The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “I remove impediments so people such as Mr. Antonov and Mr. Bascom can do their jobs.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Yes. Good for me. You should understand something, Mr. Lee.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Another pause. Antonov fished a cigarette from his front pocket and lit it. Bascom stared at the floor, both hands gripping the desk’s edge where he perched.

  “You should understand that I consider you an impediment.”

  “To be removed.”

  “Yes, Mr. Lee. To be removed.”

  Simko had spent his career running roughshod over people and competitors and governments around the world. He had an impeccable track record of getting his way. But this wasn’t Bolivia or Botswana or Belarus. Nossir.

  “You should understand something, Mr. Simko.”

  He waited, eyes hooded, face expressionless.

  “There’s a long list of people who’ve attempted removing me over the years. People who saw me as an impediment. None of them still walks among us, asshole. Not a single one.”

  He emitted a low, guttural, malice-filled laugh.

  “Then we understand each other, Mr. Lee.”

  “Yeah. We understand each other. I hope your fetch-it boy leaning against the desk understands.” I shifted focus toward the site manager. “And I hope you understand, Antonov. Those Spetsnaz operators you imported don’t mean shit. I’ve dealt with them before. And something else. If attacked, I tend to respond by working my way up the food chain.”

  Antonov lifted a corner of his mouth into a cruel smile and grunted. I turned again and locked eyes with Simko.

  “Way up the food chain.”

  There was no point hanging around. Simko had laid down the gauntlet; I’d picked it up. There were no goodbyes as I stood and walked out the door. Only silence, a calm before the storm.

  Chapter 22

  I stopped at the guardhouse for a quick chat with the two security guards.

  “You guys might want to bail ASAP.”

  “Yeah? What’s shaking?” one asked.

  “I did something that could be considered stupid.”

  Once my blood pressure lowered, calm assessment set in. My contract didn’t call for any direct involvement. Check out the situation, determine the operational framework KDB and Exponent used, and report out. From a business perspective, I didn’t have a dog in this fight.

  On the ledger’s other side, Andris Simko had threatened to kill me, plain and simple. Like a moron, I’d ratcheted up the personal animus and threatened him with the same. Stupid stuff. I wasn’t prone to running around whacking nasty billionaires. I could have left his threat on the table and walked away. But no, hackles raised, I went right back at him. A genius move, Lee. Absolute genius.

  “Pissed off the big boss?” the guard asked.

  “Mightily.”

  “Well, it’s time someone did,” the other guard said. “Everyone gets tired of these high-rolling clowns always getting their way.”

  “Yeah. But I wasn’t itching for a fight. And I’ve got an ugly habit of not backing down.”

  We said our goodbyes. I turned left at the main gravel road and headed for Exponent’s site fifteen miles away. The landscape remained the same, rocky and uneven and arid. I spooked two mule deer who’d bedded down near the road. Clearly, this wasn’t a well-used track. My dust plume continued, the rear wiper used dry, wiping off the light-brown residue. A small chukar covey—game birds—skirted uphill as I passed, indicating a nearby water seep. Shadows lengthened as the day wound down.

  Another large sign and a left turn showed Exponent’s location. A quarter-mile down the road they had set up a small blue shade tent. Underneath it, a thin woman rose from her lawn chair as I approached. She’d rolled a small boulder into the shade as a footrest. Stacked water bottle cases near the chair displayed a half-dozen paperback books scattered on top. She carried a radio on her hip.

  “What’s up?” she asked, approaching my rolled-down window.

  “Hi. I’m Case Lee, and I’d like to talk with the site manager.”

  “He’s gone.”

  She was in her midfifties with gray hair and a leathery face. She wore jeans, boots, a light-blue work shirt, a khaki-colored ball cap, and a smile. A front tooth displayed an inlaid gold quarter-moon. A single earring with a series of beads and rough-cut stones hung from her left ear.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Everson. Sam Everson.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Canada. He left a few days ago but should be back day after tomorrow.”

