Patience County War (Madeleine Toche Series)

by Soren Petrek

  The men laughed. Men who worked outside in arid desert-like conditions most of the time usually carried small caliber pistols for snakes.

  “I was more worried about how they tasted, Heffe. You know, fried up with a little salt and lime?”

  Carlos sat at a table at a family restaurant just outside of St. Louis and spoke to a middle aged man across from him who was probably the most forgettable looking individual he had ever seen. His name was Smith, no first name. He was neither tall, nor short, nor heavy, nor thin. From time to time the organization would call in his services for gathering information when it was best not to arouse suspicion. He certainly did not look Hispanic at all. He looked Midwestern normal. He was medium height medium weight. He sat motionlessly wearing a baseball cap with the visor pulled down. He had no scars, no moles, no smile and no personality.

  “I need recon on this man,” Carlos slid over a picture of Sam Trunce. The man looked at it but made no effort to pick it up. “I need to know his habits, where he goes and what he does and who he cares for. Take no action. Go in with cover and don’t be discovered.”

  Abruptly the conversation was over and Smith got up and left the table, moving silently. None of the other diners looked up. It never ceased to amaze Carlos that Smith could participate in a conversation without speaking. As usual, he had taken an assignment without uttering a word. Creepy, but it made sense. Carlos would receive a report posted in code on an obscure message board in a few days. It would be complete, both tactically and otherwise. The man had other talents, and perhaps this whole matter would still be solved with the accidental death of one sheriff, nice and quiet.

  Smith left the restaurant and crossed a parking lot in front of a large chain grocery store. He removed his false mustache and wig and popped out two contacts that changed the color of his eyes. He knew his business. He did not like to kill, nor did he have any specific political affiliation. He simply carried out what he had been trained to do against targets who had involved themselves one way or another in a dangerous game. Sometimes the targets were political, military, or law enforcement, other times, private individuals. He did not kill women or children, except collaterally and only under extreme circumstances. He did not make mistakes. He could make the trip quite easily, and with the aid of a small digital camera, get all of the information he needed. The pay was good and this wasn’t a hit, at least not yet. But his intelligence gathering skills allowed him to assess from both a strategic assassination perspective and a combat one. He would do both.

  In a dusty brown sedan of indeterminate pedigree, Smith drove past the worn ‘Welcome to Patience’ sign and down the town’s main strip. Nothing unusual about this place, he thought. Looks like small town main street USA wherever you go. He drove past a bank on the corner and saw a medium sized grocery store and pulled into the parking lot. On these types of recon missions, he liked to pick up a couple of bags of groceries. Besides, he needed a couple of chew bones for the old beagle spread over the back seat. In his mind, a man walking a dog was about the best cover you can get, especially an old, half blind, couch lump like Cochise. The dog was about as unlike his fierce warrior namesake as a dog could be. He’d buy a nice steak and some charcoal and grill in the park by the river he saw next to the small motel he had passed on the way into town. Just passing through. He mused that his conduct might seem awfully domestic to the men and governments that hired him to kill people, but that was his job, not his life. He didn’t have an immediate family of his own, just a brother and sister, both on the west coast, and some extended family. They thought he was in insurance. In a way he was.

  As he exited the grocery he saw a squad car rolling by, driven by a largish man with dirty blond hair and ray ban sunglasses on. He immediately identified the driver as the primary target of his surveillance. Without rushing he put the groceries in the back seat with the dog and pulled out onto the street and followed the squad, keeping it a few blocks ahead. The squad pulled into the parking lot of what had to be the sheriff’s station. What the building lacked in ugly it made up for in sheer intimidation quality. He had seen bomb shelters that looked like quaint cabins compared to this thing. He fully expected to see rifle ports in the side of the walls and crenellations in the entryway for the defenders to rain boiling oil down on their enemies. He did not like what he saw. Whoever built that thing was a man who held his ground and was prepared to fight back. He noted a couple other squads there and made mental notes about troop strength. For him it was automatic, from years of training and legitimate government missions, at least sanctioned by the government at some level. Given that it was later in the afternoon, he parked his car a couple of blocks from the station and hooked the dog to a leash and walked and waited. His hunch was correct: it had been a whistle stop by the man to check on things, another indication of competence. It may have been routine, but adhering to routine, especially for security reasons, meant the man was diligent and observant. A picture of his adversary started to form in the man’s mind.

  He put the dog back in the car and followed the squad at a discrete distance to a large house on the outskirts of town. To his surprise it was a restaurant. He changed his dinner plans, cracked the window for the dog and went inside. He was seated at a small table near a side window with a view of the river that meandered by. He was immediately struck by the quality of the smells that permeated the dining area. No wonder the man came here. If it tasted as good as it smelled he was in for a treat. So far on this job he had broken no laws, and he intended to act as such and allow himself a little pleasure. As he looked over the menu, he noticed the man sitting with an older woman, a young boy and a strikingly beautiful woman in her early thirties. They conversed and laughed with ease, and he could tell at this distance that there was chemistry between the man and the dark and beautiful woman who sat quite close to him. Smith enjoyed his meal. He had a fine vegetable soup with as delicate a broth as he had ever eaten, followed by a piece of trout that tasted like it had just swum onto his plate along with a sprinkling of butter and fine herbs. The main course was Daube served in a small ceramic pot with a lid. He had a salad with vinaigrette and selected two cheeses from a cart his waitress brought to the table, a goat cheese and a piece of Monbriac, which he was shocked to find here in the Missouri sticks. He had a half carafe of the house red. It had to be a Cote Du Rhone or something similar. This place was a gem. Then he caught in the distance, presumably on the way into the kitchen, an exchange of French, and it all made sense.

