by Ian Jones
It took a while, but eventually the lights rounded the corner, closely followed by another set, then another, and then a final pair. Four vehicles, steadily moving ever closer. They could see the lead was an older blue pick-up, picked out clearly by the wash from the headlights behind. Next was a square panel van, not too big, bouncing high on the bumpy road. After that an expensive four wheel drive, possibly a Lincoln Navigator; dark colour, and finally what looked like a sedan, but hard to see properly because all it had to light it was its own headlights reflected back from the Lincoln in front.
The vehicles cruised slowly forward. John held his breath. Would they go past?
They didn’t. The pick-up stopped at the gate and the passenger door opened. It was a long way away but through the gap in the high banks at the entrance they could see the internal light come on, and in the bright headlights saw a pale shirt and a man with light colour hair get out. There was a pause, then the pick-up drove in, closely followed by the other vehicles.
They drove down toward the building, pulling up a couple of hundred metres away, in a rough circle with their headlights on, the pick-up closest. John and Gilbey ducked down out of the light, it was possible to see in a narrow gap between the two rocks but hard to avoid being blinded. The fourth car, the sedan they had seen at the rear of the group was not there.
The Lincoln front passenger door opened and a man got out. Cropped grey hair, green bomber jacket. Hunter, holding an MP5.
He walked casually across to the building and unlocked it. They couldn’t see the front very clearly from where they were, but they heard the door opening. Next, there was a dull thump and the spotlights came on. Suddenly the whole area around the building was lit up like daytime. They crouched down further.
‘Shit,’ Gilbey breathed.
‘Where’s the other car?’ John whispered.
They waited for their vision to adjust, and looked again. The cars had now switched off their headlamps, and were parked together roughly at the edge of the lit area, with the exception of the pick-up that had now stopped close to the building. Beyond the bright centre the rest of the compound was now completely black.
Hunter reappeared and walked back to the Lincoln, he banged on the side of the pick up as he passed and the blond haired man they had seen on the CCTV tape got out. He was carrying a shotgun, and climbed into the back of the truck bed. Now, they could see there was a pole standing upright in the back of the pick-up. Both men had seen this before, they knew what went on the top. The blond man bent down and picked up an M60 machine gun, loaded with a bright bandolier of shells, and dropped it onto a mount on the top of the pole. He fumbled with the latch and then swung it around and picked up the shotgun again. The driver of the panel van climbed out, carrying an M16, wearing the same standard polo shirt. He walked around to the back and waited.
John looked around, wondering what the hell was going on, why all the guns? The blond man was standing up with the shotgun held loosely across his chest, watching the other vehicles. There was another man in the pick-up driver seat, same pale grey polo shirt. Hunter reached the Lincoln and opened the rear doors, walking around the car to stand ready at the front, almost to attention. Two men got out, one was short, older, wispy grey hair. The other man was younger, taller, dark hair slicked back. Both men were grinning. The short man reached inside the car and pulled out a rifle, a Ruger Tactical, fitted with a night scope. He wielded it and walked to stand next to Hunter. The taller man joined them, carrying a Barrett 820, expensive. Both good guns, the Barrett regarded as the best sniper rifle in the world. The driver of the Lincoln climbed out, appearing to be unarmed, again wearing the same polo shirt. He leaned on the bonnet and watched everything. Hunter spoke to the two men in front of him, gesturing around and pointing. Both men nodded eagerly, the taller one laughed. Then Hunter turned around and said something to the van driver.
‘Who the hell are those guys? What’s going on?’ Gilbey whispered.
The van driver stepped forward, and undid the rear doors, pulling them open and stepping back. He pointed the M16 inside. Hunter walked forward and started shouting, there were more raised voices, and the driver climbed up inside. The van’s rear was facing away from them, and they couldn’t clearly hear what was being said so neither John or Gilbey had any idea what was going on. Elsewhere, everybody seemed relaxed, no movement.
Hunter raised the MP5 and pointed it into the van. There was a flurry of movement and then a man appeared, falling forward to end up lying face down in the dirt. A second joined him, then a third. The driver reappeared and pulled them to their feet lining them up down the side of the van, Hunter keeping the MP5 trained on them all the time.
The three men were all Hispanic, varying ages. Wearing t-shirts and jeans, and they were handcuffed. It wasn’t possible to see their faces clearly, but it was obvious they were terrified.
The blond man in the pick-up swung the shotgun round so it pointed to them, and then the driver produced a key and started removing the handcuffs.
John and Gilbey stared.
And then they knew. At exactly the same moment they both realised what was going on.
To the men in the cars, this was sport. It was a hunt. The whole reason for building the compound. What the digger was for. Men who wanted to know how it felt to kill another. The two unknown men with their rifles and night scopes. This was well organised. They were here for one reason.
‘People keep disappearing.’
‘It’s happening again.’
‘It’s worse than anyone knows.’
And John could see it. The lust for power. White supremacy. The total devaluation of human life in the south side of the town, and beyond that. The further south, the less important the people. Anyone who spoke out was spirited away. Disappeared. The Regulators would see to it, and all for this. A sport to impress a select few, maybe some even paid to be here.
