by Jeff Gulvin
27
HARRISON AND THE SOUTHERN Blacks crossed into West Virginia, with Harrison hanging out of the doorway, holding the slat above his head to steady himself. They had made their last switch and were riding the CSX transportation line south of Huntington, which crossed the state southeast and hit Virginia at Covington. They had been riding boxcars for over thirty-six hours and everybody was raw at the edges. Harrison said nothing unless he was asked a direct question. Nobody was drinking. There was nothing left to drink and their cigarettes were skinnier than they would see in any prison. Limpet sat with Sidetrack on the far side of the car and Carlsbad mooched around like a bear stuck in a cage. Harrison glanced over his shoulder at him now and again, then looked up at the sky. Drifting far in the distance was a helicopter.
He ducked back into the semi-darkness and sat by his pack. He took his banjo and strummed a few chords, but the music was incompatible with the atmosphere and he laid it aside once again.
Hooch squatted beside him and spat into the dirt on the floor—a gob of oily saliva that suddenly drew their attention. ‘Shit,’ Hooch said, looking over at Sidetrack. ‘How much longer?’
‘A while.’
‘That all you’re gonna tell us—a while?’
Sidetrack stared coldly at him. Hooch looked down again and shook his shaggy head. His breath was rancid and irritatingly close to Harrison. He sat and said nothing, then felt in his pocket for what threads of tobacco he had left. Carefully, he rolled a cigarette and lit it. Sidetrack was on his feet now and at the door. He leaned a long way out, which was dangerous as the track was running through a cutting hewn from solid rock. The confines of the rock forced the rattle of wheels and thudding of the locomotive back at them, so conversation was impossible. Sidetrack was looking back the way they had come and then forward again, but the cutting obscured any view. He rested his hand where Harrison had and looked up at the sky.
‘What you looking for?’ Limpet yelled at him. ‘Black helicopters?’
Harrison felt a prickle of unease, but smiled along with the rest of them.
Penny was on the phone to the agents watching the train tracks south of Huntington. The D.C. field office covered West Virginia and Swartz had already informed Tom Kovalski about what was going on. Agents had hit the ‘bricks’ from the resident agency offices all over the state and the progress of the train was being monitored.
In Washington, Kovalski briefed the joint terrorism task force. ‘We know the FTRA are freighting weapons to the militia. Because of what went on at the embassy in London, we now know where the weapons are coming from. An hour ago, four FTRA members and our UCA crossed from Kentucky into West Virginia.’
‘Harada is getting his C-4 from somewhere,’ Logan said. ‘This could be the supply line.’
Kovalski looked at her and nodded. ‘If we’re lucky, we can take all our birds with just the one stone.’
‘We’ve got that train under surveillance,’ Kovalski went on. ‘But we don’t know what their destination point is.’
‘Does Harrison know you’re watching?’ Swann asked him.
‘There’s been an agent following in a vehicle ever since Texas. Yes, we’re pretty sure he knows.’
‘There was no way to get a tracker fixed up?’
Kovalski shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve had to do this the hard way. The New Orleans SWAT team are following in a chopper. I’m gonna augment them with some of ours, if they need it.’
‘What’s the plan?’ Logan said.
‘There isn’t one yet. It’s a suck it and see situation.’
Vernon Jewel had thought long and hard about what Reece had told him and considered whether to send somebody else. Reece seemed pretty sure of himself, though, and told Jewel that the weapons-distribution programme had been running completely undetected for three years now, so there was nothing for any of them to worry about.
‘Who’s been paying for it, BobCat?’ Jewel had asked him.
Reece had smiled and scratched his jaw, still basking in the turnout from the good people of Cassity. ‘That’s the joke of it, Vern,’ he said. ‘Especially after what you saw that night at the dead drop.’ He had laid a hand on his shoulder then. ‘There’s two groups in Europe supporting us. Best you don’t know more than that, just in case.’