  She pulled a chewing gum packet from a shirt pocket, offered me a piece, and unwrapped one for herself.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mercy. You said you were Case?”

  “That’s right. Is there someone else I could talk with? An assistant manager?”

  “Nah. We’re pretty slow right now, and most folks have wandered off home until this mess gets straightened out.”

  “Mess?”

  “You’re not exactly up to speed, are you?”

  I laughed and opened the small cooler sitting on the passenger side.

  “No, guess not. You want a soda, Mercy? I’ve got two Cokes and some strange purple thing in a bottle I bought because it was purple.”

  “I’d French kiss a cougar for a Coke. Thanks.”

  I opened the soda and the purple pop and left the SUV for a stretch. In the distance I could make out trailers and an upward-thrusting processing plant—perhaps a crusher—and parked heavy equipment. There was no noise, no dust cloud from the site.

  “Where you from?” I asked.

  “I live in Wells. There’s only a few of us staying here at the site now. Man, this soda pop is good. How’s yours?”

  “Wet. And purple.”

  She laughed.

  “So what’s the mess all about?” I asked.

  “It’s those sons-a-bitches at the other camp.”

  A wind gust passed through, the lone sound for miles. Mercy and I stood in nowhere central, a hazy desert mountain range far distant.

  “So you’re not a big KDB fan?”

  “Look. When I quit the working girl life in Wells years ago, I hooked up with a mining outfit. Been doing it ever since. I’ve seen a lot of rough cobs in this business and more than my fair share of dirty tricks. But nothing like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, they’ll do crap like rolling large boulders across our road, blocking our vehicles and supply trucks.”

  “Can’t you just drive around them?”

  “Did for a while, but the damn government, the Bureau of Land Management yahoos, hollered at us to stay on the road.”

  “What else?”

  “Oh, I could go on and on. They put sugar in our fuel tanks, slashed tires. But that’s all piddly-ass stuff compared to the gunshots.”

  Mercy’s diatribe took on a familiar ring.

  “They brought in a bunch of commie shooters,” she continued. “A couple of us saw them at the Montello bar. I don’t mind wetting my whistle from time to time. Saw them myself, pretty as you please, drinking and talking foreign lingo to beat the band.”

  “Who are they shooting at?”

  “Damn near every vehicle that passes their camp and heads our way. It’s stopped now because we’ve shut things down.”

  “They weren’t shooting at the people in the vehicles, were they?”

  “If they were, they’re piss-poor shots. The sons-a-bitches like windows. Front windows, side windows. It’ll scare the hell out of you, let me tell you that.”

  Spetsnaz operators were anything but piss-poor shots. They were doing what Mercy claimed. Scaring the hell out of people. The fifteen-mile stretch between the sites held ample hidden sniper positions among the rocky hillsides.

  “What about the local law?”

  She snorted. “There’s a deputy sheriff that works this section of the county. A p
issant named Reggie Willis. He lives in Wells. I’ve known Reggie for years, going back during my working girl days. The man is as useless as tits on a boar hog.”

  “Okay. But what does he say about the shootings?”

  “Hell if I know. But I’ll tell you this. I’d bet good money he’s on the take.”

  “And the sheriff?”

  “Sheriff Garza. Don’t know him. He’s headquartered in Elko.”

  Simko had the place sewn up. The governor, law enforcement, and likely all others who could affect his operations. A classic play, one that had worked in Bolivia. Until the hammer came down.

  “Alright, Mercy. You need a ride back to camp?”

  “No, thanks. I’m off in another hour, and I’ll radio one of the remaining guys to come get me. Sorry you missed Sam. And thanks for the Coke.”

  “No worries. I’ll be back day after tomorrow and hope to see you then.”

  I turned around, waved at Mercy, and considered reality. There was a strong possibility I’d bitten off more than I could, or should, chew. Yeah, Simko had threatened me. So what? It was probably a daily occurrence with him. Meanwhile, Exponent’s manager had hauled it back to Canada where they were wondering how things had gone sideways and what to do about it.

