by J. M. Hayes
They bounced and twisted and turned for what seemed like an eternity. And then they stopped again. A door slid open near the truck—a big one—and they pulled inside some kind of building. The motor went silent. The big door slid closed again and all Mad Dog could see through the top of the windshield was a corrugated-metal roof, far above. The driver blocked the light as he stepped over Mad Dog and opened the rear door.
“Where you want him?”
“In there,” a second voice responded. “Take his head, I’ll get his feet.”
“Where am I?” Mad Dog said. “What’s going on?”
The man who took his feet had a buzz cut, a short gray mustache, and pale gray eyes.
“Heavy son‘a’bitch, ain’t he?”
Mad Dog got a glimpse of a UPS logo on the side of the truck before they took him through another door into a small, dark room. They put him on a row of sacks that shifted a little under him as if they were filled with seeds or grain. Then the two men turned, retracing their steps. They shut the door behind them, leaving him in total darkness.
“Hey,” Mad Dog shouted. “At least cut me loose.”
They didn’t answer, but he heard a shushing sound from somewhere across the room.
“Please don’t shout, mister,” a tiny voice said. It sounded young, like it belonged to a child, maybe. “You don’t want them coming back in here. If they come, it’ll be with a cattle prod. I learned that the hard way.”
***
Mrs. Kraus stood at the top of a dizzying staircase. Monstrous spiders scuttled up and down the steps, waiting to pounce as soon as she descended. And her armor had taken too many hits. It was all but worn out. She wasn’t sure her avatar, Femfatale, could make it. The way this quest was going, Fem might have to resurrect at a graveyard and suffer the penalty that made her an easy kill for fifteen minutes. Bummer!
“’Scuse me, Ms. Kraus,” a voice said behind her.
The shock of finding someone in the office on a day she’d assumed the courthouse was empty caused her to jump almost high enough to leave fingernail scratches when she tried to grab the ceiling. And to make her wish she’d done more about those cholesterol and blood pressure problems Doc Jones warned her about at her last physical. It didn’t exactly calm her to discover there were two of them and both carried assault weapons. The guns weren’t pointed at her, though, and that made her wonder if she could get her Glock out of her purse and take the pair out before they cut her in half.
“Could you tell us, please, is the sheriff here?”
Why, it was only Ned Evans and his brother Zeke. Farmers she’d known most of her life. But what the hell were they doing here on Christmas Day with weapons like that? And dressed in funny uniforms all covered with camouflage.
“Englishman’s not home, neither,” Ned said. His voice was even softer and gentler than his brother’s. “Do you happen to know where he might be?”
It took Mrs. Kraus a minute to be sure her heart hadn’t exploded. “He’s on an investigation,” she said, catching a little attitude along with her breath. She didn’t much like to share departmental business with the general public, no matter how well armed.
“Is he working alone, or does he have assistance on this particular investigation?” Ned asked.
“Assistance? Are you kidding? On our budget? You two have got quite a sense of humor.”
Actually, they didn’t, and while their voices had been soft enough, there was a kind of hardness to their expressions she didn’t care for. She didn’t care for the other two men, either. They were equally armed and uniformed as they crossed her line of vision just out in the foyer beyond the open sheriff’s office door.
“We heard,” Ned said, “he might have help from an outside agency. You know who that might be?”
“And how many agents are with him?” Zeke added.
“I don’t know what you boys are talking about,” Mrs. Kraus said. “Englishman’s out there on his own, just like usual. Now, what are you and those other people doing here and why are you carrying guns like these?”
Something caught the corner of her vision. Something bright and yellow moved in the wind, just outside the window. A flag. Someone was raising a flag on the pole in front of the courthouse. It had a snake on it. And words. DON’T TREAD ON ME!
“We’re insuring the security of a free state, ma’am,” Zeke said.
Ned nodded. “I’m afraid, for the moment, we’ve got to assume you’re part of the threat to our freedom. You’ll have to hand over that Glock you carry.”