  During his meal his target left, but he had done enough surveillance for the day. One mistake that amateurs made was to rush a job and attract attention. He had learned to tailor the action to the situation, and at present there was no urgency.

  Sam had that prickly feeling that somebody was watching him but he couldn’t see any evidence of it. It hadn’t spoiled his time with Christine or her son. He had been making excuses to go to the restaurant, and she seemed to be mysteriously running into him around town. He had just suggested a fishing excursion after the boy went back in the kitchen. Christine had accepted and in broken English, said that she would pack a lunch for two. He couldn’t have been happier. The kid was great, but he thought it was time to see if there were any sparks. All the signs were there. He felt very different about this relationship. It consumed his thoughts, and while he had had other relationships in the past, they lacked any depth, at least from his side. His heart had been in some, but those times it was much more like he had followed a path that he felt he was expected to. Maybe his standards were high or he valued his freedom. Everything was out the window here. It was funny the way that his friends and family looked at the two of them. It was if they saw something he couldn’t see. To Sam it seemed that everything was a little brighter, and his problems were less important. He wondered about the potential for retaliation from the Meth boys as the days went by, but he followed his father’s advice. Not everyone who seeks revenge is a wild idiot. It is the act of revenge, not when
it happens, that’s important. The best example was when the unborn son of a murdered father grows up and kills the murderer. Sam didn’t want the waiting to go on forever, and knew that with Tracy pushing from his end either the battle would come to them, or he would take the battle wherever it needed to go. Drug wars among the Mexican gangs were rampant, and he had no compunction about joining them for a few days. He also expected to hear from the East St. Louis connection soon. There was going to be a fight somewhere.

  Junior Carter drove a borrowed pickup truck down the highway, through Patience and toward John Trunce’s home. He had been there on a couple of occasions when it had been best for him to be outside of St. Louis. His old commander never asked any questions and trusted that if Junior had done any killing, it had been of somebody that needed killing. By definition, cops, women, kids, and civilians did not need killing, as John had casually mentioned once upon a time. That was fine with Junior. Killing was costly; it made people uncomfortable, and that was bad for business. It was more the threat of it that kept people in line, except when other killers try to run you and your killers out of a territory, that’s different. Junior wasn’t much for the drug end of things, but you couldn’t have drug dealers moving into your area. He made his money the old fashioned way: numbers, hookers, theft, and protection here and there. All tried and true and what people wanted, and generally, fairly peaceful.

  Junior pulled his hat down and kept his huge mirrored sunglasses on. He didn’t want to feel conspicuous in an area that had a very small black population, one that largely consisted of a giant, a Masai princess and his friend and comrade, Joseph. Junior didn’t hate white people, but couldn’t help mumbling, “Man, I am driving through Cracker Ville USA here.”

  He drove through the front gate of John Trunce’s property, over a short bridge, and down a gravel road. The woods had grown even thicker since he’d been here last. He peered into the woods and brambles on either side of the road, and thought how much he wouldn’t want to be the guy coming up the road to do harm. As he pulled into the courtyard area, John walked from around the side of the shed and up to his door.

  “Good to see you, Colonel,” Junior said.

  “I appreciate your help on this one Junior. Find anything out?”

  Junior held up a small manila envelope. “Got some good recon.”

  “Good man.”

  Despite himself, Junior smiled. Praise from his old commander felt better than anything had in a long time. He remembered those fearsome days in the bush. John Trunce had got him through it, which was a fact. “Karen’s got some catfish and tea inside, come on in,” John said.

  For the next couple of hours there was no discussion about what Junior found out. John knew all of that would be in the materials. He had personally trained him and he had proven to be his best. Junior used those skills in his life on the other side of the law. He did nothing without a guaranteed outcome. Karen hugged Junior like a long lost son. Junior got a chance to feel normal and homey for a while. These people were as close to parents as he had, having grown up on the streets with parents now dead, who were unable to care for themselves, much less children. When they died, he picked up that chore for his brothers and sisters and carried it to this day.

  Junior drove away and John and Karen waved. John then went behind the barn and down to his storage room to assess the materials.

  In addition to wall to wall weaponry, the storage room had an office complete with computer, fax, and copiers, very much like a business office. John had done some consulting after leaving the military and used the office to keep track of that modest business. He still got many calls pleading for his services, but he felt he’d done enough. He was more interested in his corner of the world now. He would have liked grandchildren, but neither son seemed to think that a priority. Sam was a more distinct possibility, maybe even more so now, he thought as he smiled. That French girl has her sights on him, and even, despite the danger they face, Sam seemed focused and more centered than he had in some time.

