Diablo

by James Kent

  ‘Thanks for the concern, but you don’t need to worry. I know how these guys think. I’ve dealt with them before.’

  Sally nodded and said, ‘If you say so! I’ll see what I can do.’ She was about to stand to leave when Pearman threw her a curveball.

  ‘Oh, one last thing . . . Who or what the hell is “Reaper”?’

  Sally was taken completely by surprise by the question. She sat back in her seat and looked at Pearman for a few seconds, thinking. Then she said, ‘“Reaper”? Never heard of it. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve heard there’s a program called “Reaper”. Rumor has it that it’s run from here. Is it someone’s code name? Is it something Simms is involved with?’

  ‘No idea! Never heard of it.’

  Pearman studied her without saying anything more. The signs were all there again in her face. Signs of lying. She knows about that too! she thought. More lies!

  ‘So, if there’s nothing else,’ said Sally, ‘I’ll get back to work.’ She stood and headed for the door, passing Pearman’s desk without looking at her. She opened the door, then turned and said, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing!’ She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Pearman stared at the closed door and muttered to herself, ‘So do I, Sally! So do I!’

  12

  Boulder City, Nevada.

  Swann got to Boulder City late in the day and was ready for a meal. It was already getting dark. It had been a long day since leaving Los Angeles, nearly a five-hour drive via the Mojave Freeway, plus a couple of stops along the way, and he had left later than planned. He’d been playing his favorite CDs as he drove through the desert country, the sun-baked arid harshness of the Mojave highway and the hypnotic voices of Sade, Nina Simone, Amy Winehouse and then the deep, earthy sound of John Lee Hooker. Blues and jazz. It all worked, filling in the emptiness of the desert miles, making him think.

  Swann loved the stark, straight-forward honesty of the desert. The desert is what it is. No question. There are no uncertainties, no misunderstandings. The desert was like the ocean; there’s no forgiveness for your failings, nothing for your mistakes. You own them. Period. You mess up, you’re dead. Yet the music he was listening to contrasted the hot, bleak environment he was driving through. It was sad, but full of hope. Swann loved the blues almost as much as he loved his women. They’re the opposite of the desert and the ocean. Women are complicated beings with labyrinthine emotions and feelings that you couldn’t fathom, kind of like the Gordian Knot, impossible to unravel. Perilous to try. What you see isn’t always what you get. But women and music reminded him of what really mattered in life . . . what really matters besides women, blues . . . and single malt Scotch? He couldn’t think of what that might be. Ok, getting even is what! That matters! Swann-type justice is what. The kind of measured justice you get when you blare your horn at Swann with no good reason, like when some jerk in a pimped-out lime-green Taurus blasted his horn at him the other day. So yes, justice also matters. The jerk soon found that out.

  Swann smiled as he thought about that incident. Apparently, he had taken a couple of seconds too long to accelerate after the lights changed to green. The jerk behind him became impatient and decided to let him know about it by leaning on his horn. Big mistake. Swann stopped his vehicle in the middle of the intersection. He got out and walked up to the guy sitting in the nasty-looking Taurus. He rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side window and motioned for him to roll it down. Then he leaned in the open window, looked at the jerk sitting there and asked with deep, quiet menace, ‘You called?’ The guy freaked at the size of the monster leaning in his window and backed away as much as he could, into his seat with his hands up in the universal placatory gesture, ‘No, no it’s all good. Sorry! I meant no offence!’ he replied timidly. He seemed to shrink as though trying to make himself insignificant, invisible. Swann, still looking at him, nodded and said, ‘Yeah, I thought not!’ Then he walked back to his vehicle, taking his time doing it. He slowly took off again without hearing any more from the guy behind.

