by R. A. McGee
“No, I’m not serious. He’ll be fine. I think. The human skull is hard as hell.”
Porter had the electrical tape in his pocket, but thought it best to save that for later. They looked around until they found some old twine, left over from bales of tobacco. Porter tied the man up and then sat him along the long interior brick wall.
They searched the man’s pockets and found a wallet and ID showing he worked for a private security company called Parabellum.
“Pretty good name for a security company.” Porter also found a radio, and in the man’s holster was an old revolver.
“Help me check his arms and legs,” Porter said.
“Why?”
“Just do it,” Porter said.
The pair pulled up the guard’s pants legs and saw nothing. It was harder to check his trussed arms, so Porter cut the man’s long sleeves down the middle, pulled them open, and shone the flashlight on his pale skin.
Just what he didn’t want to see: a large USMC tattoo on the man’s forearm. Porter grunted and left the man sitting up in the corner.
“How did you know he had that tattoo?” Ross asked.
“I didn’t, but I wanted to check a hunch.”
Porter didn’t say anything else. Ross looked at him. “What hunch?”
“There are lots of little rent-a-cop businesses. They pop up all over the place. Most of them aren’t very good at what they do.”
“I’m not following,” Ross said.
“Companies pay more for experience. If you’re a regular Joe, no military or police training, you get one rate. If you’re a high-speed military guy, you get something else. When the military guys find a company willing to pay them well, they usually tell their buddies and other assholes they know.”
“You think since this guy was military, the other guys on his team will be military?”
“Maybe. It’s a decent assumption. It’s a regular jarhead tattoo, so I don’t think this Parabellum is hiring special-forces types, but any trained guy is tougher to handle than an untrained guy,” Porter said.
“Think we can ask him some questions? Figure out the layout of the compound? How many other guards are on duty?”
“I said he’ll be fine, not he’s going to wake up sometime soon. Look at his head. You seen a knot like that before?”
“No.”
“Trust me, he’s asleep for a while.” Porter walked over to the window and resumed scanning the area.
Ross took another glance at the guard, then he followed Porter over to the windows. He had no idea what to look for, but Porter was looking so he looked, too.
There were several minutes of silence as Porter continuously scanned the compound. Ross did so as well, but his focus darted to the unconscious guard in the corner at regular intervals.
The whole area was starting to lighten up as the day was breaking. Thankfully, the sun was an early riser this time of year. The effect was like someone slowly turning on the lights in a dark room. More of the compound began to take shape.
The part he believed Schmidt to be hiding in wasn’t one large building, as Porter had thought, but four separate warehouse spaces connected by covered breezeways. Outside the building farthest to the left were several vehicles parked in a parking pad. There was a large, oval, metal container by the vehicles. Porter guessed it was gasoline to fill the fleet. There weren’t any gas stations close.
On top of the left-most building was a large gray tank.
There must be a reason to have a propane tank top of that building, Porter thought. He turned his attention to the second building, then the third, then the fourth.
Porter took a longer look at the second.
While the roofs on buildings one, three, and four were metal, this second building had a flat, asphalt area. There were two large air handlers on the roof, as well as a water tank. There seemed to be some sort of access door in the roof.
Porter figured this was the living quarters. Metal buildings would be hot, so the air handlers were a must. The industrial park was out of town and would not have city water. The water tank fit. He still didn’t know for sure where the kid would be, but he was starting to put together a guess.
The radio in Porter’s pocket squawked. “Foxtrot 3, Foxtrot 1. 10-20.”
Porter held the radio and said nothing.
“Foxtrot 3, Foxtrot 1. 10-20.”
“Are you going to answer it?” Ross asked.
“Nope. 10-20 is the code for asking a person their location. This guy’s team leader wants to know where he is.”
“Is it bad if he doesn’t answer? Won’t they come looking for him?”
“Yeah, they’ll be more alert than they should be. But there’s nothing we can do about it. Hopefully, they’ll assume he fell asleep somewhere. The sun is starting to come up but it’s still early. Boring job like this, I’m sure the guys sneak off to get some shuteye all the time,” Porter said.
“The radio called him Foxtrot 3. How many do you think there are?”
“At least four, maybe as many as six. There has to be one in the guard shack. I haven’t been able to see him, but it doesn’t make sense to have an empty guard shack. There has to be at least one in the building. No reason to leave it empty either. There was the guy we ran into, who must have been doing rounds. That leaves one more as a push man for the rotation through the positions. That’s four guards right there. There could be another guy or two in the building. Maybe the team leader.”
“Lot of guys,” Ross said.
“It's not a small amount.”
“So what are we going to do? Kamikaze this thing? Run in there like maniacs?”
“I have an idea. It’s still early, but do you think the inside of that metal building gets hot?” Porter said.
“I’m sure it does. It’s Florida, everything gets hot.”
“Good. Here’s what we do.” Porter laid out his plan.
Ross was unenthused. “What makes you think they’ll even come outside?”
“Probably not all of them, but at least some. We need to break up their numbers a little bit.”
“Fine. When do we start?” Ross said.
