“Well,” Jack chided from the passenger seat, “You coming, or did your ass freeze to the seat?”
“I think we better report this,” Eric said. “If this Jeep is stolen…”
Jack interrupted, “Already tried,” holding up his cell phone. “No service up here, remember?”
Eric checked his own phone to be sure. Same. He folded the map and brought it with him. If nothing else, it would give them something to look at today if the fishing was slow. He climbed in the back seat of Paul’s truck, and they pulled away. They had four more miles to reach their destination and a quarter-mile walk from there. If the Jeep were still there when they came back through that night, they would report it once they returned to town. For now, it wasn’t going anywhere, and the fish were getting ready to bite.
Paul shifted the truck into four-wheel-drive and eased away. Eric unfolded the map in the back seat and took another look.
“What’s that?” Paul asked, looking in the rearview mirror.
“A map of New York.”
“Jesus, Eric, we know where we’re going,” Jack joked.
“It was in that Jeep. There’s an X on the map right where the Jeep was parked. Another one on the ridge where the driver was headed.”
“Probably a photographer trying to catch the sunrise over the mountains,” Paul said.
“Why would a photographer steal a vehicle to do that?” Jack asked.
Paul realized his theory didn’t make sense. “Why would anyone drive through a snowstorm in the middle of the night, to a place like this?”
They all tried to come up with an answer, but nothing seemed to make sense. The conversation finally turned back to fishing and the day ahead.
Chapter 4 / Plan in Motion
Stealing the Jeep was easy. The Canadian had driven Moonie’s truck as far as he dared. He didn’t risk stopping to refuel the black F-150—gas stations were covered in security cameras—so it was better to have acquired a new vehicle. He made it to northern Higley on fumes and found a busy little tavern to park. The parking lot was full of opportunity. He had parked in the darkest corner and hoped that one trusting fool had left their keys in the ignition. As he crept through the dark parking lot, he had found several vehicles unlocked, but none with keys. The music playing inside was loud and obnoxious, but it covered any sound he was making outside. A drunk couple on the front porch had never noticed the Canadian. The female was sitting on the deck railing with her legs locked around the young male. They neither saw nor cared about anything going on in the parking lot.
He didn’t have to search for long. A green Jeep with a frog decal on the back window was unlocked, and the keys were located inside the center console. The Jeep was wearing a set of 32- inch Cooper tires with an aggressive mud and snow tread. The spare was mounted to the tailgate. The bright green paint had a few rust spots on the running boards, but that was normal this far north where the roads received salt during the winter months. Not the most inconspicuous vehicle, but the four-wheel drive would be handy traversing the hazardous roads. He would have an hour headstart before the bar closed, and the Jeep would be reported as stolen. That hour would give him time to reach his destination and abandon the stolen Jeep.
He laid his pistol on the passenger seat in case his grand larceny was noticed and fired up the beastly 4x4. The cold engine fired immediately and softly purred as six cylinders compressed air and fuel. The Canadian smiled in satisfaction. He had worried that the tough looking jeep would roar when he engaged the ignition, drawing attention to himself from the rightful owner.
Route 56 would lead him south most of the way. The green Jeep made its way down the road as it meandered through the foothills and along the Raquette River. He turned left when he finally arrived at the most southern bridge, crossing to the eastern side of the river, and drove one more mile. At 1:30 am, he had reached an access road that led to a couple of hydroelectric power facilities. The sign at the beginning of the road indicated it was Garrison Road and, according to the map, it followed the river south for nine miles until it dead-ended at a hunting club. He parked the Jeep in the middle of the one-lane gravel road, knowing no plow trucks would be cleaning this road today. It was New Year’s Day, and most of the highwaymen were spending the holiday at home. Snow maintenance on Garrison Road was probably the responsibility of the power company, anyway. Hunters were not a concern, either, since the season on whitetail deer had ended a month ago.
He stepped outside and stood still for a moment. The silence in this part of the world was almost frightening. He could not remember ever being in a place so void of even the faintest sound. His footsteps crunched on the dry ground and disrupted the forest’s tranquility, and the Canadian felt rude for doing so.
Again, he closed his eyes, and the vision of the tombstone replayed in his mind.
This time, it was covered with snow, and two doves were perched on top. He reached out to brush the snow from the letters engraved in the marble, scattering the two doves and sending them frantically into flight. Their wings whirled the snow from atop the stone as the wind blew it into his face. The cold of the snow shocked him back to reality, and he was happy to see he was not standing in a cemetery, but still in the woods of northern New York. With a deep breath, he pushed the vision of the tombstone out of his mind and concentrated on his mission.
The backpack was heavy, but once strapped properly on his shoulders, was of little encumbrance. His determination to get to the top of the ridge far outweighed the loaded pack. He double checked his pockets and ensured all the zippers were secured, then took one last look in the vehicle to be sure he left nothing behind. The map still lay on the back seat, but that was of no further use to him since it had already served its purpose by getting him there.
It was easier to hike the darkness without the aid of a flashlight. Every time he tried to turn on his headlight, it illuminated only the trees immediately in front, blinding him to whatever lay beyond them. The short depth of view was of no use to him and disrupted his sense of direction.
