Warrior (Freelancer Book 2)

by Irving, Terry

  There had been no police reports in the newspapers about bikers found injured on the Needles Highway or police seeking a couple on a motorcycle, but they did hear on a local radio station that there were services for a Vietnam Veteran, a pilot, who was found dead on the Pine Ridge Reservation.

  The reporter said that the police suspected it was suicide, just another case of chronic depression. Rick had not forgotten Pete Talltrees—the man had saved his life twice—and the image of his maimed body haunted his waking hours much as the battle of Ia Drang still occupied his nights. Promising Talltree's ghost that he would find his tormentors and exact revenge was the only remedy he found for his anger and grief.

  Eve called home and learned that the Tribal Council had refused to honor any of the mining leases, even ones that had already been signed. She didn't mention the Sacred Arrows, but she did pass along her father's "appreciation" to Rick.

  As the days passed, they'd stopped talking about anything serious, turning instead to pointing out the struggling roadside attractions they passed and to a great deal of comfortable silence.

  Eve grabbed the panic bar, as he suddenly swung left into a driveway almost hidden between two cars. It ran about 20 feet and then made another left turn into a two-car garage under a brown and yellow house with wooden siding.

  "You could shout a warning or ring a bell or something when you're going to do something crazy," she said as she bent to collect her things from the floor. "How do you know this is the right place?"

  "'This is it.' That's what Joseph Smith said when he founded Salt Lake City. Like Smith, I was guided from above," Rick said as he opened the door and embraced a tall man in shorts, sandals, and a long, bushy beard. "Steve here was waving flashlights at me from the porch."

  Steve grinned and waved a pair of orange cones. "Technically, they're Runway Marshaling Wands. I figured you might need a bit of guidance. We gave you the wrong house number just in case."

  Eve jumped out of the car and came around for her own hug. "In case of what? Your letter being intercepted by some random bunch of geeky spies?"

  "Well, yeah." Steve leaned back and looked at her. "I'm with the National Security Agency now. You know, 'We Read Your Mail So You Don't Have To.' You two are pretty well off the radar but there's no point in taking chances."

  "So, you've decided to sell out to The Man?"

  "Damn right." Steve indicated his usual uniform of shorts, t-shirt, and sandals, "Just like I went corporate with GE. The advantage with NSA is that they have ALL the good toys and one or two programmers who can actually teach me something."

  Rick had pulled open the side door of the camper and started handing out duffle bags and backpacks as Steve continued. "Anyway, every once in a while, we do something useful. A couple of Arabs were going to set off car bombs in Manhattan to welcome Golda Meir last month."

  Rick asked, "Really? I didn't hear about it."

  "And you won't." Steve laughed. "We 'accidentally' overheard them talking about it on an open phone and passed a quiet word to the FBI."

  Rick pulled out the last bag. "Well then, I’ll agree that it’s not a complete waste of your time. I was afraid you were just hanging around listening in to homegrown radical types. You know, hotheads like the Vietnam Veterans against the War or the Democratic Party."

  "Well, I'll have to admit that we listened in on most of what went on at Wounded Knee," Steve said. "Heard quite a bit about you and your little ride through the mountains. It was odd, most of the conversations were on a frequency that the standard radios issued by the FBI and U.S. Marshal can't receive."

  Eve started up the back stairs with her bags. "Would have been nice if you'd given us a head's up."

  "You didn't sound like you needed any help," Steve answered. "You'll be glad to know that the two thugs you pulled the motorcycles out from under are doing well and expected to recover in a couple of weeks."

  Rick shook his head, "Only a 'couple of weeks'? I should have hit them harder. Did you pick up any crosstalk between the people who gave us a hand?"

  Steve smiled. "Probably. Even the NSA has damn few people who can keep up with idiomatic Sioux at all, and none if they start talking fast. Whoever they were, they had good communications discipline, not a word in English. Well, except for once…"

  Rick felt a chill. "What did you hear? Those people don't need any more trouble."

  Steve said, "I don't think that 'Holy Shit, You weren't kidding about that crazy-ass white boy. He just came through here like a bat out of hell—had to be doing 140!' is going to interest anyone. Well, perhaps the Montana State Highway Patrol."

