by Glenn Trust
89. We Had A Plan
The black Escalade was southbound on I-75 passing the Archer Road exit into Gainesville, Florida when the call came in. Marques Peña took one hand off the wheel, touched the Blue Tooth device in his ear and put his hand back on the steering wheel. Watching from the back seat, Peña’s methodical, deliberate movements brought a smile to Ramón Guzman’s face. It was the first time he had ever seen Budroe’s security and safety chief take a hand off the wheel while driving.
The conversation was in Spanish. Budroe smoked his cigar, staring out at the passing scenery while Peña handled business.
“Su informe, Coronel?” Your report, Colonel. Peña’s eyes never left the road as he spoke.
Colonel Enrique Valdes was direct and to the point. Like a good soldier, he gave the truth without varnishing it up to a shine. “No estábamos completamente exitoso.” We were not entirely successful.
The slight twitch of Peña’s lips was almost imperceptible…almost. Guzman straightened up in the seat, watching. Something was wrong. There might be an opportunity. His moment of action might suddenly be very close.
“La mujer vive, el viejo en la granja está gravemente herido, él podría estar muerto o moribundo. El otro ataque tuvo más éxito. La bomba fue colocada y detonada según lo planeado correctamente. La supervivencia es poco probable.” The woman lives, the old man at the farm is seriously wounded, he may be dead or dying. The other attack was more successful. The bomb was properly placed and detonated as planned. Survival would be unlikely.
“¿Usted no tiene ninguna confirmación de la matanza?” You have no confirmation of the kill?
“No.”
“Cuando lo haga, que me haga saber.” When you do, let me know.
“Sí, mi general.” There was a pause and then Valdes concluded his report. “Perdimos dos hombres en el ataque a la granja. Un muerto por el anciano, y el otro por la mujer.” We lost two men in the attack on the farm. One killed by the old man, the other by the woman.
Peña was startled by this piece of information. “La mujer?” The woman.
Guzman watched and listened intently. Peña’s surprise was evident and his question about the woman was the only part of the conversation that Guzman had been able to hear. It was a small thing, but an important one.
“Si.”
“Lo siento por la pérdida de sus hombres, Enrique.” I am sorry for the loss of your men, Enrique.
Guzman sat bolt upright. Loss of his men? Things had not gone well for the attack team. The opportunity he had been hoping for had come in an unexpected way, but it had come. His time to act, to become his own man again had arrived.
Peña raised a finger to his ear, tapped the Blue Tooth and disconnected the call. “I have a report.”
Budroe turned his head. The look on his face showed that he had listened to the call and without understanding the words, he sensed what Guzman already knew. All was not well. “Speak.”
Peña began with the good news. “The bomb detonated successfully.”
Budroe grinned. “Fucking sheriff dead. We’ll see about cleaning up Pickham County now.”
“Probably dead,” Peña corrected. “The bomb detonated. It would only have done so if someone had turned on the ignition. We assume no one but your sheriff would do that. Therefore, we believe that there is a high probability that he was killed by the explosion, but…”
“But what…why is there always a fucking ‘but’? I sent you in to do a job. I don’t want ‘buts’ I want to hear that the job was done!”
“The job was done. We were not able to have anyone at the scene when it detonated to verify the kill, but we believe it was successful.”
“And the other.” Budroe’s voice rumbled, dark thunder, holding his annoyance in for the moment.
“Partially successful.”
“Partially!”
Peña interrupted to continue his report. “The old farmer is severely wounded, probably dead. The woman survived.”
“Goddamnit. How the fuck did that happen.”
“It was a military style operation.” Peña’s hands held tightly to the wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead, down the dark interstate. “There are always…unknown factors…things outside the plan.”
“I paid you to handle the unknown factors!”
“Valdes and his team did their best. Two of the three targets are either dead or seriously wounded and may die. The operation was sixty-six percent successful. In war, that is a high ratio of success.”