“Better to just use the moonlight,” he thought.
The snow on the ground silhouetted the trees like a painting he’d once seen in a museum. The Adirondack forest lit only by the moon was surely a masterpiece that could not be forgotten.
The snowstorm had pushed by, once again revealing the moon pitched high in the sky. It was surrounded by tiny stars that stayed in place as if it had an army of minions. The next storm was predicted to invade the area around 8:00 a.m. The army of stars would retreat by then, and the sun would take over as ruler of the sky. That would give him almost six hours to trek up the ridge, get some food, and hopefully a quick nap.
He saw the ridge in silhouette and singled out a pointed knob. That would be his destination. He had made his way through beech whips, alders, and briar patches, which were dense and hard to traverse. It was a frustrating climb as the backpack snagged several times, slowing his ascent and throwing off his balance. Once he was through the dense vegetation of the lower altitude, the deciduous forest opened up and was easier to navigate. He had weaved his way through mature ash, poplar, black cherries, and beech trees. His optimism had risen like the hilly terrain he was determined to conquer.
The snow was dry and light which made it easier to stride as the middle-aged man climbed the steep hill. Though the distance was short, he placed his steps carefully and took ample time to march the incline. The snow-covered logs, rocks, and holes were hazardous, and each step had to be placed with caution. Perspiration began to form on his skin which was sticky and uncomfortable. He uzipped his jacket in an attempt to cool his body. Sweating could lead to hypothermia once he stopped which would hinder his motor skills and ability to make a significant fire.
The climb had been much more arduous than he had anticipated. Three-quarters of the way up, he came to a rock face that was impossible to scale without the proper gear. He stared at the 15-foot granite impasse discouragingly. “Damn it!”
The tombstone flashed in his mind.
“No,” he whispered. “I will not rest.”
His nostrils flared as he sucked in as much oxygen as he could, then expelled the used air from his lungs. He grabbed the straps of the backpack and sinched them tighter, pulling the weight of the pack high on his back.
“Forward and upward,” he said. The small trees along the cliff were great for balance. He gripped them one-by-one and made his way along the rock.
The detour around the cliff was more dangerous and exhausting than he had foreseen. He had fallen twice, breaking his attitude but not his determination. His face flushed with exertion and frustration as he traversed the rugged hillside. Perseverance was his only option at this point. The top of the ridge was so close, yet seemed so far to his tired legs. Rounding the corner of the cliff and seeing open woods brought a smile to his face. There were no more obstacles to impede his path, and his satisfaction rose like the few thin maples that surrounded him.
When he had reached the top of the ridge, he freed his shoulders from the weight of the heavy backpack and fell to his knees. His break was brief, and he began to build a small fire. He cleared snow from the ground, built the small but sufficient fire, and set a couple of logs up as a makeshift bench. He unzipped a side pocket of the backpack and retrieved a can of soup, a protein bar, and a canteen.
The fire heated the can of soup, and once it reached a suitable temperature, he dug in with a spoon and savored the nourishment. He had not eaten in 14 hours, and if everything went according to plan, he would be too busy to eat again until later in the evening.
He finished eating and packed his garbage into a plastic bag. There was no sense in leaving anything behind. If he could carry it in full, he could carry it out empty. Besides, he could not take the chance his garbage would become evidence. The coals in the fire had lost most of their heat, so the Canadian added a small pile of beech wood branches that burned hot and slow. Just what he needed right now. Once the fire had rekindled, he leaned against a large black cherry tree and closed his eyes. This time, he would not envision the solemn grave with its marble headstone. He would drift off into a light sleep and wait for his phone alarm to go off in about an hour.
****
Before sleep overtook him, the Canadian replayed the last three weeks of his life in his mind. He thought about how this plan came to fruition and how fate had brought him to the top of this ridge. He thought about the airport, the pilot, the airplane, and the money.
He worked as an aircraft mechanic at a small airport outside of Ottawa, although he spent most of his time working on everything but planes. The airport was for private charters. Carl Skiff, the owner of Red-Wing Charters, made his living with a couple of Beechcraft Bonanza A-36’s. Most of the charters carried small loads of cargo. Skiff had the seats removed from one of his planes to accommodate the extra space needed for shipping items in bulk. The second plane had only two passenger seats, but the other four could easily be reinstalled for extra passengers. Most of the cargo was comprised of merchandise stuffed with drugs. The opiate market was booming in New York and Canadian cities, and Red-Wing Charters was delivering a percentage of the drugs. Planes rarely came back empty after making deliveries, because the return flights often carried guns, illegal aliens, or black-market merchandise; all of which was usually shipped out again. The little airport was a turnstile of illegal activity.
Before he’d crossed the border and put a bullet into Moonie Swamp, the Canadian lived a normal life, worked 40 hours per week, and was a model citizen in his neighborhood. He’d had some trouble with the law in his younger years, which prevented him from being legally able to enter the United States. Of course, he had no reason to enter New York State until he heard a phone conversation Skiff was having with an associate.
The mechanic was working on the airport’s heating system when the conversation carried through the air ducts.
