Without hesitation, Tanya said, “I lost my best friend on 9/11. Straight up, I want revenge.”
Her section chief pursed his thin lips. “That’s a big order. A lot of other people are doing what you want to do. Special Forces, CIA, NSA, the entire armed forces of the United States. What makes you think you can do any better?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I don’t want revenge against terrorists. I want revenge against the bureaucrats, the intelligence officers, the politicians, and everybody else who ignored the signs before 9/11. The ones who were too PC, too afraid to make waves, too fat and lazy. I want to make sure I’m there to make a stink when we get word another attack might be coming. Next month, next year, or next decade, you know we’ll get hit again.”
Her boss smiled, nodded. “Sounds good to me, Tanya. Sorry to lose you but good luck and raise hell.”
Tanya sighed, sipped at her now cold cup of cider, looking at the bright and peaceful lights of Boston. Lots of long years in Homeland Security, slowly climbing the ladder, biding her time, up until a few weeks ago, when word accidentally came to her of a suspicious trailer bearing deadly cargo. A trailer that had disappeared.
Now her time had come. Now it was time to raise hell.
thirteen
In the rear parking lot of the Slinky Pussy Gentleman’s Club, Michael Grondin, second in command of the Iron Steeds Motorcycle Club, leaned into the open passenger’s-side window of the GM Savana cargo van to brief the two men one more time. Louis Fontaine, the one closest to Michael, nodded at all the right places while he hoped his dopey partner and driver, Jean-Paul, didn’t say or do anything to piss off Michael.
“So remember,” Michael said to Louis. “Nothing fancy, nothing too clever. Okay? You find Duncan Crowley, you tune him up, you get the information we need about the cargo container and where it’s going. Once you get what we need, waste him. But for God’s sake, don’t you fucking waste him until you’re certain you got what we need. Otherwise I’ll have to explain to Francois why you two screwed up. He’s gonna want to know what I did to make sure it didn’t happen again, and I’ll show him both your heads in a shopping bag. Separated from your fucking necks, you understand.”
Louis said, “Absolutely, I understand, Michael.”
“Glad to hear it. Jean-Paul, you understand?”
Jean-Paul was in his early twenties, with thick, wavy black hair and a moustache that looked like it had been started only a few days ago. Louis couldn’t understand how he was a member of the club. He had to have pull with somebody, either the old timers or guys higher up who had influence, otherwise Louis thought Jean-Paul would be challenging his skills by polishing the chrome work on the club’s bikes. But no, here he was, the designated driver for their little mission south to upstate New Hampshire.
Jean-Paul said, “Oh, yeah, Michael, I’ve got it covered. No problem.”
Michael grunted. “If I had a goddamn loonie for every time one of you characters said no problem, I could afford to go to Orlando three times a year, instead of two. Jean-Paul, you got the directions and descriptions?”
From the center console, Jean-Paul pulled out a BlackBerry. “All here, Michael. I promise, we won’t get lost.”
Michael said, “Just make sure you don’t. Remember, no dicking around, no unnecessary stops. Francois is counting on you both. Get the job done and you’ll be happy with the rewards you’ll get. Now, any questions?”
Louis kept his goddamn mouth shut, and was hoping his companion would do the same. Over the years of riding with the Iron Steeds, he had done stuff from guarding crystal meth labs or escorting Oxycontin deliveries, to breaking a guy’s leg or arm when he got behind in weekly payments, and occasionally providing rough justice and discipline to the younger members when required.
But this? This was the first time he was being sent out on a zap mission, and although the objectives were clear, and their firearms—Chinese-made SKS 7.62mm assault rifles with cut-down barrels and folding parachute stocks—were carefully hidden away in the van, Louis was so nervous that it felt like his bladder was about to burst. First, he had never gone in cold-blooded on a zap mission, and second, sure, the rewards would be great—like choosing any one of the girls in the club to have for a month—but the price for fucking up was too serious to think about.
So no questions to Monsieur Grondin, he thought. Let’s just get the hell on our way.
