A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  On the seat was a map of the area with a red arrow pointing to the cluster of roads, where she might find the place. In Pakdee’s back pocket was the bank account printout; she’d dug it out of Walker’s trousers on the bridge. Lucky it hadn’t been in the shirt pocket, the tank rifle didn’t leave much of his top half.

  Walker, the hard man of Belfast…endured the troubles of Northern Ireland as a child, survived Afghanistan as part of the coalition and buried by Arcana...with her help. A positive outcome, in office-speak. One down, two to go.

  She headed south then east, on the far side of the road and the steering wheel on the left hand of the borrowed vehicle with British Columbia plates. But drivers here moved quickly, they obeyed the rules in this land.

  The first stop was at a road house in the middle of nowhere and she felt flustered. Pakdee had every skill in the book: college degrees, post-grad, languages; and all manner of training. She could perform specialized tasks -- land, sea and air. She could navigate through jungle wilderness as well as the meanest slums alike and do so with ease. She could sweet-mouth her way into and out of any situation. She could set a charge-demolition on someone’s car alright, but she’d never pumped gas in her life! In her homeland an attendant was always there, hoping for a few coins as a tip. Once she figured it out her next challenge was the drive across the flat country, heading east through iced up roads. Don’t drive too slow and not too fast. The ‘borrowed’ cards worked fine. She fetched some boiling water from the gas station and brewed green tea. She leaned on the front fender and sipped from a paper cup. It was below zero. Misty. Cold. It cloaked everything.

  The first arrival that new day, after a gap in ‘Internationals’ at Tom Bradley, was Flight QF 15. Pushed by strong tailwinds across the Pacific, the jumbo landed into an unseasonably warm Los Angeles morning. First and business-class passengers lined up at the checkpoint. Many were CEOs and government officials who spilled out and obediently queued up, awaiting Washington’s bidding -- the national airline of the fifty-first state.

  The officer at barrier wasn’t paying especially close attention…not until he looked up, anyhow. The man on the other side of the screen was a giant, about six-nine; a preacher man. The passenger dropped a passport -- the Pacific Commonwealth of Papua New Guinea -- on the counter with a bundle of e-ticketing in it.

  “Purpose of your visit to the United States, Padre?”

  “Atlanta,” boomed the deep voice. “Here to meet with suitable home stay families before some students from our mission school come to study.”

  The CBP officer placed the passport on the machine-reader and had to adjust the camera upwards. Visa ‘R1’, it checked out. Vaccination card. Full ticketing, return flights -- two weeks only. Biometrics all-clear. The officer marked the card and circled the marking.

  “Inspections Bay at the far end after pick-up.” He jerked his head to a stainless bench where some colleagues waited near the exit. Spoke into the radio piece.

  Get ‘Sierra’ team to have a further look at this one, he figured…that’s the job.

  One hour and twenty minutes later after an intensive check, ‘Pastor Silas’ strolled up the ramp to domestic terminal. They found nothing…no subversive or suspicious literature…any evidence of a dark past; no food, no live bees nor agricultural items. Lucky for the ‘pastor’, nobody at the inspections bay questioned him too much about Papua New Guinea. He’d only stayed in that nation a few weeks, to collect the travel document from his source then submit the visa stuff. Like him, the border protection officers knew squat about the place. But the visa was legit as was the fraudulently obtained passport with his mug shot in the front. The real Pastor Matthew Silas, who’d gone missing and never travelled abroad in his life, rested peacefully in the silt on the bottom of the Coral Sea. On the ocean floor, an engine block fastened to his ankle with a sturdy piece of nylon used for tuna fishing.

  The giant man of the cloth dialed his cell, walking as he spoke: “Raj…it’s me. Made it through, my man! On my way, see you in the Big Easy.”

  Samuel Ojukowne -- the Nigerian partner -- marched up the ramp; he quickened his pace or he’d miss the connection. They’d had him in arrivals longer than expected.

  After sixteen hours straight she skirted the cities on the lakes. They were glassy and impressive structures; almost like Singapore. The heater in the compact worked but she kept the rear window down a crack to stay awake as she drove. The journey was one of breakneck speed through a snow covered landscape with open plains that never ended followed by thick forests, then mountains as she swung onto Interstate 79 into Appalachia.

  Sunrise was about thirty minutes away and she marveled at the forest, the endless country and the mind-numbing temperatures. In her home they would raise livestock and grow rice in such a place. The villagers would be very wealthy, yet here the woods stretched out for an eternity.

  Closer to a place called Beckley the snowdrifts got thicker, she had to slow down. Off Route 19 and followed the trail till it turned to a poor surface; from there the journey was tedious, the vehicle rattled and the icy surface demanded care. She paused at the side, checked the map and saw the trailers parked at intervals near the junction. Chimney flues billowing coal-smoke and fog covered the sub-zero landscape. Among the colony of trailers were auto wrecks and she found it difficult to believe anybody could be hardy enough to live here. Utopia had poor people too, like every other place she had been. She tried to imagine how they survived in such an unforgiving environment.