“Three point five?” Skiff barked. “Are you frickin crazy, Polina? Okay…Okay, but I’m only sending three million…American currency….No, one case…Shit…Okay…We’ll leave here on the first…No, January first…That’s right…Wheels leave the ground at 6:50 in the morning…Of course, we’ll fly to you. Have a driver ready and waiting. Blankenship—you remember Mason—he’ll personally be carrying the money…Yes, he’s still single, Polina. Do I get a discount if he’ll take you out for dinner? Ha ha…He’ll have the money. No, the border’s no problem. I’ve got connections in New York.”
So, the flight was to depart on New Year’s Day, at 6:50 a.m. He knew the time of departure but not the destination or arrival time. The Beechcraft A-36 Bonanza would be carrying nothing but a briefcase with three million dollars. The case would be locked up and guarded in Ottawa by Skiff’s goon, Mason Blankenship, who’d be armed with his HK-416 A5 assault rifle. Mason would accompany the case until they reached their destination. Stealing the money in Ottawa was a suicide mission. Stealing the money wherever the plane landed might be impossible. The only plan that would work—steal the money somewhere in the middle. It seemed dangerous. It seemed impossible. How do you rob a plane that’s flying fifteen hundred feet above the ground when you’re not on board?
The solution hit him like a bug on a windshield. It would be a challenge, but he was confident he could pull off the heist if he could acquire the plane’s destination within the next few days.
****
The Canadian had seen guns, drugs, and foreigners loaded onto the planes but never any money. He’d kept his mouth shut for years without getting anything larger than a $500 bonus—which he thought was good money until he heard about the $3 million.
He needed more details about the flight to pull off such a heist and the best place to get the intel was from the pilot scheduled to fly the Beechcraft. There was only one place to find pilots near the airport—the Bombardier Lounge—an overpriced gentleman’s club run by a retired airman. It was the preferred watering hole for pilots to hang out during long layovers or canceled flights. All the Canadian had to do was buy a few rounds of Labatt Blues at the Bombardier, and the local pilots were verbal sprinklers—spouting and bragging about their missions in every direction. The inebriated pilots would talk about private charters, airforce missions, and mistresses—most of which was probably not true.
It was a Tuesday night when the Canadian finally discovered who the unfortunate pilot would be. He was a resident pilot that everyone called Ozzy. He was a thin man, not weighing more than 150 pounds. The Canadian often wondered how the little man could control a turbulent plane with such scrawny arms. He knew Ozzy from the airport but heard he had relocated to Alaska to become a bush pilot. His employment there only lasted a month. Ozzy was fired when he took a small group of children on a field trip to Anchorage, and a bottle of blackberry schnapps rolled out from under the seat. The teacher might have overlooked the incident, but a couple of parents chaperoning the trip filed a formal complaint immediately upon landing, and now he was back at the Bombardier Lounge, drinking with his brotherhood of pilots and taking any contract Skiff would offer him.
The Canadian wished it were another pilot. As much of a screw-up as Ozzy was, he was a good guy. But on the bright side, Ozzy had a mouth as loose as a hula hoop, and getting him to drop the details on the Beechcraft flight would be as easy as getting a goat to eat.
****
The Canadian and Ozzy played pool whi
le a couple of girls working their way through college danced with a stainless steel pole. They winked at the Canadian as he walked by carrying his third round of draft beers. He smirked a little but resisted the urge to sit and watch the dancers work. His resistance pissed the girls off, and the wink flipped to a scowl.
The Bombardier Lounge was located on a side street in Ottawa’s Industrial Park. The building sat adjacent to a vacant lot and only a couple blocks from the train yard. There was a certain irony that an aviation-themed bar thrived so close to the train yard. The pilots often made jokes about train engineers having too much lead in their ass to get off the ground, or how they were too stupid to find their way home without tracks. The mechanic wasn’t a fan of the off-colored humor. He respected the train engineers and what they accomplished, and he marveled at the engines of the train and the power they produced.
The small warehouse, about the size of a high school gym, had been gutted and remodeled twice in the last 30 years. Rustic pine boards paneled the walls three feet high around the interior of the lounge. Maps, airplane models, and vintage aviation photos decorated the walls. They were enhanced with spotlighting and LED signs that gave an incandescent glow to the whole place. The center of the lounge was occupied by two small stages for dancing, with a D.J. booth keeping a watchful eye over both.
The masterpiece of the Bombardier Lounge was the bar itself. It was 24 feet long and shaped like an airplane wing. The top was polished aluminum panels that were riveted together just like the skin of old B-2 bomber. Bullet holes, scratches, and burn marks were added for effect.
The pool table was hidden in the back corner behind a partition, where players could watch the dancers while they played. The Canadian liked playing pool in the corner, which was a great area to escape the stench of stale beer.
Ozzy was waiting for his beverage at the pool table, watching the girls from afar. He held a cue stick vertically in front of himself, mimicking the girls on the poles—his hips and shoulders swayed in perfect time to a Theory of a Deadman song blasting over the speakers. He only stopped so he could grasp the stein of beer the Canadian was carrying in his left hand.
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