Mrs. Kraus couldn’t believe it. She reached down, slow and easy, picked up her purse and opened it. She drew the Glock, even slower and easier. She didn’t hand it over though. She was seething inside. She pointed the 9mm toward the Evans brothers. “You want my gun?” she said. “You know exactly how you’re going to have to take it.”
“You mean?” Ned asked.
Mrs. Kraus straightened her spine. She stood proud and tall, as dangerous as Femfatale, even at less than five feet. “That’s right. Pried from my cold dead fingers.”
***
Heather had already lost her balance when the MAC 10 came out. She was falling away from Elvis, not toward him. Going for the gun was out of the question. So was counting on the notorious shortcomings of the MAC. It was a cheap, inaccurate weapon that threw a horrendous amount of lead at its target in a very short time—one of the reasons gangsters and terrorists loved it.
Heather had one option. The door. She dived for it.
The MAC went off like Krakatoa. Lead whistled through the open door and hacksawed a pair of swaths through the metal on either side. As Heather hit the ground, she pushed back under the trailer. Not that it was safe there. The floor was cheap plywood that wouldn’t stop a hail of bullets any better than the walls of the trailer had. The floor sagged as Elvis scrambled to his feet and hustled his pimpled backside against the wall beside the door.
Her SIG Sauer was in her hand, pointed up. Up, almost exactly, at the sagging plywood. She should order him to drop his weapon first, but if she gave away her location, the MAC might rip a massive hole in the floor, and not do her any good either.
The SIG’s magazine held fifteen rounds. Heather put eight into a circle about eighteen inches across. The MAC didn’t answer. In fact, she heard it fall to the dirty linoleum floor. She heard Elvis fall, too, probably not in the best of shape.
To be safe, she rolled to her right and came out from under the trailer several feet to the side of the door. Gun up and ready, she edged along the trailer’s side until she saw Elvis. Or what had been Elvis. His face was turned toward her. Only one eye remained and it was already cloudy. She focused the SIG on that eye and went back inside.
Elvis was a mess. It looked like every bullet had hit him somewhere. There were holes in his feet, a shattered knee, an arm nearly torn loose from the shoulder. And that little something he’d hoped to share with Angel wasn’t there anymore.
Heather resisted an urge to add her breakfast to the gore now covering much of the interior. Instead, she kicked the MAC over into a corner, and searched the rest of the trailer to be sure it contained no other threats. Then she went back to the door to see if their little war had raised anyone’s curiosity.
The wind whispered through the paloverde that sprouted out of the Ford. There were no other signs of life. No sirens in the distance. She let herself begin to relax a little. Not enough, since she swung around and nearly squeezed off more rounds into Elvis when her cell phone vibrated.
***
The professional jaywalked across Stone as soon as Bill and his pickup were gone. He retrieved a magnetic key holder from under the fender of a Dodge Ram three-quarter ton pickup truck parked beside a statue of Paul Bunyan in an otherwise empty parking lot. Not exactly who he’d expected to meet in southern Arizona.
The keys to the truck and to a Ninja 650R motorcycle strapped into the bed behind the cab, were inside. He drove the Dodge across the street. Parked it with the passenger’s side door near the back entrance to the former TV repair store, and went in.
He brought in a small package from the Dodge. From it, he took a large, very strong magnet. When he got close to Mouse’s computer, the magnet jumped from his hands and dented the processor’s case. The computer’s screen went blank as the magnet rearranged every byte on the hard drive. It was unlikely anyone would be able to view what the security cameras had recorded after this. Not that the professional cared. It would just fit the investigating officers’ expectations and stimulate their imaginations. If he came to southern Arizona again, he would look completely different—unrecognizable. He didn’t wipe any surface he’d touched. His fingerprints had been surgically removed years ago.