  Three white crosses stood on a ridge. It was a landmark Will Hatfield had described when he was alive. Crawled further in the vehicle before turning on a trail and heading up, higher…lucky the car was small with front wheel drive. She paused at a broken gate and pulled out the envelope -- she was confident it was the old man’s dwelling but nobody was there for the moment so she cut the engine. The blanket of snow was late in the season and she marveled at the pure white landscape. Silence! She had never known such total quiet and it unnerved her. It was morning now and the fog would lift in an hour or two.

  Some brute of a thing like a wolf was circling the vehicle, it grunted as she dropped the window. She opened the driver’s door slightly, it poked its snout in…she’d heard of wolves but this one looked tame. She took great care as she got out but it didn’t attack. Never seen a dog with blue eyes before; it’d probably never seen a human with pure-black eyes either. She leaned back on the fender and stared at the shack. The dog stared at her. It sat.

  This was his home, where he lived and grew up. Of humble beginnings and good character, he’d gone out and made his mark. Will, he’d come from this place.

  They were the same; she was no different. He’d spoken of this place…promised to bring her here one day. Thought about childhood and her tiny hut way up near the Golden Triangle; so alike, so far apart.

  In her purse, a Polaroid photo of the couple at a beach in Palawan. They’d gone down to the sand and some old Filipino strutted up and they’d posed -- couldn’t really refuse -- the fisherman had the camera out already. Now it was her only memory. Pakdee held the picture up and though about what may have been. Overcome with the moment then she noticed a lone figure trudging toward her in the snow on the ground. Armed. For once Pakdee was not.

  “Howdy there,” chirped the teenager. “Help you wit’ somethin’…lookin for someone?”

  Pakdee did a double take when the owner of the squeaky voice got close. It belonged to a girl. Lugging a very serious hunting rifle, one she was familiar with.

  “Model 70 Featherweight in two-seventy,” announced Pakdee. “I prefer seven-six-two NATO, myself. More gentle to use but better knockdown and wind resistance.”

  “Come again, lady?” replied the teenager. “My, oh my…you ain’t from ‘round these parts-”

  “William Robert Hatfield,” said Pakdee. “Is this the
ir house?”

  The teenager looked at the ground then back at this new arrival. “You’se talkin’ bout Billy-Bob? He’s dead lady, passed on recently. You’se a friend of his or somethin’?”

  “Something like that,” replied Pakdee. “I need to see his father.”

  They looked at each other for a minute or so then the young hunter was satisfied -- this new visitor meant no harm. Shouldered the rifle and turned back where she’d come from, a farmhouse within eyeshot.

  “Miss!” Pakdee called out and the teenager stopped. ”Stay indoors tonight. Don’t wander around after dark. Not safe here.”

  “Aw, ain’t nobody in a right mind gonna do that…never. All manner of critters ‘round here at night,” replied the girl. She tapped the butt of the Winchester and grinned with a mouthful of crooked adolescent teeth that had never seen a dentist.

  Odd that a stranger would say such a thing, she thought.

  JJ Hatfield crashed the gears on the old International Harvester, got it into second and slithered up the trail. Made it to the crest and spotted one of the neighbors; she saw him and waved him down. Unusual…looked like she’d been out hunting but she was on her own. He pulled up next to her.

  “Sez, hey Sarah. Wassup?”

  “Mister Hatfield, gotchaself a visitor on by your place,” she chirped. “Looks like some foreigner, she’z askin’ ‘bout Billy-Bob…sure ain’t from round here-”

  Hatfield’s eyes opened, he coughed, and he lurched back in the bench seat and floored the truck. As he got closer he saw the Golf with the visitor next to it. Anna! The very sight of her gave him a sensation of dread.

  “Thought this was all over,” he muttered when he got out. “Darn, you’re lucky ol’ fleabag didn’t eat you.”

  “JJ Hatfield,” said Pakdee. “You are in grave danger.” She pulled out the envelope. “Have you received any mail lately…for Will? Like this?”

  “Now you mentioned it, the cops got a coupla letters, never gave ‘em back and I never got to see ‘em…wassup?” Hatfield took it and opened it, reading. The envelope was wrinkled like it’d been through the wash. He looked up once or twice then pushed it back at Pakdee. “What the-”

  “Accounts,” replied Pakdee. “This one has my name on it. The other two are in Will’s name. They have a lot more than this one. You’re his father. You are the sole beneficiary, the only next of kin.”

  Hatfield shook his head. “Blood money, dammit,” he sniffed. Thrust it back.

