by James Kent
23
Diablo’s ranch. Near Kingman, Arizona.
‘He’s in Kingman!’ exclaimed Cricket. He had just walked out of the computer room and down to the lounge again. Silva was still talking to Pedro who was looking chilled out, which was a surprise considering the mood he was in when he got back from his epic drive to New Mexico; he had been very short-tempered when he handed over the note with Eddie’s mobile number on it. But now Pedro had a whiskey in a large tumbler which he cradled as though someone was about to snatch it out of his grasp like a damn thief. He was staring out the windows toward the mountain range, mesmerized by the view. Silva, on the other hand, appeared stressed and fired up, like he had just vented his spleen over something. He was red in the face and his hair was all over the place, sticking up at odd angles. An empty whiskey tumbler lay on the carpet beside his right foot, but he didn’t seem to notice it. The remains of a fat cigar smoldered in his right hand. Who the hell holds a cigar like that? thought Cricket staring at it clamped between Silva’s fat middle fingers. Even so, Cricket was looking pleased with himself as he continued to explain, although he wasn’t sure if anyone was listening. ‘He was in Boulder City until recently, as I mentioned before . . . I picked up both phones going active there; the old one and then Eddie’s new one, but now he seems to be back in Kingman using the old one. That’s pretty ballsy!’
On Silva’s instructions, Cricket had looked local first, like the cell sites around Kingman, and then he branched out from there. He set up a routine on his own computers for locking onto specific cell phone numbers when they either rang out or sent text messages. He then hacked into the local cell networks, which was surprisingly easy, and set up network sniffers for monitoring the traffic between cell towers in certain regions, set to ping when specific numbers went active. It also allowed him to triangulate very quickly where the phone was to within a few meters. He employed a StingRay cell catcher for doing it. And he had just detected another few pings from Silva’s old phone, which meant Eddie was still using it. But he had also traced Eddie’s other prepay phone an hour or so earlier, whose number Pedro and Randall managed to get from the folks in New Mexico. That too lit up in Boulder City. Then it all went quiet until, thanks to the StingRay device, he got another signal from Silva’s old phone again, but this time in Kingman, just down the road.
Both Pedro and Silva looked up at him. There was silence for a few seconds, then Silva asked, ‘What the hell is he playing at? He’s back in Kingman using my old phone?’
‘Looks like it,’ replied Cricket. ‘I’ve got his exact location.’
‘So, what’s he saying? Who’s he talking to?’ asked Silva.
‘No idea! I mean, I don’t know who he’s talking to. He dialed someone, I dunno who, but he said nothing. I could hear him breathing though. The guy on the other end said, “You’re a dead man walking, whoever you are!”, obviously suspecting it was someone other than you. That’s good though isn’t it? They know it’s someone else. But he also sent some real nasty text messages to other numbers. Not very useful. But at least I can pinpoint the phone’s location.’
Silva just shook his head at the arrogance of Eddie sending abusive text messages to his friends. But there was nothing he could do about it. Yet! ‘Well he’s a damn fool!’ said Silva who thought for a few seconds, trying to keep his temper under control. He still looked wound up tight like a mainspring. ‘Why is he still using it? My phone. Why’s he still using it? He’s already done the damage to my plans, sabotaged my business relationships . . . So what the hell is he up to? Seems pointless to me, unless he’s just trying to provoke and antagonize me for fun since he must know we’d be monitoring him. Maybe it’s a trap!’ No one said anything. Pedro shrugged and looked out the windows again like he didn’t care either way.
‘Whatever. He’s there, so who cares why?’ said Silva. Then he turned to Pedro with a fiendish smirk, ‘So what the hell are you waiting for, you dumb turd drinking all my expensive whiskey? There’s work to do, people to kill, money to make!’
Pedro’s dark mood instantly returned. His focus returned along with it, back into the room from the distant mountains, as though he had just snapped out of a pleasant dream that he preferred to remain in; slapped across the face by cold, hard reality that has no patience for his torpor. He shook his head to clear it, drank the rest of his whiskey and banged the empty tumbler down on the coffee table, leaving a small dent in the polished surface from the thick glass bottom. The fake polar bear trapped underneath didn’t flinch. It stared vacantly up at him, still grinning enigmatically. Pedro stood and walked out of the room without saying a word. Silva also looked up at him as he passed, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. ‘He’s got issues!’ he said to Cricket who said nothing in reply and followed Pedro out.
