by L. J. Martin
It's time for me to meet with Detective Andre Bollenger and take a look at the video of the pickup driver. I pause at the door and ask Sol one more time. "Are you sure you want to be a part of this?"
I wouldn't have believed Sol was capable of a hard look, but he's giving me one. "I said, final word, and I mean just that."
"Sol, these guys cost Pax lots of dough and damn near killed the best friend I've ever had. They killed a good friend, Rosie, and created a bunch of orphans and dependents. I'm gonna take these guys down, but I'm also going to take every dime of theirs I can get my hands on. You'll make some dough as will every guy who takes the risk with me, but by far the most of it will go to a few kids, a disabled grandma, and whoever got screwed by these guys. Is that agreeable?"
"Pax pays me good. Whatever the deal is, I'm in."
I like the kid because he's good at what he does and works his dick in the dirt, and now I like him even more.
Andre’s office is on the second floor, and I’m not in a mood to wait for an elevator. He’s at his desk in an end of hall office and sees me coming, and is up and out the door, waving me to follow. He turns into a conference room with a screen and one of those small digital projectors on the table, and without so much as a hello, starts the video.
I flop down in a chair and watch a couple of housewives tap the ATM, then a guy who looks like Tom Cruise except he’s way too tall makes a deposit, then flattens himself next to the ATM as a guy hauls ass by at a dead run.
“Can you stop this thing?” I ask, and Andre jumps the disk backwards, runs it a second, and stops it.
I can clearly see it’s the guy called Fitor, with the dirty blonde hair and pockmarked face, but I shrug. “Can’t be positive.”
Andre looks disgusted. “How about a guess?”
“You know how these IDs are, particularly on video—“
“You said you have an idea who might have done this.”
“Andre, I said an idea. I’m not sure.”
“Reardon, you’re dicking me around. You don’t want us to get in the way of whatever you’ve got in your black little heart. I don’t want you shooting up the town…again. So spit it up. Who do you think pulled this off?”
“Andre, if I were even half sure, I’d speak up, but I’m not.”
“I saw your jaw knot when you got a good look at this runner. You know who he is.”
“When I know for sure, I’ll call.”
“Get the fuck out of here. Friend or not, I’m gonna bust your ass if you do your cowboy crap again.”
“When I know for sure, I’ll call.”
He points to the door, and I head out, calling behind me, “Thanks for the show.”
“Yeah, and we got flat screens in the jail now. Why do I get the feeling that’s where you’re headed?”
I wave over my shoulder, and am gone. I’m halfway back to Sol’s apartment when my iPhone jingles out an unknown caller ring, and I answer, “Reardon.”
“I got some good stuff,” Sol reports.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“It’s supper time. You buying the pizza and beer?”
“You got some good stuff and I’m buying a steak.”
“How about where some guys are meeting up to split up eight figures of cash tomorrow night?”
“Foreign guys.”
“Hell, I can’t say half their names.”
“Be out in front and I’ll pick you up.”
As soon as I hang up, I call Skip.
“Hey, man,” he answers, “How’s the Paxman?”
“Healing. Killer Carlos and Tobin show?”
“They did, and they know their stuff. But you’re on the shitlist.”
“With Tammy…how soon they forget.”
“She called you a few names and said she wished you were here so she could fire you in person.”
“I’ll be a while, and she’ll probably fire us both because I need you here tomorrow.”
“There goes my new head of security job.”
“Shit happens.”
“I got no wheels.”
“Cab it to Burbank, get the first flight out and I’ll pick you up, either McCarran or Laughlin. Whichever you can get to the quickest.”
“10-4. I’ll call when I got a seat. I’ll have to leave the duffle bag with these boys.”
“Good. And tell Killer I’m depending upon him.”
“10-4.”