But no, no luck for him tonight, for Jean-Paul grinned once more. “I see this Duncan guy has a wife, two kids. What’s the thought about collateral damage?”There was now a dreamy tone to Jean-Paul’s voice that creeped out Louis.
Michael said, “Waste ’em all, Francois doesn’t care, but by God, you’d better have that container information squared away before you do that.”
“I see, I see, I get that,” Jean-Paul said, “but if there’s an opportunity to … play around some, before the family gets zapped, will that be all right?”
Even that caused Michael to grimace. He slapped one hand on the open window frame and said, “Get going, you two jerks. You’ve got a long drive ahead of you. But push to get to the border as soon as you can. Francois wants this wrapped up as soon as possible, so no wasting time, no dilly-dallying, don’t get lost. All right?”
Michael stepped back and Jean-Paul switched on the engine, and in just a handful of moments, they were in traffic, heading south. Louis kept his mouth shut for a bit and then he couldn’t stand it.
“Look, back there, what the hell did you mean about playing around with the family? Were you serious?”
“’Course I was serious. Why the hell not? If they’re going to get greased, what difference does it make if we play around some with them before we get it done?”
Louis folded his arms. “Speak for yourself, Jean-Paul. I’m not interested. Christ, who are you interested in? The wife? The kids?”
Again, that creepy dreamy state of Jean-Paul’s voice. “If the opportunity is there, why limit yourself?”
With disgust in his voice, Louis said, “Christ, I’m glad there wasn’t a family dog listed there in our briefing.”
Jean-Paul said, “What do you have against dogs?”
“Shut up and drive.”
fourteen
As they drove to their last project of the day, Duncan said to Cameron, “Sometime tomorrow, I need for you to get some information. You saw the guy I was talking to, before you left the bar?”
“The guy who fucked over Bobby, Jimmy, Luke, and his brother Larry?”
Duncan came to a complete halt at a stop sign, looked to the left and the right, and then resumed driving after slowly turning right. They were in his maroon Chevy Colorado pickup, and their tools for the evening were on the spare seat in the rear.
“That’s him,” Duncan said. It was just after eight p.m. He said, “His name is Zach Morrow. You and I went to high school with him.”
Cameron stroked his beard. “Zach Morrow … seem to recall a guy named Zach waxing your ass during three or four wrestling matches, our senior year, in phys ed class. Thought he looked familiar.”
“Stop exaggerating, Cam. It was only twice, and I should know. It was my ass he was slamming around on the wrestling mats. So, what I want from you is a background check, as good as your sources can quickly provide.”
From inside his dungaree vest, Cameron took out a soiled and creased pocket-sized notebook. With pen in hand, he said, “Go.”
“Zach Morrow. Resident of our fair town until graduation. Then joined the US Coast Guard. From what he told me, he was assigned to specialized unit dealing with security. Obviously well-trained, considering what he did to your four boy-o’s.”
Cameron scribbled some more. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. He says he was dishonorably discharged, but was vague on what happened. So see what you can find out. And second … he sa
id he’s looking for a job around here, ever since his home caught fire, down in Purmort.”
“House burning down, that’ll be the easiest to check. But why the background check? What you figuring?”
Up ahead a light green Volvo with Vermont license plates and bearing a bumper sticker that said Visualize World Peace was ambling along, well below the forty-mile-an-hour speed limit. Duncan slowed down and noted the double-yellow line. No passing.
“What I’m figuring is two things. You’re a smart brother, Cameron. See if you can’t guess one of them.”
Cameron closed up his notebook, returned it to his vest. “What you said earlier today. About getting more personnel. You must be thinking about Zach.”
“Why not?” Duncan said. “He’s from around here, he’s got experience. You should have seen how he dealt with our four buds before you arrived. He didn’t hesitate for a second. He went at them like a starving tiger racing through a vegan convention. No mercy, no doubt, just raw skills, like he couldn’t wait to kick the crap out of them. But he was cool about it, you know? When he came over a couple of minutes later to talk to me, click, it was like he changed the damn channel. He focused on our conversation, wasn’t boastful or full of himself. Very impressive.”