Pedro walked down to the bunk rooms and thumped his fist on Randall’s door as he passed it. He yelled for him to get his lazy ass out of the sack, ‘We’ve got work to do in Kingman!’ Buck’s room was deserted and neglected; all his gear still lay where he’d last left it, strewn all over the place with no order at all. No one had bothered to clean it up, other than to retrieve his money, his guns and other weapons which was shared around. Then Pedro went into his own room to change his clothes. He grabbed his jacket, Glock and ammunition, a handful of nylon wrist cuffs - large cable ties, plus a six-inch chrome-steel stiletto fighting knife which he slid into a side sheath of his Mexican leather boots. He was back in the mood for hurting someone and Eddie was as good a target as any, if only because he was the cause of all the recent trouble. Everything had gone to hell since he’d killed Buck and taken off on his bike that night, leaving chaos behind. Silva had turned into a raging, demented devil, living up to his name; he seemed to have lost his mind and couldn’t concentrate on anything more than hunting down Eddie the goddam Ferret and killing him. Nothing would be the same until Eddie was caught. Silva wanted him back alive, so he could have his boys spend some recreational time ‘interrogating’ him with a few rusty tools and lengths of hosepipe before dumping his mangled body in a barrel of oil, just like his girlfriend.
But Pedro wanted revenge, so he couldn’t guarantee that Eddie would come back in one piece, regardless of what Silva wanted. He asked Cricket exactly where Silva’s old phone appeared to be located in Kingman. A cheap motel on the old historic Route 66 apparently, opposite a Taco Bell restaurant.
Using street-view online, Cricket showed him the closest point he could narrow it down to; somewhere near the northern end of the motel. He wrote it down on a hand-drawn map, indicating the main road, the motel itself in rough outline and the Taco Bell restaurant across the road, plus the main arterial Route 93 nearby, slightly to the south. Pedro snatched the sheet of paper out of his hand without saying anything. He turned and left the room, leaving Cricket staring blankly. Cricket called out to his departing shadow that he would continue to monitor Eddie’s phone activity, and that he would text him if he appeared to move from the vicinity of the motel. Pedro just waved his hand in acknowledgement as he walked out to the carpark where Randall was already waiting.
Randall was leaning against the Cherokee with his arms crossed and a freshly-lit cigarette in his hand. He was dressed in jeans and a long leather coat which concealed the Glock in his belt holster and a large Bowie knife in a hip scabbard. It was getting late in the day. The sun was about to dip below the western horizon marked by the mountain range, which meant they would get into Kingman when it was dark. But that was a bonus as it would allow them plenty of time and cover to plan once they got there. They would go straight there and wait; Pedro decided he would stop down the street from the motel so that they could scope the place out from a safe distance; see if Eddie’s bike was in view, kind of like they tried to do on the night he had taken off on his Harley after knifing Buck in the throat. That night had been a complete disaster and one that both Pedro and Randall preferred to forget. It was an embarrassment, an affront to their egos. Hopefully this time they wo
uld find the little bastard and put an end to all the madness. But they would absolutely have to stay out of sight until they figured out the best plan of attack. The last thing they wanted was a noisy commotion to wake the neighbors who would then ring the cops. They had to deal with it all silently and quickly.
Pedro nodded at Randall who nodded back as he flicked his cigarette into the distance. Sparks flew like tiny fireflies from its end as it spun in the darkening air. They both climbed into the Cherokee and Pedro floored it, skidding the rear wheels in an unstable slide and kicking up stones in their wake. He accelerated down the gravelly driveway, passed the old tin shed and a dilapidated Plymouth car that had been there forever, and on toward the road.
Back inside the ranch, Cricket walked down to update Silva, but he was slumped over onto his side, fast asleep. He looked ridiculous, like Humpty Dumpty on his side, the dead stogie on the floor beside the empty tumbler and a fly perched incongruously on his right ear, preening itself. The sight amused Cricket who decided to backtrack quietly and leave him to it. And besides, he understood that waking Silva after one of his tantrums was dangerous. He’d heard stories of Silva pulling his Glock on people who had woken him. Best let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.
