by Myles Knapp
Morano squatted and took several fast, deep breaths. “One, two, three,” he exploded upward. Ravon’s not yet dead body shot through the narrow door, smashing into Dave who flailed backwards, stumbled to the left, tripped over loose fishing gear, and finally toppled overboard.
“Help! I can’t swim. Help!”
Lumbering up the short cabin ladder, Morano glanced to port and saw Dave floundering. Chucking Ravon over the starboard side into the waves, Morano pulled out his forty-five and jacked a round into the chamber. But when he turned to put Dave out of his misery he had already slipped below the surface.
Morano roared away. Glad to be rid of the three losers, he was looking forward to killing Pay himself.
CHAPTER 28
Monday morning after breakfast, Richard took a cab to get the gun, then hailed a second taxi to Hertz where he rented a Ford Taurus and drove to the range.
Every time he turned left his sport coat pulled on the shoulder holster, pinching his chest. But he didn’t know any other way to hide the gun. In the Hertz bathroom he’d tucked it in the front of his slacks but was too afraid he’d shoot himself in the balls to leave it there. Then he’d tried placing it in the small of his back. But when he tried to draw, the gun’s sight caught in his underwear.
The range was what Richard expected; a bland cement building with two windows in front and a small sign. The low profile was probably smart. Liberal San Franciscan’s were not likely to welcome a gun range in their neighborhood.
He took a deep breath, examined his shaking fingers, pushed the key fob to lock the door and headed inside. Pulling open the door decorated with police decals from nearby cities and a small sticker of a smoking gun that read: ‘These Premises Protected by Smith & Wesson’—the first thing he noticed was the smell. Evidently gunpowder smelled a lot like asparagus urine.
The left wall was filled with glass showcases displaying pistols surrounded by police supplies: Tasers, batons, combat knives and other special equipment. On the right, were rifles and hunting supplies: camo outfits, waders and various kinds of animal urines. Over the central counter a small sign read, “Rentals,” with the glass case under the sign holding a small selection of pistols. Security cameras mounted near the ceiling monitored the floor from all four corners.
The two guys closest to Richard appeared to be off-duty policeman. Fit, close-cropped hair, with eyes that briefly scanned Richard before refocusing their attention on a group near the pistols. They were thugs with bloody dagger prison tattoos, shaved heads, and do-rags offsetting straggly facial hair. Each group watched the other while pretending not to.
One of the counter guys, name tag ‘Matt,’ pointed at Richard. “Come on back,” and waved him toward the range entry. Medium tall, plump, with silver hair and a lush white beard, except for the pistol in his hand, Matt looked like he could play Santa in the community Christmas play.
“Before we get started. I have a few questions.”
“Sure, what?”
“What do you know about this Pay Back guy? Can he help me?”
“Never met him. But his money’s real. A few times a year I get a call. This voice snarls—I got a new one for you. Teach ‘em how to shoot.’ The next day a courier shows up with cash.”
“How come you’ve never met him?”
“Because he doesn’t need or want to meet me. My guess is a lot of what he does is illegal.” Matt slid a magazine into a dull gray metallic pistol and racked the slide.
“And you don’t care?”
“Nope. Not my issue. I just teach people to shoot.”
“What if they go out and kill someone?”
“Always possible. But doubtful. Not the kind of people he sends me.”
“What kind of people is that?”
“Pay sends me victims.”
“Victims?”
“Mostly guys like you. Occasionally a woman. Pay doesn’t send me any 250 pound bikers or Green Berets.”
“What do you mean like me?”
“Mostly quiet, non-violent types. No one he sends me is your typical gun store customer. After the first few, I figured out they all wanted some kind of help; help they weren’t going to get from the police. What’s he doing for you?”
Richard shook his head and looked away. “That’s a long story. Maybe after the lesson.”
“You’re just like the others, tight-lipped. Now, I need to know, have you ever shot a gun before?”
“Sure I have. Why?”
“Most people Pay sends here haven’t. And most guys who walk in the front door with an S&W Air Weight in a shoulder holster don’t carry it unloaded. So, I’ll ask you again, have you ever shot a gun?”
“Just a cap gun, a super soaker, and my neighbor Timmy’s BB gun.”
“A plain old ‘no’ would have sufficed.” Matt paused and looked Richard directly in the eyes. “The hardest part about using a gun is making up your mind you intend to kill someone. Never, ever, draw a gun and point it at anyone you aren’t going to kill. If you pull out a pistol to scare some gangbanger or drugged out burglar, you might get away with it. But if you pull one on a professional or someone with military training and don’t pull the trigger right then, they will. One moment’s hesitation and ‘bang,’ your corpse is the lead on tonight’s news.
“Here’s your second lesson. If you point a weapon at me, even accidentally, I’ll break your finger when I take it away from you. And I won’t ask first. So don’t point it at me. Got it? Now, do you think you can stop your hands shaking long enough to load the one in your holster?”
“I don’t know. This whole thing is scary.”
“OK.” Matt rolled his eyes. “Let’s start with a little breath control. Close your eyes and take three deep breaths. You need to be calm to shoot accurately, and holding your breath makes everything worse. Deep breathing makes it better. Good. Now do it again. OK, open your eyes and look at your hands.”