His brother stuck his hands in his vest. “The other thing. I think I know what that is, too.”
“Go on.” The Volvo up ahead was still traveling along at its own sweet speed, which was still ten miles below the posted speed limit.
“You said earlier that you thought you were being watched. Nothing specific, nothing to do with our barbarian friends to the north, but still being watched, just the same. Right? Funny thing, a day later, who pops out of nowhere but a guy we went to high school with. Who’s got some skills in the black arts. Who shows up at the Flight Deck pub, which you own. Hell of a coincidence.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“So what are you thinking?”
Duncan peered ahead, looking for the double-yellow line to break into a passing zone, but no such luck. “I’m thinking you do your due diligence on our friend Zach. If he comes back with no issues, no problems, well, maybe we’ll see if he’d like to join our employ.”
“If I come back with anything hinky?”
“Still room at Walker Quarry?”
“Christ, yes. Understand he’s driving a shit-ass pickup truck?”
“Yeah.”
“Piece of cake. Truck gets dumped somewhere else, he can end up in the quarry. Bing, bang, boom, done.”
“Sounds good.”
The Volvo’s brake lights flickered once, twice, and then the car resumed its slow speed as the narrow road curved its way past forests and farmland. Duncan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. It was getting late. He said to his brother, “So what are you thinking, bro?”
Cameron gestured to the Volvo. “I’m visualizing a fucking rocket launcher, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Eventually the Volvo got on Route 117, making its way west back to the People’s Republic of Vermont before the occupants would be forced to buy a handgun or tax-free booze or something. Duncan got his truck back up to the speed limit, but never ever over the limit, especially when engaged in a bit of night work. He was proud of Cameron and his intelligence sources. It was amazing what he got his fingers into, but it made sense, once you thought about it. The Washington County Motorcycle Club’s members included guys and gals from all types of work and backgrounds, and they had friends, or friends of friends, all who could offer some bits of info if the money was right.
They made their way onto Town Road 12, a dirt lane that rose high up in the hills. Duncan checked the last three digits of his odometer—six-one-two—and pulled over after advancing only about five or so yards, far enough so they couldn’t be seen from the paved road they had just left.
Duncan said, “You sure Gus Spooner’s here tonight?”
“Yeah. Made a phone call to his girlfriend. Made myself sound all mysterious and shit, about delivering chemicals and test tubes and Bunsen burners. She gave him up after about one minute. She’d go far in the CIA, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. You know, I’m in a pretty good frame of mind tonight. Let’s do the psycho brother set, and if you want, you can be the bad psycho.”
“I was bad psycho last time.”
“Yeah, but I thought you’d like being bad psycho.”
“Most times, but shit, I’d like to mix it up some, all right?’
Duncan said, “Hey, like I said. I’m in a pretty good frame of mind. I’ll be bad psycho.” Cameron smirked and Duncan said, “What’s so darn funny?”
“Some would say that wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”
“That’s hilarious,” Duncan said. He switched on the overhead light and reached behind the driver’s seat for the gear. “Before we wrap up tonight, I want their names and addresses—the people who told you it wouldn’t be a stretch for me to be bad psycho.”
Cameron stared at him. “Bro, are you serious?”
It was Duncan’s turn to laugh. “Heck, no, Cam. I was just getting into character.”
He resumed driving with the truck lights off, being able to see through the night with the aid of a Yukon Night Vision 1x24 Monocular device—available on Amazon for just $319.97—situated on his head. His brother had an identical device, and they both kept eye on the road and the dashboard. The night was illuminated with a ghostly green-gray glow, but it allowed them to drive up the road without giving away their presence. Oh, whoever was in the nearby cabins would hear them approach, but wouldn’t see them approach. Most people involved in something illegal panic when they see something; sound was just sound.