“Now. Rivera hasn’t said Candy Man made a phone call, so we still have time, but we need to get things rolling.”
“I’m ready,” Ross said.
“Let’s go.”
Checking the sleeping guard to ensure he was tied tightly, Porter led Ross out of the big room and down the stairs to the back of the warehouse. They stepped out and placed the plywood back over the door.
As they walked to the side of the building, Porter stopped and grabbed a heavy blue tarp covering a pile of used paint cans stacked against the side of the warehouse.
The day was dawning but it was still dark enough to have decent concealment. The pair followed the back of the warehouse until they reached the edge. They turned and took the side of the building until they were at the corner nearest the front. From that vantage point, the compound was directly across from them. They only needed to cross the dirt road that separated one side of the industrial park from the other.
After several moments of waiting and seeing no one coming, Porter sprinted across the divide. He reached the barbed wire fence, staying low, and looked around but saw no one. Porter took the heavy tarp and slung it over the fence. Then he motioned for Ross to cross.
Ross looked left and right and then ran to Porter. Porter made a cradle with his hands, and Ross put his foot into it. After a count of three, Ross stood up while Porter raised his arms. Ross grabbed the barbed wire, its sharpness tempered by the heavy tarp. Ross pulled himself the rest of the way up and tumbled over the fence. He landed awkwardly on his side. Porter looked through the chain link at him.
“Very graceful. You okay?”
“Fine,” Ross coughed and sputtered.
Porter stood and took several steps backward. He sprinted forward and put his foot halfway up the fence. He jumped hard, and barely reached the barbed wire. The
re was a sear of pain in his arm and he grunted. Using both hands to pull himself up and his feet to climb, he got his lower body over the fence. Then he let go and landed on his feet, momentum dropping him into a crouch.
“Your big ass made that look easy,” Ross said.
“Don’t let the size fool you,” Porter said as he jumped and pulled the heavy tarp down.
No need to leave evidence that someone was in the compound.
Porter directed Ross to follow him to the side of the metal building. He sprinted towards the edge of the building, dragging the tarp with him. Ross followed as best he could, but Porter noticed he was limping.
When they got to the side of the building, Porter rolled up the tarp and left it on the ground, out of the sight of anyone who might be in the guard house. Ross stayed crouched, catching his breath.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ross said. “I’m not going to hold you up.”
Porter knew Ross was lying, but he didn’t have time to argue about it. Besides, there was nowhere safe he could leave Ross down here. They had to make it to the top of the structure.
Porter moved to the back of the buildings and looked left and right. There was nothing back there but the river. The metal buildings didn’t even have windows. It should be safe to move around back there.
Porter sprinted for his target, the center building with the air handlers and water tank. The men moved freely until they came to the section they were looking for. Porter looked around, and was disappointed to see there were no steps or ladders to allow them access to the top of the roof. Still, it was only a single story, so it wouldn’t be too difficult to get up there.
He motioned Ross to step into his hand cradle again. Ross complied and was hoisted up to the roof. Porter jumped straight up and grabbed the edge of the roof, pulling himself up. Ross grabbed him under the arms and help pull him the rest of the way up. Porter rolled onto his back on the asphalt shingles and caught his breath.
Ross was up and looking at the air handlers. “I’m not sure how we break one of these things.”
“Just rip stuff out. Flip switches and pull hoses. I’m no HVAC expert, but it shouldn’t be too hard.”
Ross looked around the handlers until he saw an on/off switch. He flipped that down. Then he found the plug which fed power to the units and unplugged that as well. The air handlers, which had been running furiously just a few moments ago, made a whining noise as they ground to a halt.
“I think I did it,” Ross said.
Porter was still lying on his back. His injured arm hurt and, despite the tarp, he had managed to cut his hand on the barbed wire. He stood and walked over to the handlers to verify Ross’s work.
“Good,” Porter said. “Now we wait.” The two took up a position behind the access door in the floor of the roof. Eventually, someone would come up to figure out why the air wasn’t running anymore. Porter hoped the Mattress King was miserable in his metal cave.
Fifty-Five
Watching the battle scene on his hundred-inch flat screen had left Otto Schmidt out of breath.
A man of excess, his life of privilege had led to him developing many appetites, of which buying children was but one. He’d grown large enough that getting around was not without its challenges. As such, he preferred to stay seated in his den, wedged into his favorite loveseat, taking up both cushions. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get up, but why bother when he could make his slave bring him anything he needed?
His den was the most plushly-appointed room in the entire compound. Every room was nice, befitting a man worth millions of dollars, but the den was his jewel.
There was the huge television screen against one wall, with a large leather sectional opposite. Another wall was lined with curio cabinets, which housed Otto Schmidt’s other passion, Civil War memorabilia. There were swords from the both the Union and Confederacy, encased letters from the battlefield and large, complete uniforms hanging on mannequins. The other side of the room had large, framed maps of specific battles and an authentic cannon, which had been used during the battle of Gettysburg.