Now to see just what good ol’, or should I say, good young Sol has pried out of hyperspace.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sol, who’s a bit of a health nut, has talked me into P.F. Chang’s rather than a steak house, which suits me fine. He’s halfway through a whole rock cod on a bed of braised vegetables and I’m well into some delicious Peking duck by the time he’s told me the whole story. He pulled a series of emails, none more than hours old, between Edvin Gashi and Armand Ahmeti. They were encrypted and in code so he spent two hours making sense of them.
It seems the conclusion is that Gashi has to stay on the run and he was only able to scrape a little over two million off the count tables at Rocco’s, and wants twelve million more…what he says is a fair figure to buy him out of his half of Rocco’s. Which means at least twelve million bucks will be transported tomorrow, from Rocco’s in Laughlin to the meeting place at a small airport in Quartzsite, Arizona. It seems Gashi doesn’t want to be seen anywhere near Vegas or even Laughlin, which I hope means he’s coming personally.
The boys have traded some harsh words, even threats, via email as it seems Ahmeti was against making the loan to Castiano in the first place even though he did want to own Castiano’s road construction company, then against kidnapping Tammy to try and extort the dough out of her, then adamantly against both bombings—which makes me reconsider turning Ahmeti toes up. However, as part of settling with Gashi for the price he did, I learn Ahmeti’s promised to finish off a couple of guys by the name of Weatherwax and Reardon, and some big blonde guy who they’ve yet to ID.
One should never telegraph one’s punches, even via email. Ahmeti’s back to number two on my dance card.
The good news is my plan was to hit Rocco’s and clean out the count room, and I had a pretty good idea how to do it after studying the plans and seeing that a six-foot by eight-foot pipe tunnel runs under the count room, but now all I have to do is knock over a vehicle transporting a pile of money…and if a few Albanian guys meet their maker in the process, all the better.
But my first course of action is to see that Pax and his people are made as right as can be made by money.
We don’t have a lot of time to come up with a plan. And I don’t have nearly enough in the way of troops. One, in fact, who knows how to wield the weapons that will undoubtedly be necessary.
It’s the Viking and me, and probably at least a half-dozen guns on their side.
Now if Gashi only shows up to pick up his dough, and if Ahmeti himself delivers.
I look up the Quartzsite airport on my iPhone while we’re eating and see it’s only eight hundred feet elevation but only two thousand feet in length. I also look up the requirements for a Cessna Citation CJ4, which is the aircraft they’ve been chartering. The airstrip can’t handle the Citation, so now the question is, will Gashi risk a trip back into the states in some small prop plane? Or will he trust one of his crumb-bums to transport millions? I’ve already made up my mind that I’ll follow him to hell and back, should he not show up.
He’s a dead man so long as I have a breath.
Driving directions tells me it’s ninety miles to Laughlin and another one twenty-five to Quartzrite. So we've got two hundred and fifteen miles to figure out where to take down the boys and their dough.
And I've got a couple of ideas about how to get it done. While Sol is ruining his health with some gooey dessert—after claiming to be a healthnut—I give an old friend a call. Hector Bohannan was a master sergeant and served in Desert Storm, his last duty station, when Pax and I di
d. Like both of us, he ended up in Vegas and as he was a ground supply expert he took a job with a large equipment rental concern. The owner, Bobby Howard Beuford, BoHo to his friends, was an Alabama boy and an ex-member of the KKK, and Bohannan, Bojangles as he was called by those of us who served with him, is big, black—however, in the Corps, we're all green—and like most Corps master sergeants, takes no shit from no one. For some unknown reason the two of them bonded, and when Beuford died of a heart attack, sans heirs, Hector found himself in his will and owning BHB Equipment, a couple of million bucks worth of rental business.
And even at eight PM, Bojangles answers his business line—I heard it click over to call forwarding—on the second ring.
"You can't afford a secretary, or what?" I ask without bothering with hello.
"I do believe I recognize this po' old broken down voice as that of drummed out of the Corps candy ass Mike Reardon. Wha's up, easy money?"
"I'll go for all of that except candy ass. I can still take you two out of three falls."
"You and the rest of your squad maybe."
"How the hell are you, Bojangles?"
