by J K Ellem
There was nothing else here. The place was creepy, and had a sinister feel to it. Shaw turned to leave then stopped.
A glint of something came from the dirt floor, just a wink, nothing bright but something shiny enough to catch the suppressed light as Shaw turned around, the flashlight pointed downwards.
He crouched down and held the flashlight an inch above the brown dirt, a small intense circle of light formed, the object within its corona.
It was a small silver identity bracelet, oval nametag, clasp broken and hanging from each side. Shaw turned it over and squinted at the tag.
Annie.
A woman’s name, engraved in small neat letters, upper and lower case with a tiny love heart at the end.
Shaw pressed the flashlight against his thigh and stood up, the tiny bracelet in his hand, and looked around the shed again.
He slipped the bracelet into his pocket, then squatted down again. Careful not to wave the flashlight around he searched the immediate area around where he had found the bracelet, allowing some of the light to spill through his fingers.
Then his heart skipped a beat. Something small, cubic, white with a yellow tinge lay in the dirt.
It was a tooth.
After leaving the tin shed, Shaw continued his direct line over the next set of hills. But with each step he could feel like he was approaching something malevolent, like it was drawing him in, pulling him across the darkened landscape towards its core. Another mile further he felt the cold seeping in to his gut and he could see the horizon lighten around the edges of the hills in the distance.
He was getting close.
He reached a larger hill, steeper than the others, like a natural wall. It was harder getting up it too, and a few times he lost his footing and slid backwards through a river of loose stones, rocks and dirt as he went. But he kept going, determined to reach the top and see what was on the other side.
He could feel the atmosphere change as he crawled the last few feet, on his stomach, his hands and knees dragging him up the slope towards the summit.
Fragments of sound drifted down towards him. Laughter, voices and a brightening glow that rimmed the jagged edge above him.
He squeezed between two large rocks at the top and found himself on a narrow ridge with just a few feet of scrub before it dropped away on the other side. He crawled slowly towards the edge on the opposite side, pausing behind a low rock formation.
Below was a wide expanse of flat land. The surrounding hills formed a natural horseshoe shape around it like a crater, screening it, protecting it as a natural fortification. Nestled at one end, nearest to Shaw was huge complex of buildings, like a mini city, brightly lit and in the middle of nowhere.
A ribbon of black asphalt lit by light poles led to a main entrance where there was a formidable-looking guardhouse and barrier gate. The road snaked away from the entrance back towards the main highway. The complex was a series of buildings, large machinery sheds, open-style workshops, storage areas, and a large solar panel array. There were roads and pathways linking everything and hangers that housed an assortment of vehicles all lined up in neat rows under flood lights. There were ATVs, various pickup trucks, and a few loaders. A high perimeter fence of mesh ringed the entire place with tall light towers spaced evenly, throwing pools of light.
Callie was wrong in her description. It wasn’t a compound or homestead. It was a small city, and it reminded Shaw of an arctic base-camp only much bigger. Totally self-sufficient in the desolate landscape. He could see huge generators for back-up power, a refueling station with large diesel tanks housed on frames, and a cluster of satellite dishes next to a row of portable site buildings that looked like barracks or offices. The place gave off enough light that it seemed like the sun in the middle of a well-organized and laid out solar system.
Shaw pulled out the compact binoculars he had brought.
On an opposite hill, a series of lights snaked up a steep driveway and, perched at the top, overlooking the entire complex, was a wide sprawling house of stone, timber, glass and steel. Even in the dark with the exterior lights on, the house looked massive, its architecture modern but rustic, designed to incorporate elements of the surrounding terrain. It looked like resort-style hunting lodge, but on a more opulent scale.
But there were no obvious cattle yards, livestock pens or any traces that a typical ranch would have. Maybe the main working ranch was located somewhere else. Daisy had said that the Morgans owned over tens of thousand of acres. To Shaw, the complex looked like the nerve-center of the entire Morgan operation.