“They’re not shaking so much.”
“Still too much, but better.” Matt loaded Richard’s revolver and gave a running description of the gun. “Smith & Wesson Air Weight titanium with the two inch barrel. I’m loading it with the .38 Special Plus P load. Almost the stopping power of a .357 magnum. A good choice for you.”
“It looks awfully small to me.”
“It is. Makes it easy to carry. A revolver is perfect for you. Automatics are overrated. Lots of people, especially novices like you, forget to rack the first load. Gets a lot of ‘em killed.”
Matt used the control wire to move the target closer.
Richard stared at a life size, full-color picture of Osama Bin Laden holding a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. “How far away is that?”
“Thirty-feet.”
“You don’t have to move it any closer. Even a blind man could hit that.”
“Wanna bet? Fifty bucks says you don’t hit the Bin Laden with your first shot.”
“It may be my first time, but I think anybody could do that.”
“Put your money where your mouth is.” Matt put a fifty on the counter.
Richard pulled three tens and a twenty from his wallet.
Matt handed him a headset. “Hearing protection.”
Richard slipped the big, gray plastic cups over his ears, as Matt put the gun on the shooting counter that separated them from the range. Pointing at the target, he shouted, “When you’re ready, pick up the gun and go for it.”
Richard stared at the gun like it was a cobra. “Don’t I get a practice shot first?”
“Nope. That’s not the bet. You think it’s so easy. Go for it. ”
Ignoring Matt’s initial suggestion that he hold the small pistol with two hands, Richard held it up with his right hand and took a deep breath. Carefully aiming at the target, he pulled the trigger.
BOOM! His hand jerked towards the ceiling,
like it was controlled by a puppeteer on speed. He opened his eyes. God, the noise!
Matt folded the cash into his pocket. “Congrats. You hit squat. Want to go double or nothin?”
“Uh, no.”
“OK. Let’s get started.”
Matt taught what Richard decided was the Zen approach to shooting. “Hold the gun firmly but not too tightly. Trust your hands; your hands know what they need to do. Your hands are smart. Thinking doesn’t help you shoot. When it comes to shooting, your brain is dumb. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.”
Thirty minutes later Richard discovered with careful concentration he could breathe deeply and shoot without jerking the trigger. But he was still having trouble keeping his eyes open. In the last batch of bullets, he’d barely grazed Osama.
Now, he had one last bullet. And despite Matt’s advice to aim at central body mass he was determined to shoot Bin Laden right between the eyes. It was his final shot and he really wanted to score. One deep breath, another, a third. He emptied his mind and concentrated on squeezing slow.
BAM! Richard opened his eyes and saw a hole right where Osama’s nose had been.
Matt grinned. “Good shot. Always good to end on a high note. You did OK today. You think too much and trust your hands too little. But you’ll get there.”
CHAPTER 29
Doc was finishing lunch when Chase arrived. “Ah damn. Wimpy’s Black-and-Blue? I don’t suppose you’ve got one of those for me?”
Smiling, Doc drained the last of his no-alcohol beer. “Just finished my second. Was thinking about a nap.”
“What’s with the near beer stuff? You take the pledge?” Chase laughed.
“Nah, I’m on call this afternoon.”
“How’s Pay?”
“Asleep right now. He’s been through worse. My examination probably took longer and hurt more than whatever happened to him. Biggest injuries are a bone bruise to the skull and a painful, but non-threatening one on the calf.”
Chase groaned. “Any permanent damage?”
“I can’t tell for sure without an MRI. Maybe a minor concussion. There’s minimal swelling. Everything else is incidental. Painful, but incidental.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“He talked with Brooke before I got here. Best if you ask her; I’d just as soon not know.”
Doc’s iPhone made a siren noise. “Ah crap. That’s the hospital’s emergency notification system. Gotta go.” He grabbed his backpack of medical supplies and ran out the door yelling, “I left a few days’ worth of Lortab pills for when he wakes up. Tell him, no booze with the pills for at least two days—three would be better.”
Chase laughed and put the bottle of pills with the rest of the team’s emergency medical supplies, absolutely sure that Pay would never use them.
CHAPTER 30
When a case got really dangerous, Pay had a recurring series of nightmares. He’d met a “dream therapist” once who said lots of people had stress dreams. Ones where they dove into a swimming pool from the high board, only to have the water suddenly disappear so they either crashed into the pool bottom or were sucked down the drain, were common. In another popular one, you arrive for an important school test wearing only your underwear.
Pay would have been delighted if his dreams were so benign.
In one, he was chased through dark, deserted streets by a pack of Hells Angels riding hideous orange Barcaloungers which had somehow been turned into three wheeled, turbo-charged choppers. Racing through town on his Goldwing, barely keeping ahead of the pack, his motorcycle slipped on rain slicked cable car tracks and crashed. The Angels beat him for hours.
Then, their leader pulled out a big, foul smelling cigar…and an even bigger knife.