Hunter stepped forward and spoke to the three scared men, pointing away from the van. The men shook their heads, the nearest seemed to be weeping. Hunter pointed the MP5 at them. All three raised their hands, pleading.
Hunter grabbed the nearest to him and pulled him forward, and pushed him so he dropped to his knees on the hard ground, then produced a Beretta and without letting go of the MP5 racked a round into the chamber and with his thumb clicked off the safety.
He put the barrel against the man’s head, and looked at the other two, talking all the time.
All the men were shaking their heads. Hunter leaned in with the barrel pushing hard, the man was going to topple over.
All the time Hunter was smiling, eyes bright, getting off on the power.
He moved the gun so it was on top of the man’s head and braced.
And Gilbey, smooth as silk, like a man maybe fifty years younger, snatched up his SA80 and unfolded himself to above the top of the rock he was crouched behind, flicking the selector to single shot and racking it, swinging the gun up and raising the butt to his shoulder. All in one slick, seamless movement, like a precise ballet move. He sighted, a single heartbeat and pulled the trigger, then began moving out of cover. Hunter’s head exploded, he fell backward into the dirt with a crash that seemed as loud as the shot. John was now also standing, and out of his peripheral vision saw the blond man turning, moving the shotgun, and John raised his own rifle and aimed it.
The man’s eyes locked on his, and he froze.
John stepped forward.
Then the man glanced at Gilbey and raised the shotgun, John had only one course of action left.
He shot him in the face.
Two down.
The van driver was staring, waving the M16 around, at nothing. The Lincoln driver was waving his hands high in the air. The two men were clearly panicking. Gilbey strode around the rock and stood very still in front of it, with the SA80 fixed at his shoulder.
‘Stand very, very still. Even in this light I can shoot the toenails off a frog from here. Don’t fucking move.’
/>
He walked forward, slowly.
John followed him, stopping at the pick-up. The driver was staring at him. He raised his hands in the air.
‘Get out,’ John ordered.
The man practically fell out the door in his haste. John pulled a Beretta out the man’s pocket and pushed him across to where all the others were.
Gilbey had now reached the circle. He patted the shoulder of the first man standing next to the van, all three were shaking violently and blinking open mouthed at him.
‘It’s ok,’ Gilbey told them quietly, and then turned to the others, gun sighted.
‘All of you, throw down your weapons. I’m not fucking around, I will shoot every one of you dead and won’t lose a second’s sleep you motherfuckers,’ he growled.
The van driver dropped the M16 immediately.
‘Kick it over here you asshole,’ Gilbey ordered.
The van driver kicked it hard, and it slid across the ground. Gilbey pointed his SA80 at the shorter, older man.
‘What the fuck are you waiting for?’ he asked.
‘Do you have any understanding what you are doing? I am an important man,’ the other man blustered, but he threw the Ruger down next to the M16. The taller man walked forward and laid down the Barrett gently, shaking his head.
‘Right, line up in front of the Navigator.’
The men did, the older man, the tall man, the two drivers from the van and the car.
John joined them, pushing the pick-up driver into the line. Then he searched all the men carefully. Both the Regulators were carrying Berettas, and the older man was carrying a five shot chrome plated Smith & Wesson revolver, but the tall man had no other weapons. Mobile phones and wallets were added to the pile. All the men looked bemused, shocked, the older one muttering to himself
‘Where’s the other car?’ John asked, dragging the stack of guns and other items further away.
Everyone looked at him, nobody said anything.
Gilbey stepped forward and slammed the butt of his SA80 hard into the stomach of the van driver, making him double up and topple forward.
‘Who’s next?’
The pick-up driver pointed behind him.
‘It’s back there! At the gate.’
John set off. He walked low, soon back into darkness, keeping the faintly visible ridgeline of the two high banks before the gates in view. They were tall enough to obscure him, but he had no idea where the driver and any passengers in the car would be. They could be anywhere out there in the dark. He was nearly halfway there when another set of headlights appeared, following the same route. He ducked lower and sped up, making it to the banks just as the lights turned the corner. It was another sedan. He peered over and watched, the new headlights lit up the area and he could now see there was a sheriff’s cruiser parked across the gates. The old and tired Impala. This was the sedan they had seen. The car slowed, it was another cruiser, exactly the same. It stopped alongside, so the two drivers were next to each other. The new driver passed something through the window, then drove off. He passed the end of the fence and turned around, and set off back in the direction he had come from. Once the tail lights had vanished John moved forward.
He approached the cruiser from the rear, on the opposite side from the driver. As he got near he could hear music playing quietly. He moved closer, circling the car on the blind side, which was dimly illuminated within by instrument lights.
It was the fat sheriff, eating a box of fried chicken, so it was his dinner that had just been delivered.
He was sitting, staring out the windscreen at nothing and chewing. So he was security. John smiled to himself, he would enjoy this.
He moved back around, slowly, silently, and then yanked the door open and stepped in with the SA80 raised.
‘Well, well,’ he said.