  He opened the packet and found a CD-Rom inside and put it into his machine. True to his word, Junior not only had live surveillance footage, there was a typed narrative also. The footage was primarily of a porky Hispanic man walking a highly energetic dog around a green area outside of an extended stay hotel. From time to time the same man would come out to talk to the dog walker, who seemed to be in some position of authority. John was an instant judge of combatants, and knew it was the second man who was the poised, confident one. He seemed to spend most of his time convincing the other man of each statement made to him. An indecisive leader was John’s evaluation, but the center of authority for whatever group the men belonged to. There were good close-ups taken with a still camera. The narrative indicated that the names were unknown, but that at any given time the immediate group seemed to be comprised of about twelve persons. The narrative continued to state that the group seemed to keep a low profile and that no more than half of them actually stayed at the hotel. They rotated out of a Holiday Inn down the road. John created a file of the contents and emailed it to Moon. Moon would see that Tracy got it. The resources of the NSA would discern who the men were.

  Smith spent the next couple of days trailing Sam, always just a little ways behind him. He recorded all of the stops that were regularly made and put addresses and names together. He identified family and friends, all seemingly very ordinary people in an ordinary place. He packed up his car and his dog and headed out of Patience to make contact. About halfway back to St. Louis and the airport he stayed at a budget hotel and used his laptop and an Internet connection to send his encrypted report. While the big sheriff was a concern, he seemed to lack any meaningful support. The deputies were an issue, but their shifts were staggered. Additional law enforcement was close to an hour away. If a team was necessary to subdue the sheriff, he would be isolated. A well planned assault would be necessary, but effective in his evaluation.

  Manny the Farmer sat in the old beat up jeep he liked to drive around the Hacienda and watched several men taking target practice and another group doing physical training. The shots were measured and precise, and the formation of men running was tight. Whatever these men were now, they were once good soldiers, he thought, professionals for a professional job. It was like anything else. You don’t hire dentists to plumb your house.

  From the house he could hear the bell of the telephone, and then one of his aides flagged him from the doorway. He waved to Manolo and swung around in a cloud and drove back a little fast. He liked to tear around in the old jeep.

  He got to the back patio and was handed a report concerning the Patience County situation. He read the report carefully and then burned it in a small grill. The information gave him a great deal to consider. He walked back over to the jeep and went to find Paco. A second opinion is always best.

  Smith made sure that he read the e-mail carefully, resubmitted it, and asked for confirmation, which was received. The nature of his employment had just changed and he would intervene directly. His status had changed. He was about to proceed with a criminal act of major proportion.

  He opened his hard-sided luggage and opened a small false bottom. Inside was a small caliber pistol and a silencer. He often worked with a knife, but he was wary of the big sheriff with a gun on his hip and rocket launchers at his disposal. He’d considered some kind of accident with the sheriff’s squad car, but there was something about that vehicle that wasn’t kosher. The deep imprints of the tires told him immediately that it was armored and that there was serious horsepower under the hood. He decided that a quick, clean hit was the answer. The man lived alone at least most of the time. He didn’t like collateral damage, but if others were there they would just be in the way. Sheriff Sam Trunce was about to have a bad day. He got into his vehicle, dressed in his usual blend-in-with-the-scenery clothing, a dark grey warm-up jacket and pants with dark, solid colored shoes. He drove his car to a previously chosen spot, left his car on a wooded la
ne half a mile from the Sheriff’s house and approached through the woods at the back.

  Christine and Madeleine made the final preparations for the Friday evening meal at Chez-Toche. The doors opened for the first seating at 5:00 p.m. And the reservation book was full.

  “Grandmere, Alan is still being difficult and won’t sign the divorce papers. I don’t want to wait any longer. I think I have Sam’s attention, but I think he senses some reluctance on my part.”

  “Then what are you waiting for. Go get him. If you’re frustrated with the situation just grab what you want and don’t look back. It worked for me.”

  “But I’m still married.”

  “That’s just on paper. You’ve got a real flesh and blood handsome young man right in front of you. He’s good looking, hardworking and loyal. Yves likes him, what more do you want, besides, too long without a man and you’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “Grandmere! What a thing to say,” Christine said laughing.

  “I know what I’m talking about. I went so long during the war, that I think I did go a little crazy. I can tell you, it gave me one more reason to hate the Germans, if you know what I mean,” Madeleine said flashing a big smile at Christine. Besides, look at the shoulders on that man!”

  “Grandmere!” Christine said tossing a sprig of parsley in Madeleine’s direction.

  “I may be old, but I can still look. Oh look at the time and the people waiting on the porch. We better get started,” Madeleine said, wiping her hands on her apron as she walked towards the front door.

  Late the following afternoon, Christine drove to Sam’s house to meet him for lunch and to go fishing. This was their first real time alone, she thought, and she was looking forward to it. Either he would kiss her or she would grab his ears and kiss him. No more waiting, her talk with Madeleine had convinced her.