Brotherhood Protectors: RAINHORSE (Kindle Worlds)

by Jesse Jacobson

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Twisted Page Inc.. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Brotherhood Protectors remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Twisted Page Inc., or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  CHAPTER ONE

  ______________________

  (Plentywood, Montana)

  The owner of the roadside bar, Vernon Gill, was busily wiping down the counter top when he first saw the silver Toyota Camry pull into his lot. A tall stranger in a cowboy hat emerged from the vehicle and began walking toward the door of The Blue Buffalo Tavern. Through the window Gill could see the mysterious man was huge, tall and broad at the shoulder. He wore a serious facial expression, one might even call it somber. The bar owner stopped wiping the counter top as the visitor approached. The stranger would be trouble, he predicted, and with his experience at reading people, he was rarely wrong.

  Gill had bought the Plentywood, Montana establishment twenty years earlier, after serving eighteen years in the Marines. The tavern had made ends meet throughout his ownership, that is, until recently. The economy hit him hard and he found himself cash poor. If something didn’t change within the next six months, he’d have to fold the tent and spend the rest of his life pinching pennies and playing bingo. He was now in his mid-sixties, so retiring had a certain appeal, but the thought of going out as a failure ate at his insides.

  The Blue Buffalo was a long-standing establishment in Plentywood. Gill knew just about everyone in town by name, whether they patronized his business or not. For those that did drink there, he knew the preferred drink of each man and woman. Still, none of that tradition paid the bills. He needed cash, and soon.

  Gill heard the door creaking open and the stranger appeared in the doorway, pausing for a moment, looking to his left, then his right. With the evening sun setting in the distance behind the stranger as he stood in the open doorway, all Gill could initially see was the man’s silhouette, and it cast a big shadow, one clouded in mystery.

  The stranger was at least six-feet-four. He wore an oversized stained raffia straw cowboy hat, pulled down low on his brow, hiding most of his face. His thigh-length brown Scully lamb leather jacket was unbuttoned. The man walked with a confident gait, though his Durango Rebel boots made hardly a sound on the wooden floor.

  When he reached the bar, he placed his enormous hands on its clean, polished surface. He used his fingers to brush the smooth surface, as if admiring the quality of the wood. He paused long enough to check his six, silently evaluating whether he’d been noticed or followed. Satisfied, he sat on the bar stool.

  Gill nodded at him, “What’ll you have, stranger?”

  “Whiskey,” he replied, in a deep, growly voice. “Jim Beam, Devil’s Cut, if you have it, Black if you do not.”

  “Devil’s Cut, comin’ up,” Gill replied, reaching under the bar. The owner noted that the big man had turned his attention to the only other people in the bar, three cowboys and a woman sitting at the corner of the counter, about eight-feet away from him. The three men had been chatting the woman up for about forty-five minutes. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, the stranger thought. She was in her mid-forties with looks that were passable, if unextraordinary. Her hair was mousy and she was fleshy around the middle. She did have very large breasts, though gravity had already begun its evil work. All in all, she was undoubtedly hot-looking enough to men who had one beer too many in a bar where there were no other women.

  The big stranger sipped his Devil’s Cut slowly, casually listening in on their conversation.

  “You’re lookin’ mighty fine tonight, Stacy,” said the first man, an overweight cowboy wearing an oversized black Stetson.

  “Thank you,” Stacy replied. “You do know I’m old enough to be . . . your older sister, right?”

  “Don’t make no difference to us,” replied a second man, tall and lanky with wire-rimmed glasses and large ears protruding through poker-straight oily hair.

  “I got some Blue Dream out in the truck,” the third man said, a large, strongly-built mountain of a man with an unkempt beard. “That shit is smoooo-ooth, I’m tellin’ ya.”

  Stacy chuckled, somewhat nervously, “I don’t want none of your weed, boys. I have to get up and work tomorrow.”

  “Well, how about another drink?” black hat guy said. “What is that, vodka and cranberry juice?”

  Stacy looked at him cautiously, “Okay, one more, then I gotta go.”

  “Now you’re talkin,’” oily hair guy said. “Hey Vern, send us over three Rainiers and a drink for the lady.”

  The bartender filled their drink order and returned to the center of the bar, casually polishing a beer mug in front of the big stranger.

  “How you doin’ there, partner?” Gill asked.

  The stranger turned the rest of his drink up and downed it, “I will have another, thank you.”

  Gill nodded and pulled the bottle from under the bar. He looked at the stranger as he poured, noting the man was still looking downward, his hat brim clouding his face.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” Gill said. “You’re new in town?”

  The stranger nodded, “Just passing through, really. Looking for an old school chum I have not seen in some time.”

  “This old chum lives here?” Gill asked.

  “That is what I have been told,” the stranger replied. “His name is Apollo. Tony Apollo.”

  Gill froze in his tracks, realizing his premonition about the stranger being trouble was all too accurate. He knew the name, Tony Apollo, well. Apollo was bad news, really bad news. Gill stayed away from him as much as possible. Apollo was the slime ball kingpin of the drug and sex trade on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, just eleven miles from his bar in Plentywood.