Otto Schmidt believed he’d been born in the wrong era. He fancied himself a southern plantation owner in a large antebellum home, with a bevy of slaves to attend to his every whim. Things being what they were, that wasn’t a practical desire. Still, a remote location could afford the luxury of no prying eyes into one’s affairs, and a deep pocketbook could buy silence from anyone who worked for him. Besides, the guards who kept him safe weren’t allowed into his den and had no clue what he did in there.
As the battle of Antietam raged on his screen, Otto Schmidt clacked his dry tongue around in his mouth. Watching television was hard work. “Girl.”
From a doorway appeared a young girl. A blue bandana pulled her hair out of her face. Her dark skin contrasted with the pastel dress that hung from her shoulders. A dirty apron, stained with food and drink, was tied around her waist. Despite this, her eyes were bright and clear. She made her way over to Otto Schmidt. “Master Schmidt?”
“I want a drink. Get me the sweet tea.”
“Yes, Master Schmidt.”
The girl went over to the bar and behind it, to the full-sized refrigerator. She poured a large glass of sweet tea and placed it on a silver tray, carefully walking it back to Schmidt.
“Can I get Master Schmidt anything else?”
“Go back to your place.” The girl left the room and went back to her quarters, a small area off the den. There was a tiny bed, a nightstand, and nothing else in the room. There were no windows, and it was always dark.
Otto Schmidt continued watching his television for a while, but was growing more uncomfortable. The air in his den was thick and his greasy, balding head was sweating. Schmidt didn’t like to sweat; it reminded him of exercise, which he liked even less. He waited for another episode of his show to end before he struggled to his feet. The backs of his meaty legs were drenched in sweat and stuck to the leather of his love seat. He went to the door that connected his den to the main area of his compound, and swiped the card he wore on a lanyard around his neck. There was a hiss of air and the door opened.
“Charles. Charles,” he said, running out of breath by the second shout.
From an outer room, a thin man appeared. His smartly tailored suit, slicked back hair, and glasses stood in stark contrast to his shabby, flabby employer. “Yes, Mr. Schmidt? Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, you idiot. Haven’t you noticed it’s hotter than a whore in church in here?”
“I noticed it growing warm, sir.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Figure out what’s wrong. Get a repairman in here.” Schmidt pushed a large green button on the wall, and the door hissed and slid shut.
Charles Cochran hated his job. Working for the fat slob angered him to no end. He was loud, he stank, and he always had a kid with him. Charles was the only one at the compound who knew the kid was trapped in that room. The guards had no clue.
Cochran rarely saw her, only when he dropped off food for her a couple of times a week. The job was strange, but the pay was exceptional. More than exceptional—it had made Cochran a millionaire. The kid thing bothered him, but at least he was sure Schmidt wasn’t touching her. Schmidt couldn’t molest anybody in his state.
Cochran opened a door and walked down a breezeway that connected Schmidt’s den to the next large building. Excess memorabilia from Schmidt’s inner sanctum was strewn everywhere, dozens of pictures and paintings nailed into the drywall. Cochran walked out of the building, through another breezeway, and into the next large building. This building was wide open inside, with a long rectangular table in the middle. On the rear wall was a refrigerator and on the opposite wall, a television. It was the break room for the guards.
Cochran walked up to the muscular man seated at the head of the table. “Fitz, Mr. Schmidt would like someone to take a look at the A/C. He thinks it’s getting hot in here.”
�
��His fat ass would be hot in an ice storm,” Jason Fitzhenry said.
Cochran laughed. “Could you take care of it for me?”
“Sure. I’ll have one of the guys go out and look at it. He can look for Prater while he’s out there.”
“Prater’s gone?” Charles said.
“He hasn’t come back from his rounds.”
“Hmmm,” Cochran said.
Fitz leaned back in his chair and looked toward the corner of the big room. That space was used as a gym, furnished with old weight machines, treadmills with fraying belts, and a couple of dumbbells and kettlebells. Nothing fancy or high tech, but it was enough for the guards to get a decent workout in.
“Scott,” Fitz barked, “I need you to handle something for me.”
“Why me? I’m in the middle of a set here.”
“First, because you’re the new guy and no one gives a damn about your sets. Second, because you were in the Air Force. That makes you a pussy. Third, because I said so. Do we have a problem?”
Cochran adjusted his glasses and moved out of the way. He’d never understood the mannerisms of type-A personalities.
Scott swallowed his pride. “What do you need?”
“Fat man says he’s getting hot. Go out and see if something happened to the A/C. While you’re out there, see if you can track down Prater. He’s been quiet for a while. Find wherever he’s napping and wake his ass up.”
“10-4,” Scott said and made a mocking salute.
“Keep it up, funny guy, and I’m going to check your chin for you. Just do what I say and get your ass moving.”
“Thank you, Fitz. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”
“You do that, Cochran,” Fitz said, emphasizing the first part of the man’s name.
Cochran backed away from the table and the team leader, waiting for the day he’d socked away enough money that he could quit. Then he wouldn’t have to put up with anyone’s shit.
Scott grabbed his towel and put his shirt back on, tucking it in before putting on his duty belt, which had his gun, handcuffs, Taser, and OC spray. He toweled his head off again and tossed the towel into the corner.
