by Chuck Dixon
The gates swung upward. Levon piloted around the barriers and out into the enveloping black.
11
It wasn’t the first time revenue agents had been in the valley. But never in such force. This was an invading army.
A convoy of unmarked trucks came from either end of the county road in the hours before dawn. They were met by county sheriff cars and state police cruisers where a two-lane curved around the foot of a wooded hill. The entrance to a dirt road lay nearly invisible in the brush. The locals and staties were waiting outside their vehicles, shotguns and AR-15s slung atop chest armor. No different than opening day of hunting, waiting in the twilight for the sun to peep over the ridgetop.
They were having breakfast from take-out containers laid atop the hoods of the cars — a hillbilly buffet.
The government trucks pulled to a stop along the verges. Men in body armor and ballistic helmets climbed from the rear of the vehicles. The staties eyed them with suspicion. The locals looked at the weaponry the feds were sporting with open lust. Rail systems fitted with gear that looked like they came from a Stars Wars movie. The ATF agents and U.S. Marshals saw the noshing cops as a medieval knight might see a serf armed with a pole; useful so long as they didn’t get in the way.
With the trucks was an unmarked government car. Nancy Valdez exited with Laura Strand and Tony Marcoon walking behind. They wore chest armor and Treasury windbreakers. Their badges swung on lanyards from their necks. Nancy was the highest-ranking agent here and it was her operation start to finish. But she knew to defer to the professional hardchargers. She stood listening as Agent Parks approached the locals.
The leader of the combined team of tactical feds, a black man with a professional smile, towered over the state police captain.
“Special Agent Lester Parks. I want to thank you for coming out this morning,” the tall black man said to the captain and the group at large.
“Captain Brett Poteet, Alabama’s finest. How can I be of assistance, sir?” the smaller man said.
Parks told the captain to spread his men along the road for a distance of a quarter mile each direction and to listen to the assigned radio frequency. Parks would use this to keep them updated. Their job was to watch for their suspect in the distant eventuality that he made it through the cordon of feds to the roadway. Photos of Levon Cade, blurry ones from a surveillance camera, were distributed to all the officers. Parks addressed the cops crowded around him while his team spread out to begin the climb through the woods.
“This Cade is supposed to be some kind of badass jarhead. He will be armed. And he is damned dangerous. Now, your government wants him alive. But don’t take any chances. If this guy draws on you, you drop him. Drop him hard. And put two more in him once he’s dropped. Do not underestimate this man. I cannot stress that enough. That said, make damn sure of your targets. I’d like to go home to my wife myself.”
That drew chuckles from a couple of staties. The county cops wore frozen expressions, wondering how the hell they got into this one.
“I like to keep everyone informed. What we’re doing is approaching the house up this drive. Both from the road and with a second unit already staged atop the hill to prevent flight that way. In all likelihood we’ll have this guy in custody inside the hour. But it’s good to know you men have our backs in case this asshole gets lucky.”
Parks noticed a female deputy blinking at him.
“Men and women at our backs. Good to see you all,” he said.
The female deputy beamed back an embarrassed smile.
“Thanks to all of you and let’s make this a good morning,” Parks said. He trotted up the hill to follow the line of men ascending into the naked trees. He was out of sight in seconds.
The state police captain directed his forces to move out along the road at intervals. He remained by his cruiser, the one that was serving as an impromptu banquet table. Nancy introduced her team.
“What did this guy do?” the captain said.
“We’re still making a list,” Nancy said.
Uncle Fern woke to the hounds barking. He levered himself up in the recliner where he’d fallen asleep the night before watching a John Wayne movie on the TV. Feller, the ridgeback, rose to approach the front door, ears up and hairs along its spine standing straight. The hounds went silent.
He was rising out of the chair when the front door crashed in. The door at the back of the house caved at the same time. The ridgeback leaped and got batted aside by a ballistic shield on the arm of the first man through the door. The biggest man Fern had ever seen in his seventy years. Another man applied a stun gun to Feller's neck. The dog dropped, twitching as though in a waking dream. The big man was followed in by a phalanx of shouting men who spread out into the house, weapons up and shoving furniture aside.
Fern got to his feet with three gun barrels pointed his way. He waved them off to turn to the dog lying still in the corner. Gloved hands were on him and pushed him hard to the floor. His wrists were zip-tied behind him.
“If you hurt Feller you’ll wish you were never born,” Fern said from the corner of his mouth, his face pressed to the threadbare carpet.
“Dog’s okay, old man. Just stunned.”
“You have a warrant for this?”
“Chief, we got so many warrants they needed a truck to haul them all. District judge got a hand cramp signing them.”
From all over the house came shouts of “Clear! Clear! Clear!” Boots tramped overhead. Furniture crashed to the floor. Boots on the porch.
“Stable building’s clear, sir! Carport too!”
“Sweep the whole place. Watch for hides in the woods above us,” the enormous black man said.
Hands lifted Fern to his feet and guided him to the kitchen where he was planted in a chair at his own kitchen table.
“Where’s your nephew?” the black man said.
“Beats the shit out of me.” Fern shrugged.