Jewel sat in the stolen truck now, sipping coffee and waiting for Ricky Tomlinson to come back from the john. Goddamn that kid and his bladder. The truck had been provided for them—stolen three states away—and was now bearing West Virginia licence plates. A state trooper drove by in his cruiser, a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses pressed against his eyes. Jewel could see the pump-action Remington, standing upright between the driver and passenger seats. Tomlinson jumped in beside him and passed a strip of jerky over.
‘I got the peppered kind that you like, Vern.’
‘Thanks.’ Jewel took it from him and put the truck into gear. ‘You all set for this?’
Tomlinson looked a little quizzically at him. ‘It’s what we’ve been planning for years, ain’t it?’
Jewel nodded once and pulled out on to the highway. Sidetrack rode by the door all the way across West Virginia. Five miles west of Covington, he looked round at the others. ‘Get set,’ he stated. ‘We’re outta here.’
Hooch was on his feet first. ‘About fucking time.’
Harrison got up and shouldered his now very heavy pack. His water bottle was empty and he had tied it to a loop in the strapping. He carried his banjo in one hand and the other one was free to help him get off the train. The wind was fresh now; it was late afternoon and the sky grey with cloud.
‘Typical, three days in a boxcar and when we get off it rains,’ Hooch muttered.
Sidetrack shook his head. ‘Hooch, why don’t you shut the fuck up and think about the payday we’re looking at. You and Carlsbad can buy all the whores you want.’
Hooch looked at Carlsbad and his features visibly brightened. ‘Never thought about it that way.’
‘Never thought, you mean.’
Limpet ducked out of the way of a mock blow and winked at Harrison. ‘You set, Four-String?’ he said. ‘You been pretty quiet this trip.’
‘I’ve been as bored and pissed off as Hooch,’ Harrison said. ‘But I figured I’d keep it to myself.’
Limpet sniggered, and Sidetrack looked round and his eyes were dead in his face. ‘You all be careful when we jump down,’ he said. ‘We got a precious cargo.’
‘C-4 ain’t volatile, Sidetrack,’ Harrison said.
Sidetrack looked through him. ‘Like I said, we got a precious cargo.’
They jumped off the train as it slowed for the final driver swap that would run them into Virginia at Covington. Harrison leaned far out of the door and the train wheezed and groaned, the wheels hissing on the skids until it shuddered to a halt, and they all braced themselves. When all was still, they jumped down one by one.
Sidetrack stood straight, shifted the weight of his pack and looked up at the sky. ‘It is gonna rain,’ he said.
‘How far we got to walk?’ Harrison asked him.
‘Just beyond that stand of trees.’ Sidetrack pointed back along the track. ‘There’s a dirt road running up, right there.’
Matt Penny pulled the Chevy over to the side of the road and pointed through the windshield. ‘There, Jean. Look.’
She followed the line of his finger. They had left the highway and four-wheeled up a dirt road that shouldered the tracks. The train had moved off again and she could see five men walking back down the line. Penny picked up the cellphone and dialled the Washington field office.
Logan spoke to him and he gave her the hobos’ position. ‘They’re heading for the dirt road,’ Penny said. ‘I’m gonna follow on foot. Make sure that SWAT team is rolling.’
‘The New Orleans SWAT team’s in the air,’ Logan said. ‘Ours is on standby.’
‘OK. Just don’t leave my ass hanging out in the wind.’ Penny hung up, looked round at Jean
and checked his guns. ‘You really have gotta stay here this time,’ he said.
Sidetrack led the way, as the five of them walked back down the track to the stand of trees and the dirt road leading up into the hills. Hooch wheezed under the weight of his pack. Harrison walked with his head down, but his eyes were scanning the limited horizon ahead. He could see nothing, no movement whatsoever, and he had no idea whether he was alone out here or not. Sidetrack’s mood bothered him. There had been a perceptible difference in the man since the visit of The Voyageur and Ghost Town. He had drunk less mescal, as if he had a problem which he needed to focus on properly. That problem could, of course, just be the delivery of one hundred pounds of C-4 to West Virginia. But it could also be much more than that.
