The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

“That’s a long list, Marcus. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  “Just so I understand, you decided it a wise life choice to lead a jackleg Bolivian army. Let’s start with that. An army with a Brit spook, a Lebanese-Bolivian supplier, and pitchfork-wielding peasants. The mission—attack and eliminate foreign mercs armed with automatic weapons. Out in some place called the Chaco.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Are you on drugs?”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll stop in Elko tomorrow and get some Grey Goose.”

  “And since when did you become a dynamite aficionado? Is this your new hobby?”

  “Good times, good times. But the whole point of telling you about Bolivia is to provide context for the Nevada situation.”

  “Was scorched earth a highlighted requirement in your contract? At least I know what to buy you for Christmas. I hope those Che Guevara T-shirts are still available.”

  “Could we get off Bolivia?”

  “Or would you prefer a cape? What color is Superman’s?”

  “Marcus.”

  “Good Lord, son.”

  He shifted position in his chair, indicated with a light groan, and relit his cigar. The Zippo clacked shut, and I continued.

  “I’m in Nevada now.”

  “So I gathered from the planned Elko liquor run.”

  “And it has all the earmarks of another Bolivia.”

  “Will you supply the locals with pitchforks or up the game with them?”

  “I met Andris Simko today. At their mining site.”

  Marcus paused and digested that.

  “What is he like?”

  “Unpleasant. He called me an impediment.”

  “From his perspective, I’m sure that’s true.”

  “He said his job was removing impediments.”

  “Not a direct threat, but pretty damn close. How did you respond?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is the same intimidation and violence I experienced in Bolivia is now here in the good ol’ US of A.”

  He sighed. High odds it was accompanied by a slow headshake.

  “How did you respond to Simko?”

  “Well, I may have said something about a long string of expired birth certificates associated with others who’d come after me.”

  “Do you buy those dumbass pills by the bucket?”

  “Which led to a bullet through my windshield as I returned from Exponent’s site.”

  His tone and tenor changed.

  “A warning or a miss?”

  “Debatable.”

  “Where are you at, right now?”

  “Montello.”

  “Hold on.”

  I knew where this was going and would nip it in the bud ASAP. In short order, he spoke again.

  “Fishtail to Montello is nine hours. I can make it in eight.”

  “No. Do not remove your rear end from that leather chair. I’ve called you because I’m skating on thin ice, here. Part of me says keep low, watch my back, gather intel, and report out. Another part says walk away. Then there’s the third option.”

  “Do not go the third option route. At least not without me.”

  “I’ve gotta admit Simko got my dander up. But I’m leaning toward the keep low tactic.”

  “Do more than lean. But it sounds like you require backup. I don’t mind a night drive.”

  “I appreciate it, as always. But do not load up weaponry and head my way. Especially at night. You seasoned citizens don’t see well after dark.”

  “I can see you’ve got your ass in a sling. The first course of action is for us to pay Simko a visit.”

  Marcus, as always, aimed for the heart of the matter.

  “He’s long gone. Flew into the site and flew out. Hell, he’s on his jet making a beeline for Saint-Tropez or some such now.”

  “Alright. He’s gone. Then let’s focus on the shooter. Do you know who it was?”

  “Yeah. One of a dozen Spetsnaz operators at KDB’s site.”

  “Spetsnaz? Are you sure?” he asked.

  His voice sounded of more than irritation, less than full-blown fury. Still, it wasn’t a good sign and would push him to hit the road.

  “Yeah. I’m sure. But listen up, Marcus. I was hauling down a washboard road when he fired. They’ve been shooting at Exponent vehicles the same way, putting a round through vehicle glass. It’s a coin flip whether he was sincere about the kill shot.”

  Silence while he mulled things over. A customer pulled up and parked at the bar. His pickup door protested with a metallic squeal as it opened. Another rancher. He pulled off his worn Stetson and whacked his jeans several times. The resulting mini-dust-storm blew away with the wind. We tossed a friendly nod toward each other as he passed and entered. I heard ice cubes clink as Marcus finished his bourbon.

