Dead Wrong (Jason Justice Mystery Book 2)

by Ralph Zeta

  Once we got past the muddy spots, the terrain evened out somewhat, and we could go a little faster, bounding every now and then over humps and depressions. I wondered whether the trail had seen a grader or a roller in the last decade.

  As the outline of tattered hangars came into view, something in the distance beyond them caught my eye: a brief, but brilliant burst of light. A second flash soon followed. The fleeting bursts of brilliance against the dark of night stirred something in me. Was it a distant memory?

  Suddenly, my internal alarms blared and my instincts took over. Old prescribed reactions learned the hard way in a distant land kicked in.

  The bursts of brilliance were muzzle flashes. Rifle fire. Someone was firing at us from the distance.

  I grabbed hold of Sammy’s denim shirt and yanked him down toward me, forcing him under the dashboard. The stitches in my injured arm protested angrily.

  “What in the—” Sammy yelled just before glass exploded above our heads.

  A second impact followed, and more glass shards rained as angry bees flying at Mach two zinged inches above my shoulder. A third projectile slammed into the driver’s-side window before impaling my seat somewhere above kidney level. Four more shots followed in quick succession, the high-velocity rounds scorching the air in the cab before thudding through upholstery and metal.

  “An ambush!” I said.

  “No shit!” was Sammy’s response.

  The SUV was still moving. No one was steering. Another shot cracked through the driver’s side window and blew out the back right window.

  “We’re sitting ducks!” I said.

  “Again, no shit!” Sammy reached around the steering column, killed the headlights then yanked the steering wheel, applied the brakes then shifted into reverse, and hit the gas. The SUV lurched backward as two more shots screamed above us. More glass fell, and a hot shard of something landed on my right cheek. Two more shots pierced the driver seat. But the last two projectiles buzzed with a different intensity than the previous shots. They had a higher pitch, and the air disturbance in their wake lacked the malevolence of the earlier, heavier rounds. It had to be a smaller, faster slug—maybe a 5.56mm or .223-caliber. Two rifles. Two shooters. I wondered how many others lurked in the darkness.

  The SUV suddenly banged into something and lurched sideways. Sammy yanked the wheel in the opposite direction and floored it. The SUV tilted slightly sideways before it came to a grinding stop. Sammy pressed the gas again. The wheels spun wildly. The SUV didn’t move. Two more shots took out what remained of the windshield.

  “This is it, J.J.,” Sammy said. “We’re stuck.”

  With a swift punch, I obliterated the overhead courtesy light fixture to avoid lighting up the interior, when I opened the door.

  “Let’s go,” I said. Sammy released his seatbelt. “Got your piece?”

  “Ankle holster.”

  “Keep your head low and your ass lower.”

  I opened the door and slithered out onto the tall grass surrounding the shallow drainage ditch. Sammy was right behind me.

  “Where to?”

  “Junkyard,” I said. “Plenty of cover there. Stay alert. We don’t know how many are out there.”

  Crouched low, we ran along the fence for some time. We were headed the wrong way, away from the main road, toward the trailer homes. Not what anyone would call ideal but we had no other choice.

  Whoever was shooting at us, they had chosen their spot well. The bend and depressions on the trail meant reduced speed—that and the lack of cover made it an ideal kill zone. Our vehicle had been disabled, leaving us only one option: a hasty retreat to the junk yard.

  It was tough going. I was wearing thin-soled leather shoes that made a fair amount of noise and offered poor traction in the sandy soil. In the darkness, I stepped on the bottom strand of barbed wire and pulled up on the middle one, making room for Sammy to duck through; then he did the same for me. Enveloped in shadows, we slunk east in the dark, toward the junk yard.

  “What if they have NVG’s?” Sammy whispered behind me.

  I stopped. I hadn’t considered night-vision goggles, and I had no way to know if they had them. “If they do,” I said, “we’re toast.”

  In the middle distance, I spotted something that looked out of place. It was a huge starless void—something tall and massive with sloping sides, that blocked a good chunk of the starry night. It had to be the hulking mound of scrap I had spotted on the way in.