The marshals and ATF men were grid searching the woods and clearings around the Cade property. Even if they didn’t find the man there was work to be done. They’d be here for days tearing the place apart for evidence. And more.
“Nice truck outside. Yours?” Nancy said.
“Yeah,” Fern said, peering at her from the corners of his eyes. He was un-cuffed with a mug of coffee on the table before him. There was a box of donuts Nancy had carried up from the gaggle of cop cars down the hill.
“Is that a four-wheel drive? The Silverado is nice, huh?”
“Are my dogs all right?” Fern could hear them howling somewhere back of the house.
“They’re okay. The goat too. We got them leashed up,” Tony Marcoon said from where he leaned back against the kitchen sink.
“How’d you buy that truck?” Nancy said.
“Same’s anyone else. On time,” Fern said. He straightened in his seat to look her dead on.
"Says here you paid cash." Nancy swiped the screen of a pad with a manicured finger. "Fully loaded package. All-wheel. Air. Leather seats. Set you back close to sixty kay."
Fern said nothing.
“You want to tell me how you covered that with your social security and veteran disability checks?”
Fern looked away.
“One phone call and I can start a process that ends with you losing this cabin and property along with that truck and anything else you own. Have you ever had an audit? Ever danced with the taxman?”
Laura Strand entered the kitchen, glanced at the tired old man slumped now in a chair.
“There’s a room upstairs with all kinds of girl stuff in it. Clothes. Stuffed animals,” she said.
Nancy stood to come around the table beside Fern. She leaned in close to study his eyes.
“That’s right. Your grandniece. Can you tell us where we can find Meredith Cade? Merry, right?” Nancy smiled easy, head tilted.
Fern turned to look at her, his gaze filled with fire.
12
The 4Runner gave up just
after dawn.
The engine knocked and kicked with a fury. Steam scented with the sweet odor of boiled coolant billowed from under the hood. Levon pulled to the sandy verge of the string-straight two-lane. The engine went into a final, and mortal, seize.
Three hours till noon and the air was already furnace hot. He waved away flies and popped the hood. A geyser of steam erupted from a burst pipe making him step back or be scalded. A greenish-brown puddle grew in the sand under his feet. The Toyota was bleeding out from a dozen blown gaskets.
He popped the rear hatch and pulled the Orca pack and the gear bag onto the dropped tailgate. He stripped naked but for his socks and tossed his Western clothes into a ditch along the roadside. He was in no danger of being seen. There was nothing but flat sand and rock for miles in every direction. He’d passed no traffic on the way from the SinoChem compound either coming or going. From the Orca he pulled out worn cotton clothes. Loose fitting pants, a pair of Russian-issue light duty boots, a plaid buttoned shirt, knock-off YSL jacket and a keffiyeh in a fine checked pattern. He kept the rifle and ammo in the gear bag but secured the Browning in his waistband at the small of his back. He checked his look in the side mirror. With the keffiyeh in place along with a pair of Ray-Ban knock-offs and a good start on a beard he wouldn’t rate a second glance at a distance.
Levon popped the top of a gallon jug of water from a case stowed in the rear of the Toyota. He drank a little more than a quart until his belly was filled with water. He held the remainder over his head to douse himself with the contents. He slung the pack on his back and the gear bag over his shoulder and hefted a gallon jug of water to carry in each hand before setting out west along the endless ribbon of road.
It was past three in the afternoon by his expert appraisal of the sun’s position high in the yellow sky. He’d finished half of one of the gallon jugs and was perspiring it away faster than he could replace it. Thin trails of vapor rose from his sweat-soaked clothing.
There was no shade anywhere around. The next settlement along the road was at least a full day’s hike. He could do another twenty miles before it turned full dark. He’d camp cold somewhere off the road. Very cold. The desert could drop to freezing at night. Colder if there was a wind. He set his eyes ahead and marched, a cadence he learned at Pendleton to keep time.
They say that in the Marine Corps;
the pay is mighty fine,
they give you a hundred dollars
and take back ninety-nine.
Oh Lord, I wanna go,
but they won’t let me go,
no oh oh oh oh oh oh oh. Hey!!
They say that in the Marine Corps;
the chow is mighty fine,
a roll fell off the table,
and killed a friend of mine.
Oh Lord I wanna go,
but they won’t let me go,
no oh oh oh oh oh oh oh. Hey!!
They say that in the Marine Corps;
the bunks are mighty fine,
but how the hell would they know,
they never slept in mine.
Oh Lord I wanna go,
but they won’t let me go,
no oh oh oh oh oh oh oh. Hey!!
They say that in the Marine Corps;
the coffee is mighty fine,
looks like muddy water,
and tastes like turpentine.
Oh Lord I wanna go,
but they won’t let me go,
no oh oh oh oh oh oh oh. Hey!!
He lost count of the rounds he chanted under his breath as he humped along the roadway. The skillet heat rose up through the neoprene soles of the Russian desert boots. He added verses he remembered about the women, food and fun that the Corps promised to enlistees.