  “What are your immediate plans?” he asked.

  “I’ll check out the sheriff and one of his deputies tomorrow. The day after, it’s back to Exponent’s site for a chat with their manager. He’s in Canada now.”

  “Alright. What we have here is a two-pronged mission.”

  “There’s no mission and no ‘we’ in this. Just talking with you has helped. A lot. I’ll stay low, brush off the threat from Simko, finish this job, and head home. Let’s talk about a trip in your direction in six weeks. That bird hunt and fishing trip sounds pretty fine.”

  “Let me clarify a few things for you.”

  “Obi-Wan speaks.”

  “Put the pill bucket down and listen, as hard as that is for you. Your strategic decision to not go all apeshit over the threat is solid. Your tactical plan over the next two days isn’t bad. With one glaring exception.”

  “Which is?”

  “A run through the shooting gallery when you head for the Canadian’s site.”

  “Yeah. But that may have been a one-off. Exponent is shut down while this gets straightened out. So I’m thinking Simko or his manager, a guy named Antonov, sent an operator out to fire that shot. They may not station along that stretch of road again.”

  “Is it the only way in?”

  “Yep.”

  “What if it wasn’t a one-off?”

  “I’ll head out late in the day and make the return run at night, headlights out. Laying low, remember?”

  “I don’t like it. And I don’t like a dozen Spetsnaz operators camped on US turf.”

  I didn’t either. But with cooling-off time and a larger perspective, it wouldn’t surprise me to find operators and spooks of varying stripes spread across the US. No doubt Simko’s vast operations had made sure those Spetsnaz operators had come into the country with the proper papers. T’s crossed and i’s dotted. Their armament smuggled in, no problem. I passed my assessment on to Marcus.

  “I don’t doubt all that,” he said. “But a dozen strong-arm operators pulling guard duty is one thing. Them flexing muscle against a legit business operation and taking a shot at you is another.”

  We talked for several more minutes, rehashing the situation. At the end, he agreed not to hit the road, jaw set and safety off. The trade-off—I would report out tomorrow evening, an act performed out of respect more than validity. An act that kept him from hitting the big red alarm button. I cracked a smile at his stipulation, our former team lead demanding a situational assessment. Marcus being Marcus.

  The phone chat had performed the desired results. With an appropriate sounding board, I’d determined the best path forward. In a few days I’d fade away, back on the Ace of Spades. A blip on Andris Simko’s radar, now gone, and life would roll forward.

  Man, did I have that wrong.

  Chapter 24

  Martha served me eggs, sausage, and hash browns as a high desert dawn broke. The coffee was decent, the crowd down to four other folks, and an AM radio droned the agriculture report. I wasn’t the only one eating breakfast with a holstered pistol in plain sight. It was a travel day, an Elko and Wells trip planned. I stopped at the motel
office before leaving. The owner had finished his home-cooked breakfast but had forgotten the paper napkin still tucked into another off-white T-shirt’s neckline.

  “Just wanted to let you know I’ll be staying two or three more nights. And if you would, don’t clean the room.”

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” he said and addressed the black cat sitting, once again, on the registry desk. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Kibble?”

  Mr. Kibble didn’t deign to reply as he licked a front paw. I’d maintain a low profile, with extra caution that included an assurance my room, my hole-up, remained unmolested. No surprises. I toted the rifle, shotgun, revolver, and rucksack to the SUV, glanced at the windshield and side window holes, and fished out a small adhesive tape roll. My room’s door closed and locked, I pressed a half-inch of tape at ground level, connecting the doorjamb and door. A cheap and effective intrusion detector.

  Heading south toward the interstate highway, a considerable whistle from the windshield bullet hole prevented my attempt at catching the tail end of the ag report. The highway remained empty, so no point pulling off the road for duct tape repairs. I stopped, rooted around in the rucksack, applied a tourniquet to both bullet holes, and continued on.