“War my ass! You attacked an old man and a woman in a farmhouse, you and what you called your highly trained team.” Budroe shook his head, disgust on his face. “All you did was turn this into one giant cluster fuck!”
For a moment, Guzman thought Budroe might pull the pistol he kept tucked in his pants under his shirt and put a bullet through Peña’s head. He might have if they weren’t whisking along I-75 at seventy-five miles an hour. To his credit, Peña remained calm and focused on his driving, ignoring the anger of the deadly man sitting in the passenger seat.
“They lost two men.”
“What?” Budroe looked at Peña, his thunder gone for a moment.
“They lost two men, killed by the old man and the woman at the farm.”
“They were paid. They knew the risks.”
“Yes, they were. I only mention it as part of the report.”
“As part of the report? Part of the fucking report!” The volume of Budroe’s voice rose with his rage. “We had a plan…a fucking good plan. Eliminate the sheriff, his deputies, put Mackey away for life and put in our own goddamned sheriff, that chicken shit Klineman.” His fist banged violently on the dashboard leaving a dent in the foam backed leather. “We would have owned Pickham County! Now what do we have?” He looked at Peña waiting for a response. When there was none, he added his final words. “A goddamned cluster fuck, that’s what!”
Cluster fuck. Guzman made a mental note to look up the meaning of the colloquialism when he had time. For now, he made his own plan.
90. Just One Battle
Mike Darlington led the charge. Fourteen Pickham County sheriff’s vehicles came roaring off I-95, made the turn across the bridge and fanned out around Pete’s Place, skidding to a stop in the gravel. A cloud of dust rose eerily from the lot, lit by the flashing blue light of the deputies’ vehicles. There was complete silence.
Henry Schulls peered out the front window and punched Budroe’s number on his cell phone.
“They’re here.”
“Well, at least something’s going the way I planned it.” Still headed south in the Escalade, Budroe cast a glance and a smirk in Marques Peña’s direction. Peña ignored both. Budroe spoke into the phone. “You know what to do.”
“Yeah, fuck them up.”
“That’s right Henry. You fuck them up. Don’t leave any of them standing if you can help it, then get out. I don’t want none of them to get the idea that they can come after us when we come back. Pickham’s gonna be our county.”
“Right.” Schulls disconnected from the call and looked at the bikers huddled by the windows and doors. All had been armed with rifles or shotguns in addition to the pistols or knives they routinely carried on their persons. “You boys know what to do. You get a target in front of you, put it down…dead.”
A rifle went off loudly at the far end of the front window. “Whoohee!” It was one of the bikers who had been ecstatic at the idea of gunning down law enforcement officers. “Take that motherfuckers!”
“I said when you have a target, asshole!” Schulls ducked as rounds from seven different deputies crashed through the windows.
Big Luke walked up behind the biker who had fired and thumped his head against the block wall, jerking the Winchester 30-30 from his hands. “You want me to throw your dumb ass out there for them?”
“No, Luke…I just thought…”
“Fuck your thinkin’. He thrust the rifle back into the biker’s midriff. “Do what y
ou’re told or I’ll kill you myself.”
“Hold your fire!” Mike Darlington looked up and down the line of county SUVs and pickups making sure that everyone was accounted for. “Anyone hurt?”
“Nope, we’re all right Mike. Got a nice hole in my radiator though.” It was Bill Terrant, a thirty-year veteran of the department who usually worked the Complaints and Reports Desk at headquarters. He hadn’t been on the road in ten years, but no one could have stopped him from being here this night.
“Keep your head down!” Mike looked over the hood of his car at the darkened building, wondering if maybe he should have waited for backup from the state. He shook his head. Sandy Davies was in critical condition, maybe dying. Same for Fel Tobin. Fuck backup. This was their war. They were going to end it. “Everyone keep your head down.”
“They ain’t comin’ for us. How we gonna take them out if they won’t come in after us.” Dud the biker was as nervous as ever.