  “Still with me?” I whispered over my shoulder.

  “On your six.”

  We continued to move in a low crouch toward the towering void.

  “How did you know to duck?” Sammy asked.

  “Luck,” I said, stopping. “I was looking at the right place at the right time. The muzzle flashes weren’t hard to see in the dark.”

  “How far, you reckon?”

  “They were sniping from the airport tower. Say, four hundred yards.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The boy can shoot.”

  We kept moving forward.

  “These creeps were never gonna let us leave,” Sammy said.

  “Looks that way.”

  “It was a trap from the start. Aguilar taking us to the trailer like he wanted to talk. The old blowhard told us nothing. He was just fixing to buy them boys time to set a trap. And they almost succeeded in taking us out.”

  “Yeah,” I said as we reached the edge of the container rows. We huddled in place. “I’m pissed I ignored the obvious signs something was up.”

  “What now?” Sammy whispered.

  “The containers. Let’s get up high. Maybe we get cell service. Call in the cavalry.”

  “Well, I hope you brought your cell ’cause mine’s still in the car.”

  “In my pocket,” I said. I surveyed the tall blocky shapes of the stacked containers. I fished out the cell phone and checked signal strength. Not even a bar. “No signal.”

  We duckwalked between opposing walls of containers stacked some forty feet high. A hundred yards into the steel canyon, I took a knee and scanned the terrain behind us.

  “Anything?” Sammy asked.

  “Nothing. But they can’t be far.”

  A male voice called out in the distance. Another voice answered. In the stillness of night, they sounded close. Very close.

  “Let’s move,” I whispered.

  Still hunkered down, we trotted past an endless stream of closed container doors.

  The rattle-tattle of a two-stroke engine echoed in the distance.

  “That’s a dirt bike, J.J.,” Sammy said. “They’re gonna try and corral us.”

  Sammy was right. We were not only outmanned and outgunned, but the motorcycle meant they could outflank and outmaneuver us almost at will. And there was nothing we could do to about it. We had but one option left: get out of sight and hunker down.

  I glanced up. Nothing but a high steel wall stretching in both directions as far as I could see. The containers were tight against each other with mere inches of space in between. There was a ten-foot-wide ribbon of night sky between container rows. We kept moving deeper into the steel canyon. I was searching for a break in the container walls that we could climb and get up high.

  “There,” I said, pointing ahead.

  A block of empty sky, a spot about midway down the half-mile long corridor where the containers were stacked only one high then two, then three, and finally four. We raced toward the clearing. The tall doors of the lower container were ajar. Sammy and I exchanged a look.

  Sammy drew his revolver from the ankle holster and nodded the go-ahead. I peered inside, then flicked on the auxiliary light on my phone. Two motorcycle basket cases materialized from the gloom. A smattering of greasy tools, rags, empty milk crates, dozens of empty beer cans mixed with cigarette butts and oil cans littered the floor. A makeshift bike shop.

  “Looks like a hidey hole,” Sammy said over my shoulder.

  I flic
ked off the light. I went back outside and clambered up the half-opened door, using the long steel hinges for purchase. Sammy followed me up. I tried the door to the container directly above the makeshift bike shop. When it creaked, I pulled the door open and peeked in, again flicking on my cell phone light. Empty. We clambered to the next level. We were now two containers high, about twenty feet above ground. I opened the container and peeked inside. In the light of the cell phone’s tiny LED, I spotted three large rectangular shapes strewn on the floor. Mattresses.

  “Bingo,” I said.

  The rat-tat-tat rattle of the dirt bike echoed ever closer.

  I switched off the light. On hands and knees, Sammy and I ransacked the container, our fingers sweeping the floor in hopeful arcs, searching for anything of use. The place reeked of cigarette smoke, weed, sweat, and piss. I found a kerosene lamp and a flashlight. Inside a canvas rucksack, my fingers found a bong, a plastic bag filled with pungent clumps of weed, lighters, a matchbook, a stick of deodorant, and a few clothes. Under one of the mattress, I found a long sheathed knife. A machete? I unsheathed it, felt its heft, its wide fitted hilt. The blade, sharp enough to shave with, had to be least fourteen inches long. Not a machete, a Bowie knife.