  Two hours later I hit Elko, found the County Sheriff Office, and slid the holstered Glock off my belt. I had no clue how the local law would view an armed man traipsing into their offices. A plaque at the entry stated the head honcho’s name. Sheriff Manuel Garza. I asked the clerk for a sit-down with the sheriff, stating my name and profession as a private investigator. In five minutes, I was led down a hallway to his office.

  Garza stood from behind his desk and greeted me with a cordial handshake. He offered a seat across the desk. On the north side of fifty, he wore cowboy boots, khaki slacks, and a light-blue pressed-and-starched shirt with a sheriff’s office patch. The shirt’s three lower buttons exhibited stress across a rounded belly. A belly that appeared to have a cast-iron stove’s softness. Several awards and plaques occupied one wall, a mounted deer head with massive antlers centered on another. Behind the desk, a credenza presented framed family photos. Several with him and his wife, a half-dozen with his four kids, and one displaying a daughter in a wedding dress.

  “Nice buck,” I said, pointing toward the deer.

  “Four hundred yards, one shot, with a .280 Ackley. I was told you’re a private investigator.”

  “Yessir. I’m contracted to check out the rare earth mining operations near Montello.”

  “Who contracted you?”

  “An overseas outfit.”

  He leaned back with a wry smile, arms raised and hands crossed behind his neck. The buttons across his belly held.

  “Do they have a name?”

  “They do. But they’re the middleman. I never know who the actual client is.”

  “One of those.”

  “Yessir. One of those.”

  I returned a half-smile. His expression remained cordial.

  “Are you a geologist or mining engineer?”

  “Nope. Just a run-of-the-mill investigator making a buck.”

  “I have a finely tuned bullshit meter, Mr. Lee. And it says there’s little run-of-the-mill about you. But I could be wrong. What can I do for a simple investigator struggling through life?”

  “Help me with a situation between the mining companies.”

  Garza grumbled a sigh.

  “That entire situation has been nothing but a pain in the ass. What’s your knowledge base on rare earth minerals?”

  “They’re rare.”

  He snorted and lowered his arms.

  “Which pretty much covers all my understanding as well. You’ll be happy to know, or not, and I don’t care which it is, that you are the second person this bright morning who has dropped in regarding those operations.”

  “Sorry I missed him or her. I thought I’d give you an hour or so this morning before I darkened your door.”

  “A considerate run-of-the-mill investigator. You want some coffee?”

  “Love some.”

  We strolled down a hallway as the sheriff chatted with passing office staff. I left the earlier visitor revelation alone, figuring he’d tell me in his own sweet time. We ending up in a break room with two well-used coffee-makers. He lifted porcelain mugs from an overhead cabinet and handed me one. It said Re-elect Sheriff Garza.

  “Can you believe that?” he asked, nodding toward my mug as he poured. “My son-in-law works for a Reno marketing company. He thought it would be a fine idea dipping into my very limited campaign funds for those. I didn’t have the heart to explain it was the voters outside this building I campaign toward. You can keep that. They’re embarrassing.”

  “Thanks. I’ll always treasure it.”

  “I bet. Where are you staying?”

  “The Montello Hilton.”

  “I understand the spa rocks.”

  “It was the breakfast buffet that grabbed me. Can I show you something outside?”

  “What?”

  “A bullet hole.”

  Garza mumbled, “Shit,” and led us back down the hallway. He reached into his office and snagged a dark-brown Resistol cowboy hat on the way. It remained cool outside, although the temperature gauge ticked up under the blazing sun. I pointed toward my windshield. Garza set his mug on the hood.

  “You mind if I remove your high-tech repair job?”

  “Have at it.”

  He pulled off the duct tape, inspected the entry hole, and repeated the exercise with the side-window exit hole.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  “One of the dozen security men at the KDB site. I don’t know which one. It took place a mile or so from their camp on the way back from Exponent’s site.”

