by James Kent
Five minutes later, Swann pulled Diablo’s old cell out and dialed Pedro’s number.
25
‘Who the fuck was that?’ asked Pedro after some big dude in a kick-ass Ford pulled alongside and pointed his finger at him.
‘No idea!’ replied Randall, ‘But he looked like he’s spoiling for an ass-kicking whoever he is.’
Pedro sat there staring into space, thinking. His hands on the wheel as he looked out the front windscreen into the dark night. He saw the tail lights of the Ford Raptor in the distance before they disappeared from sight. Then he said - more to himself than to Randall directly, ‘What the hell is going on? Eddie’s up to something . . . There’s no sign of his hog at the motel and it seems odd that he would still risk using Silva’s old phone when he knows we’d just track him down with it. He’s not that stupid. And now this weird fucker drives by and looks me right in the eye like he’s threatening me. That ‘aint no coincidence.’ He turned to Randall and said, ‘I think he knows something.’
‘Let’s follow him and find out who he is.’ replied Randall. ‘Maybe he’s just some asshole unconnected, looking for his teeth to be kicked in?’ He paused then said, ‘His vehicle will be hard to miss.’
Pedro put his foot down and headed in the direction taken by the big Ford, but they had by now lost sight of it. He turned right onto Harrison St. and drove a couple of miles north, down to Airway Avenue, with no luck. ‘He could have gone anywhere!’ Pedro started to lose interest in embarking on yet another wild goose chase. Whoever the nutjob was in the big Ford, he wasn’t worth their time. But if they came across him again, they would deal to him; maybe break his fingers after kicking his teeth in.
Ready to give up on it, Pedro decided to pull over and ring Cricket instead to see if he had any more leads on the whereabouts of Eddie. Besides, there was no point just driving around in circles relying on pure chance to find him and one asshole they didn’t even know. Pedro pulled over to the curb and reached for his phone. But just as he grabbed it, it started ringing. He looked at the screen and frowned. What the fuck is going on? he thought to himself. It was Silva’s old number. Eddie?? He put the phone up to his ear but said nothing. He stared out the windscreen into the dark night, his eyes fixed on infinity as he listened intently.
‘You looking for me pal?’ said the deep, gravelly voice on the other end. A voice he didn’t recognize.
Pedro let it hang for a few seconds as he thought, then he said, ‘Who the fuck are you? And how did you get this number?’ He turned to look at Randall and shrugged his shoulders. The engine of the Cherokee was idling quietly, the interior occasionally lit up from the headlights of passing cars. There was menace in the air and Pedro’s temper was starting to rise, his blood starting to boil. Time to put an end to this bullshit! he thought.
‘Fatso’s Bar on Stockton Hill Road. Be there in twenty minutes and you can have the Ferret!’ said the voice. Then the line went dead. It was a lie because he was already there, drinking crap beer and watching two guys play pool to Pink Floyd.
Pedro looked at the blank screen, then he turned to Randall again, ‘That was the creep. He’s got Eddie’s phone! Wants to meet at some sleazy bar on Stockton. Says we can have Eddie.’
‘What?? What the hell is he doing with Eddie’s phone? And how’s he got Eddie? Jeez I’m getting tired of this!’
‘Same here bro! So let’s go find out!’
*
The short conversation was picked up and logged by Cricket’s StingRay while Cricket was outside listening to Silva’s guys tell tall stories. It wasn’t recorded.
26
Kingman, Arizona. Fatso’s Bar.
Swann smiled to himself again as he hung up on Pedro and dropped the phone onto the beer-stained table. This is fun, he thought. The poor stupid bastards have no idea what’s happening. He told them to be there in twenty minutes just to give him more time. But it didn’t really matter if they ignored him and turned up earlier. It would just be messier is all. No big deal, but a risk to innocent bystanders if things got ugly. Not desirable. He took another swig of his nasty beer just as his own cell phone rang, vibrating in his jacket pocket. He fished it out with his left hand and checked the screen. Eddie’s number. Ringing from Caliente again. He answered it and said, ‘Shoot!’