He lit the stogie and told his henchman to, “haul his ass up against that telephone pole.” Pay was forced to hug the pole, hands overlapping, while the leader grinned around his cigar and slammed his knife through both of Pay’s hands pinning him to the pole. That’s when Pay screamed awake, heart pounding, teeth clenched, jaw muscles cramping, dripping in sweat, knowing there would be no more sleep that night.
He’d have been glad if that was his only recurring dream.
The worst was the one where the team began to doubt him. First, they talked among themselves, worried about the way he was acting. None of them could pinpoint anything wrong, but they avoided him whenever possible and agreed he’d been acting strange.
Then, Jon D would pick up a gun, spin the cylinder, and say: “If he was a horse, the trainer would say, he’s off his feed.”
The end was the worst and it was always the same. The team would be attacked by an unnamable horror. “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot,” Pay would scream. Then there was a stumbling hesitation where the team members decided whether or not to follow him.
Everyone ended up dead. Everyone, except him.
Pay worried one day…that dream would come true.
CHAPTER 31
“Between the shot Doc gave him, the beating and his self-medication, Pay’s pretty much out of it.” Brooke looked up from her paperwork. “He remembers walking home through Chinatown and getting mugged. The last thing he remembers is Blade hauling some guy off him.”
“One of the best street fighters in the world and a self-defense expert got mugged in his own backyard? Going to be real hard for him to live that one down.” If it had happened to anyone else, the irony would have Chase rolling with laughter. “How’d he get home?”
“Says he limped.”
“Could it be related to Sam?”
“Sam said everything was fine when he and Pay split up.”
“Any chance it was the guy who beat up Mary Ellen?”
“I thought about that. But I don’t think so. Richard said that guy was a huge, fat man. Pay didn’t remember anything like that.”
“Anything taken?”
“Nothing, and he had more than five thousand dollars in his money clip.” Brooke smiled wistfully. “You know what he says.”
“ ‘If the shit hits the fan you don’t want to have to go looking for an ATM.’ Are the cops involved?”
“Haven’t heard from them.”
“Guess Blade saved Pay’s ass.”
“It certainly looks like it.”
“Jon D and I’ll see what we can do about finding some badly mauled punk. If Blade got a hold of them they’re going to need serious medical attention.”
“Or caskets.”
CHAPTER 32
It had taken Morano almost a year to figure out how to get out of Pelican Bay. It wasn’t a new idea that finally got him out—just a twist on something that had been done before.
Douglas, the ancient trustee who snuck Morano extra library materials in exchange for protection, brought him a new Time magazine.
“Anything good?”
“Other than the article about Operation Midnight Climax and the centerfold of Halle Berry doin’ Jennifer Aniston, not much,” Doug chuckled.
“Operation Midnight Climax sounds like it would be about them doing it.”
“Nope. It’s about a bunch of my old government coworkers doing shit. Worse shit than the stuff I’m in here for.”
Morano’d heard about Dougy’s “days” as a forensic accountant with the FBI and his nights washing money for a Miami drug ring, and he didn’t need to hear it again. But prison could be a lonely place. “So…Operation Climax?”
“Back in the 50’s and 60’s the CIA had safe houses in New York, San Francisco and Marin.”
“So? CIA’s always had to hide rats.”
“Places weren’t for informants. CIA used ‘em to test LSD on USA citizens. Even dosed some FBI agents.”
“Why?
“Article says the official purpose was to test the effects of mind-control drugs on non-consenting individuals, but who the hell knows? CIA
in the 60’s? Nobody was watching that hen house. Your elected officials were too busy using the FBI and CIA to spy on each other and everyone else. Shit. As long as J. Edgar wasn’t accusing you of being a commie or a fag or smoking marijuana, you were golden. Who the hell cared about a CIA safe house full of hookers?”
“Hookers too?”
“Article says they operated three deluxe bordellos in the Bay Area complete with government paid whores and acid-laced cocktails.”
“No shit?”
“Yep. Your tax dollars at work. The Telegraph Hill operation supposedly had panoramic water views, one way mirrors, and no-cost, acid-free martinis for the FBI agents working the covert video recording equipment.”
“What?”
“FBI guys apparently like to get drunk and watch ho’s fuck people.”
“Sounds just like you, old man.”
“You telling me you wouldn’t give me ten grand for a martini and a hooker right now?”
“Aw, get out of here.” Morano rolled over on his bunk and began to read.
In the end, it had turned out Dougy wasn’t making it up. Government paid prostitutes had lured carefully selected men to a penthouse apartment at 225 Chestnut, in San Francisco’s upscale Telegraph Hill neighborhood—just a short taxi ride from North Beach’s rowdy nightlife. The suite’s walls were adorned with photographs of tortured women in bondage, and provocative posters from French artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
Once there, the unsuspecting johns—selected because they would likely be too embarrassed to go public for fear of ridicule and exposure—were served those acid-laced cocktails while agents swilling martinis monitored video equipment and watched the action from behind a two-way mirror.
Later the CIA would say that the program led to many key operational techniques, including useful research about the use of sexual blackmail, improvements in surveillance technology, and possible benefits of using mind-altering drugs in field operations.