  The reservation was embroiled in a serious drug problem, specifically a crystal meth addiction problem. They also suffered from a prostitution and sex trade epidemic, which was directly related to the drug horrors. The reservation was already besieged with other horrors: poverty, disease, joblessness and violence. Drug users had taken to selling their children, daughters, wives, girlfriends and sisters for the potent stimulant, and Tony Apollo was playing puppet master to it all. He targeted young parents. First, he’d get the users hooked on meth, making them want more and more. When they could no longer pay for the product with cash, he’d pressure them to willingly give up a member of the household to his sex trade business in exchange for a supply of meth. If that didn’t work, he’d just kidnap the child, knowing the meth addict parents would never call the police and risk cutting off their source.

  Gill knew instantly that the big stranger was not just an ‘old school chum’ looking to reconnect with Apollo, but what he was actually there for remained a mystery. He certainly didn’t look like a cop, Vice or DEA, that was for sure. An associate of Apollo, perhaps? Maybe. Competitor? Less likely, but possible. Hit man? That seemed most likely.

  “The name rings a bell,” Gill volunteered.

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Before Gill could answer, the cowboy with the black Stetson fell off his chair, onto his rear end, in a state of drunkenness. His beer mug shattered on the floor. Stacy and the other two cowboys began wailing in laughter.

  “You’re drunk on your ass,” oily hair guy cried out, laughing all the while.

  Black hat guy
looked dazed for a moment and then began laughing himself. Bearded man helped him to his feet.

  Gill scowled, looking back at the stranger, “I’ll be back—got a cleanup on aisle three.”

  “Hey, Vern, there’s broken glass all over,” bearded man yelled out.

  “Yeah, I see it. I see it,” Gill scoffed. “I’m cuttin’ you boys off.”

  “Just one more and we’re on our way,” bearded man said.

  “No way,” Gill rebuked. “You boys settle down. I’m runnin’ in the back for a broom, mop and a bucket. Stay away from that glass. No nonsense now, ya hear?”

  “We hear ya, Vern,” black hat guy said, giggling.

  Gill disappeared in the back.

  “Now, what were we talkin’ about?” black hat guy asked.

  “You were flapping your gums about Little Big Horn again,” oily hair guy said, rolling his eyes.

  “Right,” black hat guy affirmed. “All I was saying is that if Custer hadn’t disobeyed direct orders from his commanding officer, that battle would have never happened. Hell, all he had to do was listen to his own Indian scouts. He couldn’t even do that. The entire 7th Cavalry got wiped out that day, and it was all on his head.”

  “I’m so damn tired of hearin’ you go on about Custer,” bearded man complained. “Aren’t you sick of it, Stacy?”

  “It’s better than hearing you talk about football,” Stacy admitted.

  Gill popped out of the back and began to clean up the spilled beer and broken glass.

  “How about that last beer?” black hat guy asked.

  “Okay, one more beer then off with all three of you, and I mean it,” Gill barked. “How about you, Stacy?”

  “No, I’m done,” she said. “I’m gonna finish this one and go home.”

  Oily hair guy grimaced, “Home? Hell, it’s early. We’re just startin’ to party. We’re going to head to the quick mart, buy some more beers and head down to the river dock. Come with us.”

  “If you think I’m getting in a truck with you boys after the way you’ve been drinking, you have another thing coming,” Stacy snapped back. “In fact, Vern, why haven’t you taken these boys’ keys away?”

  “They aren’t driving,” Gill replied. “The quick mart is next door and then they walk to the river dock. As long as they don’t drive away from here, I don’t give a shit. They can all drown as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You see there,” oily hair guy said to Stacy. “We’re totally safe. C’mon, doll. Let’s have a little fun.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gill said to the stranger, returning to his position behind the bar. “These assholes would piss their own pants if someone didn’t point out their zipper for them. What were you asking?”

  “I was asking whether you knew where I could find Tony Apollo?” the stranger replied, lowly.

  If the stranger was a hit man, and did kill Tony Apollo, it would not hurt his feelings, Gill thought. Nope, not one bit. In fact, he’d make a private toast to the man. He hated what Apollo was doing to the people on the reservation, and in Plentywood. He also knew that Apollo still held influence with the sheriff’s department and the tribal police—the kind of influence only money can buy. Rumor had it he even had a contact within the FBI who warned him about any activity that might concern him. Things were ugly on the res these days, the worst conditions he’d seen, but most of that ugliness could come to an end if Apollo was out of the picture—he and that scumbag friend of his, Hank Rattling Thunder.

  “Do you mind me asking what your business is with Tony Apollo?” Gill asked.

  The stranger shrugged, “Like I said, he is an old . . .”

  “School chum,” Gill finished for him, chuckling. “I heard you the first time but I’m not buyin’ it, stranger.”

  “I do not understand your response,” the big man said. His face was expressionless.

  Gill raised his eyebrows, “Funny, you don’t look confused.”

  “This is how I look when I am confused,” the stranger said, plainly.

  He placed his right hand, palm down on the bar. Gill could see folded money peeking out from between his fingers.