Duncan focused on the road, once seeing a raccoon waddle across, and then Cameron called out, “You’re at six-seventeen on the odometer, bro.”
“Thanks.” He pulled over as best as he could, looked out the window, saw a wooden sign to the left nailed to a birch tree that said Williams. He and Cameron opened the doors—the overhead light having earlier been switched off—and both got dressed in rural battle-rattle gear: bulletproof Kevlar vests, utility belts with knives, pepper spray, and plastic flex cuffs, and holstered to their sides as well were their choice of semiauto pistols. Duncan went with 9mm Beretta Model 92, while his brother made do with a 9mm Glock 17. Slung over their chests were matching H&K MP5 semiautomatic 9mm rifles, with banana-shaped magazines. Both also carried small black hard plastic carrying cases in their right hands.
Night-vision gear still on their heads, they slowly walked up the dirt and gravel driveway. Birds cried out in the darkness, and there was the constant buzz of insects. They both stayed quiet, walking up to the target house. Their boots crunched on the road, as if they were walking on peanut shells. On either side were trees, low brush, and saplings.
Duncan whispered, “Home in view.”
“Christ, tell me something I don’t know,” Cameron whispered back. “Can’t you smell the damn thing?”
The breeze shifted and Duncan noted it, sharp and stinking, the lip-curling stench of sulfur, and pretty much the best sign that someone up ahead was cooking meth. Before them was a chalet-style one-story house, triangular in shape, supported by round concrete columns. As promised, the front porch was sagging and about ready to collapse on the front dirt lawn. Pulled up to the chalet were a Volkswagen Golf and a two-door Toyota Tacoma pickup truck.
Cameron silently went to both vehicles and with quick work of his folding Hunter knife, took care of eight tires. There was a hissing of air as the vehicles settled to the ground.
Duncan knelt down, opened his black case, removing an Optix 2000 high-powered Xenon spotlight, which sent out enough candlepower to signal the space station by Morse code. Cameron had the same spotlight model, and both of them removed their night-vision goggles. Cameron went to the rear of the chalet as Duncan went
up to the front porch, quickly aiming the switched-on light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sudden flash of light put everything in sharp focus, the rotting wood, the dirty windows, the shapes moving suddenly from within.
Duncan went through the front door and Cameron broke through the rear, spotlight in his hands, and both of them shouted, “Down, down, down! Hands on your head, hands on your head, hands on your head!”
Inside the stench of the sulfur was even stronger. Duncan took in the crowded first floor of the chalet. Three guys on the floor, hands folded on the back of their heads, stoves and beakers and boxes of chemicals. He and his brother quickly flex-cuffed all three of the young men, dragging them outside as they yelled and shouted and squirmed. Duncan ignored the protests and struggles as he and Cameron got them out of the chalet and onto the dirt. Duncan went to the guys and gave each a quick kick to the ribs, and pressed the working end of the H&K MP5 submachine gun to the base of their necks.
“Stay still, keep your mouth shut, or you die here, right now,” Duncan growled, trying to put movie-style menace into his voice.
He looked around the area. Besides the VW and the pickup truck, looking sad with their flat tires, there was a picnic table, a couple of lawn chairs, and a woodpile. In a jumble at the bottom of the woodpile were a collection of tools, including ice picks, saws, shovels, and hammers.
Cameron knelt down, grabbed each guy by the back of his hair, pulled up his head. When he got to the third guy, he said, “Gus, old boy, so sad to see you here.”
Duncan got the other two guys to their feet as Cameron pushed Gus back against the pickup truck. All three were in their mid-twenties, wearing baggy pants, sweatshirts, sneakers, with bad skin and poor facial hair. The two guys on the left stood quiet, legs trembling, as Duncan made a public motion of unslinging his semiautomatic rifle and working the action, making a very satisfying snick-snack sound. All Hollywood bullshit, of course—nobody with any brains ever went into a hot zone like this without all weapons fully chambered, which is why their pistols were—but he and his brother were playing roles tonight.
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