Shaw did another slow pan of the area. There were no security cameras as far as he could tell. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t any. The best surveillance was the one you couldn’t see. Most CCTV cameras were setup for the public to notice, to act as a deterrent. But here the lack of any obvious cameras made Shaw feel uneasy. The operation looked too slick, too modern, too expensive to leave security as an afterthought.
* * *
“Where is he?” The man with the short grey hair said. He sat in a small office surrounded by screens and keyboards, and spoke into a headset mike.
His ear buzzed with a reply. “He’s on the west ridge, just near the edge, about two hundred feet up and about three hundred feet out from the perimeter. He’s watching through a pair of binoculars, not night-vision. We’ve got eyes on him from the air, about three hundred feet behind him on the diagonal. At this point he’s still blind on that. It will hold that position, but we’ll follow him in if he moves.”
The man with the grey hair hit the mute button. He eyes were cold, hard and grey like granite, and focused on the image of man on the screen. He could see the ‘intruder’, as they had designated him, on the screen in front of him, a ghostly shape outlined in the green wash of the night-vision camera. “You’ve either got balls, son or you're extremely stupid,” the man said to the mass of pixels on the screen.
He couldn’t clearly make out the intruder's face, but the man with the grey hair knew who it was. It was the same person who was with the girl today, the two of them on horseback they had stopped. Some people called it gut instinct or intuition. He preferred to call it a career built on hunting and killing people like this.
He took his mike off mute. “If he gets to the fence, shoot him.”
24
As he saw it, he had two choices: either turn around and go back to the warmth of the bunkhouse and catch some much-needed sleep. Or take a closer look at the sprawling complex below.
But Shaw had spent most of his life not choosing the comfortable, warm, conservative option. He much preferred taking the risk, taking the option that was often uncomfortable, cold and more challenging. And that had made all the difference in his life. A better difference.
He tucked the binoculars back into his jacket pocket and slithered over the edge, head first, down the slope towards the fence. He wanted to take a closer look. Just a look. Nothing more.
Maybe.
He took his time, careful not to dislodge rocks and stones, following a zig-zag pattern as he descended, crouching all the way, the dark fading to grey the closer he got. He came off the hill and crouched behind a large boulder, taking a moment to assess.
The distance to the fence was still another two hundred yards or so, he figured. There were wide patches of semi-darkness where the fence lights didn’t reach and that’s where he intended to make for.
There was another reason as well. There was a row of shipping containers, big boxy shapes of corrugated steel with faded paint and hinged doors, lined up neatly on the inside of the fence. They would provide good cover as he approached, if anyone was looking in his direction from inside the fence.
To get to the fence there was another stretch of no-mans-land. No cover. No trees, No rocks. Just flat dry ground with sparse knee-high scrub. But it was still fairly dark where the shipping containers had thrown tall shadows towards his direction.
There were voices beyond the fence, gr
uff and deep, that carried through the cold air, workmen banter coming from the front of a nearby building that looked like a temporary site office.
A forklift went past on the inside of the fence, its lights bobbing up and down, an empty pallet on its forks.
Shaw edged forward, crouching as he moved, gravel crunching under his boots, the fence looming towards him. He could see some of the buildings in more detail, but his vision narrowed as the shape of the shipping containers grew. He angled slightly to the right, wanting to get a clearer view of the two men who were talking near the site office. They wore hardhats, bright yellow.
It was a cattle ranch, so why the hard hats? Why all the machinery and trucks and sheds? The closer Shaw got, the more he realized the place looked like a construction site, not a cattle ranch. Maybe he had gotten lost. Maybe this wasn’t the Morgan’s ranch. Maybe he had followed a wrong line as he crossed the hills and ended up somehow on an adjacent property.
He kept moving forward, towards the fence, his eyes on the men. There was something strange about them, something out of place.
Then he stopped, the fence twenty feet away, the hard edge of a shipping container shielding him. He crabbed sideways, still crouching, wanting to get a better view of the men. They stood near a white pickup truck in front of the office. There was a corporate logo on the side of the pickup, but it was too dark and too far away to see it clearly. It looked like a triangle with diagonal lines in the middle.