Harrison watched him now, walking slightly in front and to his left-hand side. He looked up at the sky, but it was empty of all except rain cloud. The trees deepened and they left the line of the tracks and headed up the dirt road. From up ahead, he heard an engine and saw Sidetrack stiffen. The others moved up and Sidetrack climbed the short rise until they looked down on a mini-turnoff on the other slope of the hill. Sidetrack was watching the road for the approaching truck, straining his eyes, but the engine noise gradually died away. They walked down the hill, passing the turnoff, and Harrison looked back the way they had come.
Penny moved like a wraith through the thinly trunked trees, wearing the gilly suit from Harrison’s truck box. He had an MP5 over one shoulder and his Sig-Sauer strapped to his hip. He could see the hobos fifty yards ahead of his position. The light was fading and they made five dark shapes against the pale dust of the road. He had his radio working and Gerry Mackon, his New Orleans team leader, updated him on the SWAT team’s ground location.
Vernon Jewel and Ricky Tomlinson were labouring up the far side of the dirt road in the stolen pick-up truck. There was nothing in the back, save the twin truck boxes that were bolted to the floor just behind the cab. Reece had told them that the beauty of what they would be carrying was that you did not need much of it to do a lot of damage. It could be easily stowed in the truck boxes and the pick-up could be parked without drawing too much attention. After Oklahoma, the authorities had been looking for Ryder-type trucks that were big enough to pack a ton of fertiliser. Still, Jewel was nervous, more nervous than he had ever been. He had usually done the short runs with tiny amounts of gear brought to him, so he could dump it in the dead drop under the drainage cover on the Virginia side of the Appalachians. This was a long trip, but Reece figured he needed a major player and that had appealed to Jewel’s sense of self-importance. He and Ricky were going to pick up the consignment, then drive to the other side of the mountains and leave the truck in the usual place. From there, they would be collected and somebody else would come for the truck. All he had to do was shove the keys up the tailpipe.
The dirt road to the rendezvous point was pitted and small hills climbed amid the thick covering of trees. Still, Jewel thought, as he wrestled with the steering wheel, it was nice and secluded at least. The changeover would take no more than a few minutes, then they would be away again. If all went to plan, he would be home around midnight. Next to him, Tomlinson had his handgun out of the concealed shoulder holster he liked to wear and was playing with the chamber: talon-coated bullets, the kind that would pierce body armour. Cop-killers.
They crested the short rise and the truck swayed like a roller coaster. Jewel had been told to drive until he came to a stand of cedar trees, on the right-hand side of the road, with a massive split boulder between two of them.
‘There.’ Tomlinson spotted it first and pointed. ‘Right there, Vern. We must be early.’
Five hundred yards behind them, two agents from the special operations group were tailing them in another truck. They drove with no lights—the driver wearing night-vision glasses to penetrate the deepening gloom. The passenger had a flat, metallic box open on his knees and was preparing the ‘sticky’ electronic homing device. Up ahead, Jewel’s truck slowed, then came to a stop, and the FBI driver killed his engine. Beside him, his colleague took the homing device and slipped into the trees.
Harrison saw the truck parked as they came up the trail. It was sitting with its lights on, just to the right of the dirt road, under a stand of trees. He shook his head. Why not broadcast where you’re at? He thought of Penny and Jean and whoever else might be following, and his heart began to pump. Whatever happened here, it was time to break his cover. He had enough on tape to get Sidetrack the needle. And seeing Jean with Penny had reminded him of the life he did not have, and the life he really wanted. This was definitely his last mission. McCall, Idaho, get your fishing poles ready.