  “The reason wars are fought is for the money,” said Pakdee. “Money and power, you know that? The accounts, you can keep them. Put it to good use for once. How many years were you a soldier, Hatfield? In my country a warrior who returns from battle is truly a hero…they don’t live like this…not much to show for it, you know that-”

  “Shaddup!” Whether the remark touched a nerve or JJ Hatfield was just out of patience he blew his stack: “Anna, listen up…git yourself into that pipsqueak lil’ foreign car, turn around and go back where you came from…scram!” He stomped up on the landing and tore the door open, turning before he yelled out again. “I’ll have you arrested. Git outta my valley. Go!”

  “I only wish you would call the police, JJ Hatfield. Call your friend from the FBI.”

  Hatfield slammed the door behind him and did precisely that -- first he called PK Tanaka, still had the agent’s card; second called the deputy, Lt. Hernandez. Pakdee jumped in the compact. She wasn’t budging.

  Tanaka screeched to a halt when he heard the old guy over speakerphone, on his way to locate and interview the perpetrator of a dodgy mortgage-broker. The Manila case was the last thing on his mind.

  How on earth did she get in, he thought -- he’d red-flagged her at all international ports and CBP had a direct line in the event she did show, most likely her name didn’t come up but he’d gone to the trouble of sending bulletin boards with an identikit to match hers. Suddenly she’d turned up. Anna had gotten in somehow and was picketing Hatfield’s ranch.

  “JJ, is it possible I can talk with her?”

  “I booted her out. I don’t want her in here,” replied Hatfield.

  “May I speak with her, put her on.”

  “PK I don’t want her in here. She ain’t goin’ nowhere; looks like she’s crashed out in the front seat.”

  “Stay put. I’m in DC; three hours and I’ll be right there. Did you reach Roy Hernandez?”

  “Got him already,” said Hatfield. “He’s on his way.”

  Tanaka slapped the strobe light on the dash of his black cruiser and hit the gas, hard, nearly losing control of the vehicle as he turned. With his emergency lights he could probably make Virginia State Line in three hours. He and the cruiser were in overdrive just like his speed dial. The super wouldn’t be happy. They’d need to send someone else for the mortgage case.

  She lay back in the driver’s seat. No use annoying the old guy, curiosity would get the better of him or impatience. She drifted off…

  Riding on the elephant: victory in war and a great windfall to come.

  Crushed by a giant serpent: impending doom and certain demise.

  Pakdee hadn’t slept a wink since Vancouver, twenty-six hours ago. The sun broke through about lunch, a dim and distant orb of washed out yellow but it filled the little car and warmed the cab up and she’d drifted off in the reclined seat. Tapping on the window jolted her awake. Must’ve been afternoon by now, she dropped the window to be greeted by the stern face of the deputy, Lieutenant Hernandez. Hatfield was next to him, pointing at her like a culprit. Another junior deputy had followed in a second wagon, he watched on.

  “Outta the car, please ma’am,” barked Hernandez. “License and registration…”

  Pakdee handed over the Canadian passport. The sheriff had been briefed by PK Tanaka before he drove up here. Fraudulent documents. Illegal entry.

  “Madam, whoever you are, I have good reason to believe you may be an unlawful alien and I’m detaining you forthwith.” Hernandez had no idea which section of whatever immigration laws covered it so he cuffed her, hands-front and Mirandized her, reciting from a card, just in case.

  “Hold it,” pleaded Pakdee. She stared straight at JJ Hatfield. “Tell them…you must tell them the whole story.” She turned to Hernandez and his subordinate. “There is great danger here, I know. At least wait here. They are coming.”

  “Wish you’d kindly tell me the whole story,” replied Hatfield. “The truth…”

  “Who’s coming exactly…Gunny, what’s she talkin’ at?”

  Something crossed the old guy’s mind. “I’ll give the agent another call. He oughtta be close by now-”

  Hernandez passed his cell over but Hatfield shook his head.

  “Nah, no reception most of the time. Try the landline.”

  He went to call but could have saved himself the time and trouble. The noise of a grinding sound and revving engine from a stuck-fast city cruiser alerted them. Tanaka was here and stranded now, no hope of moving till the ground froze over after dark. They watched as he circled the car then moved up at a fast pace, past the neighbor then to the front of Hatfield’s. He was panting and gasping by the time he got there.

  Gotta get into shape, Tanaka lamented. Made it up to the shack, retrieve the car later.

  “Anna,” he barked. “Turn around.” She was cuffed already. He made to shove her down the road but she dug her feet into the sludge and snow.

  “Please wait,” Pakdee cried out. “You remember…I told you…Valentine’s Day…”

  Tanaka and the old guy both stopped in their tracks, it was like some secret had been revealed. Lt. Hernandez and the junior deputy were puzzled. Anna kept on. Curiosity got the better of the county officers.

