KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  I heard what I figured was a clipboard clatter as it was pulled from the foot of the bed.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Smokey said.

  “And why not?”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, I don’t need one.”

  “Oh? You’re viewing personal health records without a warrant or permission.”

  I hear the clipboard put back into place.

  “You’re not a very smart man, are you Mr. Rankle?” Smokey says. “How does someone like you rise to your position of authority?”

  “Mrs. Smith,” Rankle says. “I’ll be watching you.”

  “That’s a threat and some might call it sexual harassment, Mr. Rankle. I’d be watching out for flying rats that look like ferrets, if I were you. I’ll bet that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You’ve come for your daily rabies shot?”

  I hear feet plodding away and the door close.

  “Good work,” Tamara says.

  “E Z,” Smokey says. “He’s gone.”

  I tell her, “That man is Satan.”

  “Someone else came back with you,” Smokey says, “Your father’s here. We’ll leave you and Doc alone — let you talk, and then you need to get some rest.”

  I feel the puppy being lifted away from me.

  “No,” I insist, wanting to know more about the CIA mystery lady. But I see the blurred faces all moving away and out of sight.

  “My son, the mountain mover! Hi, Ethan,” I hear my father say, and I can barely make out his face as he steps closer. “It’s Doc. It’s your dad, Ethan.”

  “Hi, Dad. You okay?”

  “We’re all fine, my boy. My Mary’s here, too.”

  I see a blur of a face near the foot of the bed. Although I can’t tell it now, I know that she’s a lovely woman of about fifty — a stocky sort of country girl with a great sense of humor. And she’s been doing a hell of a great job helping raise my kids.

  “Hi, Mary,” I tell her and try to smile, but my face seems restricted, and I remember the bandages. I want to ask if the kids are here, too, but I know better. The court order keeps them away from me under any circumstances.

  “Dad, how’d you get involved in all this, anyway?”

  “Remember when you went to prison, how much that Judge Hammer helped you with all the legal costs, got the best lawyers for you? Then he was finally able to get you out of that whole mess.”

  The Judge’s involvement in getting me “out of that whole mess” is debatable, but I let that slide. “Of course, Dad. But the Judge has his own agenda.”

  “I don’t care. He helped my boy when he needed help. He probably spent millions of dollars both before and after your time in prison trying to help you.”

  I can’t deny that. Still, I think the money the Judge spent was in hopes of a return on his investment I wasn’t willing to give him. “What about it?”

  “He came to me one day a couple of years ago and said he needed my help, this time. Said I couldn’t tell anyone, especially not you. It was an undercover job for a railroad and said I fit in perfect. Told me there were a bunch of folks who were going to try to pull off something big. Said they had foreign backers and they wanted to bring America to its knees again, like on 9/11.

  “I didn’t have to think about my answer but for about two seconds. I told him, sure I’d help. Then he got us all set up — gave us that beautiful B & B in Crested Butte for nothing. My Mary, here, and the kids loved it there, and I got to do railroad work, the kind I like to do. It was perfect.” He paused. “Of course, now we gotta rebuild it. But we’ll build an even better one, this time.”

  Doc gets back on track. “Took two years, listenin’, watchin’, lookin’ for something going on, out of the ordinary. Strange things started happening about a year ago when I heard rumors they’d opened up the old uranium ore mine — the Safe Place Mine. Things started getting crazy from then on. I think you know the rest of the story.”

  “Might take me a while to put all the pieces together,” I say.

  Then I notice two blurred faces about waist-high to Mary at the foot of the bed that I hadn’t seen earlier.

  I can’t believe it. I want to rub my eyes, but I’m unable.

  My vision blurs and the world around me becomes even more obscure, then warm tears roll under my bandages.

  “Oh, God! Amy? Dusty?” I laugh nervously, and it hurts my chest and stomach. But somehow the pain feels good. It tells me I am alive. I am with my children.

  “Where’d you have them hidden?” I ask and hold out my bandaged arms the best I can.

  They rush to me. “Daddy!” my nine and ten-year-olds say in unison.

  “They were in the bathroom,” Mary answers.

  My children’s arms are small, but their excited and loving hugs cause pain to shoot through my body. I don’t care.

  “Doc — Dad. You’ll get arrested. They can put you in jail for bringing them to me.”

  “Let ‘em try,” he says. “You and me and my Mary — let ‘em try to screw with us, any more — ever again. We’ve been through enough. Enough for this country to treat you like it is, by God!”

  “Doc,” Mary says, “The kids.”

  “I know, Mary. I’m sorry. But they need to know, too. They need to know that us Knight’s stick together no matter what. They need to know that we’ve got lots of close friends and loved ones, and we all stick together. And as long as we do, nobody’d better screw with us. And if a good person needs help, we’ll help ‘em. Doesn’t matter what color or religion, doesn’t matter short or tall, skinny or fat, young or old. Someone getting beat up whatever-which-way and needs help, we’re there. If we can take on over two dozen mercenaries armed to the teeth tryin’ to kick America in the balls like the bastard terrorists did on 9/11, let ‘em try to screw with us.” He turns to me. “As long as we stand together, Ethan, we’re invincible.”