  "They are extremely low on my enemies list." Rick closed the bus and walked to the rear to check if it was visible from the street.

  Steve walked with him. "Don't worry about anyone spotting it. The bus is completely concealed from anyone driving or walking. Anyway, the bus won't look like this for long; we've got a new handheld paint-gun, and Scotty is dying to use it. I think he's planning fluorescent daisies or something."

  Rick, laughing, grabbed a couple of bags, and threw them to Steve. "Yeah, like THAT won't be noticed around DC"

  Steve caught the bags and headed for stairs hidden around the corner next to the garage doors. "Noticed, yes. Identified is a whole other question. Come on in. We've got a complete quorum of the 'Friends of Ingomar' tonight."

  Eve called from the top of the stairs, "'Friends of Ingomar'? Do we get tshirts?"

  "Naturally. Eps drew them up and had them screen-printed." Steve looked back and smiled. "Don't worry, we ordered a child size for you and an extra-gargantuan for your boyfriend."

  "'Child size'?" Eve exclaimed. "I'm insulted. I am the perfect height. Tall enough to see over the judge's desk and small enough to go all wide-eyed and plead for judicial clemency when necessary."

  CHAPTER 16

  May 20, 1973, Ingomar Street NW, Washington, DC

  When Rick entered the kitchen, he spotted his two other housemates sitting at a table made out of a wooden cable spool. Eps looked up from a small multi-colored cube that he was fooling with. "Hey, where you been?"

  Scotty Shaw, the butt of countless "beam me up" jokes, was busy on their remote computer terminal, a boxy thing that took up a small suitcase and was usually referred to as the 'trans-luggable.' He had the kitchen wall phone cord stretched over his shoulder and the receiver jammed into a pair of black rubber cups. The green glow of the 5-inch display lighting his face from below made him look like a round, bespectacled Christopher Lee. He waved a hand without taking his eyes off the screen and continued typing.

  Rick knew that, from this bunch, it was a welcome easily as warm as one of those screaming celebrations when a unit came back from 'Nam. "You guys haven't changed much," he said. "It's like I never left."

  "You were gone?" Scotty didn't look up but a small smile crossed his face.

  Eve dropped everything she was carrying and ran across the room to give Eps a warm hug. Turning to Scotty, she said, "OK, nerd boys. Get away from the computer and give a girl a welcome home hug. God knows it's not something that you get every day."

  Scotty smiled and stood, gingerly wrapping his arms around her. "Or every year, for that matter."

  Rick looked around the kitchen with its yellow walls and blue-painted cabinets. There were bamboo roller shades on all the windows for privacy, but he knew the evening sun would still light up this room with a warm glow. "OK, who is going to show us around?"

  Scotty sat back at the terminal. "Eps, why don't you do the upstairs, and I'll do the 'bat cave.’."

  "Bat cave?" Eve asked. "You'll see."

  Eps led Eve and Rick into the living room with Steve bringing up the rear. Rick asked over his shoulder, "So when did you finally leave the Evangeline?"

  "Yeah, none of us need a whole lot of outside stimulation—much less exercise—but eventually being stuck in two rooms gets a bit old," Steve said. "We weren’t on the lease for the house on Capitol Hill. You remember
, the owners were on long-term diplomatic assignment and didn't care who lived there so long as the money was deposited in their account. Must have been twenty different people living there at one time or another. I don't envy the FBI agents trying to work their way through that tangle of turnovers."

  "I imagine all the excitement ended that happy arrangement?"

  "Yeah, it's something about gunfire and explosions," Steve grinned. "It can really piss off the neighbors. I think a group of trainees from the Naval Investigative Service are living there now."

  "And the owners think those idiots won't cause any problems?"

  Steve shrugged. "Sure, you and I know they were too dumb to get into any other intelligence service and are better at keg parties than catching crooks. I guess it sounds comforting if you're trying to be a landlord from a couple of thousand miles away."

  "So how did you find this place? The Delaney Network?"