  “Gunny…Special Agent…what in the dickens is she babblin’ on about?” asked an exasperated Hernandez. “Who is she, Agent Tanaka? You mentioned illegal entry-”
>
  “We all better go inside,” said Tanaka. “Uncuff her, please.”

  “I have nothing to hide,” added Pakdee. “It is dangerous right now, for all of us.” She peered nervously up and down the valley, checking the trails. A full moon had come into view, it was orange…gigantic. Not a cloud.

  “You must get all the police you can,” she repeated. With her hands free, Pakdee removed the envelope and handed it over; Tanaka read the printout. “This one is mine…the other two belong to Mister Hatfield,” she said. “And you have something that belongs to my government!”

  Hernandez turned to his deputy and threw his hands up in consternation. “Would one of you kindly let me in on what’s goin’ on, this is sending me giddy, dammit!” His voice echoed around. They all stopped. The old guy nodded to his shack.

  “Lot warmer inside, the stove’s cookin’ a treat,” said Hatfield. “I’ll do up coffee.”

  The group retreated inside and huddled in the warm radiance of the upright potbelly. For the next two hours Anna spelt all out, the whole saga with Tanaka and the old guy adding their two-bits-worth, it was a recounting of some kind of holiday from hell. Lt. Hernandez and the junior deputy only listened with disbelief, made them more worried. The one subject nobody raised was the guidance systems. That was off the table…for now.

  “How come, Special Agent…why hasn’t this been cleared up? How did it get to this?”

  “That is what I meant by Valentine’s Day,” replied Pakdee. “Group Arcana wiped them all out in the ambush, all except two principal players. I have every belief they are close or here already.”

  “All the federal agencies had alerts on Anna here and she got through,” added Tanaka. “We’d been tapping all the intelligence for info on the syndicate but nothing came up. The Canadian guy served time back in the eighties then left for good. Neither he nor any of his lackeys ever came to the Americas again.”

  The big junior deputy had been standing at the door peering around and admiring the old guy’s war decorations; he turned and spoke: “Anybody with the ways and means can get into the United States…lookit all the problems with the wetbacks down Rio Grande way. None of the politicians got any willpower anymore. You know I’z watchin’ the news the other night…”

  Tanaka frowned at the deputy but Roy Hernandez only nodded. A Texan, he knew all about porous borders. Pakdee had no idea what a ‘wetback’ was…she was Thai and not the same as others.

  “I suggest you three wait out the night here, we’ll go stake out the turnoff,” said Hernandez. He nodded to his subordinate. “Hey Jungle…you up for some overtime?”

  They only had to make it back to Point Pleasant where they had another vehicle parked. A motor launch pulled into a disused ramp and the Tamil, accompanied by the Nigerian jumped off the bow and secured the vessel, behind an empty coal barge. The Nigerian heaved a plus-size sack with one arm over his shoulder. Inside, the tools…

  The launch had long range tanks. Waiting above the bank was a vehicle with two Hispanic males. They packed into the car, a Subaru Forester, all dressed and looking like a hunting party. There was nothing on the Kanawha River and only a single deserted barn on the other side; other than that they were out of view. Kanawha into the Ohio River then Ohio into the Mississippi; they’d followed the waterway up with great care not to attract the authorities.

  They spoke for a moment before the Tamil pulled the rear hatch and they spread out the things from the sack. They checked the hardware: Five grenades, two Ruger Mini-14s, a Norinco Model-56-conversion and an Ingram Mac-10 with a suppressor-can. It was all there, more than enough. Spare clips, ammunition, four walkie-talkies, thermal clothing, some vests and a single pair of starlight goggles.

  The Tamil produced a brick of cash and handed it to the Nicaraguan in the front seat who counted the bundle out -- ten thousand -- and nodded to his countryman in satisfaction. “More from where that came from, I can assure you,” he said. “Upon completion.”

  The two young enforcers were gang-bangers up from Florida; they’d driven here. Their tattoo marks suggested Mexican-Mafia links but Nicaraguans were a lot more dangerous.

  “We take the old man alive,” said the Tamil. “Get my papers back, bring him here and dump the body along with the car in the drink once we’re done.”

  The Tamil and the Nigerian got in the front, the hoods from down south in the back. The weapons were behind them under a blanket. They started up and turned east on the Midland Trail, headed for the high country. Headed for Hatfield’s farm, going on a hunting trip. They were close now. No reason to rush and risk getting pulled over.

  It was that time of year…plenty of hunters in the Mountain State, even more wide open spaces than anyone could ever want. The last of the syndicate were going hunting, for human prey. Hatfield’s father, he had the accounts, they all knew it. A feeble geriatric with a few months left to live. Maybe they could speed things up, once they got what they were looking for.

  Cut down the tree and tear out the roots. It was a saying, the Hispanic gangsters and cartels had: Wipe out the entire family.