  “Yeah,” I tell him, my children wrapped around me, their heads buried against my arms and chest. “I love you,” I say, smelling their hair. I feel their hands, their embrace. I hear their sobs, and I taste my own tears. Knowing it will be months, possibly years before I see them again, I pull them closer.

  “I love you.”

  I think back on the mess in Colorado. I ask my father, “Hey, Doc … who was running that loco on the hazmat train?”

  “They never caught anyone and didn’t find a body, either.”

  Thinking about that “pretty” CIA agent, I ask my father. “Did you see the CIA agent who made the arrangements to fly us all back here?”

  “No, son — didn’t.”

  “Did you happen to catch her name?”

  “I think Tamara said it was Bee something. Let me think. Yeah, Bee Weighton, I believe. Sounded like an alias to us.”

  Who was Rillie actually working for — the CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, Judge Hammer, or could it have really been the foreign financiers of Operation Thundertrain — or even a foreign power?

  And who was the guy in the white ski mask behind her in Doc’s basement?

  Rillie knew I had a ballistic vest in the pack. She put it there along with the rest of the “shopping” list, including the unrequested blank rounds. Why did she only shoot me in the torso with the little 9mm Mach 10 if she wanted to kill me — or was it a show for the guy in the ski mask?

  If she didn’t want me dead, why did she load my M-4 magazines with blanks? Did she know the bad guys were ordered to capture and not kill me?

  And what about Big Deal’s Russian aunt/wife? How did she play into all this?

  “Yeah …,” I said, certain I’d see the really-wild, strawberry-blonde loco driver again someday. But that didn’t matter, right now. For the next few minutes, that little hospital room would be paradise. I could not have been anyplace better. As my father and his Mary hugged, I pulled my kids even closer. I repeated, “…an alias.”

  — * —

  —To the reader, from CWE Railroad Detective
R. Yule Dye:

  This novel portrays a fictitious account of a terrorist act for entertainment purposes. Although much of the facts, depictions, and concerns within are real, some may not be in detail, are simplified or are depicted less than accurately for good reason: there are a lot of nuts out there.

  For anyone who would read this fictional story and take from it some idea that they might vandalize or otherwise sabotage American railroad or government property in order to cause bodily harm or personal notoriety, may they go straight to Hell. That’s the only good place for such people.

  With them in mind, understand that not only American rail and government security is especially alert since the days and years following 9/11, so are the workers and the public around such essential activities. You’ll not fare well attempting anything of even a misdemeanor prank in nature.

  Don’t forget R. Yule Dye.

  I’m out there embodied in thousands of vigilant good-doers, everywhere you turn. Find a hobby, wade out into a rip tide, go commit yourself to an insane asylum and leave the rest of the good folks alone.

  By the way, the “R” stands for Robert.

  Be good! –R. Yule Dye.

  The Department of Homeland Security says, “If you see something, say something!” call 911 to report all suspicious activity.

  KNIGHT'S RANSOM

  AN E Z KNIGHT NOVEL

  FROM

  "THE E Z KNIGHT REPORTS" SERIES

  VOLUME 4

  BY

  GORDON A KESSLER

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Knight's Ransom Copyright © 2012 Gordon A Kessler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover Designed by: Gordon A Kessler. Copyright © 2012 Gordon A Kessler http://GordonKessler.com, http://www.ReadersMatrix.com

  EBook ASIN: B007F08MU8

  Version 08.27.2012

  Paperback version: ISBN-13: 978-1470104320 & ISBN-10: 1470104326

  Dedication

  Much work goes into writing an entertaining novel and quite a bit of it isn't done by the author. I have numerous friends and fellow authors who allow me to bounce off ideas and a couple of great editors who proofread my stories prior to publishing. They are vigilant, and they help me produce what I feel is quality fiction — entertainment. I'd like to thank them now.

  Bonnie E, Tonya C, Gary C, Darlene J, Julie C, Hazel H, Denise B — thank you, my good friends! I dedicate this first book in "The E Z Knight Reports" series to you.

  PROLOGUE

  What See-Saw Saw

  The Wizard's Grog Tavern, Smokey's Marina, Southern California.

  Three dark figures approach the back entrance of The Wizard's Grog as Osia "Oz" Papadopoulos flips the open sign over to closed.

  The big Greek proprietor shakes his head — can't see them well in the darkness outside.

  They aren't deterred. A boot is raised.

  The door bursts open.

  The edge of the door slams into Oz's nose, forehead and cheek. Window glass showers his face. He falls back stunned as the intruders rush in and turn off the lights.

  Two of them have him by the arms now, and he struggles. But they're strong and he's past his prime and still a little woozy from the slam to the head.

  "Take us to back room," the tallest one says. He has a slight accent. Oz can't make it out for sure — Slavic, but it didn't sound like typical Russian.

