needed Beau to be on board before he committed to anything.

  He stood. “I need to speak to him about it. Wait here.”

  Beau was just returning from the restroom, and Milton intercepted him by the serving station.

  “What’s up?”

  “She still wants to come,” Milton said. “You okay with that?”

  “Delgado’s serious. Some guys, they’re all hat and no cattle. Not him.”

  “I know,” Milton said.

  “So?”

  “So she insisted. She made a persuasive case and, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. She knows her way around a handgun. And, if she doesn’t go, it’s just me and you up against however many people Delgado brings along. She’s an extra gun to point at them.”

  Beau sucked his teeth. “Devil’s advocate? I can see why you might think that, but you don’t know her. You don’t know how she’ll react if she starts feeling shaky, and it’s her old man we’re going to get. She’ll be as jumpy as spit on a hot skillet—might not be the most predictable, in the circumstances.” He paused, sucking his teeth. “That all being said, having an extra gun’s no bad thing. It’s your call. If you think she should come, I’m good with it.”

  Milton nodded and led the way back to the table. Jessica had been watching their conversation, and now there was an expectant expression on her face.

  “So?”

  “You can come,” he said. “But no freelancing.”

  “No freelancing?”

  “You stay back at the car and let me and Beau deal with Delgado.”

  “Understood.”

  The waitress came over with their pizzas. They were served on Evel Knievel plates and came with cutters that also bore the stuntman’s signature. She laid them down on the table.

  “We got the World-Famous Snake River Special with rattlesnake jalapeño sausage, the Balls to the Wall with meatballs and Sunday gravy, and the Super Kick-Ass Combo with pepperoni, sausage, ham, mushrooms, onions and peppers. You folks enjoy your pies.”

  She put down a beer for Beau and went over to clear the adjacent table.

  The pizzas were vast. Milton took one of the cutters and sliced up the pie that had been put down for him. He picked a slice and took a bite; it was delicious.

  44

  They walked back to the hotel together. Beau said that he was going to play a hand or two of poker and that he would see them in the parking lot at eight thirty. Milton and Jessica climbed the stairs to the second floor. He went to his door and opened it.

  “Can I come in?” she asked him.

  He stepped aside to let her through and then followed. She went to the minibar and took out a bottle of beer.

  “You want one?”

  “Not for me,” Milton said.

  She popped the top and took a long draught. Milton went and sat on the edge of the bed. He had presumed that she wanted to talk to him about what might happen later that night, but, to his surprise, she took another slug of beer, put the bottle down and then came and sat next to him.

  “I haven’t thanked you yet,” she said. “This isn’t your problem. I don’t understand why you’re helping me.”

  Milton shrugged. “Because you need it,” he said. “And because I can. You should go and lie down for an hour. The rest will help.”

  “I could stay here,” she said and, before he could do anything to stop her, she held a hand up against his cheek, turned his face toward her, and leaned in to kiss him on the lips.

  Milton let her do it. Her lips were warm and full and her citrus scent was sweet, reminding him of the time he had spent in Rio not so long ago. She put her other hand against his chest and pushed, trying to get him to lie down on the bed. He realised what that might mean and stopped her, disengaging from her embrace and standing up.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not like that.”

  She stood. “Like what?”

  “Like what you said when I picked you up.”

  “That you were doing it because you thought you might get laid?”

  “Yes,” he said awkwardly.

  “I don’t want to sleep with you to say thanks. I want to sleep with you because I find you attractive.”

  “No,” he said again.

  “You don’t find me attractive?”

  “Of course I do. But I don’t think it’s a very good idea.”

  Her cheeks flushed red. “Suit yourself.”

  She stepped around him and made for the door.

  “Jessica—”

  “I’ll knock for you at eight thirty,” she said as she left the room.

  45

  Milton managed to sleep for an hour and felt a little fresher when he woke at eight fifteen. He took a quick shower, dressed and then spent five minutes field-stripping the Ruger. Beau had provided him with extra ammunition; Milton loaded the magazine to full capacity and shoved two extra magazines into his jacket pocket. He pulled on his boots, pushed the Ruger into the back of his jeans and zipped up the jacket.

  Jessica came out of her room at the same time as Milton.

  She smiled awkwardly at him. “Sorry.”

  “Forget it,” Milton said. “It’s not that I don’t… It’s…”

  He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “I shouldn’t have. It’s my fault. But we’re good?”

  “We’re fine,” Milton said. “Nothing has changed.”

  They set off down the corridor together.

  “Are you okay?” Milton asked her.

  “Nervous.”

  “You still want to come? You don’t have to.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Nerves are fine. They mean you’ll be sharp. Just remember—”

  “Do what you tell me to do,” she finished for him. “I know. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

  Milton led the way down to the parking lot. Beau was waiting for them next to the Yukon.

  “We good to go?” Beau said.