  This is the thing with driving through vast empty country, Swann thought. You always have time to think, time to reminisce or reconsider what might have been. The jerk in the Taurus reminded him of an incident two years ago when he was out riding his Triumph Bonneville, enjoying the afternoon fresh air along a quiet country road in the middle of nowhere. Some asshole in a pickup deliberately passed too close to him as he cruised by, his rear tires kicking up gravel and showering Swann with dust and grit. He was clearly hoping Swann would come off the bike and end up sprawled in the long grass along the side of the road, looking a fool. All for a bit of cheap fun. The guy in the pickup was laughing as he drove away. But Swann wasn’t amused. He managed to stay upright, despite having to swerve sharply to avoid being hit. As soon as he regained control of the bike, he took off after the guy in the truck. The guy put his foot down but couldn’t shake Swann off his tail. The race continued for mile after mile, the truck trying to outpace the bike. A hopeless task. Eventually the guy in the pickup gave up trying; he probably hoped Swann would get bored and give up the chase, having made his point. But Swann continued to follow him, all the way back into town, through the center of the city and on, right to the guy’s home. Swann pulled up into the guy’s driveway, just behind the pickup. He climbed off the bike, put it up on its stand and then he followed the guy into his house, kicking the door open just as it was closing on him; the guy was starting to panic as he tried to push the door shut against Swann’s foot, leaning in against it. He failed. Swann heaved the door open, pushing the guy backwards, and went inside.

  No one knows what happened after that. When retelling the story to a friend in the Bureau some months later, Swann said cryptically, ‘I convinced him it was a dumb idea!’ That’s all he would say. It was, of course, an understatement. The guy was so traumatized, he took the next week off work on sick leave. Another lesson learned.

  Ok, point taken, thought Swann. Justice matters as much as women and blues and single malt Scotch!

  Then he arrived in Boulder and switched off the music. He started scanning the horizon. Scanning for what? Anything. Nothing, Old habits. Time to get serious he thought. Everything else can wait. But the justice can’t.

  *

  Boulder City was more than just a stopover on his way to Caliente, two hour’s drive north-east of Las Vegas. It was one of the last two locations Silva’s old cell phone had been picked up making encrypted calls to some gangster in South Korea who was in contact with someone inside the DPRK. But why here? Maybe nothing in it, but Swann hoped to find out for certain. Hopefully the creep who calls himself “Diablo” would still be here thinking he was safe.

  Swann drove into the center of town, along the Nevada Highway, then he cruised slowly past the motels, shops and restaurants, turned right onto Colorado, then right again and back along 5th Street to Nevada again. He pulled over to the side of the street and parked outside the small diner on the corner where he could clearly see the large motel, The Desert Ranch, next door. Swann sat there for a few minutes, assessing the place, noting the vehicles parked in the carpark, the layout and where the main office was.

  From the information he’d been given by Agents Henderson and Gifford before leaving L.A., Swann knew the location of the last call to within a few yards that placed it squarely in the middle of the motel. Silva must have set up shop there temporarily before heading back up north to this one-horse town called Caliente. But a motel seemed an unlikely place for planning a cyber heist with a hostile foreign agent. That in itself confused Swann. Maybe Silva had a girlfriend here or maybe he’d just passed through on a couple of occasions, stopped for breakfast, or dinner like he was doing, and decided to make a few calls each time to tie up some loose ends. Even assholes had to eat. He couldn’t begrudge him that. But Boulder City was not exactly on the main drag through Vegas if you’re coming from the south, say, from Needles in California. It required a detour.


  He pulled out from the curb, drove on slowly then he turned into the motel carpark. He needed to get a room for the night so what better place than right here? Besides, it would be easier to check the place out if he had a room in the same motel. Maybe he’d get lucky and Diablo would be caught with his pants down, unprepared for the nine-millimeter reminder that would be coming his way at a thousand feet per second.