  A mile-wide door stood open. Go chat with the sheriff tomorrow. And his deputy, Reggie Willis. A three- or four-hour drive round-trip. Return to Exponent’s site the day after and talk with Sam Everson, the manager. File a report and call it good. Head home. Shove down the don’t-mess-with-me attitude, and don’t attempt the Sisyphus routine of pushing a boulder up the Simko mountain. Be smart for a change.

  I mulled options while traversing the fifteen rough miles between the camps. Daylight faded and the terrain lost its harsh hues and presented a less stark look and feel. Subtle colors appeared, no longer washed with glaring sunlight. The occasional wind gusts picked up, now a steady blow. A beer or three along with a steak lay ahead.

  A mile into the trip, hidden sniper images created a mental burr. I doubted Simko would attempt to whack me this soon, even out here among such isolated turf. But a warning shot through the windshield wasn’t high on my wish list, so I abandoned the sedate tire-saving pace and increased speed. The washboard road with occasional large half-buried rocks made for a harsh ride. A mile or so from the KDB turnoff, the rapid rate saved my life.

  A glass ping and spiderweb hole at the windshield’s right-center, an angry bullet wasp-buzz past my chest, and another ping as the projectile passed through the driver’s window and exited. All within a quarter-second.

  I stomped the gas pedal, flew along a short stretch, and wound down into a dry wash. The SUV fishtailed while I maintained a high-speed sideways drift through a dusty curve. I straightened out and topped a small hill, the engine howling. I hauled it along a curving flat stretch and entered another dry wash. Where I slammed the brakes and skidded to a sideways stop. That bastard had taken a shot at the wrong guy.

  I pulled the Colt rifle from the back seat, chambered a round, and headed into rocky hills. The goal—remain unseen and find a spot where I’d have a shot as the man traversed back toward KDB’s camp. Bushwhack the SOB.

  My immediate concern was dust. Or the lack of it. My vehicle had trailed a large dust plume, which no longer showed. An indicator I’d stopped. But the now-steady wind soon dissipated any dust trail, and the shooter might exit through lowlands and dry washes, the road gone from his sight. I’d have to bet on it.

  With jeans, boots, and a tan long-sleeved shirt, I lacked the advantage of desert camo, but my attire would be hard enough to spot. Impossible to spot if I found the right ambush location. I figured he’d make a beeline back toward his camp, a mile away. I side-hilled when the terrain rose and ensured my profile never outlined against the sky. Trotted along dry washes with a keen eye toward telltale footprints. A quarter-mile in, I entered a small hillside scrub cedar patch and dropped, making my way toward the top. Sharp rocks bit my knees and hands, the rifle slung across my back. I went belly-flat the last ten yards as the cedars petered out, and crawled up a rocky vantage point. Breath calm, killing intent engaged, I scoped the area with finger on the trigger.

  Broken terrain stretched toward the horizon. Small hills, hidden washes, rocky outcrops, blue-gray sagebrush drifts, and greener cedar patches. A crossing wind created the only sound. I waited and considered possibilities as my fight meter backed off from its pegged-out reading. It was possible the shooter had intended a warning as he’d done with Exponent’s vehicles. I was moving at a fair clip when he fired, the SUV rocking and rolling across the uneven road. He may have miscalculated the aim point. Or he may have miscalculated the aim point for a kill shot. Hard to say, but I leaned toward the kill-shot scenario. These guys were Spetsnaz. Expert marksmen. Still, the act of blowing this guy away while uncertainty remained gave me pause. Man, I didn’t know.

  Forty-five minutes passed; the sun approached the western horizon. I’d wait until dark, confident he wouldn’t risk a twisted ankle traversing this turf at night. If he was a no-show during the next thirty minutes, then I’d missed him. Missed his path toward KDB’s camp. I’d given it a fifty-fifty chance. As I scoped, a mule deer herd appeared from their daytime rest spot within a tight crease in the hillside. Sagebrush swayed with the wind as they walked along, alert but not spooked. The sun began setting.