"Still shakin' it. You ain't calling me to check on my health, bro, so what's up?"
"I need a flat bed, a dozen of those big old orange and yellow barrels they use on the highway to divert traffic, a trailer behind the truck with a skip loader aboard—if that's the way you haul 'em—a dump truck, and one of those programmable signs to tell traffic what's up down the road."
"Oh, shit. Who's day are you gonna ruin now...and do you have a driver's license so's we can execute a legitimate rental agreement?"
"Since when do you and I need an agreement, legit or not?"
"Since I knows you're probably gonna fuck everything up and my insurance won't be worth dog doo unless I gots an agreement. And I guess you gots cash to pay up front?"
"I got a license. I got cash. Dick Strong from Tallahassee, Florida."
"I don't give a damn if it's George Clooney from Hollywood, so long as it passes muster and you sign the name on the license on my rental agreement so's my insurance is good to go."
"I can be at your yard in thirty minutes. You got security cameras?"
"Sure."
"Then I'll be disguised a wee bit. Don't let it bother you."
"Unless you come as Beelzebub, it don't mean squat."
"I'll be a little ugly, not that ugly. I need to hire a couple of guys, who meet your standards, five hundred each for the next twenty-four hours. Guys who can operate the equipment. And they gotta go with the gear in an hour or so."
"You gonna get them shot?"
"No, but they gotta be able to keep their mouths shut."
"I got a couple of guys who need the work. But they are good guys and I don't want them to get hurt or end up in the joint."
"Make it a grand a day and so long as they do their job, they won't get hurt or crossways with the law."
"Your word is good enough for me. Now I gotta go explain to the big boss why I gotta go back to work."
"Do it, and tell Aletha I still love her."
"You ain't big enough or near black enough for my mama to love you back, so don't get your hopes up."
"Tell her anyway."
"I will, bro, see you in a half hour."
With a buddy in Hollywood who's into special effects, I'm well stocked with disguises. I've got a cigar size box in my van with a bill cap with plastic props that flare my ears until I look a little like Dumbo, with nostril inserts that make my nose as wide as Bojangles, and with cheek inserts making me look a little like the Godfather. It's enough to screw up facial recognition software and right before I get to BHB I pull into a mini-market to fill the tank, then take the time to rearrange my face.
I conclude my business with Bojangles and return to Sol's place while the boys, Frank Pattison and Dallas McQueen, who I've hired, wait in the parking lot in the trucks. If the way they loaded the truck is any example, and the calluses on their hands an indicator, both of them know how to get a job done. And the best news, they ask no questions.
Sol's assignment is to track the Albanians and keep me apprised of their movements. It's a little over a three-hour drive from Laughlin to Quartzsite, and their meeting with the other half of the Albanian contingency is set up for six PM, which means they'll have to leave by 2:30 or so.
Luckily, as I'm heading back to the parking lot, my phone rings with the Theme from Odin. It's Skip.
"I'll be in Laughlin in an hour and a half."
"It'll take me at least that long to get there, in fact I'll be at least a half hour late as I've got to go to the mini-storage. Be at the curb in two hours. We've got lots of work to do tonight."
"10-4."
I pick a spot to meet Frank and Dallas and head for the mini-storage to stock the van with any of my weapons and tricks I might need, and am off to try and make things as right as I can.
And it may just take all the tricks I know, to do so.
With Sol on his way to Laughlin to keep track of the Albanians, I'm on my way to pick up Skip. I question if two of us are enough, but two's what it's gonna be.
We need to do a recon of the site, and it's gotta be by eyeballs. Even Google Earth won't suffice.
We're a convoy. Skip and I in the van, the flatbed loaded with the big rubber barrels and the lighted highway information sign towing a trailer loaded with a skip loader, and the dump truck. I let Skip take the wheel of the van so I can catch an hour of zees in the cot in the back of the van—cramped as the Harley Iron shares the space—and Frank Pattison is on the wheel of the flatbed and Dallas McQueen is driving the dump truck. Bojangles assured me they were expert with the operation of the sign and the skip loader.