It was too late when Shaw heard the sound.
Then that moment of dread when the brain registered the sound. It came from above, like a large angry wasp.
Then the soft sound of feet on dirt.
Shaw turned.
Three men stood behind him, dressed head-to-toe in black fatigues, night vision goggles, weaponry trained on him.
Shaw did the only logical thing and raised his hands.
One man stepped forward, swiveled his assault rifle to his side on a sling, drew a handgun from a drop-leg holster in one smooth motion and shot Shaw dead-center in the chest.
* * *
Shaw was dead. He could feel it. They had buried him in the ground. No flowers. No speeches. A few people had come to pay their respects, but they offered no sympathy. He could see them, blurred and out of arm's reach they hovered above him, ghostly images that moved under the insides of his eye lids.
His body felt crushed under tons of dirt, soil and rock. Deep down in his tomb. He couldn’t breath, the pressure around him too much to move his diaphragm, like his lungs had forgotten how to draw air. Every fiber of every muscle, every strand of every nerve-ending ached like his body had been fed through the rollers of some machine, and he had come out the other end flattened.
The ground shook as a hand burrowed its way through the dirt and soil above, and down to where his corpse lay in the darkness. The ground above parted slightly, letting in some light and slowly the insides of his eyelids warmed red. More light came and his chest moved. He sucked in air through clenched teeth, his jaw and head aching.
A hand found then gripped his shoulder. Then a voice from far away.
“Mr. Shaw.”
His name, calling to him.
Then again, “Mr. Shaw. Wake up.”
He opened his eyes and came awake in a flurry, sucking in deep breaths.
Slowly his surroundings came into focus.
A woman, small-framed, old but with kind eyes of concern stood in front of him, one hand still on his shoulder, either to settle him or restrain him, he couldn’t tell. He wanted to snap her neck because he needed to. Someone had to pay for how he felt and she was the nearest person.
She smiled at him, a paper cup in her hand, which she offered. She guided the lip of the cup towards his mouth like he was a child, not capable of his own biomechanics. Water passed over his numb lips and a little dribbled down the side of his mouth. He was reduced to a child, numb, dribbling and reliant.
“What have you done to me?” he croaked. He drank some more.
Slowly his senses; sight, smell, touch, and feeling began to recalibrate back to normal, but he knew he would be far from normal for a few hours yet.
Then he realized what had happened.
“You tasered me?” Shaw asked her. The nurse stepped back as if to say not me.
The room came into focus, and he looked beyond her.
“It was necessary, Mr. Shaw. You were trespassing.” A man stepped around from behind a huge ornate desk. The room was a cavernous affair of high ceilings with exposed beams, walls of stone and hewn timber, plush leather couches, thick woven rugs, a massive fireplace encased in a heath of mortared river rock, logs thick and flaming within, floor to ceiling bookcases of dark heavy timber housed rows of leather books. Chandeliers shaped like antlers hung from the ceiling on thick links of black chain.
The room dripped of authority and refinement, a reflection of the man who now stood in front of Shaw.
“I was worried for your safety, Mr. Shaw. I didn’t want any harm to come to you.”
Shaw rubbed his neck concerned that his head might fall off. He felt like he had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, Evander Holyfield and Lennox Lewis all at the same time.
“You shocked me?” he asked again, as he shifted on the leather couch, not confident that he could stand up. He felt sick, he felt sore, but most of all he felt livid.
The man stepped closer, “Please accept my apologies, Mr. Shaw. My name is James Morgan. But everybody calls me Jim.”
Shaw felt like calling him something else, a word starting with the letter ‘C’ came to mind, but held the urge.
Jim Morgan didn’t offer his hand to shake and if he had, Shaw would have broken it.