‘I know who she is,’ said Eddie.
‘And?’
‘You’re not going to like this!’
‘Stop beating about the bush and spit it out already!’ demanded Swann.
‘Internal Affairs.’
Silence.
After a long pause, Swann said, ‘So it is her! I figured it must be . . . Damn!’
‘You knew already?’ asked Eddie.
‘Long story. Anyway, ok, so she’s with IAD. Big deal. I kinda already knew. What else did you find?’
‘Yup! She’s one of these high-up power bitches. Probably wears a pantsuit and a blazer. A real ball breaker! Carries a Smith and Wesson three-fifty-seven magnum around, according to her license-to-carry which is filed there with everything else. She’s file addict! Weird choice of weapon, by the way. Anyway, looks like she’s investigating you,’ replied Eddie. He paused for effect. Then he added, ‘Either that or she’s got wind of your existence because she’s employed by Internal Affairs, working out of the LA office, but she’s on loan from Washington DC which means there’re politicians involved. Or else why from there? And besides, I found a letter to her from some Justice Department dude saying that he’s “under political pressure to find the rogue cop,” or something like that. As in someone specific. But she’s generally looking into anomalies within the Bureau as well, and other places . . . guys who’ve gone completely rogue, who aren’t officially on the books or the payroll, but who are known to exist because of their questionable reputations; guys who aren’t accountable for anything and who’ve broken the law to get a result . . . like, I dunno, like “Dirty Harry” types I guess,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Probably doesn’t include properly documented dudes who are currently active. At least that’s what it looks like from what I could dig out . . . you must be known of at a very high level is my guess, but there’s no formal paper record of you anywhere, your existence or your past activities, so she may not even know about you specifically yet . . . although it wouldn’t take much of a guess. But you know, if I couldn’t find shit on you, she sure as hell won’t!’
‘Jesus! Well that’s comforting.’
There was a slight pause as Eddie tried to decide whether the boss was joking or not. ‘Yeah, you must be one of those “anomalies” with a “questionable reputation”,’ he eventually replied with another laugh. Swann could hear the inverted commas in Eddie’s tone of voice, imagined him making them with his fingers. ‘Seems someone high up wants to put a stop to so-called “off-the-books” types because it’s politically embarrassing or some such shit . . . probably some sleazy Democrat on the hunt for liberal votes. No more “Dirty Harrys”!’ Eddie laughed again.
‘Damn! That means she’ll be investigating “Poirot” too since he’s running this show at the moment. I knew there was something strange about her. She seemed too good to be true!’ he said more to himself than to Eddie. ‘Pity!’
‘Poirot? Who’s Poirot?’
‘Never mind! Above your paygrade.’
‘Her middle name’s “Margot” by the way,’ added Eddie as an afterthought. ‘Old-school! Who the hell calls themselves “Margot”?’
‘Her dumb parents! But she doesn’t look like a Margot! More like a “Helen of Troy” or a “Venus de Milo”!’
‘Eh? Helen of what? Venus who?’
‘Never mind!’ said Swann again. ‘Above your paygrade . . . because you’re an idiot!’
Silence. Eddie said nothing in response for a few seconds, then he said, ‘Ok, so, what do you want me to do Boss?’
‘I’ll let you know. Good work! But leave it at that for now. I’ve got something about to go down here so I’ll call you back when I
’m done. Stay put till then, rather than come here like I said before. I don’t need you here now . . . oh and by the way, next time we talk over the phone, keep it vague; no specifics like personal names, places and whatever. I know these are unlisted burner phones, but they’re not that secure.’
‘Got it!’ replied Eddie.
*
Swann hung up and dropped the phone back into his jacket pocket. He reached for a paper napkin lying on the table beside his beer and scribbled a short note, then he folded it and downed the last of his beer, grabbed the other phone off the table and walked up to the barman. ‘Howdy there!’ he said with a friendly, disarming gesture and a non-committal smile, ‘I’m supposed to meet a couple of guys here, but they’re late and I have to go. Would you give them this note for me? They’ll probably ask if you saw me here,’ he said in the friendly tone of a stranger in need of a simple favour, but a tone that suggested confidence and authority.