  “Look, it is obvious to me that you know where I can find him,” the big man said. “I have heard tell that people around here do not care for the man too much.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true,” Gill responded, stoically. “There’s a lot of people around here who don’t like him.”

  The stranger nodded, “And for good reason, it is my understanding. In fact, I have heard that you, specifically, do not like him. I have also heard that you know just about everything there is to know in this town.”

  “Who told you all that?” Gill asked.

  “Neha Littlebird.”

  Gill nodded, a solemn expression formed on his face, “Sweet lady. I was sorry to hear about her daughter. How do you know her?”

  “She is an . . . old friend,” he said.

  “You seem to have a few of those here,” Gill said. “It’s hard to believe you need me.”

  “Regardless, I require your assistance.” The stranger gazed at Gill with a serious look. It made the bar owner feel that a polite ‘no’ was not going to be an option.

  Gill looked to see if his conversation with the big stranger was drawing attention from Stacy or the three men. It wasn’t. He looked back at the big man, “Look, what Apollo is doing to the people on the res is worse than criminal—it’s genocide. I hate the man . . . but I’m sorry, I can’t get involved.”

  “I have a thousand-dollars in cash here. It is yours,” he whispered. “What I want in return is an address where I can find Tony Apollo. I also wish to buy your silence.”

  Gill looked again at the three men, who were still trying to convince Stacy to leave with them. There was no one else in the bar. He looked at the cash under the big man’s hand. He needed the money, but he didn’t need the heat that snitching out Tony Apollo could bring.

  “There’s an indoor pistol range near Polly Park,” Gill said. “He keeps an office in the back.”

  Gill tried to tug at the bills. The stranger pressed down harder, preventing the bar owner from getting it.

  “You have to do better than that,” he said. “I have already been there. Turns out Apollo sold that business last year, including the office in the rear.”

  Gill froze, realizing he’d been caught in a lie, “Look, Mister. I’d love to help, but I value my life.”

  “I value mine as well,” the stranger replied. “You tell me what I need to know. You will be a thousand-dollars richer and will never see me again—I promise. No one will know you said anything.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?” Gill asked, stealing one last glance at the four patrons at the end of the bar. The men were deep in conversation with Stacy, oblivious to anything around them.

  “Because we both have something on the line,” the stranger admitted. “Look, I have personal business with the man. You do not want me letting him know I found him through you—I get it. I also do not want anyone to know I was asking about him. So, we are going to have to trust each other.”

  “Trust is hard to come by,” Gill said.

  “A thousand dollars should make it easier,” came the reply.

  Gill swallowed hard, a few beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He ran his fingers through his hair as he was thinking. He sighed heavily.

  “There’s an auto body shop in west Plentywood,” Gill whispered. “Behind the shop is a double-wide trailer. That’s where Apollo has his office.”

  “Good,” the stranger replied. “That was not hard now was it? When does Apollo make his trips to the reservation?”

  Gill shook his head, “No idea.”

  The stranger raised his eyebrows and pulled the money back.

  “Wrong answer,” he said, as he picked the money up off the bar.

  “Wait,” Gill said. He began to sweat. It glistened on his forehead, “There’s a man who comes in here
a lot. His name is Dusty. He works with Apollo as a bodyguard. He gets drunk and shoots off his mouth from time to time. He said Apollo always drives to meet someone on the res on Thursday afternoons.”

  “This man on the res . . . is he Sioux?”

  “Yeah, he’s an Indian,” Gill said.

  “Is his name Hank Rattling Thunder?”

  Rattling Thunder was a disgraced former tribal council leader, now suspected to be the inside man helping Apollo with his drug and sex trade on the reservation.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Gill said, “a real dirt bag. Everyone on the res calls Hank Rattling Thunder by his initials, HRT.”

  “Where do they meet, Apollo and . . . HRT?”

  Gill exhaled loudly, now sweating more, “Listen, Mister, I have a wife, two kids and three grandchildren. If this ever gets out . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Relax,” the stranger said. “As long as you keep your word and do not say anything, this stench will never blow back in your direction.”

  He drew in a deep breath and glanced at the three cowboys once again before speaking, “There’s a small truck stop diner near Hank’s Wheat Ranch on Risa Road,” he said. “That’s where they meet.”

  The stranger nodded, “What time?”

  “Four o’clock, usually.”

  “Does he bring protection?” the stranger asked.

  “No idea. I’ve never been there to see it,” Gill said.

  The stranger placed the money on the table, pushing it toward the bar owner. He stood, “Remember, mum is the word. You say anything, and I do mean anything at all, and I will find out about it, and I am liable to get emotional about it. I will come looking for you. And when I find you, we will have a conversation that you will not find pleasant. Do you understand?”

  Gill’s face was frozen in fear, “I won’t say nothin’, I swear,” he managed to say in a cracked voice.

  The stranger nodded. As he stood, he noticed the large bearded man physically tugging on the woman’s arm.

  “C’mon, Stacy,” he urged. “We ain’t gonna take no for an answer.”

  “Yeah, c’mon sweetheart,” oily hair guy chimed in.