  Milton nodded. He checked his watch: it was twenty-five minutes past eight.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  Beau drove. Milton sat up front, with Jessica in the back. Beau had given her the little Colt, and she had it in her lap, her fingers tracing a pattern over the blued grip. Beau had regaled them with the story of the skipper he had picked up in the gas station. Jessica had admitted that she didn’t understand how a bail bondsman went about his business, and Beau—never one reluctant to tell a story—was indulging her.

  “Let’s say you’ve been arrested for a crime. You break into a house. You get brought before a judge, and maybe he’ll agree to bail you. He’s gonna set your bail—the money you have to lay down if you want to be let out before you have to come back to court—at a set amount. Let’s say it’s twenty grand. You get the twenty back if you show up at court when you’re supposed to. You lose it if you don’t.”

  “And what does that have to do with you?”

  “Most defendants don’t have twenty grand lying around. If they want to get out, they have to turn to someone like me. You’ll usually get the perp’s mom or wife or girlfriend coming in to explain what’s happened and how much they need. I guarantee the full amount of the bail money to the court and charge the defendant a ten per cent fee. If the defendant skips, I’m liable to pay the court the entire bail amount—that’s when I go track them down.”

  The conversation was a way to fill the time and distract from the nerves that they were all feeling. Milton was half-listening to it, the rest of his attention focused on what might happen when they got to the rendezvous. They would be mobile at that point and would be able to get away in the event that he decided that Delgado was playing them.

  Milton visualised the meeting point: a wide-open space, desert on both sides, nowhere to hide. Delgado would not be able to drive south without being seen, and that should me
an that he would only be able to bring one vehicle. Milton assumed that he would be in one of the big Suburbans that his men had used at the house. Milton had checked online and had confirmed that the 2019 model had seating for seven passengers. One of those spaces would be taken by Richard Russo, leaving six spaces for Delgado’s muscle. Would he come out heavy despite Milton’s stipulation that he should not? Hard to say. Probably.

  Milton would assume the worst and hope for the best.

  The conversation tapered out into an anxious silence.

  They passed beyond the city limits. Milton looked out to the side mirrors and watched as the stupendous neon glow of the casinos slowly faded into the enveloping mantle of the desert night.

  46

  They followed I-15 until they saw the turn-off for Jean. Beau took them off and they looped around, running west for fifteen seconds until they saw the lights of the businesses that had gathered around a Chevron gas station. A huge Stars and Stripes marked the entrance. The road was dusty and the surface uneven, and the Yukon bounced over it and approached a run-off that led to the forecourt.

  A black Chevrolet Suburban was parked up there.

  “That’s them,” Milton said.

  The windows of the Suburban were smoked, and there was no way to see inside. Milton looked around, scanning carefully and thoroughly. There was a white panel van next to a building with a series of advertisements plastered to the wall—he saw ads for Coca-Cola, Red Bull, White Castle—and a pickup was getting gas. There was nothing else, and nothing that made Milton think that Delgado had brought more than the Suburban with him. That did not mean that he was prepared to take any chances.

  “Flash your lights,” Milton said.

  Beau flicked the stem forward and back, the high beams reflecting off the paintwork of the Chevrolet. Milton lowered his window, heard the engine of the other vehicle rev and then watched as it rolled out. He couldn’t hear anything else.

  “Okay,” Milton said. “Let’s go.”

  They continued west towards Goodsprings. Beau drove at fifty, allowing the Suburban to follow without needing to race. Milton kept his eye on the mirrors, looking for any sign that another car might be following. The road was empty and, out here in the desert, he was able to see for several miles. He wasn’t ready to discount the possibility that Delgado might have another vehicle close at hand. There was cellphone coverage here, and it would have been a simple enough thing for him to have a second vehicle with more muscle, ready to be directed in once their final destination was revealed. But, even with that, Milton was sanguine; the landscape was too flat and open for a second car to approach without giving itself away a good minute or two before it arrived. If he was alert—and he was always alert—it was going to be difficult to get the drop on them.

  The atmosphere in the Yukon had changed. There had been moments of levity during the drive, but those were all gone now. Beau was staring forward, his eyes on the road, occasionally glancing up into the rear-view mirror to make sure that the Suburban was still behind them. Jessica was rubbing her left index finger up and down the barrel of the Colt, her right hand resting on the door handle. Milton scanned for additional vehicles or any suggestion that their control over the exchange might be challenged.

  “Here it is,” Beau said.

  Milton checked the mirrors again; the only lights behind them belonged to the Suburban.

  “Indicate,” he told him. “Give them plenty of notice.”

  Milton reached for the Ruger.

  The buildings of the gas station were lit up by the Yukon’s high beams. Beau reduced their speed and turned the wheel.

  47

  Milton directed Beau around the back of the derelict store, just as they had discussed during their reconnaissance that afternoon. Beau turned the Yukon around so that it was facing back to the Suburban, the lights from the two vehicles crossing on the wall of the store. Milton saw the track that he had identified earlier; it would offer a secondary way back to the road in the event that they needed to bug out quickly.