‘You a cop?’ asked the barman.
‘Not in so many words,’ replied Swann with a wink. As far as the barman was concerned, he could be anyone. He could be a Fed or an undercover cop or a private investigator, or just a guy.
The barman stared at him for a moment, his eyes boring into Swann’s as he thought it through, wondering why he didn’t just send his two friends a text message instead, like a normal person. Everyone has a phone these days. But was it worth finding out? Probably not. Better go along with it then, just in case he was a damned cop and any interference or reluctance to play ball ended up bringing a decade of grief down on his head in the law courts; “obstruction of justice” type thing. Open ended. So he shrugged instead and decided he didn’t care either way. ‘Sure thing pal,’ he said. He took the note and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Swann said ‘Thanks!’ and nodded to him, emphasizing it. Then he turned and walked out of the bar, out the back entrance. The barman’s suspicious gaze followed him to the door as the juke box selection moved on to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.
27
Kingman, Arizona. Fatso’s Bar.
Swann walked over to where he’d hidden the Raptor. He took his Ka-Bar hunting knife and its high-impact plastic thigh scabbard from the pack on the front seat and strapped it onto his right-hand side, but still partially concealed by his loose jacket. It wasn’t the sort of thing to take into a bar. Not even a sleazy bar like Fatso’s. Strangely, you could walk in with a nine-mil of any sort, in full view, and no one would bat an eye. You could probably even drop it on the bar while you ordered your shitty beer and no one would even notice it, let alone say anything about the morality of walking around in a public place packing heat. It was like a harmless extension of your arm, part of your anatomy. No one would question the fact that you had an arm or an ear so no one would question the fact that you had a gun on you. The Second Amendment and all that. A “license to carry” was all it took, and if you “carried” and ordered a beer like a civilized person, it was assumed you had a license . . . What can I get you sir? A beer? Why certainly! And the cold beer would be placed neatly on a paper napkin right next to the nine-mil barrel. But try walking around with a hunting knife on display and you’d be arrested for disturbing the peace. Or shot. Or set upon by a throng of outraged patrons who fear the potential mayhem it might lead to. No civilized person wanders around with a long steel blade hanging off their hip. There’s something innately sinister about a knife. Especially one with a dull black, razor-sharp eight-inch blade that was meant for one thing and one thing only: Killing, up close and personal. And a Ka-Bar Black Tanto was not designed for chopping onions or sharpening pencils.
Swann tossed the two cell phones onto the front seat and grabbed his armored vest, a set of nylon wrist cuffs and a roll of duct tape. You never know; sometimes you can actually obey the law and take some asshole alive for the benefit of extracting information . . . even an asshole like this Randall dude who’s left a long, greasy black stain on the world. Swann took off his jacket and shoulder holster which he threw on the seat, then he slipped the vest on, dropped the SIG Sauer into its fitted gun carry-pouch temporarily, and put the jacket back over top. He took the suppressor - or the “can” as some users refer to them - for the SIG out of a side pouch in his pack and dropped it into his jacket pocket, plus a specially designed hip holster for when the weapon had the suppressor on the end of its barrel. A holstered, silenced pistol is not an ideal setup because it takes longer to draw, and you can’t shove it back in while the “can” on the end is still hot because it’ll burn your leg. But it’s sometimes useful for when you want both hands free and your silenced pistol still conveniently close, and on you. He pulled on his tactical gloves - black leather and nylon with Kevlar-armored knuckles - and quietly closed the vehicle’s passenger-side door. Then he slipped into the shadows and headed back around towards the front, out of sight a few yards away from the building and waited. He crouched down behind a few bushes in the pitch dark, careful to make sure there were no obstacles to trip his feet, nothing to make a noise when he stood and moved. He had an unobstructed view of the bar’s front entrance and the main parking lot.