He dragged Mouse’s goons out and into the Ram’s cab, strapping them in with seatbelts so they stayed upright. He stuck a pair of cheap billed caps low on their heads so what little traffic he encountered wouldn’t notice the slack looks on their faces.
Before Mouse and Cowboy moved against him, Rabioso had gone to earth in a safe house in the Catalina Vista neighborhood of central Tucson. It was an upscale neighborhood. Some of the houses were surrounded by walls. Rabioso’s was walled and gated with solid slabs of artfully rusted iron thick enough to stop nearly any bullet. Rabioso felt safe hiding behind it. He shouldn’t have.
Rabioso was one of the professional’s clients. Just like Mouse had been. Just as Cowboy might still assume himself to be. But Rabioso had already paid a million up front. And expected to pay another. He, after all, was the one whose empire was being threatened by two others.
In fact, the professional’s clients numbered in the dozens. When the governor-elect served as a sheriff he’d made many enemies. Enough for the professional to pick up several contracts on the man’s life. Five and six figure deals resulting in lots of satisfied customers who would never know how many others had paid for the same result.
Though most of the professional’s clients in this little drug war would be double-crossed and the professional would not receive their final payments, this would be a very profitable day. And the real beauty of it was that he was being paid by scores of people to do things that allowed him to accomplish his own goal. It was the perfect storm, and he was managing it to a perfect climax. He’d left the girl a note so she had to realize he was coming for her. Did she realize how soon? He could hardly contain his impatience. One last detail….
The professional had called ahead. When he pulled up in front of the iron gate, two of Rabioso’s men opened it. They helped him take the motorcycle out of the bed and park it at the curb outside. Then they closed the gate and, hidden by high walls, helped him lug Mouse’s men into the living room.
Rabioso waited for him there, standing beside a cheerfully blazing fire. The drug lord was a big man who resembled Mad Dog a little, except for his mane of silver hair. They were the same size and build. And, despite his nickname, Rabioso was another Anglo. The border drug trade was an equal opportunity employer.
“Mouse is dead,” the professional said. “I brought you two of his goons. They saw me kill him so they may be willing to change sides. Give you information to help you pull down whatever’s left of Mouse’s organization.”
“Amazing,” Rabioso said. “I didn’t think you could pull this off.”
“Or we can leave their bodies here. Part of the next phase. Do you have the unmatched pair of silenced automatic weapons I requested?”
Rabioso sent one of his men to get them.
“And product? Is there some in the house?”
“Yes. In the garage. It makes me nervous, having it here, but your idea of making Cowboy think I’ve been killed in a shootout with Mouse’s forces will give me the element of surprise I need to move against him.”
“And help you afford my fee,” the professional said. He examined the weapons. Cheap throw-aways that offended him. He preferred to work with tools of the finest quality.
“You should leave so I can get on with this,” the professional said, checking over each of the weapons, seeing that the silencers were properly affixed so they wouldn’t explode when he began using them. Checking their actions. Seeing that the magazines were full.
“Shall we move your truck or do you want to leave it here?”
“Here.” The professional was satisfied. Both guns would work well enough to do what he needed.
“But it’s blocking my car,” Rabioso explained.
“Oh,” the professional turned and looked out the picture window with its one-way glass. The truck was where he wanted it. So were Rabioso and his men. All together in the living room.
“It’s not a problem,” the professional said, and opened up with one of the guns. Rabioso and his men went down like stones, and just as dead. The professional turned the other weapon on Mouse’s sleeping muscle, further decorating the room in holiday crimson. Here was another final payment, a million dollars that would not come his way. Oh well. He had never planned to collect it.
He moved the bodies around a little. Artfully placed a few more bullets. Back outside, he tattooed the house with bullet holes. Then turned the other gun on the truck. The weapon chattered but the sound of bullets striking metal was far louder.