  Swann parked and walked over to the main office. He asked the woman behind the desk for room number 14, which he guessed would put it right next to the one used by Diablo if the GPS coordinates obtained from his cell phone were accurate enough. Whatever. It didn’t really matter because Swann would find him anyway if he was still there. It was just convenience. Why walk twenty yards to kick someone’s door down when you could just get the room next door? He got the keys and walked back to his vehicle then re-parked it right outside his unit. After checking the place out, and dumping his bag on the bed, he locked the door and decided to head back into town, a very short drive. Swann wasn’t too worried if someone broke into his unit because all they would find were his clothes. Big deal. His vital items, special equipment and weapons were either on him, or they would stay well secured in the Raptor, at least for the meantime.

  He needed to eat something solid after the cheap fast food joints he’d stopped at on the way. It was unlikely, in Swann’s estimation, that Silva and his guys would be moving on till morning if they were still in town; he would probably be settling in for the night, so it was worth the risk of refueling first. And then he’d plan his next move. He pulled out of the motel carpark, turned right onto Nevada and parked the Raptor two blocks further down. He slid the SIG nine-mil pistol into his shoulder holster after checking the action and that the magazine was full, then he climbed out, locked and armed the vehicle and headed towards the restaurants he could see just a short walk further up. The gun was well concealed by his loose-fitting leather jacket.

  Then he noticed the thin, weedy guy as he walked along Nevada Way. The guy looked shifty and was clearly following him, but keeping his distance, hoping Swann wouldn’t notice the tail as the shadows lengthened. Swann entered the diner across the street to see what would happen. He had time to kill, and perhaps this loser as well if he got in the way. Was he some cocaine addict fixing to rob him? Good luck with that! he thought. He ordered strong, black coffee and a New York steak sandwich, with steak and lettuce and tomato and other commendable ingredients on slightly toasted rye. And fries on the side. A fine-looking item, thought Swann. He sat at a red, cigarette-stained table towards the rear, but facing the door. A noisy, inefficient air-conditioning unit emitted a pointless breath of choked air; its grilled wall vent was clogged with dust. The air-conditioning groaned from old age and neglect and competed with a ceiling fan to keep the joint cool. A large plant of some type obscured Swann’s view of the door - which meant that he too was screened to anyone walking in. The plant’s giant green leaves on long stalks waved slightly because of the ceiling fan. Swann had no idea what the plant was. Something from the Amazon perhaps. Maybe a Triffid from the horror movie. Not a desert plant, so an import. Whatever. Who gives a shit?

  Eventually the guy came in too, looking jumpy and uncertain, hesitant; an amateur trying to look tough and sure of himself, but failing and looking sad instead. He wore polaroid type sunglasses and motorcycle leathers, his black hair slicked back with too much gel. Helmet hair perhaps. Why was he wearing sunglasses when it was growing dark outside? To hide his eyes? Maybe a coward, thought Swann who almost felt sorry for him, thinking what kind of sadistic bastard would send such a hopeless loser out to tail him. If that’s what this was. The guy seemed unsure of what to do next. He approached the counter like he was going to order something, but at the last minute changed his mind. He briefly looked over towards Swann and caught his eye, then just as quickly looked away. He suddenly turned and walked out to the street again, nearly tripping over the tables outside on the pavement in his confusion and apparent haste to leave. Had he lost his nerve? He crossed Nevada Way and disappeared around the corner and headed south. Swann sat there with his black coffee and steak sandwich, amused at the unfolding comedy. Things weren’t making much sense. Who was this little twerp? Was he thinking to rob him or did he somehow know Swann was in town, assuming that’s why he was trying to follow him? Was he connected to this Diablo thing? Something was going on.

  It was time to find out what.

  Finishing his coffee and sandwich ten minutes later, Swann got up, paid the waitress and left a tip, then he walked out onto the street. He turned onto Arizona Street and headed east. He wasn’t worried about losing sight of the nerd because it was obvious he was trying to keep tabs on him for whatever reason - probably under instructions from his boss to see who Swann was; to see who the big guy was who had been sitting in the dusty Ford F150 across the street eyeing up the motel. That bit made sense at least, except for the poor choice in who he sent to find out: some gangly lightweight with no muscle, a puny punk, meagre on the manhood. A suicide mission if ever there was one. And it was the most amateurish effort of tailing someone Swann had ever come across. That bit was strange too. The guy would no doubt continue following him; something he wouldn’t normally allow, but on this occasion, he wanted to know what was going on, and who he was. And besides, it was a bit of fun.