A minute later, Swann saw the bright flare of headlights casting a wide arc as a large vehicle pulled off Stockton Hill Road. A brown, dusty Jeep Cherokee with two guys inside. It stopped momentarily as though the driver was undecided where best to park; always a problem when you’re trying to look normal while hunting for someone specific to harm. The trick is to appear like regular paying customers looking for cheap beer after work, as opposed to a couple of hitmen looking for someone to kidnap or kill. The vehicle swung right and parked on the other side of the lot with plenty of space either side, facing away from Swann, toward the south. A few other large vehicles were parked nearby. Swann quietly slipped the pistol out of his armored vest’s gun pouch and screwed the suppressor onto the end of the barrel, his eyes not leaving the Cherokee and the two guys inside. Then he waited for them to climb out and walk into the bar. After thirty seconds, they exited the vehicle simultaneously. The bigger guy, Pedro according to Eddie and the photos, was the driver again, like at the motel earlier. Yeah, the other guy must be Randall, he thought. They looked around for a few seconds then headed towards the main door and went inside. The door swung closed behind them.
As soon as Pedro and Randall were inside the bar, Swann silently emerged from his hide and walked up to the Cherokee. He held the gun in his right hand; the suppressor on the end of the barrel pointing down toward the ground, obscured by his leg. He stopped and listened for a few seconds to make sure no one else was around, no one within earshot that he could see; perhaps some dude leaning against the wall in the dark, smoking a cigarette as he thought about his girlfriend who’d dumped him a week ago for drinking shit beer at Fatso’s. But all he could hear was the dulled thrumming tones of Pink Floyd emanating from inside the bar. He was all alone. Then, one by one, he shot all four tires out. A nine-millimeter slug into each. The distinctive “thwack” from each shot penetrated the dark silence. He walked around to the front and fired another round in through the front windscreen on the driver’s side. The glass instantly fractured and crazed into millions of small individual fragments, all spidering out from the small, round black hole left by the bullet. Yet the windscreen remained more or less in one piece. Safety glass. What it was designed to do. Puncturing the tires was intended to prevent them from beating a hasty retreat if Swann failed to deal with them completely. Punctured tires would slow them down. The last round through the windscreen was just the cherry on top, more to infuriate than anything else. It served no other purpose. But who really needs the cherry on the top? No one. It’s just one of those “nice-to-have” type things like a finishing touch. Attention to detail. The bonus was that Pedro and Randall would be enraged when they saw it which encouraged mistakes to happen. Like a poke in the eye. Makes you mad. Caution and discipline would go out the window and that’s always an advantage to the other guy.
Swann then stealthily
slipped out of sight again, around the corner of the bar, and waited for Silva’s two guys to come back out once they got the message that he wasn’t there. They would be angry, frustrated and uncertain of what to do next. Endless failure getting on their nerves. They would see the state of their vehicle and then things would get interesting.
28
Outside Fatso’s Bar.
It had taken them half an hour to find Fatso’s as it wasn’t marked on any map. Why would it be? They’d had no option but to hang a right onto Stockton Hill Road and drive slowly north until they came across it, checking both sides of the road. Finally, there it was, up on the right and set back off the road. A small place with a large parking area in front and a few off-roaders and Big Horn Rams parked up on the same side, neat and close together like a happy family, all facing south as though driven by some unknown force acting on the minds of the drivers, like the Jedi in Star Wars . . . You will park facing south! . . . “I will park facing south!” Cute! thought Pedro. He stopped on the side of the road and observed the place for a minute as he thought.
There was not much else around the joint but open desert and old, junked vehicles and the detritus from decades of neglect. Rusted steel and used tires and old wire fencing and other crap that no one wanted, but left there for all the weather gods to do their worst. A large shipping container sat way out near a small copse of velvet mesquite trees and piles of discarded building debris, on the southern side of the property. A shithole by anyone’s standards. But it was cheap and cheerful and no one cared who you were or where you came from or why you picked that miserable place for a no-questions-asked type of beer that only a lonely loser would want to pay his hard-earned dollar for. A bright neon sign on the side of the building advertised their main beer offering. Nothing special, like the place itself. Pedro wondered who “Fatso” was, ‘Probably started out as a thin guy, then found he likes fried chicken too much,’ he muttered to himself.