Jim Morgan was a big man. Impressive and powerful, matching the room they were in. His face weathered with age and experience, short-cropped grey hair, and intelligent brown eyes capable of extracting the truth from anyone. He had a manner that was warm, but authoritative. He was a man used to getting whatever he wanted.
“It was that or shoot you dead,” Jim Morgan said, looking over his shoulder. The man with the grey hair stood off to one side in the room, like a tiger waiting to pounce, one hand on the grip of his handgun, eyes intent on Shaw.
“Mr. Cole here wanted a more—permanent solution to your presence,” Jim Morgan said, a slight smile across his face. “I have the safety of my staff to think about. We can’t have strangers just coming on to our property and allow them to just wonder around.”
“So what, I’m now your prisoner?”
Jim Morgan threw back his head and laughed, deep and resonating. “Oh no, Mr. Shaw. Definitely not. I consider you to be my guest.”
The response seemed genuine, but there was something below the surface of the man's face that made Shaw feel anything but a guest.
Jim Morgan nodded, and the nurse stepped forward and took Shaw’s pulse. “You will be sore for a few hours, but the effects will wear off,” she said, her small, delicate fingers on his wrist. Her demeanor sounded as though he had just a mild headache and that it was an everyday occurrence to zap guests with fifty-thousand volts.
The nurse gave a nod to Jim Morgan and left the room.
Shaw pushed himself up on the couch, but hated that he couldn’t stand, his legs jelly. Jim Morgan was standing. He wanted to stand in front of him. Look him in the eye on equal terms, but Shaw was at a distinct disadvantage. He was incapacitated and he didn’t like it one bit. He once had taken a 40 caliber round to the chest with full body-armor on, and was winded for a few minutes. This was worse.
Jim Morgan lowered his large frame into a wing-backed chair across from Shaw. For a large man he moved with grace and poise, and he spoke like a politician, always saying what people wanted to hear while the true design of his machinations remained hidden behind his eyes.
“Now Mr. Shaw, can I offer you a drink? Maybe a scotch? I have a single malt that I bring in especially from Scotland, from a distillery just north of Inverness.” Mor
gan rose again without waiting for a response and went to a sideboard that was stacked with every conceivable bottle of liquor. He poured a generous measure of liquor into two heavy glass tumblers, then returned and offered one to Shaw. “If you don’t drink scotch, Mr. Shaw, then we’re not going to get along.”
Shaw looked at the glass. It was thick and heavy, and the amber liquid swirled. No ice. No water. He could take the glass and in a split-second bury it into Jim Morgan’s throat. He would bleed out in under thirty seconds and make a real mess of the Indian Cherokee rug.
As if reading his mind Jim Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Let’s just put our differences aside for a moment and share a drink like civilized men. I don’t want Mr. Cole to have his way with you after all. He took a lot of convincing not to kill you.” Jim Morgan proffered the glass again and Shaw took it.
Slowly he raised it to his lips and took a sip.
Christ, it tasted good. Immediately the scotch spread down his throat and began to bring life back into his body.
Jim Morgan saw his expression. “Yes, it’s the best medicine money can buy.” Morgan sat down again and Cole remained standing in the background, his eyes never leaving Shaw like it was a battle of wills.
“Now, I have a favor to ask you Mr. Shaw, or can I call you Ben?”
Shaw knew the drill. He had used it a thousand times before during interrogations. First you make the suspect feel comfortable, unthreatened, then you ask them a favor like you were indebted to them. But then that would be reversed eventually until they felt obligated to tell you everything. If they didn’t comply, then the favor would turn into threats. Not threats of violence, but the usual threats of incarceration, like how many years did they want to spend in a federal prison? Ten? Twenty? It was up to them. It was their fault. They weren’t going to get a lawyer. The Patriot Act wouldn’t allow it. So start talking or you’ll never see the light of day. But somehow Shaw knew that Jim Morgan would offer violence, like his sons, if he didn’t get what he wanted. Shaw was looking at a master of reverse manipulation, the tutor of his sons. The acorn never fell far from the tree.