“Military tactics.” Schulls crouched in front of the window assessing the situation.
“Military tac…what?”
“Tactics. Assault with suppressing fire.”
“What’s that mean?”
Schulls looked around the room. The bikers all had their eyes focused on him, wanting very much to know what the plan was now that the Pickham County Sheriff’s Department was camped out in the lot a few feet away.
“We outnumber them two to one. That’s part of the plan. We got more guns, better guns. They have pistols and a few shotguns. You all got rifles plus all the other hardware most of you carry. That was also part of the plan.” He paused letting it all sink in before continuing. “When I give the word, half of you are gonna fire at them, try to hit them, but even if you don’t, it’ll make them keep their heads down. That’s the suppressing fire. The other half will rush out and come up from the side and pick them off behind their cars before they know what’s happening. That’s the assault.” His eyes roamed around the room looking for any argument with the plan. “Questions.”
It was clear that Dud and a couple of other bikers had a question or two, but the presence of Big Luke and the look in Henry Schulls’ eyes made their questions seem unimportant for the present. Possible death from a deputy’s bullet was preferable to certain death from Budroe’s men.
“All right then.” Schulls nodded and turned back to the window. “No sense wasting time. Let’s get this done and get out before the state boys show up. Get ready!”
The bikers lined themselves up at the window. Luke walked along making assignments, identifying those who would provide suppressing fire and those who would make the assault.
Dud was assigned to the assault team, the blood drained from his face and he looked like he might shit his pants. Luke smiled at him and thumped him in the chest with a big forefinger. “Shoulda kept your mouth shut, boy.”
Dud could say nothing. His mouth opened and closed several times like a fish out of water gulping for air, but there was no sound.
“All right. When I say go…” Henry Schulls stood up by the door ready to pull it open for the assault group once the suppressing fire was being laid down on the deputies.
With everyone gathered by the windows and door, Gary Poncinelli found it to be a simple thing to walk up behind the biker at the end of the line of the assault team. He pulled the Smith and Wesson Model 36 revolver from his ankle holster and shoved it in the back of the biker’s neck. At the same time, he pulled the AR-15 from his hands.
Startled, but recognizing the feel of a pistol barrel in his neck, the biker turned wide-eyed to see Ponce smiling and shaking his head, a warning to make no sound. He had no intention of calling attention to the situation, not with the .38 pointed at his forehead.
Ponce stepped back and pulled the charging handle on the AR-15. The sound was as recognizable as the metallic clacking noise of someone pulling the fore-end of a pump shotgun and chambering a round. Every head in Pete’s Place turned in his direction. He smiled. “Lock and load, boys.”
“What the fuck?” Henry Schulls’ words expressed the thoughts of the rest of the group.
“The fuck…is…you are under arrest. Everyone drop your weapons and line up by the door.”
“Bullshit.” Schulls turned to face Ponce. “You crazy or what?”
“Maybe.” Ponce looked around at the faces recovering from their surprise. “But you’re under arrest.”
“He ain’t even a cop.” Big Luke took a step forward.
“I wouldn’t.” Ponce shook his head. “Office of Special Investigations. You might have heard of it. So you are definitely under arrest.” He smiled.
The roar of Marco’s Glock filled the room, scaring the shit out of everyone, including Gary Poncinelli. A biker standing in the far corner fell to the floor, an expanding red dot in the center of his t-shirt.
“Fuck! Almost shit my pants.” Ponce scowled at Marco, looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“Sorry.” Marco pointed at the biker on the floor, a Charter Arms Bulldog .44 magnum still clutched in his hand. “He pulled that big ass pistol from under his vest and was bringing it up to bear on you. Didn’t have time to warn you.”
“Well, fuck anyway.” Ponce took a deep breath, still trying to recover his composure.
“You…you’re with him?” Incredulous, Schulls’ head swung from side to side staring at the two undercover investigators. “You’re a fucking cop, Bono?”
Marco grinned. “OSI, just like him.”