  We locked eyes as the sheriff became all business.

  “How do you know a KDB man did it?”

  “Their security team now consists of former Russian special forces operators. I met several yesterday at KDB’s site.”

  “And you know they’re special forces how?”

  “I’ve run into them around the world. I also met Andris Simko while I was at the site.”

  Garza adjusted his hat, pressing it farther down. His rock-hard eyes continued an unblinking stare beneath its brim as he leaned forward.

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Ordinary Private Investigator. You visited KDB’s site yesterday. You met with Simko. And recognized his site’s security detail as former Russian special forces. Am I missing anything?”

  “Simko doesn’t like me. At all.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I had a run-in with his folks in Bolivia.”

  “Bolivia?”

  “Bolivia.”

  I had zero intent to spill the beans about the recent past, but Garza struck me as a straight shooter. A solid guy who took his job seriously. Having local law enforcement handle this situation was a solid out for further involvement on my part.

  Garza straightened up and said, “Join me back in my office, Mr. Lee. I want to make some notes.”

  He closed the office door behind us, sat at his desk, and pulled out a legal-size tablet. He plucked a pen from a handmade cup with Daddy written on it in a child’s hand.

  “Where do you live, Mr. Lee?”

  “On a boat.”

  “Where is this boat?”

  “East Coast.”

  He laid the pen down, and we locked eyes again.

  “If I run Case Lee through the national law enforcement database, what am I liable to find?”

  “Diddly-squat.”

  He shifted and typed on his desktop computer. Thirty silent seconds passed while he manipulated the mouse, making several clicks.

  “Find anything?” I asked.

  “Diddly-squat.” He turned back toward me and retrieved his writing pen. “For some strange reason, I’m not surprised.”

  I shrugged a response.

  “I’m going to do this by the book. The individual who beat you
to my door this morning was the governor. It’s election season, and he’s campaigning across the state. He wasn’t here to chat about campaigns.”

  “I bet. I also met Simko’s lobbyist yesterday. He’s pretty cocksure the governor and Simko are bosom buddies.”

  Another hard staredown ensued. It lasted five seconds. At least those were becoming shorter.

  “You get around, Mr. Lee.”

  “It’s what us simple private investigators do. Would you mind telling me what the governor wanted?”

  “I do mind. It was a private conversation. I will tell you this. He didn’t leave here happy.”

  “Personal issues?”

  “Something like that. He’s an elected official, like me. His jurisdictional authority over Elko County law enforcement borders on jack shit. I may have reinforced that fact during our meeting.”

  He scribbled down a few notes and continued.

  “I received a report days ago from my deputy regarding one other windshield bullet treatment.”

  “An Exponent Mining employee told me it has happened multiple times. As in more than once. They’re also doing stuff like rolling boulders onto the road and sugaring fuel tanks.”

  A flush of irritation or anger worked its way up his neck.

  “That’s not what my deputy reported. A single incident, no one hurt.”

  I shrugged again.

  “Don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff Garza, other than what I’ve seen and been told. I can also tell you Simko’s efforts are working. Exponent has shut down their operations because the harassment has become so bad. The site manager is back in Canada figuring out next steps with his bosses.”

  “I’ve had no word about a shutdown.” The emotional flush became brighter and climbed higher up his neck. “Which bothers me for reasons I won’t get into. Now, here’s what I want you to do.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Deputy Reggie Willis covers that section of Elko County. You will file a full report with him. You will tell him what you’ve told me. Then I will receive the report from Deputy Willis. There won’t be any information gaps in my department. Are we clear on that?”

  “We’re clear.”

  He snatched the desk phone, dialed a number, and held a brief conversation with his deputy. Willis would meet me at a Wells coffee shop early afternoon. Garza hung up and wrote a phone number on his legal pad’s lower corner, tore it off, and handed it over.