Cricket used the opportunity to go outside and smoke a joint with the other guys. He needed a break from monitoring Eddie’s calls. Besides, he didn’t really care because it wasn’t his problem.
Outside, all seemed calm and well with the world. Silva’s other guys sat out in the balmy evening, smoking, drinking, chewing gum and laughing; all reminiscing about past kills and robberies and kidnaps and gang rapes. Why should they care? They had notches on their leather belts that they were proud of.
They saw Cricket approaching and made room for him. Knox passed him a half-finished joint. Cricket took it and sat down beside him to look at the stars and listen to the exaggerated stories of murder, madness and mayhem.
24
Kingman, Arizona.
He saw the headlights first. Bright, full beams coming from the south, driving slowly. They stopped briefly opposite the motel, and down a few yards, but still within clear and easy view of the Taco Bell restaurant. Then they carried on. It was a Jeep Cherokee with two big guys inside it, just like Eddie had said. The guy in the passenger seat turned and looked over at the Taco Bell; he scanned the vehicles in the car park, maybe looking for a brash hog up on its stand, its chrome glinting in the lamplight. But no deal. Then he looked across to the windows of the restaurant in case he could see Eddie sitting there eating his dinner. A long shot. A natural thing to do when you’re looking for someone specific. He looked right at Swann but didn’t register anything. Why would he? Just another stranger sitting by the window, eating a taco. Big deal.
Then Swann saw the red tail lights as the vehicle passed on by. The brake lights flared as it appeared to stop again at the intersection a few yards further on. It did a U-turn and came on back, on the other side of the road, on the motel side, and cruised slowly by. Swann saw the tail lights again as it moved on south, in the direction it had come from. The brake lights flared brightly red again and remained on for nearly half a minute because the driver had his foot on the brake. Then they went off completely. The driver had obviously turned the engine off, some yards further down, just beyond the motel’s entrance. A mistake. Strange that they’d stop on the same side as the motel, thought Swann. Makes it harder to observe because you’re too close, and they have to crane their necks around to have a look. That told him something about them at least. They were amateurs out of their depth. Good to know!
He felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. Probably Eddie reporting in, he thought. He pulled the phone out and read the message; “All set up. Busted in finally. Not easy. Will report back l8r”. Swann smiled, ‘I’m beginning to like this crazy little rat . . . he might prove useful yet.’ The two guys in the Cherokee were just sitting there. Probably figuring out their plan, he thought. Then another nasty thought occurred to him, a bit of harmless fun while he waited for the guys down the road to make their move. He took out the old phone again and booted it up. He dialed Silva’s latest number, one of only three that Eddie had written down, including Pedro’s and the late Buck Dolan’s.
Silva picked up on the third ring, but he said nothing for a few seconds, just listened. After no response, he asked in a squealy voice full of false friendliness and affection and a hint of oily menace, ‘Is that you Eddie? Why not come on back so we can talk, eh? It’ll be like old times! We can sit and have a few beers, your favorites, and sort things out. With cheese and crackers! I need you here ‘cos I got a sweet new plan I think you’ll like . . .’ Swann hung up on him and tossed the phone on the table. He imagined the conniption fit that would follow, the hurling of the phone across the room, the abuse and the raging inferno of a temper. Swann laughed.
It was getting hard to see outside with the bright glare of the restaurant lights reflecting off the windows. So it was time to move. He dropped a tip on the table and left. He walked over to the Raptor and climbed in, but didn’t start the engine. He pulled the binoculars out of his pack and sat there watching the Cherokee further down the road, waiting to see what would happen. He checked its license plates against the list Eddie had made. Eddie could only recall two exactly. One belonging to the Jeep. It matched. Swann smiled. ‘Bingo!’ he whispered to himself.