  Something crunched loudly in the darkness behind me.

  “What the hell is that?” I whispered.

  “I think I stepped on a bag of Cheetos.”

  The bike’s engine faded.

  A voice called out. Another responded.

  They were close.

  “Check this out,” Sammy said.

  I scooted over to him. A blanket draped the container wall. Sammy moved the blanket aside. A ragged torch cut opening maybe three by four feet in the side wall.

  We slipped out through the makeshift hatch. We found ourselves in a wide clearing among the stacked containers. We crossed the void and quietly made our way up to the top level of stacked containers.

  Standing on the top level, I figured, we had to be at least forty feet above ground. From that high, we could almost see every corner of the junkyard and beyond. I peered hopefully at my cell phone. No bars.

  “Just great,” Sammy remarked.

  I placed the cell in my pocket and in a crouch, scooted over to the edge and peeked over the side. A dark canyon opened below.

  Down on the ground, two shapes with what I could only surmise were long guns cradled in their hands, approached from the right. From the opposite side, the wink and swing of a flashlight closed in. At least three men were closing in on us from opposite directions.

  I considered our situation. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out our location. I removed my shoes and clutched them in my hand. I’m six-four, and on a good day, I tip the scale somewhere north of 230. A bear trashing through a palmetto thicket would make less noise than I in those shoes.

  “Let’s move further down,” I whispered to Sammy.

  Barefoot, Bowie knife in hand, we sauntered quietly in the dark, headed toward Flashlight Man, and away from the two long guns. As we drew closer to the glow of the flashlight, we slowed to a belly crawl.

  Metal groaned under me.

  We froze.

  Hurried footsteps pounded hard-packed earth below.

  “What are you packing?” I asked in a low whisper.

  “Five-shooter,” Sammy said in a low voice. “Smith and Wesson three-fifty-seven Mag.”

  “How many rounds?”

  “Just what’s in the gun,” Sammy shook his head. “Never thought we’d be shooting our way out.”

  Neither did I. One of those rare moments of profound regret at not having a pistol handy filled my thoughts.

  We heard hushed voices nearby.

  “Let’s split up,” I whispered in Sammy’s ear. “Fifteen feet. You take the left. I’ll go right. Anyone comes over the edge between us, light him up.”

  “I feel so much better having your permission,” Sammy whispered.

  “Don’t miss,” I said.

  “I don’t miss.”

  I watched Sammy slither into position. He flattened himself against the container roof. I wormed silently along the grimy metal surface toward the edge, the ridiculously long Bowie knife clutched before me, my shoes on the other hand. I dared a quick peek over the edge. Nothing much had changed. The two burly men with long guns, muzzles aimed high, hunting, converged below us. The third figure, the man with the flashlight, closed in from the opposite direction.

  We were pinned down, with only five rounds of ammo and a trophy-case knife to take on three armed and determined aggressors. Not what anyone would call ideal. But at least for the moment, we held the high ground. It was an edge I planned to take full advantage of.

  In times of like this, with my continued existence in question, my mind tends to wander off on bizarre pathways. There have been times like this when I’ve felt an overpowering urge to laugh out loud. But not this time.

  I dare not risk another look over the edge. The void created by my head’s silhouette against the starry sky could be seen. I couldn’t forget that one of the men down below was a veteran marine. And judging from the well-placed rounds fired at the SUV from a considerable distance, a crack shot as well.

  The metallic sound of a gun being racked shattered the silence below. Low voices wafted in the muggy breeze. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I could imagine they were planning how to flush us out. My bet was that they would defer to the veteran, Jesse. He would consider the situation tactically: were we armed? If so, how where we set up? How much ammo did we have? But it was crunch time, which made those considerations secondary to their numerical advantage.