  "Is there any other way?" Tom Delaney lived in an aging mansion not far away that he had subdivided into an amazing number of living spaces ranging from the top-floor suite where he lived to rooms only large enough for a single bed and a desk. The kitchen had three refrigerators—all padlocked—along with a fourth stashed under the back deck. It was rumored that he was already a millionaire from a clutch of other group houses, and he acted as the unofficial rental agent for Northwest DC

  "We're technically living over in Columbia Heights. A delightful Hispanic couple gathers our mail and forwards it to a private mailbox in Tacoma Park. Then it's just three more transfers to the Ace Check Cashing storefront in Adams Morgan where an agile young man affiliated with the Black Mafia.

  "Those guys who shot up Kareem Al-Jabbar's place on 16th Street?"

  "Yeah, I wasn't thrilled about that, five women and two kids murdered just for being Hanafi Muslims." Steve grimaced, "But, as I said, this kid is only affiliated insofar as his older brother is Black Mafia. Justin himself got a track scholarship to Brandeis, but his brother's influence keeps him safe while he's still at home."

  Rick nodded. "How about the phones?"

  Steve shrugged. "They've just finished installing computer controls on all the primary Telco switches."

  "Much more secure that way, no doubt," Rick said dryly.

  "No doubt. Of course, that means we own the entire phone system, but we are gentle overlords. I believe our phone number is listed to a 95-year-old woman in one of the projects in Southeast. We made sure she would override us in case she has to call for an ambulance, but everyone else she might talk to has already passed on so the line is usually clear."

  At the other end of the room, Eps snapped his fingers for attention. "If the chatterboxes in the back could join the rest of the group, we are heading upstairs to the sleeping quarters." He started walking backward and beckoning like a Japanese tourist guide. "OK, we are walking now, stay together, and mind the steps. We are walking now."

  The stairs went straight up from a small foyer in front of the main door, splitting the first floor between a dining room and the living room. There was no dining table in the dining room; instead, three long tables covered with electrical parts, soldering irons, and technical manuals were shoved up against the walls. The living room held a couple of old sofas, two armchairs, and a television.

  From the condition of the furniture, Rick assumed it had been acquired in the usual way: driving around the neighborhood on the day trash was picked up in search of treasures that others had abandoned.

  Upstairs, there were four bedrooms opening off a square hallway and a large bathroom. Eps led them to the left and turned with a flourish. "We saved you the best room. Please note the spacious closets and the rooftop deck with solid walls, perfect for getting that 'all-over' tan."

  Eve sniffed. "I suppose that's your room over there with the window that looks out on the deck?"

  "Well, yes, but, as you know, I am a perfect gentleman." Eps put his hand over his heart as if wounded.

  "Yeah, who owns every item of high-end camera equipment in the B&H catalog."

  Eps looked indignant. "Never. I only buy from the guys with the long sideburns at 42nd Street Photo.”

  It was, in fact, a nice room with a small bathroom, a double bed, two closets, a battered desk, and windows on two sides, indicating there would be enough moving air to survive the sweltering Washington summer. The deck was built over the entrance to the double garage and screened by evergreens from the street.

  An extremely fat orange cat yawned from a nest in the bedcovers. Eps reached over to pick it up. "This is Max, our watch cat."

  Rick asked, "Watch cat?"

  "Damn right." Eps tickled the cat's stomach and whipped his hand away before it was mauled. "We've conditioned him with food. Anyone but one of us comes in at night, and he goes off like a fire alarm."

  "I thought you couldn't train cats."

  Eps snorted. "Of course you can. People just don't try because of all the mythology about dogs. We started with toilet training—on a real toilet, natch—and just kept going." He put the cat back on the bed and pulled a small metal object from his pocket. "Watch this."

  He clicked the little gadget and the cat looked up and fastened his gaze on the small man. "OK, Max. Orders."

  He double clicked, and the cat stood up. Eps said in a flat voice, "Flip."

  The cat gravely took a step forward and did a complete back flip. He was rewarded by a triple click and lay down again. Eps gestured with the metal object. "This is a 'cricket.' Actually, it's the same thing American paratroops used on D-Day to identify each other. The clicks are associated with food in his mind. We haven't actually given him treats for tricks in weeks, but he hasn't figured that out yet."