  “Stay back by the car,” Milton said to Jessica.

  “I got it,” she said.

  He turned to Beau. “Ready?”

  Beau’s usual sour humour was gone. He was stone-faced.

  He nodded. “I’m good.”

  Milton opened the door of the car and stepped out. The store was to his left, fifteen feet away. The Suburban was twenty feet from him. Both vehicles were angled toward the store so as to avoid dazzling one another with their lights. Both engines were running. Beau opened the driver’s side door and got out; Milton saw the pistol in his hand. Jessica opened the rear door and got out, shielding herself behind it just as Milton had instructed. She, too, was holding her firearm.

  The Suburban stayed where it was, big and black and malignant, the engine rumbling. Milton couldn’t see inside.

  “Come out,” he called.

  There was still no movement from the Suburban. The engine revved once and then twice.

  Milton reached down into the cabin and brought out the briefcase. He held it up.

  “This is what you want,” he yelled.

  The passenger door of the Suburban opened and a figure stepped out. It was a man. The light was dim and he couldn’t make out much beyond the man’s silhouette.

  “Señor Smith,” the man called out.

  Milton recognised the voice: it was Delgado.

  “Where’s Russo?”

  “Where’s my money?”

  Milton held the case aloft in his left hand; his right hand held the Ruger down at his side.

  “Bring him out.”

  The Mexican paused. Milton saw that he had a rifle attached to a sling that he had hung around his neck. It looked like an AR-15, and he had his right hand down by the receiver as his left rested on the sill of the open door. He turned his head and said something to someone inside the Suburban and, a moment later, the door behind him opened and another man emerged. The visibility, once more, was too poor for Milton to make out any detail save that the man was hunched over and it appeared that he had been hooded.

  “I want to see his face,” Milton called.

  A third man disembarked from the car and went up to stand behind the second man. He reached down and yanked off the hood. The man was still in darkness; Milton couldn’t see much at all.

  Milton didn’t take his eyes off the men in front of him.

  “Is that him?” Milton called back to Jessica.

  “I think so.”

  “You need to be sure.”

  “It’s dark…”

  “Send him into the light,” Milton called out.

  Delgado said something to the third man. Milton watched as the man who had been wearing the hood was shoved forward, stumbling into the glow around the edges of the high beams. Milton didn’t look at him, aware that he would be compromising them all if he allowed the lights to affect his vision. Jessica, though, did not share the same consideration. Milton heard as she gave a little gasp.

  “That’s Dad,” she said.

  “Happy, Señor Smith?”

  “I am.”

  “So bring me my money.”

  “We’ll meet in the middle. Bring Russo.”

  Milton took a step away from the Yukon.

  “Careful, English,” Beau warned. “He’s slicker than a boiled onion.”

  “I know,” Milton said, “but this is the only way this is getting done. Cover me.”

  48

  Delgado had a flashlight attached to the barrel of his rifle. It looked as if it was fitted with a remote tape switch that had been fixed to the rail; he reached down and pressed the switch and the light flicked on.

  It took Milton fifteen paces to reach the middle of the space between the two vehicles. He took a route that meant that he could avoid looking into the Suburban’s lights, and saw, to his irritation, that Delgado was thinking the same way. The Mexican approached with care, holding his rifle with both hands and prodding Russo in
the back with the muzzle to chivvy him on. The light shone around the older man’s body, casting him in the deepest of blacks.

  Milton assessed: Delgado had the AR, and the man who had brought Russo out of the car had a handgun. He was considering the state of the odds against them when a fourth man stepped outside, this one also toting a carbine. The driver stayed inside the car, the engine still running.

  Three hostiles out of the car and a fourth inside, likely all armed, two of them with rifles. The bad guys would be able to lay down a barrage if things went south.

  Facing them were Milton and Beau with 9mms and Jessica with a Saturday Night Special.

  Not good odds. He was going to have to play this expertly.

  Milton could see Russo properly now. The old man had been given a serious beating: both eyes were bruised, with the left swollen so much that it had closed; there were scabs of dried blood in his brows and down his nose; the side of his face was florid with a wide purple contusion. He walked slowly, hunched forward and with a pronounced limp.

  Delgado was five paces away when he reached out and grabbed Russo and brought him to a halt. The Mexican was wily; he had the older man between himself and Milton, Beau and Jessica. He was dressed in black, save for a pair of white alligator-skin cowboy boots. He wore a chunky gold necklace, and there were heavy rings on the fingers of both hands.

  “On your knees,” Delgado said to Russo.

  The old man did not protest, slumping down as if relieved to take the weight off his legs. Delgado stayed behind him. Milton looked back at the Suburban and saw the third man had levelled his own AR-15, aiming across the space at the Yukon.

  “Give me my money,” Delgado said.

  Milton held out the briefcase. “It’s in here.”

  “Throw it over.”