He could feel the sweat forming on the palms of his hands, though: Sidetrack’s mood was still to be bargained with. The truck lights went out as soon as Sidetrack signalled to them, and then both doors opened and two men climbed into the back. The five of them set their packs down by the wheels of the truck and Harrison withdrew the twenty pounds of C-4 he was carrying: two-pound rolls wrapped in oiled paper. He passed them up to a grizzled-looking man in his fifties, who placed them very carefully inside the silver-coloured truck box. The others emptied their packs, the whole operation taking less than three minutes. The last of the C-4 was stowed and the truck boxes secured, then the two militia men jumped down.
Harrison stood to one side as they climbed back into the truck, started the engine and headed back the way they had come. The gloom was complete now: a tight mountain road, with tree, rock and shrub on all sides. Harrison watched until the lights of the truck disappeared round the first corner, then he turned back to the others. ‘So what now?’ he said to Sidetrack.
‘We get paid,’ Hooch put in.
Sidetrack shook his head. ‘We get paid back in Texas.’
Hooch’s jaw dropped. ‘We gotta go back to Texas?’
Sidetrack showed his tooth. ‘Train’ll be along in a while.’ He nodded to Limpet, then they set out once again, walking back the way they had come.
Sidetrack walked next to Harrison this time, shoulder to shoulder. ‘You did a good job, Four-String,’ he said. ‘Kept your nose clean and held your end up.’ He slipped an arm about his shoulders. Harrison tried not to tense, aware that Limpet was right behind them, Carlsbad and Hooch on either side. ‘You’re a brother now,’ Sidetrack said, and let his index finger trail the length of Harrison’s spine.
Harrison tried to roll to the side, but Limpet reached forward and whipped the 9mm from his waistband. Carlsbad came at him from the right, and Harrison aimed a kick hard and down on his knee. The big man yelped like a dog. At the same time, Harrison jabbed his elbow into Sidetrack’s ribs and he winced. Then Limpet cocked the hammer on the Beretta and Harrison froze. Somebody reached for his boot and snatched out the .38.
He was helpless, limbs trembling, mind working. Sidetrack moved in front of him.
‘Big, big mistake,’ he said. The others were either side and behind him. Limpet about a yard behind, with the 9mm pointed at the back of his head. Sidetrack stepped out of the line of fire. ‘Shoot yourself a Fed, Limpet.’
Limpet started to squeeze the trigger. Then he jerked like a marionette and reeled back, blood spurting in a single cord from the side of his head. Harrison dropped and spin-kicked Sidetrack’s legs from under him. He scrabbled in the dirt for the fallen 9mm and, at the same moment, a dozen torches shone and a dozen MP5 carbines were aimed at the rest of the group.
Harrison heard Gerry Mackon’s voice from behind the lights. ‘FBI. Stand still.’
Nobody moved. Sidetrack lay on the ground where Harrison had the 9mm pointed at his head. Hooch and Carlsbad just stood like two impotent giants, blinking in the ferocity of the torchlight. Then black shapes gained definition as the SWAT team came forward to disarm the prisoners. Harrison sat where he was, his gun on Sidetrack, and reaching up under his shirt he ripped away the recorder. He looked at the tape heads by the light of one of the torches. They were still turni
ng.
Sidetrack and the others were marched to the vehicles, which were waiting further down the trail, completely sealed off now by the FBI and state police. Harrison walked behind them with his guns intact.
Gerry Mackon, the SWAT team leader, came alongside him. ‘You OK, Johnny Buck? Boy, but you led us a merry dance.’
‘I’m glad you were there, Gerry.’
Penny suddenly materialised beside him. ‘You can thank me later.’
‘Hey, bubba.’ Harrison slapped him across the shoulders. ‘I saw you down in Texas. How the fuck did that happen?’
Penny told him what had been going on. ‘I guess some of it was luck.’
‘Well, we were due a little, huh?’
Penny looked sideways at him then. ‘What’s in the pickup?’