  "Humph!" Oz answers. "I'd rather have sand packed up my ass."

  "Ve can do that for you, too," says the talker. He turns on a flashlight and flicks it around. "This vay."

  Oz is whisked away to follow the talker by the men holding him. These two are real strong arms — Oz is a big man and being whisked away is a fair chore.

  "Vait," the talker suddenly says, and they all stop. "Vhat is that?"

  His light is on a figure at the end of the bar. A gun appears in his raised hand and points at it.

  "Looks like some kinda dummy," one of the strong arms says. "It's a freakin' manikin with sunglasses." He's got an accent, too; Italian, Oz thinks.

  "Vhat the hell? Old man manikin sitting at bar?" the talker says.

  One of the holders elbows Oz. "The sun glasses — what's that about?"

  Oz says, "It's just a fun thing." He hopes his old blind friend Cecil "See-Saw" Esau stays still, just like he's doing now. "You know, we like to have fun in my bar — like you guys are having fun with me right now. And like me and your ol' ladies — we like to have fun, too."

  "Smart ass!" one of the strong arms says and hits him on the side of the face with something hard.

  "Ugh!" Oz shakes it off. Probably hit with the barrel of a gun, but he can't see it. He says, "I guarantee you, I'm going to have a whole buncha fun with you later."

  "There ain't going to be no fun for you, later or ever again, pops."

  "Ve go," the talker says and leads them around the end of the bar and into the back storeroom.

  The two strong arms shove Oz to the far end of the small room. He stumbles and falls against the shelving and then to the floor. Canned goods, bottles and other supplies pummel the old Greek and spill out onto the bare concrete. He sits up, his head spinning, but he's prepared to take more. They close the door and turn on the light. Only two of them are in the room now. The other guy must be out watching the doors.

  Oz hopes See-Saw remains motionless, playing the manikin part these dumb assholes gave him.

  The two in the room are wearing black knit caps and have them pulled down to where only their eyes are exposed. The collars of their black, light-weight jackets are up, and they're wearing gloves — with silenced guns in their hands. Oz thinks he might recognize one of the men.

  "What's this about, boys?" Oz says. "You fellas get a flat beer from me sometime or something? No problem. I'll refund your money. It is about money, right? Here, help me up, and I'll open the safe for you."

  He reaches out for a hand, ready for when one of these bastards takes it — he'll yank the prick into the wall and go for his gun. Fool-hardy as it might seem, Oz isn't about to get robbed without one hell of a fight. He'd rather die first.

  They just stare at him, giving him a good view down the suppressed barrels of their small caliber handguns. Compact pistols — .22 caliber Tomcats or Bobcat .32s — he thinks. Damn Italians really like their Berettas. No wait...the Russian; his pistol isn't a Beretta.

  "That a Makarov?" Oz asks.

  The Russian doesn't reply.

  Remembering how Ruskies are always proud of their fatherland's weapons, Oz says, "I'm not saying Makarov's are real pieces of shit, or anything, but they'll make your hand smell like you've been squeezing we
t turds."

  The guy's face wrenches in obvious annoyance.

  "Uh, oh!" Oz tells him. "This isn't sand-packing-up-my-ass time is it? Do I get a kiss first?"

  "Vhere is E Z Knight?" the talker asks.

  "He-she Nice? Who the hell's that? Never heard of the bum."

  "Bull-shit!"

  "Bullshit? What bullshit? I'm telling you the truth."

  The talker nods to his partner.

  The other man approaches, grabs a large can of beans and throws it hard.

  Oz doesn't have a chance to catch it in his hand, the guy's too close. He catches it on top of his head just above the hairline.

  Man, it hurts! He nearly blacks out from the pain.

  "Try again," the talker says.

  The can thrower is loading a gunny sack with smaller cans.

  "I told you, I don't know no He-she Nice!"

  "E Z Knight!"

  "Oh..., E Z Knight. Why didn't you say so?" Oz smiles. "I don't know him neither."

  The can thrower swings his gunny sack, and Oz raises his left arm to block it. He figures since he's right handed, if he lives through this, he might still be able to pour coffee and sign checks.

  The can-filled sack strikes his left forearm and knocks it down. Before he has a chance to block a second strike, Can Man swings it again. It smashes into the left side of his face and shoulder. It hurts even more than the first can.

  Oz takes a deep breath and somehow shakes it off. He knows he should just keep his mouth shut — but he can't resist a little bravado. "Come on, little Suzie! Can't you do better than that?"

  The guy swings it again, and again.

  God it hurts — he's killing me! Oz is seeing stars, and the room is growing dark.

  "You know E Z Knight yet?" the talker asks. His voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a long tunnel.

  A Ruskie for sure, Oz realizes. It's a mild Russian accent, but the dialect had thrown him off — Southern Russian. Oz has been all over the world before he came to California. In his thirty-five years as a merchant marine, he's been acquainted with about every nationality and has heard most of their dialects. But there is something a bit strange about this particular Russian.