The voice of his first D.I., a mean-as-a-snake gunny named Bromwell came to him in his imagination. “Barfin’” Bromwell was the name one platoon of greenies after another had graced him with. Nothing pleased Gunny Bromwell more than the sight of his recruits puking their guts up after a forced march with full packs on a ten-mile run. The man rejoiced in vomit and would offer commentary on the smell, trajectory and color of the spew exploding from the pogues under this command.
Levon’s shadow grew longer behind him as the sun turned orange and then red and drooped toward the horizon. He stopped to drain the last of his first jug of water. The next would have to last him the rest of the next day. Levon turned to pitch the empty jug off the road. He saw a plume of white against the darkening sky to the east. He stood in the center of the road and watched the plume grow and, beneath it, a dark shape appeared. The vehicle was small in the distance, tiny enough to be covered by the tip of his little finger and then his middle finger and then his thumb. He moved to the sand along the verge as the vehicle took on a distinct shape in the wavering heat rising off the road surface.
There was nowhere to conceal himself. He stood and waited as the truck rolled closer to finally come to a stop a hundred yards from where he stood. Levon’s hand moved to the butt of the handgun at his back. His gear bag lay open at his feet by the remaining gallon jug. The M4 lay inside fully charged with a round in the spout.
The Toyota HiLux was battered and scored. The official transport of practically every jihadist on the planet. He couldn’t see if it mounted a gun in the back. There were no passengers visible in the truck bed. The reflection of the setting sun off the windshield turned the glass to a mirror.
With a puff of blue exhaust the HiLux started forward. Levon stood his ground but for a single step back away from the roadside. The pickup pulled to a stop alongside him, engine ticking. A grinning face regarded him from behind the steering wheel.
“You look like you could use a ride, Levon Cade,” said Hector Ortiz. His grin grew wider at Levon trying to hide any trace of surprise.
13
The cow was smiling, really smiling — a big sloppy grin under big lazy eyes.
“Saw it when I was bringing them in for milking,” Randy Eslinger said. “Never seen a cow so happy to get milked.”
“Do you have bolt cutters?” Jessie Hamer said.
“In the shed,” Randy said.
“You better get them,” Jessie said.
Jessie and Merry waited while Randy moved at his own speed, slow, toward a leaning wooden shed just off the barn. Merry stood by the dusty white dairy cow in the barnyard, patting its neck.
“What happened to her?” Merry said.
“I’m betting she got into Mr. Eslinger’s compost pile. I saw this once when I was in veterinary school,” Jessie said.
“What would a cow eat to make it smile?”
“You’ll see in a minute.”
It was more like five minutes as Randy banged around in the shed looking for those cutters. He emerged eventually with a pair of long-handled bolt cutters and ambled back their way.
Merry cooed while Randy did his best to hold the cow’s mouth open.
“Ho, girl. The lady’s just here to help,” Randy cooed in the twitching ear.
The big bovine lowed and snorted. Merry had to dance around to avoid stomping hooves. Jessie worked the blades of the bolt cutter into the cow’s mouth. She maneuvered them around at the angle she wanted before drawing the handles together. Something in the cow’s mouth crunched then popped. Two halves of a long section of watermelon rind dropped to the dirt.
“That’s it. Essie’s back to her usual enigmatic expression,” Jessie said.
Randy led the cow back toward a gate and out to a field where her sisters stood along the fence watching the show.
“That’s it?” Merry said.
“Sometimes it’s simple as that. A watermelon rind stuck in sideways. I’ll have to tell Mr. Eslinger to fence in that compost dump.”
They walked to the pickup truck decorated with the prancing horse symbol of Riverstone Veterinary. Jessie removed her gloves and tossed them on the dash. They waited for Randy’s return.
“Doesn’t Sandy ever come out on your route with you
?” Merry said. Sandy was Jessie’s daughter.
“She has school and all. And boys. And I guess she’s at that age when hanging out with your mom’s just not cool anymore.”
“Teenagers,” Merry said.
“Aren’t you one now?”
“I don’t feel like one.”
“You will.”
Randy made his way back to them across the barnyard.
“What do I owe you, Jessie?”
“What do you think it was worth?”
“Twenty?” Randy said.
“Done.”
Randy dug in his jeans and came up with some wrinkled bills that Jessie folded and stuck in the pocket of her work shirt. She gave the farmer a warning about securing his compost before climbing into the cab.
“Will you ever be going back to school?” Jessie said. She piloted the F-150 down the drive away from the farm.
“Can’t see how. Daddy says we’re laying low.” Merry held a hand out the window, fingers joined in a wedge to feel the lift and drag of the air over them.
“You’ll be getting further behind.”
“I probably learned more today with you than I would have sitting in a classroom.”
“Sure, cutting melons out of dumb cows’ pieholes.”
“And I been reading all of Uncle Fern’s books.”
“And what do you learn from them?”
“You can ask me almost any question about the Marines and I bet I can answer it,” Merry said.
The rode in silence along a tree-shaded lane. The leaves were turning color. The road surface was carpeted with a riot of shapes in warm shades that were sent swirling as they passed.
“Have you heard from your father?” Jessie said.
“No. He said I probably wouldn’t for a while,” Merry said. She counted mailboxes as they passed.