  Swann was aware of the guy a block behind him as he walked fast towards Utah Street. He must have watched and waited out of sight, hiding in the shadows for when Swann would leave the diner, then try to follow him again. He’s probably struggling to keep up, thought Swann smiling to himself. Good!

  Swann noticed that the guy stopped walking every time he stopped; he would quickly side-step into a driveway out of sight. An amateur. Swann kept walking as though he was unaware that he was being followed. He turned a corner and walked down a short side street. The guy still followed. Swann walked on, turned another corner then disappeared from view; he quickly circled around to where they had passed only moments before, which allowed him to double back on the guy undetected. Swann now saw him just a few yards in front.

  The guy stopped, having lost sight of his quarry and was now unsure which way to turn. Swann silently and stealthily closed the gap, his eyes boring into the back of his head. He was a few feet behind him as the guy made a decision to turn right again, but then he hesitated and looked left, reconsidering. They were both now in dark shadows, out of the street lighting. No one else around. The sounds of distant traffic and night insects floated on the cool evening air; a stereo somewhere was playing Enigma’s Mea Culpa.

  Swann, as silent as a shadow, watched the guy for a second, a mere six feet in front; he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses anymore. They were perched up on top of his greasy hair. Probably decided he couldn’t see as well with them in the dark so he slid them up. Then Swann smacked him in the side of the head, a flat-handed whack to the ear, which stunned and deafened him, made his ear ring like a bell; a hand the size of a leg-of-ham he never saw coming knocked him sideways. He staggered, crashing into the block fence as his sunglasses flew off his head and clattered across the ground. Swann stepped on them, crushing them, a satisfying crunch under his boot; then he kicked the guy’s legs out from under him and threw him roughly to the ground. He pulled the nine-mil out from inside his jacket, all in one fluid movement. Poetry in motion. Over in seconds.

  13

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked Swann as he knelt on the guy’s back and pressed the cold steel of the SIG Sauer hard into his left ear. The guy’s right cheek was forced into the grit of the sidewalk. He was breathless and winded after having been whacked in the side of the head and thrown to the ground. His ear was still ringing.

  ‘I know where he is,’ spluttered the guy as Swann’s knee forced more air out of his lungs - hardly surprising when a six-foot-four-inch guy weighing over two hundred and twenty pounds, leans on you.

  ‘You’re . . . you’re . . . the guy . . . looking for Diabl
o. I know where he is,’ he stammered. The guy was panicky and wound up tight like he was on speed. He was right to be scared. ‘I know where Diablo is at,’ he said again, struggling to get the words out in one piece. He was dribbling into the gritty ground.

  Swann let the guy get some breath back, and some grit in his mouth, but he still pressed the gun into his ear. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you’re talking about before I drill your ear,’ replied Swann pressing the end of the barrel in hard while kneeling on his back.

  ‘I know you’re looking for someone . . . I know who and I know where he is,’ he spluttered again, his spit dribbling into the grit as he panted for breath . . . there’s word out on the street the Feds are on the prowl looking for him, looking for Diablo.’

  *

  So now what? This loser somehow knew who he was and who he was looking for. How? Swann got off him and let him up off the ground, allowing him to stand. But then he immediately kneed him in the groin to stop him doing anything dumb. The guy doubled over in agony again; he was moaning and panting hard, retching and spitting into the dirt, snot bubbling from his nose. He nearly vomited as he retched. He spat and dribbled some more, with his hands on his knees steadying himself. Swann patted him on the back, encouraging him to get it all out so they can move on and sort out the rules going forward.