  Eve regarded the cat with suspicion. "Does he answer to everyone or just you?"

  "Well, just me at the moment." Eps looked guilty. "You might find it a bit difficult to persuade him that this isn't his room. He's had it to himself for a long time. So, if you want to be alone, just—" Eps reached over to a pile of sheets and towels on a chair, picked a bath towel, and threw it over the cat. Bundling him up, Eps took the cat outside to the porch, and released him, jumping back inside and slamming the screen door inches ahead of a vicious claw.

  "Yeah, he looks adorable. Is he safe outside?" "He's safe," Eps answered. "I'm not so sure about any other animals in the neighborhood."

  The cat gave them a long look, then stalked over to the front side, jumped on the wall, and used a tree like a spiral staircase to reach the ground.

  CHAPTER 17

  May 20, 1973, Ingomar Street NW, Washington, DC

  The rest of the tour was a perfunctory "Bedroom. Bedroom. Bedroom, Bathroom, Linen Closet." One of the things Rick had learned about his roommates was that they wasted remarkably little time on anything that didn't interest them.

  They trooped back downstairs. Steve was sitting in a wooden rocking chair on the front porch smoking a pipe and reading a book. As they went into the kitchen, Rick noticed him stand as a woman and a young girl came up the walk.

  Eps never cooked so his description of the kitchen was only a succinct, "Kitchen," and then he passed them off to Scotty. "And now as promised, the mysteries of the 'bat cave’."

  Scotty shut down the terminal, yanked the receiver from the cups, and hung it up on the wall receiver. "OK, down we go."

  Next to the back door was a walk-in pantry and, to the left, a slightly battered brown-painted door that Scotty indicated, saying, "Rick, why don't you open the door to the basement."

  Knowing it would be impossible, Rick dutifully twisted the knob and tried various combinations of pushing and pulling. The door remained closed.

  Stepping back, he said, "Wow, I'm stunned, the door won't open. Who’da thunk?"

  Scotty pointed to the molding above the door. "Reach up there. Feel that chain?"

  Rick found a small chain like one from an overhead light but with only three of the little metal

  balls and gave it a pull. He heard a solid
tchunk on

  the other side, and the door swung open. He could see that its other side was braced with layers of plywood.

  Scotty crouched down to floor level, reached just inside the right side of the door, and flicked a switch. Bright lights blazed in the basement. Still in a crouch, he pointed up. "There is another switch mounted up there where you'd expect to find one."

  He waggled a finger at Rick and Eve. "Do not flip that switch."

  Eve frowned. "Why not?"

  "Take my word for it. Just think of our redheaded friend's penchant for explosives and do not flip that switch."

  Scotty stood up and pounded on the plywood that backed the door. "This is cross-grained. It would take someone with an axe a long time to get through it, and that's not counting the chicken wire we laid underneath."

  Eve shuddered. "I'm not sure I like the way you guys tend to worry about people with axes."

  Scotty started down the steps. "Well, we're actually thinking about the police or your friends in the CIA but, yeah, we do tend to have friends who like to play with axes. All part of the fun of belonging to the Society for Creative Anachronism."

  Rick followed Scotty down. "I thought all that hacking and slashing was an outdoor sport."

  "Well, for the newbies, sure." Scotty reached the bottom step. "It's another matter when you're playing at the Master level. We've had the Black Knight of Gaithersburg come through here twice during Insurrections."

  He pointed back up at the door, which was swinging closed behind Eve. "Well, 'through the house' technically, but never through that door. Broke his axe haft the last time, which made him a prime target for Eps and his over/under crossbow."

  Eve just shook her head. The room at the base of the stairs was small or at least seemed so with the computer equipment lining the walls. Lights blinked, enormous reels of tape spun back and forth, and some sort of device chattered and spat punch cards in a corner.

  Rick noticed it was perceptibly cooler.

  "You put in central air?" he asked hopefully. "Nah, just a couple of wall units out back with a redundant power supply and air ducts to this room," the big man said. "We can all stand a little heat and humidity, but Gidget here is a PDP-6 mainframe, and she needs her environment cool and dry at all times."