The sheriff was midway through taking a bite. He jumped high in his seat and then turned his head, his mouth dropping open, half chewed chicken falling out into his lap.
‘Out the car fat man,’ John told him, stepping back, keeping the gun trained and happy to be doing it.
The sheriff did as he was told, climbing out with difficulty, the box with his dinner tumbling down and its contents falling onto the dirt. He stood by the car, eyes wide, scared. John leaned forward and took the Colt out of its holster, and removed the handcuffs from his belt. He snapped them painfully tight around the sheriff’s wrists behind his back and then pushed him hard.
‘You alone?’
The sheriff nodded, hope in his eyes.
‘Get going.’
He pushed him along repeatedly with his foot, and then followed the sheriff as the fat man stumbled across and between the banks. It was slow progress, the sheriff kept turning around and pleading ignorance, but John said nothing in reply, just kept pushing the man and trudging back toward the building. It was lit up like a fairground ride in the distance.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As he shepherded Carter across to the circle, John called Patrick, and let him know what was happening. It was hard to keep the disbelief out of his own voice as he recounted the events, with great difficulty he attempted to explain how it had all played out. As he was speaking he knew he was struggling to make it sound credible. But it was all true, and right there, in front of him, in front of everyone.
‘Look Patrick, Cane said it was worse than anyone knew. He’s right, it’s a lot worse. So, this is going to be a major investigation down here, I think this whole place will need to be dug up.’
‘Er … Right! Jesus Christ! Ok, well, sit tight, I’m on my way,’ Patrick told him, he sounded confused and defeated.
Eventually, after a lot of pushing and shoving and even more snivelling they made it back to the circle. Gilbey had changed things around. Now, the remaining Regulators and the two passengers from the Lincoln were sitting on the ground in a line by the side of the van, each one handcuffed to his neighbour by the wrist. The three men from the van were standing next to Gilbey, gratefully drinking from a bottle of water and talking quietly to him, while all the time he kept his gaze fixed on the other men in front of him.
‘Look who I found,’ John told him, and pushed the sheriff so hard he toppled over and unable to reach out to stop himself hit his head hard on the front bumper of the Lincoln.
‘I hate this fat fucking prick, I warned him. I told him I would make him pay,’ John said.
Gilbey walked over and hauled the sheriff to his feet, and then promptly pushed him back down again, even harder so this time he hit the ground solidly on the side of his face.
‘Yeah, I hate that guy too,’ he growled.
He pulled the sheriff to his feet again, which wasn’t easy, and then bundled him over to sit at the end of line, where he sat head down, still snivelling.
‘FBI are on the way,’ John said.
That got an immediate reaction. First, the older man started to insist on seeing the local police, the taller man tried to convince them he had no idea what was going on and the sheriff started whining that he was a law enforcement officer who could explain everything, he had done nothing wrong and he deserved respect.
But Gilbey was staring at the old man, who suddenly realised he was doing it and stopped talking, staring back.
‘I know you. Son of a bitch. Hey John, you’ll never guess who this fucker is.’
John looked but had no idea. He shrugged.
‘This guy, is none other than Judge Gregory Raymer. Chief Justice of the state of Texas.’
‘Raymer?’ John queried.
‘Yep.’
‘Jesus, a lot of people are going to have a score to settle with you.’
The judge looked even more rattled.
‘I have no idea who you are or what you are talking about. I want to get this cleared up and go home, whatever it is you think you are doing you need to understand exactly who you are dealing with and the trouble you are in.’
‘Us?’ laughed Gilbey. ‘Us? So your hobb
y is to run around in the dark murdering a bunch of people and we need to be worried. We just stopped it!’
‘I don’t know anything about that. I was invited to come out here for target practice. I don’t know those men.’
‘Right, target practice at night. And they just happened to be in a van that you travelled down here with. By accident, presumably,’ John added.
‘That’s why I’m here too. Exactly,’ the other man countered rapidly, starting to try to stand up.
Gilbey swung his SA80 around.
‘Just sit down and stay the fuck still. All of you just stay like that. Next one who moves loses their fingers.’
‘You can’t do this. I demand to be freed,’ the judge said, lips quivering.
‘Demand all the hell you want. The Feds are on their way, and you’ll be seeing the court from the other side soon enough, Gilbey told him.
‘Look, ‘the tall man began was trying to stand again. He stopped and dropped down when Gilbey aimed his gun at him.
‘Just move once more. Just once, and I swear I will put a bullet in every one of your fucking skulls. Try me.’
John looked over at the three Hispanic men, who were just standing, shocked, confused and fearful, looking all around them.
‘What’s the story?’ he asked.
Gilbey looked at him and then nodded back at the men.
‘Some guy went over the border, offered them some work. Usual story I think. They’ve been locked in that van for three days. Nothing in there but a bucket.’
‘Jesus.’
But Gilbey had thought of something. He moved forward and grabbed up the sheriff, and pushed him across, back into the centre.
‘Was this the man?’ he asked, looking carefully at the reaction from the three men.
The oldest nodded immediately.
‘Yes. That’s him,’ he said in a weak voice. ‘He came, he was wearing his uniform. It was him.’