When he was through, he placed one gun with Palmer. The other he gave to Rabioso. Making certain, in both cases, their fingerprints were on the weapons. He caused each to fire one last round for the paraffin tests. Then he double-checked the garage. Product was, indeed, stored there. Finally, he set his explosives. Four incendiaries in the house. One much larger device, in the Dodge. And some surprises for the bomb squad. Duds, but complex enough to keep them busy and complicate the investigation.
When the professional was done, he opened the gate and mounted the Ninja. The neighborhood remained quiet. Apparently no one had noticed the silenced shots or recognized the ring of bullets into the Dodge.
The motorcycle took him away, its whine far louder than the noise of the fatal drama he left behind. He was half-a-mile down the road when the bombs began going off. The neighborhood would notice now.
***
“Hey, Heather. It’s Brad.”
As if she wouldn’t recognize his voice.
“I’m sorry to bother you on what has to be a crazy day for you, but Captain Matus called me. He’s looking for you.”
That surprised her.
“Why didn’t he just call me?”
“I had the impression he got a little frustrated at not being able to get a signal on his phone. Threw it at a boulder. Now it doesn’t work at all. He wants you to call him right away. I’ll give you his new number. You got something to write on?”
She looked down at the blood pooling around Elvis. She could write in his blood, she supposed. She gave herself a mental slap for succumbing to that little burst of hysteria.
“No,” Heather said.
“Oh. Well, you can call me back when you do. Or call your headquarters.”
Heather’s mind was beginning to function again. “Why didn’t he just call headquarters? Get my number from them?”
“They’re a little short-handed. You do know Governor Hyde was murdered, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Heather knew.
“Captain Matus says the person handling the office can’t find the phone list or your employment file, or even his butt with both hands in broad daylight.”
She’d heard Matus use that expression before.
“Anyway, he said it’s important and you need to call him right away. I hope this won’t interfere with tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“You know. Dinner. Late snack, actually. Leftovers. My folks are expect
ing you, and you don’t want to back out on an appointment with the senator at the last minute. Dad is not the forgiving sort. And Niki flew in from college today. I really want you to meet Niki. And she wants to meet….”
She interrupted him. “I’ve got a lot going on.”
“It’s important to me, so just try, please.”
She had no time for argument or explanation. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll do my best. Give me Matus’ number and I’ll start trying to clear things away.”
Brad did. She hung up and dialed it before she could forget.
“Matus,” her boss answered.
“English,” she replied.
“Where are you? We need that letter and the envelope you found with the governor’s skin. We’ve set up a mobile command post just off 286 on the edge of the reservation. Right by the turnoff to where you found Hyde. How soon can you get here?”
Heather looked at Elvis. “Probably not real quick. I’ve got a problem I have to deal with.”
“I’m sorry,” the Captain said. “That’s right. What was the deal with Mad Dog? Couldn’t you straighten that out?”
“No,” she said, and gave him the Cliffs Notes version of her day so far, including Elvis.
He made a reference to the Prince of Peace, though she didn’t think it was birthday greeting or prayer. “Okay. You in the city or the county?”
She wasn’t sure. The borders got complicated down here. She gave him the address.
“Hang on a minute. Let me figure out who’s got jurisdiction and see how we can expedite this.”
Heather held. It was December, but a couple of flies had already found Elvis. Maybe all God’s creatures deserved a Christmas feast.
She looked out the door. Still no indication anyone had seen or heard the exchange of gunfire, or thought it unusual if they had. No sirens. And then the Captain was back.
“Damn, girl. Our county sheriff wants your hide.” Matus paused a moment. “That was a poor choice of words under these circumstances. Sheriff thinks you’re purposefully trying to mess up his investigation. Not our investigation, you’ll note. The sheriff has it in his head you refused to cooperate with a deputy, then disturbed a crime scene to turn in human remains in a fashion that may inhibit prosecution. His words. He wants to know where you are so he can send units to bring you in. So, I didn’t tell him. Has any law enforcement responded to your situation so far? Did you call this shooting in yet?”