  Over the wind noise, far distant, came the rapid, scratchy clucks of agitated chukars. I’d hunted them in the past, and their distinctive call when disturbed was unmistakable. I focused toward their sounds.

  I spotted his moving head first, then chest, as he worked along a small gulley, rifle slung over his shoulder. He was well over five hundred yards away, gaining distance with each step. Between the long distance and swirling wind, he presented a lousy target. I considered firing a potshot in his direction. A warning, a back-at-you-asshole shot. Then I released pressure on the trigger.

  It would have been a poor strategic move. A potent signal I would fight, and it would alter their approach toward me. If they came after me. Still a big if. But if they did and had meant the vehicle shot to kill, it was best that the blowback factor, the fighting back element, remained hidden.

  Then there was the body disposal issue if I’d had a decent shot—a powerful indicator of how weird my life was. Perhaps it wasn’t a disposal issue as much as planting a battle flag. With a decent shot, I could have taken him down and let the nighttime coyotes do their work. The circling buzzards would mark the location for his comrades in the morning. And they’d declare all-out war.

  There were a dozen Spetsnaz operators. I didn’t mind being outnumbered—old hat for Case Lee Inc.—but I wasn’t prepared, yet, to strike a spark on this high-desert tinder. I had to be sure. So I swallowed my pride, my residual anger, and watched him fade away into the jagged terrain.

  Chapter 23

  A dozen folks comprised the Montello bar congregation that night. There were a half-dozen ranchers among them. Their worn and hand-repaired Stetsons and Resistols mimicked the state of their pickups parked outside and reflected a hardscrabble ranching life running cattle among sagebrush and rocks. The rest were Montello locals, backstory unknown, but each with a tale of hard knocks and getting by. Plus one ex-Delta operator planted at a small corner table.

  Martha, the barkeep and cook and proprietor, shifted between the kitchen and bar service as her cigarette burned within a bar top ashtray. The front door was propped open, allowing the cool night air entry. No flat-screen blared a ball game, no piped-in music. There were low familiar conversations, local gossip, occasional chuckles, and a made-it-through-another-day atmosphere. The steak and baked potato were fine, the beer cold, and a seesaw decision occupied me—how deep was I willing to wade into this gig?

  I’d check out the local law, sure, and revisit Exponent’s site when the manager returned. Standard stuff, solid activities. Tiptoe around the job’s inherent conflict, write my report, head for the barn. Or take Simko
’s threat, and the windshield shot, as true intent. Which required either walking away or an immediate response. A violent response.

  “How was the steak?” Martha asked, clearing the plate.

  “Very good, thanks. I’ll take another beer, then I’ll step outside and make a call.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  It struck me that neither Martha nor anyone else within a hundred miles would give one whit if I left the bar with my beer, stripped naked, and sashayed through nighttime high desert jabbering on my phone. I was a fellow traveler on this earth and as long as I didn’t hurt someone else, then have at whatever strange behavior suited me—an attitude shared across several hundred thousand square miles out West.

  Marcus Johnson, our former team lead, would have settled into his great room chair, socked feet propped on a cushioned ottoman, a bourbon resting at his elbow. I loved the guy and often used him as a sounding board.

  “Well,” he said, answering after two rings. “You’ve pulled it off again.”

  “Your opening salvo is about missing out on hard work. I’m shocked.”

  “You’re taking it too personal, son. These aren’t critiques. Hell, I’m impressed.” He paused and sipped bourbon. “The swallows return to Capistrano. Monarch butterflies migrate to Mexico. Case Lee avoids helping me put up hay. You’re another natural phenomenon.”

  “You’re getting jaded in your old age.”

  “I’ve become more accepting. And more observant.”

  His Zippo clacked in the background, a cigar lit, his last hay cutting now baled and stored and set for winter. Fall knocked on the door in Big Sky Country.

  “I’m hoping you’ve called about a fishing and bird hunting visit. Four or five weeks from now should hit it just right.”

  “I’m game. But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Talk to me.”

  I did. He stopped me as the Bolivian descriptions wound down.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”