“All right. Like I said, everybody line up by the door. You are all going outside to turn yourselves in.”
“The hell we are!” Big Luke looked around at the other bikers. “We outnumber them. We rush ‘em, take their guns, kill their asses and throw the bodies out for their pig friends outside.”
The bikers mostly looked at the floor. A few looked at Luke like he was from Mars. The same thought was written on all of their faces, are you fucking serious?
Ponce raised the AR-15 to his shoulder and took aim at the center of Luke’s big head. “Maybe you want to lead the charge. Go ahead, if you do.” Ponce rested his cheek against the rifle’s stock, sighting carefully.
“Shit.” Luke turned and faced the door. Relieved, the other bikers followed his example.
Outside, Mike Darlington heard the shot fired by Marco. Knowing that there were two undercover officers inside he fought back the urge to rush the building. He had other men here to think about, good men, with families. He had no desire to spend the next day visiting wives and children explaining how their husbands and fathers were massacred in the parking lot at Pete’s Place.
“We’re coming out!” Marco called through one of the windows shattered by the deputies’ return fire earlier. “Don’t shoot! They are unarmed. Put them on the ground and cuff them.”
“Son of a bitch.” Mike watched the procession file out of the door, Marco and Ponce bringing up the rear.
Deputies lined up with their weapons trained on the bikers. One by one, they were cuffed, searched and stuffed into the back of a sheriff’s vehicle.
Darlington and the two undercover investigators stood watching the deputies secure the prisoners. The ‘Battle of Pete’s Place’ had ended successfully, but there was no rejoicing.
Mangled and missing a leg, Sandy Davies lay in a hospital in critical condition. Fel Tobin had tried to fight off the attack at the farm and had been shot up. Sharon Price had narrowly escaped a similar fate.
The man behind it all remained at large. The confrontation with the bikers was just one battle in the war that Roy Budroe had promised would come to Pickham County.
91. Years of Practice
“Where is he?” Governor Jesse Bell sat in the chair behind his desk, a place normally reserved for formal occasions, bill signings and photo opportunities…or when the governor was very upset. Right now, he was very upset…as pissed off as any of his staff could remember.
“Enroute back to Pickham County.” Andy Barnes returned
the governor’s gaze evenly.
“On whose authority?”
“Mine.”
“Yours!” Trenton Peele was almost as pissed off as Bell.
Andy nodded. “Mine.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? George Mackey is about to stand trial for murder, violation of the public trust and anything else the attorney general can throw at him. Jury selection starts in a week and we still don’t have a defense…at least, not one that Mackey and his goddamned principles will go along with!” Peele took a breath. “Get him back. Now.”
Andy looked around at the gathering. Bob Shaklee sat beside him, directly across the desk from the governor. Peele sat in a chair to the governor’s left and Pamela Towers to his right. All eyes were focused on Andy.
“I can’t do that.”
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t do that?” Bell leaned over the desk, staring into Andy’s eyes.
“I mean, I won’t.”
Bell raised an arm and pointed directly into Andy’s face. Had they not been separated by the vast expanse of mahogany, he might have poked him in the chest with the finger, or worse. Governor Jesse Bell was not accustomed to being denied, certainly not by an underling. “You will do it, and you will do it now!”
“Respectfully, sir, I won’t. George’s home was attacked. Sharon was attacked. The man who is like a father to George is gravely wounded and may be dying. His friend, the sheriff of Pickham County, was blown up in a car bomb, assumed to have been planted by those who attacked George’s home. It is more than unreasonable; it is ridiculous to believe that he should be here instead of with his loved ones at a time like this.” Andy shook his head again. “I won’t do it.”
It was more than the governor could bear. He jumped up from his seat. “Goddamnit…goddamnit…that’s insubordination…that’s...” The finger was pointing again. “You’ll lose everything, your position your salary, your pension! If it is the last thing I do, when I get through with you Barnes, you won’t be able to get a job sweeping streets! ”