The passenger side door of the Cherokee opened and a big guy climbed out. He was wearing jeans and a long leather jacket; or a garment more like a coat perhaps, in Swann’s estimation. When does a jacket become a coat? He looked solid and sure of himself, full of confidence, the type of confidence that comes from having banged a lot of heads. Swann checked the photos he’d been given in L.A., but he didn’t recognize anyone from them. Maybe Randall, he thought. Then the driver’s side door opened and the other guy got out, equally confident, and walked over to the first guy who was standing on the sidewalk waiting, looking over toward the motel’s northern end. He pointed at something and the other guy nodded. Swann checked the photos again. Pedro! Then he sat back and watched.
They both walked up the driveway entrance to the motel. The guy with the jeans and long leather coat carried on along the side of the complex toward the rear while the other guy, the driver of the Jeep, Pedro by the look of things, turned right and walked quietly along the front, keeping close to the road-side bushes and trees. He was obviously hoping they would provide some kind of cover. Precisely as Swann had predicted. Not so dumb.
Swann lost sight of the guy at the front of the motel as he disappeared behind a small copse of trees and bushes. Then he saw the first guy reappear as he came around from the back, on the northern end. He walked over to where the first guy was standing out of sight. Then Swann saw them both again, a few seconds later, heading back. They walked down the motel driveway to the Cherokee parked on the side of the road; its indicator lights flashed a couple of times as the driver beeped his remote to unlock it, then they both climbed back in and shut their doors. Swann put the binoculars away, in the glove compartment instead of his pack, started the Raptor’s engine and drove out of the restaurant’s carpark and turned left, heading south, towards the Cherokee still parked with its engine and lights off. He drove slowly as he approached it, then he stopped momentarily, directly opposite, and looked across at the big guy in the driver’s seat who stared back at him with a frown. Swann gave him a wink and a malevolent smile as if to say, I’ve got your number boy! Then he made the universal gesture of “shooting” him with his forefinger and thumb, a virtual pistol with his right hand. The guy just stared back with a confused frown and a “who-the-fuck-are-you?”’ kind of look.
Swann put his foot down and headed back the way he had originally come, turned right onto Stockton Hill Road and drove a few miles north to the sleazy bar he’d spotted on his way in. Fatso’s. Probably an ironic name like Tiny Tim. Or maybe he was like Mister Creosote with the wafer-thin mint. But Fatso, whoever he wa
s, was probably as thin as a pencil and died choking on spaghetti. Or not.
Swann pulled in and stopped momentarily as he searched for the most secure location to park up. The harsh, bright, pale blue and red neon sign advertising low-end, entry-level beer illuminated the interior of his vehicle with its implied message of cruel reality . . . “If you’re looking for craft beer packed full of flavor, you’re in the wrong place! ” Perfect! He drove on slowly, around to the rear of the building and found a secluded spot to park the Raptor, an unlit gravel area out of sight from the bar’s rear entrance. He made sure there were plenty of obstacles obscuring the view, between the bar itself and the vehicle, while allowing for space to drive off forwards into the desert lands if he needed to vacate. Anyone walking around to the rear of the building wouldn’t spot the Raptor unless they walked right beside it. Last thing he wanted was for Silva’s boys to spot it as they pulled in to park and then shoot his tires out with a silenced nine-mil. He grabbed the old phone out of the glove compartment again, shoved it inside his jacket pocket along with his own. He took the SIG Sauer and slipped it into the shoulder holster under his jacket then he walked back around to the road-side entrance and went inside. The place was full of cigarette and cigar smoke, the unintelligible chatter of meaningless conversation and laughter, of beer glasses being clunked down onto wet table tops and the occasional snappy click of a pool ball hitting another pool ball. The background was filled in with the jukebox sounds of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here . . . “So you think you can tell Heaven from Hell . . .” Probably not, thought Swann as he took a note of the rear entrance that allowed backdoor access to the workers’ carpark where he’d parked the Raptor. He walked up to the bar and ordered a nasty, tasteless beer because that’s all they served, all you could expect in a bar that had no pride, then he sat down to wait for the poison to take effect in Pedro’s mind as he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He drank his weak excuse for a beer while he watched two guys in denims playing pool through the blue smoky haze, unaware of what was about to unfold. Murder and mayhem in the carpark, to the sounds of Pink Floyd perhaps.