We’re all gonna have to be very, very good at what we do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The fastest route from Laughlin takes you south into California for a while, down to Needles, California where you pick up Highway I-40, then onto US95 south toward Parker, Arizona, then south the Blythe, and on south to Quartzsite. You're in three states during the short trip. Basically following the Colorado River as it meanders to Mexico.
But I don't plan to go as far as the third state.
Before you get to Parker, while still in California, I happen to know just the right spot to handle the heist and dispatch the Albanians—with luck, Fitor and his boss Ahmeti, in California. Then, hopefully, onto the Quartzsite airport and Gashi, if he shows.
Vidal Junction will do just fine.
Knowing there's a California Highway Patrolman who hangs out at Vidal Junction, the site of an inspection station, we’ve got to be careful. But I know the area and that's a great big advantage.
I've been there before, where I started a fight between a dozen or more cartel guys who ended up doing most of my work for me as they thought they were mad at each other, thanks to Pax's machinations on Photoshop and the computer.
Highway 95 is a two-lane road, with a few tight spots that'll be easy to block...or should I say easy to detour the traffic with a nearly phony blockage. And just before that tight spot is a turn off to an abandoned talc mine. And the road there, at least the first half mile even though gravel, looks good enough to serve as a detour.
We recon the tight spot then I show Frank and Dallas a good place to get off the road and unload the skip loader so they can fill the dump truck. Then another spot where they can park the dump truck just beyond where they'll block the road. It's critical that things go like clockwork as this is a highway and blocking it for long will be a cluster fuck that's untenable and worse, one that will be difficult from which to escape. Needless to say, it will attract the California Highway Patrol who might take umbrage if there’s a gun battle going on nearby.
While Skip and I recon the gravel road to the mine, Frank and Dallas load the dump truck then program the trailered LED highway sign.
We've got lots of time as all of this is done by mid-morning. Vidal Junction is a wide spot in the road
, with an inspection station operated by the State of California, a gasoline service station, and a gas and diesel truck stop with cafe and small motel. So we head for the cafe to fuel the body as Skip and I have no idea how long it will be before we chow down again.
The hell of it is I can never eat much when I have an op staring me in the face, particularly an op where the other side has all the odds. They've got the numbers, but we've probably got the firepower with some trick electronics, fully automatic weapons, a sniper rifle that either Skip and I are better than average with—Pax is the expert and I wish he were on it—and an RPG in case things get really serious. But I don’t want to use it as paper money burns, and with luck the van will be chock-full.
Skip has no problem with chow and while I fight my way through a couple of eggs, a side of bacon, and a piece of wheat toast, he dusts off biscuits and gravy, a chicken fried steak that covers the plate, three eggs, and a short stack. I'm surprised he can walk but am not surprised when he suggests, "We've got a few hours so let's head back to the road to the mine so I can catch some zees."
I laugh. "Okay." Then I turn to Dallas and Frank. "You guys have some reading material or a deck of cards?"
Dallas was the talkative one. "I brought a Playboy and a Sports Afield. We're good to go."
"I'll call you and give you at least an hour's notice."
"Yeah, we got it."
So we head back.
The road to the mine is flanked by small hills and some small ravines cross it, some edged with mesquite, some with smoke trees, and one small hill crowned by a pair of cottonwoods. From the cottonwoods it's only a hundred yards to where I plan to stop the Albanians.
One of my favorite gadgets is a black Parrot Jumping Sumo Bluetooth Robot Insect Mini Drone, a mouthful of a name for a device that's only about fourteen inches wide at the wheel base and about eight inches tall, which is at first glance a little more than a video camera mounted between two wheels but in fact is much more. It's radio controlled, will actually jump obstacles, and will move at over six feet a second.
I find a spot under a greasewood bush, a spot where it has easy access to the road, and top it with a fist sized gob of Semtex and insert a telephone activated detonator. It's now a bomb that can see and crawl, in fact run and jump.