  “They got to be right on top.” The voice was alarmingly close.

  “They armed?” whispered another.

  “Nah,” said the first. “They would’ve shot back by now.”

  “Two of ’em together up there, you reckon?” said a third voice—calm, steady, in control.

  “I reckon so.”

  Then silence.

  Long sweeping arcs of brightness swept the edge of the trailer surface inches from my knife. I closed my eyes to preserve my night vision.

  The light vanished. A brief silence was followed by faint vibrations beneath me. I placed an ear against the rusty metal. I heard or, rather, felt, slight bump and grinding sounds against metal.

  They were coming.

  I hand-signaled Sammy. Two fingers. Two men. I pointed once in his direction, then back at the edge before me.

  Sammy nodded. He got the message: a man would appear somewhere near his position, and a second near me. Sammy leveled his gun at the edge. I readied myself, the knife in my right hand.

  It wasn’t a long wait.

  A hand appeared over the edge before me, fingers seeking purchase. The other hand followed. I raised the knife, then brought it down like a hatchet, the edge aimed at wrist level. The sound of steel slashing through sinew and bone was unmistakable. Warm blood sprayed the side of my face. The second hand vanished from view as an animal shriek echoed down the corridor.

  The severed hand twitched for an instant inches from me, as the rest of the attacker smashed onto solid ground some forty feet below.

  A sudden blast to my left startled me.

  I turned in time to see the bright flash from Sammy’s gun, and the eruption of tissue and blood from the back of a man’s head before it vanished from sight over the edge. Then came the dull thud of a second body smacking onto the dirt below.

  Two down. Maybe just one to go.

  Twenty-Eight

  With the knife, I flicked the severed hand off the edge. Not the smartest move I’ve ever made. A primal scream shattered the stillness of night. A long fusillade of automatic gunfire raked the reinforced steel edge of the container before me. With one arm, I shielded my face from the hot metal sparks that drizzled over me searing random spots of exposed skin.

  The barrage ended as suddenly as it began, followed by the familiar sound of a rifle magazine ejectio
n quickly followed by the metallic sound of a fresh magazine being slapped in. The gun was racked, and a second long fusillade erupted. I had already retreated a couple of feet from the edge. Bright sparks and bits of hot shrapnel sprinkled down. The gunfire ended. The sounds of magazine ejection and insertion followed. The gun was raked.

  Then nothing.

  An eerie silence descended.

  Neither Sammy nor I dared twitch a muscle. A wail of anguish shattered the quiet.

  “He’s dead!” cried a man’s wild voice from below.

  Then another moan.

  “You kilt him, you punk-ass piece of shit!”

  “Is that you, Jesse?” I said, staying well out of view.

  No response.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” I said. “But you boys came after us. We had no choice. We had to defend ourselves. Do you understand?”

  Nothing.

  “Think about what can happen here,” I pressed on. Though I had serious doubts I could talk some sense into Jesse, I had to give it a try. Maybe a little bluffing might convince him to walk away, live to fight another day. “You know there are two of us. And now it’s just you. The sheriff knows we’re here. We don’t check in, they’ll come looking.” A lie, of course. No one but Sammy’s associate, Loida, knew where we were. No one would come looking for us—at least, not until morning, when Loida couldn’t get a hold of Sammy. That was at least ten hours away. Too long.

  “Think about your mother, Jesse. Hasn’t she been through enough? Your brother down there is dead. So is your friend. Imagine how Paula will feel if she loses both of you boys? Do the right thing, Jesse. Spare your mother more pain. End this and we all live to see the sunrise.”

  More silence.

  Sammy and I exchanged a glance. We were not getting anywhere.

  “Seen you before,” said the voice. “Big white-ass dude from the farm, that you.”

  “I owe you for that one, Jesse,” I said.

  “I shoulda’ kilt you. But my brother said no. ’Cause it would muck things up. I don’t know why I listen to him. Now he dead. That’s on you.”